The Targaryens reign over his country and yet Ser Jaime thinks them disconnected from his world. Their skin is so pale it almost shimmers or shines, like scales; their hair is eerily translucent white, and their purple eyes are more akin to something fetched out of a childâs fairytale.
In general, they glide around like the world is their dish. He supposes it has been, ever since Aegon the Conqueror decided to eat it.
Queen Rhaella is not much of a dragon, though, he observes. She either never had the same sharp teeth or had them taken out by her brotherâs overshadowing madness, long before they were even wed. She cowers before every instance of man, even her own Kingsguard, and Jaime thinks it rightfulâafter all, he was cruelly forbade from protecting her the night before as the King forcibly took his fill.
Sheâs weak, his father would bluntly say, and little Prince Viserys is a brat. The only hope she has is Prince Rhaegar, whose foolishness is bringing a bitter war to the South with the Starks and Baratheons, and young Ser Jaime.
âYour Grace,â Jaime greets her.
Rhaella likes the sun, but it makes her look like a spectre out in the courtyard gardens. She doesnât respond at first, a few beats of silence before she looks up at him with a trained smile.
âSer Jaime,â she returns. She pushes out a chair and puts a black, silk cushion on it. âWould you like to sit?â
He appreciates she is also not like a dragon in the regard she seems to welcome everyone into her bubble, without a fiery tongue or snapping jaw to follow it. He is the only soldier she can really stand to interact with, too. Perhaps because, as many would say, he is still green off the back of boyhood. He is possibly her Rhaegar before the turmoil.
But Jaime shakes his head gently, gesturing to his armour.
âI am always on duty, my queen, I could not rest. I only wanted to make sureâŠâ
Rhaella is a mauled sort of ghost. The bruising has started swelling up in a multitude of colours at her cheekbone, dulled red scratches wide over her shoulders. It is a typical night for her, heâs told snidely by less loyal fellows. Even at seventeen, Jaime knows it wrong to harm a woman so, never mind a queen. He can not imagine hurting his sister.
âTo make sure you are well this morning, Your Grace,â he continues, carefully.
Sheâs not like to talk about it. If she talks about it, it will make it real. So she smiles prettily like sheâs been taught, and tilts her head. Jaime expected nothing less.
âPerfectly fine, Ser. My son is there playing, and itâs a warm day⊠The summer seems good to us. Our blood doesnât run as hot as it used toâŠâ
Jaime hasnât even noticed Viserys in the gardens before them, tormenting insects. Heâs so small he blends into the grass, growing longâeverythingâs growing long, like King Aerysâ fingernails which he wonât let anyone cut just in case they cut him too. This is a court of paranoia and weeds, and Jaime is just a nameless observer.
âYou are my queen,â he murmurs when he looks back down to her. He will at least bend and take her fragile hand to let her know that.
This time when Rhaella looks at him, she speaks to him through her eyes at least.
âYou are my blade, Ser Jaime.â Her voice is a wisp trying on strong words. For once, it works. âI may need you one day.â
This statement is different than all sheâs said before. He retracts his hand with furrowed eyebrows. She goes on smiling, drinking tea which heâs sure is of the moon, religiously.
Jaime knows Queen Rhaella has never truly been asleep. Sheâs no walking ghost, her heart still pumps with life even if she drifts past everyone and everything. She knows of Aerysâ exploits, firsthand, hosting plenty of marks to prove his downfall.Â
And Jaime wonders if her being awake is ten times more unnerving a thought than otherwise.
