When Jaime frantically tries to reach back into his memories and find something kid-friendly and comforting, it’s depressingly difficult. Being confronted with two unhappy children – Myrcella is scowling, arms crossed, while Tommen stares past Jaime with an alarmingly distant expression – doesn’t make it any easier.
Finally Jaime remembers, dimly, his mother making hot chocolate on cold days. It’s hazy, but he recalls the sweet chocolate on his tongue, mug warming his hands, watching closely with Cersei while his mother shooed the cook away and stood in front of the stove stirring and humming softly.
Jaime doesn’t have hot chocolate or know how to make it, so he bundles both children up and heads towards Wildling Coffee.
Myrcella mutters “this is stupid” under her breath and Tommen continues to say nothing. So far, Jaime’s heard him say three words in eight hours, and those were to a stray cat outside Jaime’s building.
The surly redhead working the counter raises an eyebrow when she sees them, but refrains from her usual sarcasm. Jaime isn’t sure if that’s because he looks as bad as he feels or because she’s already heard the gossip about what went down at the Baratheons.
Tommen curls into one of the chairs, head down, looking at his knees. Myrcella flops dramatically into hers, heaving a sigh as if being taken for hot chocolate is the highest form of punishment.
Jaime remembers Cersei being exceptionally difficult during her teenage years, but Myrcella is only 12. Surely she hasn’t yet entered that stage of mood swings and emotion.
“I know this rough,” Jaime starts.
“No shit,” Myrcella mutters.
“Language,” Jaime says mildly, and Myrcella rolls her eyes.
The social worker had warned him this would be difficult.
“I just want you to know I want to make you as comfortable as you can be, under the circumstances,” Jaime says. It feels like a very sterilized and polite way to say, while your mother and brother are locked up for probably murdering your father.
“Do you even know how to raise kids?” Myrcella spits out, just as the redhead comes over with a tray.
“Don’t sass your uncle like that,” the redhead says, setting mugs down.
She must have heard, then. Gossip travels fast in Westeros.
“Who are you?” Myrcella asks rudely.
“Ygritte,” the redhead says, her matter-of-fact tone not changing. “And if I talked like that, my uncle would have had me outside chopping wood until I learned my lesson.”
Myrcella scowls, but she takes her mug while Ygritte turns to Tommen.
“Made yours special, love,” she says to him, tone much softer. “Extra chocolate and cinnamon.”
“Why are you being nice?” Myrcella is not cowed at all. “Do you want to sleep with my uncle?”
Jaime’s eyes widen in shock, but Ygritte just barks out a shout of laughter.
“Nah, too much of a fancy, pretty boy for me,” she says, giving Jaime an unfairly dismissive look. She turns back to Myrcella with a stern look. “I might’ve been through some things. Kids like us gotta stick together.”
Myrcella rolls her eyes. “Things like what?”
“If you decide to shape up, maybe I’ll tell you,” Ygritte says. “Your uncle’s a bit of a fancy jerk but he’s not the one who caused this.”
With that she sashays off back to the counter, leaving Jaime blinking and wondering what just happened.
Myrcella doesn’t seem to consider the offer, and she evades Jaime’s attempts to get to know her better with short, sullen answers. Tommen doesn’t respond either, just sips his hot chocolate with a sad expression made somehow worse by the whipped cream that gets stuck on his lip.
When Jaime finally take a sip of his drink, he’s hit with the unmistakable bite of alcohol and he whips his head around stare at the counter. Ygritte gives him a shrug and a friendly wink.
Jaime manages about forty-five minutes before he gives into the awkwardness and gathers everyone to head back home. Tommen stops on the street to pet a dog, and then again to try and pet a cat lying under a bush.
“I won’t hurt you,” Tommen whispers to the cat, so soft Jaime can hardly hear it. Tommen sounds like he’s about to cry.
He still doesn’t say anything to Jaime the rest of the way home. Once there, Tommen retreats to his bedroom with a blanket and book, while Myrcella dramatically slams her door. Shortly after, Jaime hears the sound of computer games drifting out of her room.
Jaime sits on the sofa, head in his hands. There’s nobody else who can take his kids – Tyrion is even less prepared than Jaime is, and nobody wants to give Tywin the chance to fuck up another generation.
Jaime hasn't been this excited for Christmas in a long time. Possibly ever, considering he barely remembers the years before his mother died and the family Christmases after hadn't been much fun, even for children.
As an adult he basically stopped celebrating beyond the obligatory family dinner, and it was fine enough, but some part of him always felt a little bit pathetic.
Now, though, Jaime has reasons to celebrate, and he's going to take them.
If not for himself, for his niece and nephew, whose holidays have been as miserable as Jaime's so far.
Jaime had his assistant decorate the apartment (or maybe hire someone to do it, Jaime isn't entirely sure) and it's dripping with greenery and lights and sparkling ornaments. There are piles of presents under the tree, and two overly stuffed stockings hanging from the mantle. (Two more are at the foot of Tommen and Myrcella's beds, Jaime might have gone a little overboard when asking Peck to pick up gifts.)
It's far grander than anything his father ever did, though Jaime is still frustrated by the lack of homeliness that seems present in other people's houses this time of year. He doesn't know what he's missing, but something seems just slightly off.
The kids haven't noticed, though, just like they didn't notice the mild panic after Jaime realized most restaurants are closed on Christmas Eve. Pentoshi takeout saved the day, and afterwards they'd eaten Christmas cookies and drank glasses of (non-alcoholic) eggnog. Myrcella had begged to watch Miracle on 34th Street and Jaime had read them both the Night Before Christmas before Tommen put out a glass of milk and cookies for Santa.
That had led to another round of panic, since Jaime had thought he was past the age of believing, and a number of quick google searches on how to salvage the situation.
Luckily neither child has paid too close attention to the boxes under the tree, so Jaime was able to frantically unwrap a few and put them out with a hastily made tags written with his left hand to disguise the writing.
The best gift of all, though, is the one that should be arriving shortly. Jaime checks his watch again and casts a nervous glance at the kid's bedrooms. He's told them they're not allowed to come out until 6 o'clock, but it's getting awfully close, and he can hear rustling sounds from behind both doors.
Jaime threatened to drop kick Tyrion across a yard if he's late, but now he's wondering if he should have found another solution.
Finally, Tyrion pulls up and Jaime rushes outside to take the basket from him. Five fifty. They're cutting it very close.
"Put that in my room," he hisses, nodding at the cat carrier Tyrion is holding. The cat inside slumbers on, oblivious.
Jaime takes the basket, lifting one edge of the fabric printed with tiny gingerbread men and candy canes and peeking inside. Two little pink noses bob towards him, and he hastily recovers the basket, tucking the edge (which is even sewn, he wonders where Tyrion found pre-sewn fabric) in as best he can, and adjusts the bow on the handle.
Then he shoos a grumpy Tyrion back outside, to wait around the block, and hastily retreats to his bedroom, closing the door, just in time to hear doors open and excited squeals as the kids enter the living room.
"Santa came!" Myrcella shouts, as Jaime opens his door.
The kittens start meowing, as if on cue, and Tommen's eyes get huge.
"Looks like it," Jaime agrees, leaning against the doorway. Myrcella is already opening up the art kit Santa had left for her, running her fingers over the paints and pencils with a look of joy.
"Why don't you open the basket?" Jaime suggests, when the meowing grows louder and Tommen doesn't move. Myrcella finally takes his hand and tugs him over and they kneel in front of the basket together for a few minutes before Tommen finally peels back the fabric.
Both kitten heads pop up immediately, sniffing excitedly at the kids. The Siamese-looking one is closest to Tommen, and he scoops it up and walks over to Jaime.
