@ofbleedingpages Asked:

❝ do you understand how little sense that makes? ❞ / for jamie lannister from cersei lannister

He did, actually, but Jaime mostly cared about the look of the hearth in the high window, the way the dying sunlight nudged red along the edges of his sister’s hair. He let the last of the wine from his glass settle on his tongue before answering. ❝ Sense, sweet sister, is like salt. Too much of it & you ruin everything you mean to savor. ❞

He watched her with the faint bemusement of a man who’d been pricked before, but she seemed determined not to see amusement, only insult — like every word he spent was an ounce siphoned from the family fortune. He let the air be heavy for a beat. He knew silence bothered Cersei more than bluntness. ❝ You wish for my thoughts, or the words you would put in my mouth ? ❞

He minded the colors in the glass, all sun-churn & bitter promise. ❝ If you crave sense & virtue in equal measure, I suspect you should have taken up the cloth, or better yet, married a Maester & wallowed in ponderous philosophies till your tongue turned sour. ❞ His voice, when he said it, was almost gentle. ❝ If I weren’t the best swordsman in Westeros, I’d have been poisoned by my own cleverness years ago. ❞ Jaime grinned then, teeth white as northern ice, & thought how odd it was that his sister’s hatred could taste so like honey on a hot morning.

she stands there with her arms crossed against her chest as the question hangs heavy in the air. you could cut the tension like a knife. a beat passes, and addison can't manage to stifle the sharp, humorless laugh that passes from painted lips. he can't be serious. " do i want to talk about ... do you want to talk about loyalty, mark? because i'm not exactly the only one here with a spotty track record. "

“Gossip?” He spit back, blood rising to his face, turning his fair complexion to the color of a roasted tomato. Jaime clenched his jaw, arms rising as he clenched his left hand and balled it into a fist, the golden right one beside it, useless and unsteady.

“Is it gossip that you’re fucking the Kettleblacks and Cousin Lancel, all the while I was in captivity, doing my best to escape, negotiate or whatever it took to return to you, dear sister!?” Jaime was exhausted, weakened from the trip, from the malnourishment, his hand being severed. His hand.

Jaime groaned, turning in defeat before slumping into a chair that looked comfortable but was particularly deceiving. With another groan, he shimmied around in the chair until he made himself comfortable. The anger began to dissipate and now he was ashamed for how he had yelled at Cersei, eyes downcast as he no longer had his golden hair to hide behind. They had ruined him, and now Cersei was making a mockery of him.

“Cersei…” Jaime whispered, one hand balled against his forehead.

“I’ve changed?” Owen parroted in disbelief, thunderous steps momentarily pausing their stomps up the aquarium’s stairwell so that he could whirl around to stare at her. Abby was insufferable when she was in one of these moods. He’d been hoping to get away from her for a couple of hours until they both cooled down— unfortunately, she’d insisted on following him all the way out here in the name of ‘keeping him from doing anything stupid.’

A hand firmly clutched the railing of the stairs in frustration.

“Oh yeah, that’s real rich coming from you.” If anyone had changed— it was her. Since losing her dad and then joining the WLF, Abby had become a whole different person. She barely even talked to him anymore, instead audaciously allowing blind rage to spur her on in her reckless quest for revenge. Didn’t she see that it was consuming her entire life?

Owen highly doubted she even cared about anything or anyone anymore. That just so happened to include him. “All you care about is finding Joel.” Harsh on his part, perhaps, but it was the stone cold truth. “And look, I get it, I do. But this is getting out of hand, Abby. I mean— how do you know the guy isn’t already dead?” And even if he wasn’t, even if she did manage to track Joel down.. killing him wasn’t going to bring Jerry back.

               the   job   doesn’t   get   left   at   the   door,   they   both   know   that.      the   things   they   see,   what   they   have   to   witness   just…      sticks.      this   case   in   particular   was   one   of   the   rough   ones.      one   where   they   were   too   late.      if   they’d   been   a   few   minutes   earlier,   they’d   have   been   able   to   save   that   final   victim   from   such   a   brutal   end.      the   only   minor   consolation   was   that   the   bastard   was   dead.      dead   by   his   gun   or   olivia’s,   he   isn’t   even   sure.      it   was   like   they’d   been   in   sync,   seeing   the   girl   gasp   her   last   breath   and   the   perp   raise   a   gun.      they   fired   at   the   exact   same   time,   so   which   of   their   bullets   did   the   job   is   up   in   the   air.

               even   with   the   perp   dead,   it   still   wasn’t   true   justice.      those   families   won’t   get   to   see   him   convicted,   won’t   get   to   face   their   daughters   killer.      none   of   the   families   will.      if   it   were   one   of   his   daughters…      no.      elliot   can’t   think   like   that.      it’s   those   kinds   of   dark   thoughts   that   cause   him   to   act   irrationally   when   on   a   case.      it’s   hard   not   to   though,   when   the   victim   is   so   close   to   maureen’s   age.

The statement hit Olivia square between her ribs, of course she had a lot to say. This case had been brutal. Awful to keep up with, holes in every direction they turned that the squad was left trying to fill. Somehow in the midst of that, Olivia and Alex’s paths kept crossing, and not in a positive way.

The trial had been even worse, thy didn’t get the outcome they wanted. Olivia couldn’t decide if she blamed Alex or blamed her team for not being able to get together the evidence they needed to put this bastard away. Either way, she was angry and was doing little to nothing to successfully hide it.

“I have a lot to say actually. You let him lie in there.” Consciously, she knew Alex couldn’t exactly make someone tell the truth, she could only push so far within her own limits. That didn’t mean she wasn’t looking for a reason this case flopped anyway.

“How could you let him get away with that back there? You couldn’t have pushed back?”

Her anger was misplaced, but it was heavy, in all regards.

@ofbleedingpages Asked:

❛ sometimes you make friends with the enemy , ❜ [ for tywin , from cersei ]

Tywin narrowed his eyes, the familiar weight of power settling on his shoulders like a well-worn cloak. The flickering torchlight danced across the stone walls, casting shadows that seemed to mock the very blood in his veins. Cersei’s words lingered in the air, sharp as a dagger’s point, but he wouldn’t show her the slightest hint of vulnerability. He stepped closer, the smell of dust & old stone filling his nostrils, mingling with the faint metallic tinge of iron from the nearby armory. His boots echoed against the flagstone floor as he approached her, each step measured, deliberate. The tension thickened, pressing against him like the oppressive heat of summer, every heartbeat drumming louder in his ears.

❝ Friends with the enemy ? ❞ he said, voice low & gravelly, each syllable weighed with unspoken authority. ❝ There is no friendship to be found where power is the currency. ❞ Surely, she had learned by now that even the most fearsome of enemies could not be trusted. Trust was a luxury reserved for the naïve. He moved forward, his expression hardening, the edge of his mouth tightening. The heavy air hummed with unspoken threats, a battlefield forged in words & past betrayals. He could see tension etched across her features, the flicker of defiance clinging to her like a fresh scar. But there was no room for insolence, not now, not ever.

❝ The only thing that binds us, ❞ he continued, taking a measured breath, ❝ is the blood that courses through our veins. & it is a bond that can just as easily be severed. ❞ Each word was deliberate, a warning cloaked in veiled respect.

@ofbleedingpages Asked:

“If you hate me, I can live with that.” [From Jaime for Cersei]

Their past was a banquet of betrayal & hunger, an unending cycle of desire & disdain. It would appear a feast for the scavengers, each slice revealing fresh wounds layered beneath the skin. A chill crept along her spine, but she pushed it back, steeling her resolve as Jamie’s frustration manifested in a new, sharper tone. She folded her arms, leaning against the cool stone wall, trying to steady herself against the weight of his words. The damp air of the room wrapped around the turmoil, the scent of damp stone mingling with the faint salt of the sea.

She watched her brother stomp up & down the Solar’s length, the sheer fact of movement doing all the arguing for him. As if the flagstones themselves would be worn smooth by his relentless passage, so when he finally fell — he surely would, especially at this rate. He could glide face-first all the way to Lannisport on a river of his own dissatisfaction.

❝ I don’t hate you, ❞ she said. She sat rigid by the window, counting the silhouettes of ships in the bay. Her voice sounded brittle, even to her own ears. Something that might crack if pressed hard enough. ❝ If I did, you’d be dead already. Is that what you want ? ❞

❝ You want something no one else wants… me alive & well. ❞ She said, turning from the window. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom. ❝ You’re alone in your idiocy. Congratulations. ❞ She was tired of the parlor games, the vicious little dances through meaning that he had learned to love. Tired of him. Only she wasn’t, not really, not ever.