And as he looks at her now, the little girl with her little sword, he finds himself wondering about her lists, whether she’s taken the time to create a new one. The North remembers, he’d been told once. Sansa tries not to remember, works tirelessly to forget, to forgive- “I’ve no interest in vengeance,” she’d told him more than once, and he always felt humbled and impressed to hear it. It’s more than I could do.
But there’s something nearly as admirable in the strength of Arya’s resolve, in the determination of her memory. She’s a creature of action, swift and thorough and unstoppable. In that, Jaime feels a sort of kinship with the Queen’s Shadow, and he realizes that this is a woman whose respect he’d like to have.
(It’s been so long since he’d truly cared about earning anyone’s regard, and the realization embarrasses him, just a bit.)
When she buffs the last of the polish from her blade, Arya sheathes it and rises. She does not turn as she speaks to him- “Please tell my sister that I’ve arrived. I’ll be out in the stables for the rest of the day.”
He could choose to be offended- he is the Lord Commander of the North, not a message boy or steward- but he only calls after her- “As you say, my lady.”
After she slips out of the hall, Jaime rises to stretch his legs and head back to Sansa’s chambers. But when he lifts himself from the bench, he knocks the longsword on the floor and winces at the heavy clatter of iron and steel on stone.
He stoops to lift the weapon from the floor and notices, for the first time in years, the cumbersome weight in his left hand, the heft and the bulk.
Jaime wonders for a moment what Arya would do if he asked for a lesson in light-weapon swordplay, and he laughs to himself at the thought.
FILL: Jaime, Arya; "The Shadow"; PG-13 (Part Three)
But there’s something nearly as admirable in the strength of Arya’s resolve, in the determination of her memory. She’s a creature of action, swift and thorough and unstoppable. In that, Jaime feels a sort of kinship with the Queen’s Shadow, and he realizes that this is a woman whose respect he’d like to have.
(It’s been so long since he’d truly cared about earning anyone’s regard, and the realization embarrasses him, just a bit.)
When she buffs the last of the polish from her blade, Arya sheathes it and rises. She does not turn as she speaks to him- “Please tell my sister that I’ve arrived. I’ll be out in the stables for the rest of the day.”
He could choose to be offended- he is the Lord Commander of the North, not a message boy or steward- but he only calls after her- “As you say, my lady.”
After she slips out of the hall, Jaime rises to stretch his legs and head back to Sansa’s chambers. But when he lifts himself from the bench, he knocks the longsword on the floor and winces at the heavy clatter of iron and steel on stone.
He stoops to lift the weapon from the floor and notices, for the first time in years, the cumbersome weight in his left hand, the heft and the bulk.
Jaime wonders for a moment what Arya would do if he asked for a lesson in light-weapon swordplay, and he laughs to himself at the thought.