#type: interaction

It's not his marriage, not really, he knows that. His father and Walder Frey didn't all-out broker the deal but they have as well have. He'd met her at one of his father's parties, a few months ago, during one of their weekends in the country. She'd been there with her father, a rather pinched old man who had made Edmure nervous when he spoke to him. Roslin had been younger than him, a good deal--he'd thought at first that she must have just left school but she told him she was twenty-three, later, and  smiled lightly at his surprise. They'd danced together that night, at her insistence, and it had seemed like play-acting to him, dancing in the stiff air of the hall. His father had been trying to get Walder to join him in funding one of his projects, something he hadn't cared to share with Edmure and Edmure hadn't bothered to try and learn about.

It's not their marriage, really, and he feels vaguely sorry for her, wonders how much she even wanted to marry him, how much had been her father pushing her on, as his did. She likes him, he thinks, she's always seemed as though she does. It's a business deal, the two of them, and they won't admit it, can't admit it but she knows it as much as he does. She must.

He takes her coat as they go into the hotel, after the wedding. It was a small wedding, his father barely well enough to attend, the wedding party mostly taken up by her family (Robb had asked him if he planned to dance with Roslin's cousins with a light laugh, making a gesture to the line of girls, all of them plain and pinched). It's an unfamiliar gesture, more play-acting. He was raised to be a gentleman, of course, to take women's coats, to hold doors but Roslin is his wife and the usual gestures feel strange with her, like they are children trying to be adults.

six months ago

He stops at the traffic lights with screeching tires and loops the tie around his neck; its one of the few things he's inherited from his father, the red and gold silk from Saville Row and it seems only fitting to wear it tonight. He pulls the rear view mirror downwards and checks his reflection; the three-piece suit doesn't feel right on him and he looks longingly at the well-worn leather jacket draped over the passenger seat. But Cersei insisted and this is her night and, if he's perfectly honest with himself, saying no to his sister is something he doesn't do very often - if at all.

He turns the radio on as he drives through Westminster and glances at Big Ben, lit up in red and blue, and the announcer is already going through the exit polls. None of it is surprising - Cersei could never be part of the losing team - but it puts a smile to his lips all the same; this is her victory and her victory alone. He thinks of all the nights he spent this year, watching her work at her desk, chewing a ballpoint pen as she went through papers and files, her eyes blurry as she speed-read her memos. 

He's missed her this past week; he was busy with a high profile case and dealing with the promotion of a certain sergeant, while Cersei was constantly surrounded by advisors and admirers, working until the last minute for tonight. And, loath as he is to admit it, he knows it's for the best that they kept their distance.

Her call came this evening, while he was going through the last of his reports. "You have to come over tonight. I need you with me when the results come in." There was no way he could refuse and besides, he didn't want to. "Of course I'll be there. Save a champagne bottle for me?" She laughed and promised she would and now Jaime is giving his car keys to the valet, buttoning up his suit jacket and running his fingers through his hair.

The party's in full swing by the time he arrives and he receives pats on the back from almost everyone in the room, hearing Cersei's praises sung left and right. But Jaime listens to none of them, walking steadily ahead. He feels her before he sees her (it's always been that way with both of them) and he can't help but let his gaze linger on the black figure-hugging dress she's wearing.

"Hey," he manages to strangle out finally. She smiles.

They're drunk, just as they usually are at this time of night and they're singing at the top of their lungs, some 80s song they've both sworn they hate even though they know every lyric off by heart. They clutch at each other's shoulders - because otherwise they'll fall and hit the pavement or even a passing car - and attempt to walk in a straight line; a difficult feat, especially when Jaime is almost certain he's missing a few toes from his feet (he's actually missing his shoes).

Mance fumbles with the keys to the flat, giggling like a little girl every time the lock stubbornly doesn't budge, and when the click is finally heard, they both fall against the door and onto the carpet of the hallway. They lay there, staring at the dirty ceiling with identical grins, half of them inside, their feet brushing on the snow that's piled at their doorstep. Jaime swings the gin bottle to his lips and winces - because he hates gin but it's Mance's drink of choice when there's a shortage of beer so he puts up with it - then passes it to his best friend who drains the bottle and lets it fall to his side.

"It was a good night," Mance slurs his words but they've been mates forever, Jaime has no trouble understanding him.

"Good night for you," he murmurs, dazed and confused and blissful. "How many birds did you pull?"

Mance laughs his depraved laugh and fishes the slips of paper from his backpocket. "Four! And they'll all get a kiss goodnight from the phone unless you stop me."

"Don't think I need to. Can you even stand up?"

Never one to back down from a challenge, Mance tries to stand, balancing on his elbows, but fails miserably and falls back in peels of laughter. Jaime, a little more sober, offers him a hand and they grab each other by the forearms, pulling themselves up and bumping heads slightly in the dark room. Mance is sniggering like a maniac again and Jaime, trying to be responsible, hits the switch on the crumbling wall.

"Did you forget to pay the electricity bill again? Mance. Mance!"

"Fuck if I know. Was your turn."

"It was YOUR turn, you stupid prick!"

"Yours," Mance shrugs carelessly, oblivious grin stuck to his face. "'N 'm not a prick."

"A right fucking royal one, too."

"But y'love me."

"Fuck off."

"See?"

There's a crashing sound from the living room and Jaime hears Mance drop onto the sofa, kicking a few empty bottles on the way. It brings a smile to his face; being young, living with his best friend, having the whole future in front of him. They're going to be detectives, they decided that together. Mance is more political - he and Cersei get into so many arguments that make Jaime's head roar sometimes - and Jaime's more gung-ho but that's the thing, isn't it? They're polar opposites, they balance each other out, they're there to back each other up. 

It didn’t take much for the East End to riot, and by the time Dany fled down its grimy, infested streets most of the shops were already overrun. Wearing a blood splattered gown and no coat seemed counterproductive to survival, so she stepped up into a smashed glass display case, gingerly maneuvering around the heavy, glittering shards of glass. She grabbed the first pair of jeans and shirt that looked like they might fit, cheap synthetic material she’d never worn before in life and for a moment she stood clutching them, wanting to cry, to collapse to the floor and wait to wake up from this night.

She shook her head. If she looked back, she was lost.

Dany changed quickly between the racks of clothing, pulling on faux Ugg boots and a wool jacket. It was bitterly cold out, and the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes threatened to freeze. She scrubbed at them with the back of her hand.

The bar on her cellphone that measured her battery was edging closer and closer to nil, and she quickly sent out her mass text. Her father and Rhaegar and Viserys and Aegon. She tried very hard not to think of the last time she had seen them—the screams and the mad light in the staffs’ eyes, Rhaegar pushing her into the closet, telling her to not move an inch until he came back for her (he never did, he never came back; she sat in the small cramped dark, knees to her chest, barely daring to breath and listening as the sounds of terror and agony gave way to a horrible silence)—because she knew that if she did she wouldn’t have the strength to go on.

There was a single television set left in the store, and probably because the screen had been broken, and left a jagged line of distilled color through the middle. It was on though, and she could make out the face of a bland news reporter, advising everyone to remain in their homes, to avoid contact even with the most intimate of family members.

Dany’s fingers trembled from cold and nerves and she blew on them. She would love to go home, that bright penthouse suite in Mayfair (Rhaegar always said Dany didn’t have real roots, because her homes had always been one hotel after another, but she had loved it, and the hotel in Mayfair had been her favorite), but she’d heard that the police were scooping up the few survivors of the massacre at the ballroom and taking them to some underground lab where they were never heard from again. Infected was a word lobbed around, especially on the East End, and everyone agreed that those who had survived that terrible slaughter in the ballroom of one the Targaryen hotels probably had the sickness.

But she didn’t. At least, she didn’t think she did. She felt tired and cold and exhausted, but not feverish, not sick, not hungry. But would the government believe her? Dany didn’t think they would—she thought if they found her, she’d wind up in some shadowy lab, needles in her veins, doctors hovering over her, waiting for her to go rabid.

She tripped over a metal baseball bat on her way out of the store and after a moment’s consideration, picked it up. The people out on the East End—kids, mostly, with nowhere to go—were armed. She’d even met one who was excited at the possibility.  “This is some straight up 28 Days Later sort of shit, ya?” he said, and swung a katana in glee at promised violence. Dany shuddered and lost him in the alleyways.

As she came back out onto the street, her breath frosting above her lips in a soft white cloud, she could hear the wail of sirens. Her grip on the baseball bat tightened.