Jaime Lannister's Story

"You look lovely today, dear sister." Viserys stated upon her entering, and she stayed silent, nibbling at the small portions in front of her. "I fear the council will start a war over you if they see you." He smiled in her direction, and the sight made her cringe. His smiles were never genuine, never warm. It was the type of smile you saw a sick child make before plucking the wings off of a butterfly. "Not that I would let them." he added, waving his hand. "Thank you, Your Grace," she responded simply. If she wouldn't be his, she would be no one's. At least that is what she assumed he was thinking. He still hated her for everything the Dothraki and Khal Drogo had put him through.. all because of her. She wasn't exactly sorry about anything she had done. If anything, she wished it would have woken him up and changed him for the better. It only made him more hateful. They never talked about the Dothraki or Khal Drogo, because of the memories it resurfaced.

"Ah, yes. They should be arriving within a few minutes, I do believe. I still need to get changed." he answered after her question regarding the council. "The Northerners should be here." Dany perked up at his words. The Northerners were actually good people, and she enjoyed being in their company. They had honor, a quality her brother hadn't been gifted with. She wasn't sure what they thought of her, as they hadn't had any time to converse without Viserys present. The King made sure she was always by his side, or in her room. He feared her turning her back on him, betraying him. "Today will be an excellent day, I do believe. I get to discuss the matters of my bride as well as my tourney." Her thoughts went to the Lannister boy, the previous King of Westeros. Viserys liked to talk about how Joffrey was a scared little child, not worthy to hold the throne. Yet here was her brother, worried more about his tournament and bride than the people of the Seven Kingdoms. He wasn't doing anything but worrying about his own needs. He was more similar to Joffrey than he realized.

"Lady Margery Tyrell is a fine woman. The Tyrell's are a powerful family, I wonder if Renly Baratheon would fancy another, in place of her? I think Lady Margery is quite lovely. What are your thoughts on this, sweet sister?" Dany pondered his question for a moment, finishing her last bits of toast and fruit. She had to be careful with her words. Anything she said that her brother didn't agree with, he would see as her going against his wishes. "Margaery Tyrell is power hungry, I believe. A woman who would leave her husband to further herself is only in for the title, nothing more." She paused, considering her next words. "But I trust you will make the best decision, Your Grace." That should please The Dragon, she thought. Although he was no dragon. She wasn't a cowering little girl anymore like she once was. She had learned courage and fire from her late husband. And while many Westerosi people saw her as timid for following her brother, that wasn't it at all. She was just smart. She wasn't going to anger him for no reason, knowing that many of his guards wouldn't hesitate to beat her at his word. She preferred to put her energies into other things, things that would actually get her somewhere. Talking back to her brother wouldn't accomplish anything other than anger.

Their conversation was interrupted by footsteps approaching, and her head snapped up to the new addition as he spoke. "Good Morrow your Grace." It was Robb Stark, once King in the North. Now he was kept in King's Landing like a prisoner, but with better accommodations. His situation was so similar to hers, she wished they could just sit and discuss it. But that would never happen, her brother would make sure of that. Her eyes followed him longingly. Not in a romantic way, although Robb was extremely handsome. His dark, curly locks and rugged handsomeness were undeniable. Yet she longed for a friend, someone she could connect with. She felt like a caged animal in this damned castle. She nodded in Robb's direction, so he would know she acknowledged his presence. Robb's appearance must have set off a chain reaction, because not long after, her and her brother's topic of conversation entered the dining hall as well. Margaery Tyrell.

The woman gave Daenerys an uncomfortable feeling, but she had no idea why. She watched Margaery sweep into an elegant bow upon seeing Viserys, a smile plastered on her pretty little face. Dany was not impressed by the girl, her eyes watching, a smile not appearing on her face. They followed the girl as she sat down at the table. She could only imagine what Viserys was thinking at the display from Margaery. The last one to join their table was Sansa, Robb's younger sister. She looked positively uncomfortable, giving a small curtsy and heading straight for Robb. Dany's motherly instincts kicked in, and she wished she could soothe Sansa's fears. That was one girl Dany would never let Viserys touch. A soft smile appeared on her face. "Sansa, you look absolutely beautiful today," she said, hoping it would ease Sansa's tensions.

Daenerys hoped the meeting would not last longer than needed. She loved playing the game of politics, but today's topics were not something she cared to discuss. Viserys' bride and tournament were not going to better Westeros. Only make the crown more in debt. She felt a need to roam the castle, perhaps even go out into town. Her need for adventure was rising, and she would even sneak past her brother's men if she had to. She was more than capable.

---

Martyn had woken early, before the sun was fully visible in the morning sky. Sleep never came easily for him anymore, not after everything he had endured, after his family was slaughtered. Sleep was plagued with nightmares, images he never wished to relive. So he tossed and turned all night, and then would give up and retreat to the yard to practice his swordplay, or bow and arrow if he felt like giving himself a challenge. That morning, he felt like having the comfort of the sword in his hand. It felt familiar and welcome as he mimicked thrusts, fighting an invisible enemy. He'd had the sword for eight long years, a gift from his late uncle when he had only been fifteen. It had perfect balance, seemingly meant for his hand only. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the sword began to shine brilliantly, the silver gleaming.

Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead, dripping down his face and finally falling to the ground. Already it was becoming too warm for his liking, and it was still early morning. The weather down in King's Landing was unbearable for him, he didn't know how everyone lived here year round. He longed for the cool air of the North, Winterfell specifically. Although, his home was lost now, thanks to the Greyjoys. The thought made him furious, and he began hacking away at his invisible enemy with fervor. Then the thought of Jaime Lannister popped into his head, cutting his brother down. His invisible enemy began to form a face, in the image of the Kingslayer. He swung his sword, aiming for the neck, but it was blocked. He swung with blind rage, a yell escaping his lips. He became careless, however, and wasn't able to block the thrust that was aimed at his heart. He sunk to his knees, his enemy fading away before his eyes. He was out of breath, his chest heaving with every breath.

When he got to his feet once more, he removed his cotton shirt, exposing his well-muscled chest. He grabbed a bow, aiming for the circular target yards away. The bow was never one of his strongest weapons, but he tried to practice with it as often as possible, so he could improve and be the best he can be. He pulled the string back, slowing his breathing. He released, and the arrow sailed through the air, connecting with the target. He lowered the bow, admiring his work. He growled when he saw the arrow had barely made contact, hitting the very edge of the target. He loosed a handful of arrows, improving slightly each time, but never making it in the center.

The sun was higher in the sky now, so he retreated back into the castle, cleaning up for the day. Once the sweat had been wiped from his brow, and he smelled pleasant, he left his room, adjacent from Leyla's, and began looking for her. He had tried knocking on her door, but the handmaiden had said she had already departed earlier that morning. He searched throughout the castle, but had no luck. He saw a few familiar faces, but most were from the South, complete strangers to him. He didn't like being in the city, not being able to trust a single soul, watching what you say even in privacy, for you never know who would be listening. It was all too much for him, this game of thrones.

Finally, after searching countless places, he found his cousin. She was in a secluded overlook of Blackwater Bay, staring out at the shipwrecked water. He approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Leyla," he said softly, placing an arm around her and pulling her close. He knew she hated it here as much as he did, that she was miserable. She was more like a sister to him than anything else, and all he wanted was to keep her safe and happy. After Winterfell had been overtaken, he had feared for Leyla's safety. The day she had stumbled upon the Stark army had been one of the happiest he could remember. He didn't know what to say, so he stood by her side, staring out across the water with her, his arm still lovingly wrapped around her shoulders.

Jaime Lannister woke drowsily from his short slumber, his rest disturbed by a stubborn ray of light shining through the window directly onto his thin face. He supposed he should relish in the light for as long as he could, after all he was a prisoner and had beaten back death only to stare it in the face yet again. Every morning he awoke he wondered why he hadn't just let himself die from the fever that had consumed him after the loss of his hand. What was the use of a defanged lion? He could no longer protect his family, which was a terrible blow as this was when they were in most need.

He, Cersei and their three children were now nothing more than pets to Viserys, if, from what Jaime could tell had the shapings to be a worse king than his father. If Jaime were in any condition to solve matters as he had the last time there was a mad king upon the iron throne he and his family wouldn't be anywhere near King’s Landing. Looking back now he knew he should have sent them away to the Rock, but Cersei had always held him off saying there would be time. Or that a king never surrenders. In his opinion sometimes it was worth surrendering to live another day as Robb Stark had decided for them all.

Rising from his lumpy mattress he lifted a hand to shade his eyes only to remember too late that there was no longer a hand at the end of his right arm. Overcome with by grief for his lost hand he looked away from his disfigurement in disgust. He supposed he ought to fill shame or guilt since he grieved more for his lost hand than for his own father but Jaime had always known his father would die someday. He’d never thought of himself as a cripple though, not once. It was a slap in the face, a cruel jape and he had never felt more hopeless in his entire life.

Struggling to wash his face in the basin of fresh water a servant girl had left; he gave up miserably and began to dress himself. A tougher prospect than he had anticipated, eventually he had to summon help from one of the many guards stationed outside his small cell like room. Jaime watched silently as the younger man began to fasten his pants for him, and then moved deftly to straightening his shirt and eventually helped Jaime pull on his boots. The Lannister had never felt more helpless or ashamed in his life than he did right now. Being dressed like an infant wasn’t something he relished and it was nearly too much bear.

“Thank you. Your help is much appreciated.” Jaime offered to the guard, doing his best to cultivate some kind of personal interaction, keeping his gaze to the floor as the guard withdrew from the room, choosing not to acknowledge Jaime save for muttering “Useless cripples” as he once again took up his post. Sighing in defeat, Jaime rolled his eyes and prayed silently for strength. Finally dressed and ready to face another day at the mercy of a Targaryen once again he was escorted to the Great Hall to be paraded in front of the Lords and Ladies who only months ago would have thought twice before laughing at him. Now he was their greatest source of amusement.

Dawn had broken across the horizon in pink heavenly undertones. Did they reflect the towering crimson façade in the distance before her or the blood of innocents that had ran like rivers in the streets?

Dacey Mormont did not know. Nor in all honesty did she care. They had been at war. And the greatest price of war? Blood. It was a fact she held no qualms about.

The clip clopping of a single pair of hooves echoed on the almost deserted road in the early hours of the morning. Dacey had rode through the night. A dangerous feat for a group of men let alone a lone woman. But fear was not something Dacey Mormont prescribed to or indulged in.

Urgent matters on Bear Island had called her back after the war of the five had come to an inevitable end with Viserys Targaryen claiming the Iron Throne. Luckily, Bear Island had not suffered greatly being a detached land. Though this had not stopped attacks. However, the Dothraki clans who had braved the sea fare to pillage Bear Island had not expected the ferocious warriors – men and women – who inhabited the small island, armed and ready for battle. Nor, had the Dothraki known how very bare and deprived of wealth Bear Island really was.

The thought spread a wealthy grin upon Dacey's remarkably handsome face. If only she had been there to witness the Dothraki's surprise when they landed on her home island. Alas, she had been away fight at Robb Starks side.

Not that she greatly feared for Bear Island, when she had been away at battle. Not with her mother in charge and her sisters to aid. Meage Mormont was a woman to be greatly feared. And her daughters were no less. Bear Island had been in capable hands and Dacey thanked the Old Gods they had all come through unharmed.

Dacey spurred her Courser faster as the Red Keep loomed closer. Her dark locks carrying with the wind as the mail shirt she wore over her tunic jingled with the movement of the obsidian coloured horse. The slight feeling of awe that filled her was not enough for her to stop and admire the keep. Kings Landing, held no particular fondness for Dacey. She had immediately wanted to return back home as soon as the unbearable heat of the South had hit her.

But there was no turning back. And she felt no great strain in attending the King's Council to aid her Liege Lord, Robb Stark. It was her duty and Dacey Mormont did not turn away from her responsibilities.

---

It was less then an hour later that she stood at the foot of the entrance to the Castle.

A burly looking guard dressed in the Targaryen armour halted her from entering the Keep. Dacey raised a defined brow in amusement. It had been much too long since she participated in a bout of swordplay, Dacey mused. Unfortunately, she had no time for play right now. She was already late and patience was a virtue. One, the Lady did not possess at the moment.

“And who might you be wench?” The Targaryen guard asked of her with an air of superiority much in excess of his post.

“Dacey Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.” She replied frankly. “I would ask the same of you. However, I don't posses the luxury of time at the moment, so if you'll excuse me.”

“I ain't never seen a Lady of rank strolling around in breeches and mail.” He declared with a sneer; the tip of his sword pointed dangerously close to her throat. “You expect me to believe that you're the Lady of Bear Island and let you in?”

More then the fools words, the sword at her throat rose Dacey's ire. She was no real Lady. And she suffered no weapon pointed at her or the person who threatened.

“I should remove the sword if I were you.” The Lady of Bear Island advised in a voice completely calm.

“Oh? And why should I do that wench?”

“If you value your life it would be wise.” Dacey replied.

Hearty laughter filled air, as other Targaryen soldiers surrounded closer to view the encounter.

“You think you are a threat upon my life?” The guard questioned as he continued to laugh.

Dacey needed no other invitation. Her anger was like the silent storm that crept along the sea. With a swiftness and grace possessed by no other Dacey's unsheathed blade slashed through the air.

The sound of metal clattering to the floor filled the sudden electric air as the guard looked with fright and astonishment at the half of his sword that remained in his hands.

Yet, Dacey Mormont was not done.

Her booted foot made contact with the man's chest sending him reeling, landing hard on his back and before he could even move, Dacey's sword was levelled at the centre of his thick neck as her tall dark form loomed over him.

“I should cut your throat as swiftly as I cut your sword. However, I don't believe King Viserys would appreciate that. You can thank him for your life.” Dacey smiled down at him sweetly before flipping the sword around in her hands; knocking the man unconscious as she swung and the hilt made contact with his face viciously. “You.” Dacey commanded, turned on her heels. “Stable my horse. Make sure he is well watered and fed.” She did not wait for a reply as she removed her shirt of mail and threw it across at a maid that had ventured out at the sound of the commotion. “And you, make sure my belongings are sent to my chambers.”

Somewhat calmer now and with the hindsight that came with it, Dacey realised she should have been a little more diplomatic with the fool guard. But riding havey cavey through the night to make it to the council meeting on time had left her rather irritable. It could not be helped, Dacey decided as she swept passed the gob-smacked curtsying maid into the Red Keep.

She wondered if Viserys Targaryen would find the tale amusing . . . or if he had any sort of a sense of humour?

---

Dacey Mormont entered the great dinning hall, where to her surprise the small council was meeting. In fact, she decided she much preferred it. It seemed less formal. Formality was not something Mormont's prided themselves on, Dacey mused with an inner smile.

She strode in with grace and elegance as regal as any Queen without an ounce of self-consciousness; even dressed as she was in dark breeches and a green tunic belted at the waist with the House of Mormont's sigil stitched on the centre.

The room was already filled. Many of the people she did not know by face but by name alone and the meeting already seemed under way. But Viserys Targaryen was unmistakable with haunting lavender violet eyes and stark white hair, sat as he was at the head of the table with his sister.

If she was a conforming type of female, Dacey mused, she may have felt intimidated by the incandescent three beauties sat at the table. Luckily, she was not a conforming sort and appearances held little regard for her. They were often misleading and beauty in itself was a fleeting quality.

Aquamarine eyes casually scanned the rest of the party. They all seemed much to grave. She wonder what was being discussed.

Spotting Robb Stark, an almost indistinguishable smile touched her lips.

“Lord Stark.” She bowed, acknowledging her Liege Lord and friend first, though it would have been proper to acknowledge the King first; it mattered little to Dacey as she came to stand next to Robb's seated form. “Your Grace.” She finally bowed and then turned to the rest of the group. “My Lords and Ladies. My sincerest apologies for the lateness of my arrival.” She addressed the group with complete insincerity. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dacey Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.”

A softness touched her fingers, Dacey peered down to see a Dire Wolf stroking it's long form along her legs. Dacey grinned, as she petted the the Wolf's head with a roughness she knew he preferred.

“And hello to you.” She whispered.