@matchedrage : We make the rules and we can always change them.
The words seem to flow past, carried by a breeze and thrown from lips he’s so often traced with his own only to be crushed underneath the weight of waves that throw themselves against the shore. For the briefest of moments Jaime longs to follow them, to vault over the walls of their summer prison until the tumult of water and salt steals the breath from tired lungs ... but instead he only offers a scoff in response, a huff of breath meant to offer neither agreement nor a comment to invoke his sweet sister’s wrath.
“You sound like father.” Fingers tighten on the sun warmed railing, relishing in the burning of metal against palm that reminds him he is alive, that Lannister or no, he can still feel pain. It’s comforting, he thinks, to know you can still bleed. Golden haired and golden son, his father had once spoken of their family being akin to Gods and Jaime had poured over countless tales of Greek deities and hopeful heroes that they had sent to their deaths. Tywin Lannister presumed himself Zeus and Casterly Rock was their Olympus. It would be better, the lion of lannister imagined, to be one of the heroes - welcomed to rest in a crash of war and glory.
Now, green eyes flick in Cersei’s direction and Jaime shifts his weight, straightening once more as she comes to stand beside him. A spell of ill health, the papers had claimed. An entire column in the city papers devoted to why Robert Baratheon’s wife had disappeared so unexpectedly and a carefully constructed letter of ill intent that had led to the order of her twin being sent to accompany her. Someone they could trust. A laugh bubbles out of his chest at that ridiculous notion, at the imagined expression on that fat oaf’s face if he ever learned the truth of how much his sister trusted him - but that hollow ache soon returns, that remembrance that she would always be Jaime’s sun, while he remained nothing but a shadow in the corner of her painting.
“I met someone.” There. It’s out before he can stop it, and the lannister can all but feel the slide of steel between his ribs, that icy stare of his twin’s gaze. He moves, turns until they’re face to face and green gaze can hold one so alike in color to it’s own, sets his jaw against any insult or curse she might throw at him. “You can’t expect me to stand at your whim forever.” The die is cast, though to what end he can’t begin to hope. Fuck power, he wants to scream. Fuck father, fuck Robert Baratheon, fuck those golden haired brats that will never truly his or mine. But instead he takes a breath, feels that steady beat of the heart beneath his ribs - one, two - and throws her words carelessly back at her.
“We make the rules...and we can always change them.”
