Disclamer: This world belongs to George R. R. Martin. I don't own anything.
"When I grow up…" Tyrion begins and just tattles enthusiastically.
Cersei is smiling, wickedly. She is beautiful and shining – embodied malice.
The food becomes ash in Jaime's mouth. He puts his fork down and pushes his plate away.
His brother still doesn't understand. He knows he is a dwarf, but he does not know what that means. He will figure out, however, soon enough, because the world will care for it. And Jaime is afraid of that day.
"When I grow up…" Tyrion muses, with some uncertainty, perhaps.
Cersei's laugh is sharp and mordant.
Jaime's heart is breaking – a little bit every time.
"When I grow up…" Tyrion's voice is desperate and defiant. He wishes for someone – anyone – to nod to his words.
"Imp," Cersei whispers with disdain.
In this very moment Jaime hates his sister. And he hates himself too because he should say: "There is no 'when' and no 'once'. For you, my brother, none of them."
But he can't. He never could.
Tyrion doesn't say anything. He weeps in quiet, burying his face into his pillow.
Cersei isn't here now.
Jaime clenches then looses his right fist. Again and again. He is thinking about going and strangling his sister with this hand.
He stays, though. He just sits in the dark on the edge of Tyrion's bed, and – hesitantly – strokes his little brother's pale-blond locks.
Tyrion doesn't grow up. He won't be strong. He won't be a knight. Never. But Jaime will.
Instead of Tyrion.
For Tyrion, too.