Chapter Text
Jaime is just about to go home when someone knocks on his open door. He starts, looking up at the visitor: Elia Martell, a hesitant smile on her lips. She looks well, or as well as one can with a fading black eye. Her oversized shades hang from her collar, to be used when outside lest the press has a field day with her bruise. Jaime wishes she would keep it on. His stomach still turns with guilt when he sees her.
“Just saying hi,” Elia says, “and to tell you that the new bodyguard is great. A bit much, but great.”
Jaime snorts. He’s assigned Bronn to Elia, and ‘a bit much’ doesn’t even begin to describe him. Jaime trusts Bronn, though, and the last stalker incident means Elia deserves the best Casterly Management can afford. They are, supposedly at least, the best talent management company on this side of the country, and it doesn’t reflect well on them to have lousy protection over their charges, especially an established star such as Elia. While Bronn is a dick, he is also good, and he takes his job seriously if it means a hefty bonus depends on it.
And maybe, Jaime thinks, after all the shit Elia’s been through, she deserves some wise-cracking bodyguard to keep her entertained. She seems to like Tyrion enough, and Bronn gets along with him like a house on fire.
“Jaime?” Elia asks. “Are you okay?”
Jaime starts again. He’s running on caffeine, right now, and not much else. He smiles thinly. “Sorry. Just a little tired.” He taps the side of his face. “That’s healing well.”
Elia raises her hand to touch the edge of the bruise, pressing gingerly as if to check if it’s still there. “Some concealer and I, too, can go to the Azor Ahai premiere,” she says, grinning.
“You’re going?” Jaime asks, surprised.
Elia scoffs. “No. I think I’ll stream the original instead at home.” With a stage whisper and a scandalous smile, she says, “I like the cast better.”
Jaime chuckles. “Between you and me, I agree.” Azor Ahai Reborn: The Prince That Was Promised, a reboot of the old Azor Ahai action flick, stars Rhaegar Targaryen as the titular hero and Cersei Lannister as his love interest. The hype is up, and the internet is rife with debate over whether they could ever forgive Rhaegar’s affair years ago with then-newcomer rapper Lyanna Stark—which ended his marriage with Elia—and his new marriage with Cersei. It’s all terribly exhausting, Jaime thinks, but it makes bank.
Elia smiles, a twinkle in her eyes. “Your secret is safe with me. I have to go. I’ve got a recording to do tomorrow and Ellaria will kill me if I don’t get enough rest tonight. She says my range is down when I’m sleep-deprived.”
Jaime says good night and smiles, and when Elia disappears from his doorway, he slumps down on his chair and runs a hand over his face. Gods, but he wishes he could do more. He fired Elia’s old bodyguard, Gregor Clegane. According to Tyrion, now the man will never get a gig as a bouncer in King’s Landing, much less a job as a personal bodyguard. Neither brother is under any illusion that Clegane simply lost Elia in the festival crowd when the stalker got to her.
Both Jaime and Tyrion know who’s behind that, too, since Clegane answers to one person and one person only, though Cersei, naturally, denied everything, and Father absolutely refuses to press charges or even do any sort of investigation. The stalker is in jail for assault, Clegane has been fired, and for all Tywin Lannister cares, the matter is resolved.
Elia herself has been trying to get out of her contract with Casterly, but she signed it when she was still very young, unaware of the many exceedingly binding commitments in it. Her manager, Ellaria, only stayed at Casterly to protect her charge—nothing more. Had Ellaria left, worse things might have happened to her than a black eye from an angry stalker.
Jaime allows himself another sigh before he gathers his things and leaves.
He is infinitely glad that they placed his office near the security staff lounge, which is in return close to the parking lot. It saves him having to tiptoe his way through the building just to get out of there and go home.
Of course, none of that matters when his brother is small enough to hide behind his sedan, like tonight, because Tyrion just stumbles out from behind Jaime’s car, clutching a flask of gods-know-what liquor. “There you are,” Tyrion announces, his slurred voice ringing out in the empty parking lot. “I’ve been sitting on your trunk for almost thirty minutes.”
“Get a cab,” Jaime says.
“Oh, come on, do your little brother a favour.”
“I am not driving you to the premiere, Tyrion.”
Tyrion laughs. The sound is bitter. “I’m not going to the premiere, haven’t you heard? Our dear sister has forbidden me from attending. No doubt she thinks I would be an eyesore on her grand night. So.” Tyrion moves to take a swig, his face scrunching up as no more drink spills from the flask. “So, do me a favour and drive me home.”
“It’s on the opposite side of the city,” Jaime protests, but he unlocks the car anyway and doesn’t say anything when Tyrion helps himself into the passenger side seat.
Tyrion scoffs. “Which means you have a longer drive to listen to your books, which means I’m the one doing you a favour, here.”
“Well, in that case,” Jaime says, pressing play on the audiobook he’s started listening yesterday. “Do me another favour and let me listen to this in peace.”
Tyrion stays silent for a grand total of one minute before asking, “War of the Five Kingdoms?”
“Yes,” Jaime says, exasperated, “will you let me listen to it, now?”
Tyrion inclines his head and waves his empty flask. Then, “What are you doing listening to a woman reader for this? Granted, she does a good job at it, but this epic is traditionally read by a man.”
Jaime pauses the audiobook. “You would rather I listen to Rhaegar Targaryen’s narration?”
“He would love that. The man likes nothing more than having people listen to his voice.” Tyrion turns to Jaime, his eyes wide and baleful. It’s the inebriation, Jaime knows, but it still makes Tyrion look like a wet puppy. “Why aren’t you at the premiere?” Tyrion asks.
“You know why,” Jaime says. “We can’t have a murderer stealing the spotlight from the true stars of the night.”
Tyrion snorts. “Manslaughter, and at least forty women consider what you did community service. Besides, that was years ago. The public never reviled you much for what you did. You know this. So do Father and Cersei.”
His father and sister did try to convince Jaime to go to the premiere, citing the exact same reasons Tyrion has just mentioned, with a healthy spoonful of guilt trips and reminders of the responsibility of a first son from Tywin and a dash of seduction from Cersei. Jaime grips the steering wheel tighter. “Are you really trying to convince me to go?”
“No,” Tyrion says in that tone of his that implies he’s not the drunk one in this conversation, even though he really is, “I’m trying to figure out why you insisted on not going, even though you know it would get Father off your case for a little while and make our darling sister happy, as well as annoy our infinitely good-looking brother-in-law whose dear old dad you shoved down a flight of stairs. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.”
“You forgot the part where I would have to rub elbows with industry people and the press.”
“Oh, please. You’ve been trained to do that since before you knew how to do long division.”
“You also forgot that it would give people the idea that I want to be part of the industry again,” Jaime says mildly.
“Tell me, why are you still here, if you don’t want to be part of the industry? I know you have enough money saved somewhere. You can leave. Sail to Pentos and manage an orchard. Stay here and open a nightclub. Anything, really. So long as you’re in the company, even if you’re only running security from a basement office, Father would always think you’d come around and be his true heir after all.”
Jaime tries not to flinch at his younger brother’s words. Tyrion has always been the better businessman between the two of them, and yet it doesn’t seem to ever matter to their father. Tywin visits the doctor a lot lately, which is unlike him, and every time he returns to the company building after such visits he will stop by Jaime’s office to give a long-winded lecture on ‘familial duties’ or ‘the importance of growing up’ or some sort of thinly-veiled demand for Jaime to be more involved in the business. Tyrion’s comment may be well-meaning, but Jaime knows his brother well enough to hear resentment in his tone. “I’m hoping he keels over and you take his place, then I can play security forever.”
“You can’t really want that.”
Jaime shrugs, then presses play on the audiobook and turns up the volume, shutting down further uncomfortable questions from Tyrion.
For his part, Tyrion seems to enjoy the audiobook too, and for good reason. His earlier objection to a woman reader aside, he seems to appreciate her skill. Her voice is low and husky, and her reading is somehow both melodious and without pretence, unless she’s doing so intentionally to voice a character or other. When that happens, it’s almost seamless. Her low register also means she can affect a good male voice, when required.
When Jaime drops Tyrion off at his townhouse, the younger brother concedes, “She’s no Selmy, but she’s not bad, especially for an amateur. What’s her name again?”
“Rohanne Storm,” Jaime says. “I’ve listened to her other readings. She’s good. Better than some of the big names.”
Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Is she?” Before Jaime can reply, Tyrion shuts the car door. “Good night, Jaime.”
Somehow, Jaime feels like Tyrion is making another unwelcome observation on his life. He tries not to think about it. Instead, he turns the volume up even further, letting Rohanne’s husky tones fill the car as he drives to his flat by the bay.
Jaime found Rohanne where he finds most of his audiobooks, a non-profit site called Weirwood Dreams where volunteer readers upload their rendition of any book that is not subject to a copyright lawsuit. These tend to be ancient texts or obscure titles that never merited an audiobook release from their publishers. They keep their heads down and never ask for more than the occasional donations to keep their servers running, and the publishing world pretends they don’t exist.
He’s been listening to Rohanne Storm for close to two weeks, now, a worrying prospect. If he remembers it right, he’s all out of her readings.
Once he gets home, Jaime transfers the audio to his phone, listening even all the way up in the lift and until he arrives at his floor. Even as he takes off his jacket and belt, and pops open the top buttons of his shirt, he listens to Rohanne speak of heroes long past, in an age long gone, fighting for love and duty and often, vengeance.
He pours himself two fingers of scotch and settles in the leather-lined office chair by his computer.
Then, he gets to work.
Not his daily job. Not the chore of balancing his family’s tempers against each other. This is his work, and no one knows about it. Not even Tyrion, though that’s a secret that he could uncover at any time if he bothered to do some digging. Jaime doesn’t get paid, but somehow that only makes it more sacred for him.
He creates art.
Sometimes it’s 3D renderings of old castles, sometimes it’s a digital collage, sometimes it’s illustrations. They vary, and he’s better at some and worse at others, but nothing quite makes him as happy as listening to a good audiobook while his hand works on whatever project he chooses to busy himself with. Tonight, Jaime chooses to draw a scene from the epic he’s listening. A disgraced knight and a lady who wishes to be a knight, one wooden sword between the two of them, a bear against them.
He sketches up the composition, trying and scrapping several drafts and versions, until he settles on a dramatic one with the bear looming large over the two humans. He’ll draw them both afraid but determined, he decides, posing them to slightly face each other, as if they seek reassurance in each other. Rohanne narrates the tale in his ears and his hands work, sketching up shapes and lines, filling in the values in greyscale.
He spends a little too much time on choosing a colour palette and before he knows it, the book is finished.
Huffing, he wipes a hand over his face. 2:15 am, the clock at the corner of his screen spells out, as if judging him for his life choices.
He saves his progress and posts the lineart on his pseudonymous blog, tagging it WIP, then he turns off his computer.
It is now that his stomach reminds him that dinners are a thing and he has completely forgotten to eat anything solid since around noon today. He’s not proud of it, but it has happened before.
He opens his pantry cupboards, a barren place since he also completely forgot to shop for groceries since Tyrion stumbled out, drunk, from behind Jaime’s car.
There are some instant noodles left, at least, and he really couldn’t care less about nutrition right now. He just wants to avoid the acid reflux come morning if he doesn’t eat now.
He tosses the noodles and some water in the saucepan, and as he waits, he opens Rohanne Storm’s profile on Weirwood Dreams. His worst dreams have come true: he has listened to all her readings. Rookie mistake. He should’ve spread them out between other audiobooks. Truly, the last time he did this was when he first discovered audiobooks. He was nineteen and finally living away from his family, and his roommate at the dorm casually informed him he could just listen to books instead of having to read the text himself. Jaime had never hated Tywin so much as when he forced him to read thick business tomes when the audio version of them existed. It’s not like the old man wasn’t aware of Jaime’s dyslexia, but the way Tywin dealt with it was by making Jaime read and write as much as possible and maybe it would go away.
Of course it didn’t.
So, at the age of nineteen, Jaime Lannister decided to listen to books narrated by senior thespian Barristan Selmy, and he ran out pretty quickly, and he vowed never to listen to the same reader two books in a row.
Then, of course, Rohanne happened, and like a bewitched teenager he forgot his old vow. Now, he’s bereft of that voice, the gentle tones and slight Stormlands accent, the way her reading sounds ineffably intimate, as if somehow, he’s the only one listening.
He wonders what the person behind this mysterious voice that has hooked him is like. He knows she is from the Stormlands, from the accent and the uninspiring choice of surname, and that she favours classical text, and yet there’s a wide chasm between the feeling of knowing her voice intimately and actually knowing her as a whole person. He frowns at his phone. Her profile icon is a photo of a hand-lettered script spelling out Rohanne, the ink vivid blue over cream paper, but that tells him nothing except for confirmation that it couldn’t be her real name after all. The profile is otherwise empty aside from her pronouns—she/her, this he knows—and a link to a blog.
He opens the blog, and this is his best decision he’s made by far.
Weirwood Dreams forbids readers from asking for payment or donation in exchange for audiobooks, because they have to protect their non-profit status, but the prohibition doesn’t extend to the readers’ personal sites. Rohanne, in fact, does have an online tip box open, and when he looks deeper, she has previously done donation drives so she can afford to rent a studio for a weekend, or a new microphone, or subscription to an increasingly expensive audio processing software.
Jaime drops fifty dragons into the tip box, without hesitation, signs his name as Goldenhand, leaving no email address or anything else for her to find him. If she wants, she can look up the handle, but otherwise he is fine with her thinking that this is just a particularly generous listener, since that’s all he is.
The starchy smell of cooked noodles reminds him of his late dinner. He pours the slightly overcooked noodles and the soup into a bowl, rips open the small packets of seasonings, and inhales the whole thing within two minutes.
Stomach full, he goes back to Rohanne’s site. There is a category labelled ‘my music’. He clicks on it, which brings him to a streaming site where she has, indeed, uploaded twenty or so tracks.
He plays the first one on the page, supposedly the most popular track of hers with a little over 1,000 plays, and oh. Her singing is sublime. She doesn’t show off much range, but she knows her strengths, playing on the low, husky registers with impeccable vocal control, balancing it nicely with chords on the piano that he somehow knows she plays herself. It’s something rarely found in popular music these days, with many singers boasting great voices but little formal training. Rohanne sounds the opposite of untrained. She sounds classical, even, as if she actually went to a specialist music school.
Stumbling into bed, Jaime sets her songs on loop and falls asleep to her rendition of Autumn of my Day. He wakes up to the sun high in the sky and his phone out of juice.
He has never slept better.