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Jaime knows he is running late before he even has a chance to look at the clock. His phone has been ringing and vibrating against his bedside desk nonstop for the past five minutes, but appearance is key when facing his father’s business associates. His father and brother simply do not understand that while ingenuity and influence are important for reputation, beauty is just as important and beauty requires time. And because his father and brother are sorely lacking, Cersei has made it clear to Jaime that they’re to make up for it.
He fluffs his hair, smoothes his shirt, and smiles at himself in the mirror one last time. Perfect. It’s a business casual event and he does not plan to disappoint. His hair is a little less tame than he usually wears it and while his plain white button-down and grey slacks may look simple, anyone with a brain will know the outfit costes more than his organs on the black market would. How could anyone question his place as the heir to his father’s business when he looks this good? The Tyrell’s will be shaking in their bargain bin boots.
Jaime strides out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, kicking aside the pile of clothes he’d tried on and discarded as he goes. He slides his phone into his pocket without bothering to look, knowing it’s just going to be a million phone calls and texts from his family, and grabs his keys and jacket (the nice one Cersei got him for their birthday, she’ll appreciate it) off his bed. Without a backward glance, he is out the door of his penthouse and into the elevator.
As he passes the front desk of his fancy apartment complex, he’s sure to throw a wink in the receptionist’s direction. She’s a frumpy older woman who always looks a little dead inside and he figures she could use a little attention from a handsome man every now and then. She looks up at him with blank eyes, her poorly lipsticked mouth pressed in a grim line, and he smirks at her. She doesn’t return it. Must be shy, he thinks. Poor thing. Before he’s out of the lobby, he’s already forgotten her.
He feels his good mood plummet the second his driver pulls up to the venue. Highgarden. Which means they’ll be outside the entire time and he is most definitely not dressed to be outside. And even if his jacket is designer, it definitely does not match his outfit. Fantastic. Why would his father pick an outside venue for an evening event? What if my nipples poke out of my shirt? So embarrassing . Cersei and his father are going to be ashamed of him. Perhaps he’ll find a corner for him and Tyrion to hide away in and they can drink themselves silly.
His taxi driver has turned around fully in his seat to glare at him and he realizes that he’s been staring at the building for about a minute. The driver, a typical cabbey ather than one employed by his father because he was running late and didn’t want to call and then wait for them to show up, looks pointedly at the running meter. Jaime rolls his eyes and hands the driver a wad of loose cash tucked carelessly into his pants pocket. He holds up a hand as the man goes to count the change and smirks at him. “Keep the change,” he says. The man frowns and looks like he’s about to protest, but shakes his head after a moment. That’ll teach him to glare. Maybe he’ll think twice the next time he wants to be rude to a paying customer. Doesn’t he know I’m a Lannister?
He slides out of the taxi, grateful to be rid of the smell of cigarette smoke and old vomit. Ugh . How do people manage to use taxis on a daily basis? Jaime can’t fathom it. He is filled with pity for the common man as he jogs up the steps and breezes through the door of the building, nodding to the boy in uniform who holds it open for him. He thrusts his coat at some employee who is opening her mouth to greet him and carries on, nodding and smiling at her too before she can waste more of his time.
He hardly looks about as he rushes through the building, heading to the garden he knows he’ll find towards the center. As if he’d stop to admire the interior anyway. The Tyrell’s are notorious for their overly lavish style anyway and Cersei wouldn’t want him to make their heads any bigger. Besides, it’s obvious they’re just compensating for being new money anyway. They’ve got money, but they haven’t quite mastered class , Jaime thinks, and smirks. That was clever. He’ll have to tell that one to Cersei.
Unfortunately, he does find himself impressed by the setup. The garden itself is lovely, of course. Early spring flowers are blooming everywhere and the shrubbery is just so tasteful. Simple but elegant lanterns and fairy lights give the garden a warm, soft glow. There’s a long table close to the entrance with an array of small finger food, nothing that will truly fill anyone up. Waiters dart through the well-dressed guests with trays of champagne flutes and appetizers. It’s all so… posh.
He scans the room, looking for Cersei’s head of golden hair or Tyrion swaggering about with a flute of champagne in his hand. He manages to spot his twin rather quickly, engaged in conversation with her husband at her side. She looks stunning, as always, and her outfit is perfect. Her golden curls are piled on top of her head and she’s wearing a simple yet elegant maroon gown with a golden belt about the middle. Her style is impeccable. He fails to understand how Robert, the great slob, could feel comfortable standing next to her and wrap his big fat arms about her waist.
He couldn’t even bother to comb his hair or that nasty beard of his, Jaime notes with a sneer. He catches Cersei’s eye and he smiles, taking a step forward, but then her face sours. Uh-oh. He feels himself freeze as her brows pinch together, looking him up and down with a narrowing of her eyes and the slight downward curl of her lips. She looks away and he feels his stomach sink. She’s upset, clearly. Jaime is unsure why being a little late is such a problem, but whatever. He can talk to her later.
Just as he’s about to go searching for his brother (and keep an eye out for his father because the last thing he needs is to be pulled aside and scolded), he feels a hand on his elbow. He turns and sees Loras Tyrell grinning at him, in all his floral glory. Jaime smiles back, but steels himself. The Tyrell’s are thorny and no matter how friendly and well-dressed Loras is, he’s still one of them.
“Jaime. It’s so good to see you again,” Loras says, his tone so warm and polite it makes him sick. Loras eyes him up and down, and Jaime swears he sees one eyebrow shoot up ever so slightly. He nods his head towards Jaime’s shoes, the nice leather ones he’d had custom made in Volantis. “You look great. Are those Myrish? They’re gorgeous.” He doesn’t like the way Loras is looking at him, all big brown eyes and that dazzling Tyrell smile. He hasn’t let go of his elbow yet, either. It’s far too friendly and Cersei warned him that the Tyrell’s love to taunt. But he smirks right back. “They’re Volantine, actually. Custom made.” He’s not the type to brag, but with the Tyrell’s it’s a must. They need to know who’s really in charge here, even if their silly parties are beloved by just about everyone.
Loras has the decency to look impressed. He squeezes Jaime’s bicep ever so slightly and just as he opens his mouth to speak, Jaime’s knight in shining armor arrives to rest a hand on Loras’ lower back. Renly Baratheon, with his face all twisted up like he’s smelled a particularly rancid fart. He’s likely exhausted himself trying to keep his brother Robert in line, the great drunkard. He’s certain he’d heard the oaf laugh far too loudly for an event like this just a second ago. Jaime offers him a grateful smile as Loras, significantly less smiley than before, releases his elbow. He’s probably being called in for back-up. Jaime didn’t envy him. He’s had to restrain a drunk, angry Robert to keep him from embarrassing his sister more times than he can count.
Renly’s smile is pinched. “Glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure if you were trying to be fashionably late or if you’d simply forgotten,” he says with a decidedly clipped tone.
With all these snakes in one garden, I wish I had forgotten, he thinks. The evening really is going poorly. Jaime’s laugh is more of a bark than any true sort of laughter. “I’d thought being fashionably late had fallen out of fashion,” he says, putting as much charm into his voice as he can. Even if Renly is intent on killing the mood, he won’t let it get to him.
It seems to work. Renly looks at him blankly then turns to address Loras. “We have business matters to discuss. Come, Loras.” Tyrell shrugs his shoulders and smiles once more at Jaime as Renly walks off. “Enjoy your evening, Jaime. Try the appetizers, they were expensive.” With one last squeeze to his bicep, Loras follows Renly into the crowd. No matter how shifty the Tyrell’s may be, the appetizer table is a great suggestion. He’s only had a bagel today and he figures if he must suffer through the evening, he may as well eat what’s been provided. There’s a good chance he’ll find Tyrion drifting around the table as well, probably looking for another glass of champagne.
He ducks his head down and makes his way over to the table, taking in the array of food. The proportions are far from generous, but he supposes it’s only appropriate for such polite company. Lannisters and their business associates do not gorge themselves on snacks, but Jaime knows how to make it work. There’s an art to filling yourself up at these sorts of things without anyone noticing.
There’s an artful array of tiny cheeses that catches his eye. He brightens as he spots his favorite type of cheese, brie. I hope they have crackers. He looks a bit further down the table, and… Bingo. The night is already looking up. If he positions himself just so, no one will be able to tell he’s scarfing down cheese and crackers like a complete beast. With his master plan in place, he goes in for the first kill.
The evening passes by much quicker than he thought it would. His plan has gone on without a hitch and he’s been steadily filling himself up with brie and crackers, making small talk with various guests. Rather successful small talk, in his opinion. He had managed to make Catelyn Stark smile at one of his quips (well, more of a grimace, but it was something), even if her husband had looked disgusted. That had stung a bit, but he told himself the Starks were all up their own asses with their precious honor. Who cares if Ned Stark looked down on him? He’d talked with Baelish and he was pretty sure he’d only been insulted once or twice during the conversation. Most importantly, his father has yet to track him down.
He manages to avoid a conversation with that Stokeworth woman by motioning towards the appetizer table sheepishly. She laughs and waves him off, and he picks up his pace. But just as he’s about to pick up another cracker, a shadow blots out the light behind him and he feels someone looming over his shoulder. He turns around and there she is: Brienne, that damned wench.
Her face is like stone and of course, she’s dressed terribly and not at all appropriately for the occasion. She looks like she’s running for president (as a man) rather than attending an evening social at Highgarden. His polite smile dies as she frowns down at him. “Can’t you leave some for the rest of us, CEOslayer?” she states more than asks, her voice terse and deep. Despite himself, he feels his cheeks grow warm. Apparently, he has not been as suave as he thought he was. And the nickname, given to him when he’d exposed his father’s old boss, embarrassed him terribly. But she doesn’t need to know that, so he scoffs at her and turns right back around.
“They’re here to eat. If you’re too worried about bursting out of that Nordstrom Rack men’s suit to take advantage, that’s your own problem,” he spits out at her without looking. He can feel her freeze behind him, but he continues to slather brie onto his cracker without a care. He hears her huff of frustration and her lumbering steps as she walks away. Jaime relaxes the moment she’s out of sight, but his shoulders sag with defeat as much as they do relief. He’s obviously not been as careful as he thought he was being. Either that or that great sow was watching him all evening. Why should he even care about her opinion anyway? Regardless, this will have to be his last cheese and cracker for the evening. Even if he’d rather everyone think he was gorging himself on purpose to insult the Tyrell’s, he’d much sooner have no one notice at all.
He purposefully moves out of sight of the appetizer table and parks himself under a tree, taking small nibbles of his cheese and cracker. He lets his gaze wander as he sulks, finding nothing of interest to watch in the crowd and grateful to be somewhat out of sight. From the tree hangs a lantern, just as expensive looking up close as it was from far away. Live flames too--such a flex. His feelings of embarrassment slowly slip away as he studies the lantern, the incident with Brienne already forgotten. I bet they’re not even hot to the touch. Without another thought, Jaime reaches up and places a hand on the glass, separated from live flames by only a few millimeters.
And then immediately pulls his hand back with a hiss when his fingers erupt in pain. Seven, that hurt. They shouldn’t have these out here, these are dangerous. Jaime curses and shakes out his hand. His fingertips have turned a fleshy pink, a more severe burn than he would have anticipated from such a lantern. The shaking isn’t helping, so he instinctively sticks his fingers in his mouth to coat them with saliva. He pulls them out and blows on them, relieved as the burning sensation subsides. But as the pain ebbs, he looks up, suddenly self-conscious. Fuck, I hope no one saw that. Everyone in front of him seems to be preoccupied, and no one was close enough to hear his pained noises.
Jaime pops his fingers back in his mouth, confident that no one has seen him make a fool out of himself (again). But as he pulls them out to blow on them once more, the sound of someone delicately clearing their throat to his right catches his attention. He whirls to see none other than Roose Bolton, the most terrifying man he knows after the huge Clegane bastard that maimed his own brother. As Bolton’s cold, pale eyes rove over his face and then down to his hand, Jaime becomes uncomfortably aware of how stupid he must look. His burnt hand is still cradled in his unburned one and his fingers glisten with saliva. His lips are pursed and rounded to blow cool air onto his hand.
He drops his hand to his side immediately and smiles. For an uncomfortable moment, Roose’s face remains blank despite the cruel amusement Jaime swears he can sense behind those eyes. Then he smiles--or rather, the muscles in his face tense to bare his teeth in the facsimile of a smile. It is distinctly unfriendly and Jaime does not like how his face doesn’t seem to wrinkle. Then he speaks. “Are you alright?” He asks in that whispery, monotone voice of his. The hair on the back of Jaime’s neck rises, but he nods all the same and tries to laugh. The sound is hollow, even to him.
“Yes, I’m alright. Just burnt my fingers a bit,” he says with a grin. Roose’s eyes drift up to the lantern and then back to Jaime. He feels dissected. “I see. I came to tell you that your father is looking for you, but then you had your little… accident,”. The man’s smile stretches into a grin as he speaks and the mockery on his face becomes obvious. So I wasn’t imagining it. He definitely saw. Jaime deflates. Of course, his father’s most unnerving associate would catch him doing something so stupid. But in his defense, the Tyrell’s really shouldn’t have such dangerous lighting hanging about. He’s sure he’s not the only one to make the same mistake this evening.
Jaime nods, trying to keep his smile from morphing into a grimace. “Yes, I was just… testing the light. Aha. You said my father was--” He cuts himself off as his stomach suddenly twists in pain. Oh no. He places a hand on his stomach and carries on, hoping Bolton won’t notice. “You said my father was looking for me?” Roose nods. “He is. He does not seem pleased with you. I suggest you--” Jaime’s stomach churns audibly and Roose stops speaking. He raises a dark, thin eyebrow. If the pain in his abdomen hadn’t become so severe, Jaime probably would have died from shame right then and there. As it is, he can only curl over slightly and press a hand to his stomach and close his eyes. Despite the cool night air, a sweat breaks out on his forehead. This is a nightmare. Why is my stomach acting up now? I really ought to see a doctor.
Bolton has the audacity to snort. “The restroom is down the hall to your right. I suggest you visit it shortly,” he says cooly, “and avoid the cheese next time,”. Jaime opens his eyes and Roose is full-out grinning at him, the fucking snake. He doesn’t even bother to respond as he lurches past Roose and into the crowd, avoiding eye contact with everyone as he half-walks, half-runs. He feels Bolton’s laughing eyes and the confused gaze of guests burning into his back, but if he doesn’t get to a toilet soon, he knows he’s going to crap his pants. In the haze of pain and panic, he only barely registers his little nephew, Tommen, running up to him and tugging at his pants as he pushes through the crowd. He doesn’t think, just moves. He is a man on a mission for survival. Without looking or stopping, he cuts Tommen’s cry of “Uncle Jaime'' off by grabbing him roughly about the ribs. Tommen squeals as he’s lifted into the air and thrown off to the side. He swears he hears his sister call out after him and what he hopes is Tommen’s giggling, but he keeps moving, consumed by the need to stop the violent cramping in his abdomen.
After what feels like an eternity, he is able to find his way into the building and locate the men’s restroom. The pain in his stomach has become unbearable and he thinks he’s going to burst. Jaime attempts to throw open the door, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. I’m going to slaughter the fool taking his sweet time in there. Without a care for how it may look (and thanking the gods the hallway was empty), he bangs on the door. “Sorry, but could you hurry up?” He manages to wheeze out, though his voice is strained. He rests his hand on the wall by the door, stooped over with the pain and cradling his stomach. The seconds that pass feel too long and he’s about to bang on the door once more, when it swings open, smacking him in the head. Jaime yells wordlessly and staggers back, rubbing at his head. That’s it. I’m going to kill this bastard. Fuck my father’s reputation. But when he opens his eyes, he is almost nose to nose with Tywin Lannister himself, glowering at him like he’s a small dog that’s pissed on the carpet.
“My son. Late and behaving like a complete beast. Whatever it is you think you’re trying to accomplish with all of this, I--” Jaime doesn’t wait to hear what his father says. He knows his body and his body is telling him if he stands here for another second, his ass is going to explode all over the floor. He shoulder checks his own father to dive into the bathroom, barely managing to close the door behind him. He can hear his father’s angry voice from behind the door, but his pants are already on the floor and all he can think about is the sweet, sweet relief.
Jaime leaves the event early. He’s really not in the mood to speak to anyone after his father had pulled him aside to give him the tongue lashing of his life. Or after Tyrion had pulled the bathroom door open to find him naked except for his socks (he’d pulled his clothes off after they’d started to feel too restricting), sweating on his porcelain throne. It’d made his brother laugh, but to Jaime it was nothing more than salt in his wounds. He does his best to slink out of the venue without being noticed, but Cersei’s eyes still manage to find his as he leaves and she glares, shaking her head. He feels like a kicked dog. It seems like all he can do is continue to prove to everyone that he’s a complete fuck-up. Worst night of my life. The only thing he can think to do is drown his sorrows in ice cream.
The pier is only a short walk from Highgarden. It’s late, but the little ice cream shops that dot the docks should still be open. He keeps his head down as he walks, pulling his jacket tighter against him. He doesn’t want anyone to notice him, especially because he’s limping slightly after blowing up the Tyrell’s bathroom.
There’s only one ice cream shop open, run by a very bored looking teenager and what he assumes to be the boy’s mother, though she could easily be mistaken for a beached whale. Despite his mood, he does manage to smile at the woman and at the boy as he orders his triple scoop of Rocky Road ice cream on a waffle cone, even as they look at him like they’d rather see him dead. He pays (in coins because he forgot he’d given all of his cash money to that cabbey and his wallet is mysteriously absent) and takes a seat on a bench with a view of the ocean. It’s too dark to see anything, but it’s nice to close his eyes and feel the sea breeze on his face and smell the ocean in the air. There’s hardly anyone around, so all he can hear are crashing waves and squawking gulls. It’s almost peaceful. Jaime smiles to himself. The evening might have been a disaster, but the night can still be salvaged. He has his ice cream and at home he can shower, crawl into bed, and watch reruns of Sex and the City. Cersei and his father are furious with him, but that doesn’t matter to him right now. It’s just him, the ocean, and his ice cream.
He’s stirred from his musings by something splattering on his shoulder. Is my ice cream melting? He opens his eyes and cranes his head to look at his shoulder. A black and white stain drips down his shoulder and onto his chest, marring his very expensive jacket. He stares at the stain, feeling something really and truly crumble inside of him. A gull squawks above him and he looks up into the eyes of a filthy seagull, perched on a lamppost. The creature squawks at him again, louder. Mocking me. Not even the birds respect me. His eyes begin to sting, but Jaime tells himself it’s only the breeze. He stands up. Tears pour down his face and he can taste their salt as he licks at his ice cream, starting the long trudge home. He has no money for a cab and he’d rather curl up and die right here than call his family’s care service and have anyone who knows him see the poop stain on his jacket.
Is nowhere safe for me? He wonders, quite pathetically. Then it comes to him suddenly: No, he tells himself, I am a man without honor and this is the life I must lead. The thought hardens him. This may have a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and Jaime Lannister may be reviled by the city, but by the Seven, he is a Lannister. Jaime promises himself that tonight he’ll have his pity party and be the lamb, but tomorrow he will rise again as the lion.