Not for the first time in his life, he wished he could pierce his eardrums with an arrow, just so he wouldn't have to listen to Joffrey speak.

It was the young king's wedding to Margaery, and for the first hours of the day Jaime made sure to make his presence as equal to a ghost as he could — he hated every second of it, despite not telling anyone about just how much he despised staring at all those elegant people drinking and eating without a care in the world.

They hadn't seen the Riverlands burn while the North tried to reach for justice.

He supposed he shouldn't have been feeling those kind of things, not when his dear father Tywin kept sending him glares over the dinner table, almost as if to warn him to not do anything that could potentially compromise his position as a knight of the Kingsguard more than the rumors of him having laid with Cersei already did.

His fingers wrapped around the pommel of his Valyrian Steel sword, gaze roaming over the festivities. Men and women talking with stuffed mouths, not even caring about the fact that the rest of the city was starving.

... When did he become so weak in his judgement?

Jaime sighed, walking a few feet forward and away from the place he had been stuck in for most part of the feast, instead choosing to stand next to you — you, with your adornments of roses and vines, the same that both Margaery and Loras wore so pridefully.

You, however, seemed more like Olenna. Prickly and sharp, with a tongue made of silver and charms that could rival the ones that Margaery possessed. You would've made for a fine queen, if the little rose didn't step up her game of playing the innocent dove.

He could've stayed silent, but something about you intrigued him, and he couldn't help himself from tilting his head towards you.

"It's a fine wedding, don't you agree?"