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.
