Jaime Lannister (jaime_lannister) wrote in wished_away_rpg, @ 2013-07-15 07:35:00 |
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WHO: Jaime Lannister (jaime_lannister) and the travellers
WHAT: Arrival at Roaring Fords Inn
WHERE: Roaring Fords
WHEN: Day 16 - afternoon
WARNINGS: tbd
STATUS: ongoing, open
Sweet was the air at Roaring Fords the day he found himself wished there. The newest Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who lacked a hand, suddenly found himself minus his entire life. He had somehow been lifted right out of Westoros and into the large structure, rambling up five storeys and outward through different styles of architecture. Jaime identified with the building -- both had been added onto at various times and the additions didn't necessarily mesh with what was there. Yet those additions were solidly supported below while reaching for the sky, despite a wall or two going off plumb with the assault of time.
Jaime had shut his eyes for a few moments as he sat in the Lord Commander's office. With almost everything in the top room of the tower being white, some might think it bright enough to keep him alert. But it didn't help when he lacked sleep and overworked himself, which was his habit since returning to King's Landing. At the same instance he vainly thought he wasn't drifting off, some part of him hoped to dream about Cersei -- about how life used to be before his capture by the Stark Wolves. If only everything hadn't changed. If only he could be the same Jaime as before, the one who was whole and a great swordsman. If only he needn't suffer physical and emotional agony. If only the if-onlys were wishes, he'd be away from here in every way that mattered.
When his eyelids parted again, a strange sight greeted him. He was in a tavern where nothing seemed to be white. The place was full of browns and greys between the wood beams above and stonework underfoot. But it was too quiet, empty of any one else. He had leapt to his feet, automatically reaching for sword with his right hand only to hit the bandaged stump against his side. The best that could be said was at least his side didn't cause as much pain to the wound as other mishaps -- if he only thought of physical pain.
That had been a day ago for Jaime of the afflicted spirit. Between then and now he did a reconn of the building, just thorough enough to confirm that he was alone. He returned to the travelling trunk there by the table where he'd found himself originally. His own possessions were inside, clothes mostly along with a few books and a bedroll for travelling rough. That was when he realised he didn't wear the uniform of the KIngsguard. Only his sword had remained with him. His clothes were of the quality any prosperous merchant might wear -- shirt, doublet and breeches. The boots were for a noble, however, with barely any hint of travel on them.
Then there was the journal on top of his possessions, something he hadn't seen before. Yet it belonged to him, so was writ in it along with extraordinary explanations. He saw it was all true; new messages appeared when others who had been also 'wished away' wrote in the book. One mentioned they were almost at the Roaring Fords. Jaime would be having company. He could play innkeeper and see if this amused him. He didn't read a lot from the journal, choosing instead to make a more thorough investigation of the large inn and its grounds. No people -- yet. More than enough drink and food, preserved with magic apparently for some of it should have been rotten or inedibly stale by now.
Jaime waited up in the highest point of the inn, a square tower surrounded on all sides with windows. The quirky rooflines blocked part of his view. He opened some of the windows and listened as well as watched. While waiting, he thought about writing something in the journal. But he felt as if his right hand anticipated holding the pen and damnation of seven hells! he lacked that hand. Writing with the left was still rough.
"Not like losing the Hand of the King," he growled aloud to himself. "So much easier, finding someone to serve as Hand. Enchantia, regrow my hand for me!"
He paced around the room, a wounded, agitated lion. With a despondent sigh, he leaned against the frame of a window looking down to the courtyard. The stables were empty. The smokehouse had joints of meat. A spring house was stocked with drinks. A cow with black spots came into view, following a path of grass she was cropping into cud. Goats bleated, a pair of them which also lived at Roaring Fords apparently. He saw them play a game of leap on nimble legs.
Jaime's head turned when he heard the sounds he'd been waiting for. They were close, they were here. Their approach was from a direction not blocked from view. The sight of the travellers made him almost unnaturally happy. He rushed down several flights of steps, thudding boot steps magnified in the unpopulated inn.
Jaime Lannister forgot about being cool, about waiting for them inside the tavern, posed at a table with his booted feet up on the planks. He rushed outside around the corner of the building until he could see them and they him. The tall man waited with the sweet scents of spring flowers perfuming the air around him. The sun shone down on his hair, bound to turn his once golden locks brilliant again.