Made, Erred, and Stolen
Some vows break so sweetly. Some orders are so easily broken. Sometimes, stolen time is the most coveted treasure of all.
A/N: A handful of drabbles, focusing on Jaime's time in the Kingsguard prior to a new king. Feedback and critique always make my day :-)
Her solar always smells of cinnamon and oranges, sometimes honey. She reclines now, reading from a small green book. Jaime does not know how the White Bull or Ser Barristan or any of his brothers can imitate furniture for so many hours. Some days, it seems like one man in a thousand could kill him in a swordfight, but a single day more of silent guarding will melt his brain straight out of his ears.
He has sworn an oath to die of boredom. Two, in fact. One for his cloak, another for his sister. As much as he tries to keep them separate—to hate the oath he traded for a cloak, not the one he made for Cersei—some days they bleed together in his mind.
The clatter draws his attention. She has dropped her book, nothing more. Something more, perhaps, for Rhaegar's frail princess. Her eyes roll in annoyance but he is already crossing the solar. Sometimes, he forgets she is no longer bedridden. Or boredom has made overzealous courtesy appealing.
"Allow me, your Grace."
His armor clanking overloud, he kneels and picks up the book, just as she shifts to reach for it.
"Elia." Her breath brushes his forehead. When he looks down, his face is close to hers. "No one says my name anymore."
It's the wry amusement in her dark eyes and the gentle smile on her lips—it can only be that.
Her lips taste of oranges and honey. They are soft, with little of Cersei's ferocity, her teeth and smirks. Cersei.
He pulls back, blood racing. He has erred. He could laugh at the number of ways he has just erred. Which one was the worst? Which oath has he most flagrantly sundered? He knows Cersei still smirks, still carries on as the almost-Lady of Casterly Rock. While he rots here, vows nothing but brass rings hawked by a crooked street merchant.
The princess studies him. Jaime has trouble reading her dark eyes but knows she misses little. Her silks whisper as she reaches up with a slender hand, gently pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes.
Jaime errs again.
Her mouth is soft, not weak. Whatever role Elia bears in King's Landing, she comes from a land of trysts and paramours. Her tongue makes a sweet kiss sensuous.
A low, delicate laugh when she pulls away "I prefer you to my story."
The princess hides much behind her small smiles and dark eyes, but in that moment he understands her perfectly. The more sanctimony bound to an oath, the sweeter the stolen defiance.