Jaime's green eyes meet the prince's before flicking quickly over to the dragon.
He knows what dragons that can and cannot fly can do, what fire can do. The smell of burnt human flesh as it cooked against the bones of men who were still alive and howling in pain is forever seared into his memory, and the mere thought of it threatens to bring bile rising in the back of his throat. Sometimes his recollections are so vivid that he can almost feel Ser Arthur's fingers clutching the gilded metal of his bevor, twisting into the gorget around his neck to keep him in place.
The vividness of it all had sent him spiraling when Drogon annihilated his army, the sounds of men screaming and flesh cooking in the present mixing with the past to the point that Jaime became panicked and desperate enough to jump on a horse and grab a spear in attempt to impale the beast. As if that would have done anything to stop him, as if impaling Daenerys instead would have served any purpose but to anger the dragon more.
Had Bronn not tackled him into the water, Jaime would not be sitting here today.
Would not be staring at the roasted bird, torn between hurling insults and using what he'd glimpsed of Daemon's memories as fodder or actually being (openly) grateful for once.
Spending his formative years in the Kingsguard did nothing for him in terms of teaching him how to interact with people. More often than not, his stunted social skills make him come off as rude and flaunting some sort of superiority complex. Jaime defaults to acting in line with the best worst interpretation of his honorless self when he doesn't know how to react, relying on the low opinion most have of him to end the interaction as swiftly as possible.
He does not quite know how to be grateful when there's no formality or tactical reason attached to it.
But he tries, because he doesn't want to be fed to a dragon.
Tries with a touch of brattiness, because he cannot help himself.
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He knows what dragons that can and cannot fly can do, what fire can do. The smell of burnt human flesh as it cooked against the bones of men who were still alive and howling in pain is forever seared into his memory, and the mere thought of it threatens to bring bile rising in the back of his throat. Sometimes his recollections are so vivid that he can almost feel Ser Arthur's fingers clutching the gilded metal of his bevor, twisting into the gorget around his neck to keep him in place.
The vividness of it all had sent him spiraling when Drogon annihilated his army, the sounds of men screaming and flesh cooking in the present mixing with the past to the point that Jaime became panicked and desperate enough to jump on a horse and grab a spear in attempt to impale the beast. As if that would have done anything to stop him, as if impaling Daenerys instead would have served any purpose but to anger the dragon more.
Had Bronn not tackled him into the water, Jaime would not be sitting here today.
Would not be staring at the roasted bird, torn between hurling insults and using what he'd glimpsed of Daemon's memories as fodder or actually being (openly) grateful for once.
Spending his formative years in the Kingsguard did nothing for him in terms of teaching him how to interact with people. More often than not, his stunted social skills make him come off as rude and flaunting some sort of superiority complex. Jaime defaults to acting in line with the best worst interpretation of his honorless self when he doesn't know how to react, relying on the low opinion most have of him to end the interaction as swiftly as possible.
He does not quite know how to be grateful when there's no formality or tactical reason attached to it.
But he tries, because he doesn't want to be fed to a dragon.
Tries with a touch of brattiness, because he cannot help himself.
Reaching for the fowl with his lone hand, Jaime holds it up by the wing. "Isse se brΕzi hen Δ«lva Δrinnon."