Tyrion was not having the best day of all his days, but as days went, it was also not his worst. He was in a world he had no business being in, and he stuck out like a sore thumb, even he realized that. Thankfully, there was a rather large dragon (he'd been under the impression they were all dead, but apparently not in this world, or whatever world the thing had come from) occupying most people's attention. He did get recognized on the street by a few individuals, oeople that weren't too busy running and screaming to look around. He did not stop to chat, though on another day he might have done. Celebrity and reputation were all in this world, from what little he knew of it, and such things could be leveraged for a variety of ends. Power, making one's way into women's beds - at any rate, that would have to wait.
He moved down the slick sidewalk as quickly as he could manage while attempting not to be knocked down by the crowds of panicked tourists all fleeing in the same direction. Despite his best efforts he was sent to the ground twice, and just barely missed being trampled the second time around. Fear was not an ennobling experience, generally, and this was no different. The desperate masses wanted escape, and they didn't care who they had to knock down to get away - particularly as the dead began to walk down the road. Lovely.
As for him, well, he stayed as far from trouble as he could, as he was wont to do. There seemed to be some varieties of heroes interested in tangling with the dragon, and the luck of the gods to them. For his part, Tyrion was interested in finding a safe place to weather the storm, until he could find his way to the towering building in which his counterpart lived. The other gentleman seemed a little frustrated but also vaguely amused by this whole thing, despite the imminent threat of death, likely because he was not being required to deal with the issue. Blake had been going through the door a considerable amount, lately. Tyrion well knew what he was running from, but dealing with his counterpart's sticky emotional issues was a problem for a quieter, more dragon-free day.
The Wynn was to be the first building Tyrion happened upon that was far enough from the chaos to seem safe, but close enough that he didn't have to try to slide along much further in boots built for walking in sunny, summer-season King's Landing. He ducked into the carpeted lobby with relief, and cut across, aiming for a quieter hallway, somewhere there would be fewer people and less chance of tangling with one of the dead if it wandered in the front door looking for company. Somewhere away from the casino floor, too, where some people still gambled despite the horrors outside, sitting at infernal machines with flashing, intensely bright lights and horrendous, shrieking music.
He was so thoroughly wrapped up in shedding the abject terror he'd felt while exposed outside (because, all pretenses aside, the dragon had been very close when he stepped out onto the strip) that he didn't look very carefully at the man coming out of his room just ahead. Tyrion was accustomed to being trampled or nearly trampled, and he backed up a step when the man half-tripped over him, ready to come back with a quick remark, when he looked up and registered his own name coming from the man's lips.
Oh. "Jaime?" Unabashed surprise. He looked him up and down. There was no denying it, as much as his jaded heart would have wished to - in this chaos and this mess, tossed into a world he was still trying to make heads or tails of, it was good to see Jaime's face. "Well, this is an intriguing look for you, dear brother, I must say. I always thought you adaptable, but you've adopted the native customs in absolute record time."