[ Kingslayer. Jaime's mouth curves wider, sharper, at the moniker. (He hates the way it strikes him, reopening a wound that never fully healed every time its thrown in his face). The wisp of a man before him ought to know better, although it takes Jaime half a minute to suss out his identity. It's the smile that gives him away. He recalls disliking it in Winterfell.
And it hasn't aged well at all.
What in the seven hells happened to him? His gaze flickers from Theon's face to his gloved hand, not quite understanding the sight but registering the lack of a weapon. He drops his golden hand to his sword, even if he can't lift it without releasing the slime or wield it effectively with his left hand. ]
Perhaps I'll take your hand for myself then. [ That reply comes easily, a cruel instinct. ] I'm already short one, you see.
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And it hasn't aged well at all.
What in the seven hells happened to him? His gaze flickers from Theon's face to his gloved hand, not quite understanding the sight but registering the lack of a weapon. He drops his golden hand to his sword, even if he can't lift it without releasing the slime or wield it effectively with his left hand. ]
Perhaps I'll take your hand for myself then. [ That reply comes easily, a cruel instinct. ] I'm already short one, you see.