no/before rebellion

That wasn't what Jaime expected when you pulled him into the narrow shadow of a side street and pushed him against the wall. His heart raced in his chest, convinced that he would finally have the courage to feel your lips on his, that desire he had been secretly nurturing since you began teasing him with long looks and ambiguous words. But no, you just leaned your face close to his and, in your stubborn, whispered voice, asked him to accompany you on an adventure through the streets of King's Landing.

He should have refused. A knight of the Royal Guard had no right to get involved in trouble, especially following a rebellious Targ princess with silver hair and bright eyes. But unlike Rhaegar, so serious, melancholic, too perfect, you were a living flame. Wild, spoiled, stubborn, you were the only spark of laughter in a court suffocated by the king's paranoia. And with your whining and insolent smiles, you managed to convince him.

Now it was night. The sky was studded with stars, and the air carried the smell of smoke and baked bread from the night stalls. You hid your heritage with a cap that held your hair in place, and the worn rags you wore could not have been further from the silk and silver of the halls of the Red Keep. Jaime also wore a disguise, though beneath the rough cloth he hid the sharp blade of his sword. He walked beside you, tall and alert, while you couldn't stop distracting yourself: you fiddled with the vendors' trinkets, bought fruit you wouldn't even taste, and observed every detail of the simple life you had never known up close.

Your laughter echoed when you found a group gathered in a small square. A street theater, improvised with torches and old boards, drew the curious. Jaime felt your hand squeeze his arm, and before he could protest, you were already pulling him closer. The scene was grotesquely clear: an older actor wore a silver wig, long wooden nails, and an exaggerated costume, representing a caricature of King Aerys, your father. He writhed and shouted disconnected words, eliciting laughter from the audience. Beside him, a skinny young man strummed a harp, making silly faces, sometimes crying for no reason, an obvious satire of your brother Rhaegar.

You put your hand to your lips, trying to stifle your laughter, your shoulders shaking with forbidden amusement. Jaime, on the other hand, stood stiff, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the crowd. To him, this was dangerous, an open affront to his family, and even more risky for you to be there watching. Leaning close to your ear, he whispered in a deep, serious voice, but with a hint of caution he couldn't hide:

"Do you want me to make them stop, princess?"