[It is somehow easier to try to make sense of events that have not yet come to pass than it is to make sense of what it is Jaime feels at the choice Myrcella presents to him. A Baratheon princess in name, a Lannister in blood--wed to a prince of Dorne? Only Tyrion could have secured that marriage contract. And likely he did it half to spite Cersei. No wonder they were at such fierce odds. She must have put a price on his head the day Myrcella's ship sailed south.
It discomforts him to think of Tyrion and Cersei so opposed. He is no fool: there has never been love between them. But they have at least held a sort of peace, kept secrets, kept strong their House. Tyrion must have acted out of wisdom, Jaime tells himself. And had he been in King's Landing at the time, would he have contested the arrangement? He might have fathered Cersei's children, but he was no father to them. Nor was Robert. Is it really so different? And it is in Jaime to refuse Myrcella's hope--but she says it so plainly, with simple honesty, that he finds he does not know what to say.]
Perhaps, yes. [A poor answer. As soon as he has said it, he knows, and he frowns, casts his eyes down to their hands once more. Better:] I am not opposed. And I will keep you safe, Myrcella.
[Another man would offer an oath. Jaime knows how cheap such words are. He tries to put plain truth into his tone instead, and when she steps in to embrace him, he allows it. After an awkward pause, he raises his arms and closes them around her. She is much taller now, nearly a woman grown if not a woman already. Betrothed, awaiting marriage in Dorne--and now here, with him. Their embrace puts his missing hand in his line of sight, a brutal thing against the gold of her hair. Can he give her what she asks for? A father?
He need not answer now. Instead, he answers the rest of what she asks, as he draws away to look at her once more.]
There are no princes of Dorne here. Your Uncle Tyrion was here, but he has been gone now for some time. Whatever power that brings people to this country can send them away again. We have plenty of Starks, more than I can keep count of--their Greyjoy ward, Lord Baelish--and Targaryens. There is a sort of accord at the moment, thanks to Lord Baelish. ['Thanks'. Jaime is a measure sarcastic about that word. He is grateful, to be sure, and Littlefinger makes for a decent enough ally. Just not one that Jaime would have selected if not for necessity.] You must tell me all that you know, but keep much of it from all of them. There is a certain power in foreknowledge.
And there are threats besides those our countrymen would pose to us. But I will see you safe.
[For Cersei's sake, as much as anything else. And for my own, too. What capabilities he has to fulfill Myrcella's request remain to be seen. Tentatively, Jaime smiles at her.]
The powers gifted to us by the gods of this country will allow me that, at least.
no subject
It discomforts him to think of Tyrion and Cersei so opposed. He is no fool: there has never been love between them. But they have at least held a sort of peace, kept secrets, kept strong their House. Tyrion must have acted out of wisdom, Jaime tells himself. And had he been in King's Landing at the time, would he have contested the arrangement? He might have fathered Cersei's children, but he was no father to them. Nor was Robert. Is it really so different? And it is in Jaime to refuse Myrcella's hope--but she says it so plainly, with simple honesty, that he finds he does not know what to say.]
Perhaps, yes. [A poor answer. As soon as he has said it, he knows, and he frowns, casts his eyes down to their hands once more. Better:] I am not opposed. And I will keep you safe, Myrcella.
[Another man would offer an oath. Jaime knows how cheap such words are. He tries to put plain truth into his tone instead, and when she steps in to embrace him, he allows it. After an awkward pause, he raises his arms and closes them around her. She is much taller now, nearly a woman grown if not a woman already. Betrothed, awaiting marriage in Dorne--and now here, with him. Their embrace puts his missing hand in his line of sight, a brutal thing against the gold of her hair. Can he give her what she asks for? A father?
He need not answer now. Instead, he answers the rest of what she asks, as he draws away to look at her once more.]
There are no princes of Dorne here. Your Uncle Tyrion was here, but he has been gone now for some time. Whatever power that brings people to this country can send them away again. We have plenty of Starks, more than I can keep count of--their Greyjoy ward, Lord Baelish--and Targaryens. There is a sort of accord at the moment, thanks to Lord Baelish. ['Thanks'. Jaime is a measure sarcastic about that word. He is grateful, to be sure, and Littlefinger makes for a decent enough ally. Just not one that Jaime would have selected if not for necessity.] You must tell me all that you know, but keep much of it from all of them. There is a certain power in foreknowledge.
And there are threats besides those our countrymen would pose to us. But I will see you safe.
[For Cersei's sake, as much as anything else. And for my own, too. What capabilities he has to fulfill Myrcella's request remain to be seen. Tentatively, Jaime smiles at her.]
The powers gifted to us by the gods of this country will allow me that, at least.