A/N: Hey everybody! New Pirates of the Caribbean story that I've been wanting to write for a really, really long time. I can't really tell you though why I thought this was a good time to post it, since I have a crap ton of work and finals, and such, but hey, that'll be over soon and recently I've been wanting to write more. So here I am, doing just that with a new change of pace: A James Norrington/OC story! I hope you all enjoy it, please read and review, and I'll see you soon :)

Full summary: She had two choices: to live or to die. She was a Sparrow and all Sparrows must fly free once in a while, without a care weighing down their wings. The Commodore knew everything that he needed about her. She didn't need to tell him how her brother and her father were ashamed of her, how she was an embarrassment to the Sparrow name. He knew that she wanted nothing more to not be a Sparrow any longer—to finally make a name for herself.

"Do we have an accord, Miss Sparrow? Your brother, Jack Sparrow, for your clemency?"

She stared at the hand, unsure, and a little afraid too. But…she was never meant to be a Sparrow.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. Everything that you see belongs to Disney and whoever else involved. However, I do own Gwendolyn Sparrow, the plot, and everything that you do not recognize from the franchise.

Rated T for language, drinking, and mild adult content. If there is a chance that the rating would be changed to M, you will be notified well before that happens. As of right now, this story is rated T and I have no plans in changing it.

A Pirate's Life For Me

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirates life for me."

She took a swig from her bottle of rum. A nice, long swig as she basked under the sun's rays that hit her already tan skin. She squished her dirty toes in the sand as she lowered the brim of her tricorne hat to try and expel the sun from her eyes. After another swig, she sang, "We extort and pilfer, we filch and sack. Drink up me 'earties, yo ho!"

Not only did she drink up, she had gotten up. Gwendolyn Sparrow gripped her hat tightly along with her bottle, tripping over her feet as she tried to dodge each pebble and shell that was in her way. "Maraud and embezzle, and even high-jack." Gwendolyn chuckled as she stumbled again, walking along the beach. "Drink up me—," she hiccupped and threw her bottle up in the air while holding it by the neck, "'earties, yo ho!"

"Drink up me 'earties, yo ho!" Gwendolyn laughed loudly as she took another swig of her rum. The water rolled onto the shore, brushing against her feet as she continued to walk along it. Gwendolyn looked over at the waves with a wide grin. She loved this song! Ever since she was a kid she loved this song, she would sing it and sing it until her throat was dry and until her brother would tell her to shut it.

"Yo ho, yo ho a pirate's life... a pirate's life..." Her singing though trailed off to a stop. Her eyes caught a single ship on the horizon. Gwendolyn narrowed them, trying to recognize it as what looked to be black sails billowing with the wind. Was she dreaming this?

Her vision was blurring and she wasn't sure if she was seeing anything correctly. The ship looked to be all over the place. Actually, the painted black ship looked to be in three places on the water at once. Gwendolyn squinted her eyes to at least see the same silhouette of her brother's ship. But to her dismay, the blurriness of the ship only worsened.

She scoffed at the, "Black Pearl," and even stuck her tongue at the proposed ship. Gwendolyn took several steps back before she took a swig from her bottle of rum; she swished the liquid in her mouth before swallowing it. "Ha ha ha!" She made a ball of sand in her hand, (a drunken, messy ball of sand) and then threw it toward the 'Black Pearl' angrily. She hated that goddamn ship and the Captain of that goddamn ship even more!

Jack Sparrow. Yes, the Captain Jack Sparrow was her brother, and yes, she was the sister of the Captain Jack Sparrow—the younger sister. At the age of twenty-eight, she dealt with him for... well, twenty-eight years and counting. She would at least see him once a year. No more, and no less. She was content with that—and you would be too, the bloody man wasn't exactly the crème de la crème.

He would come to her for money, to borrow things, and sometimes even to get information (like she would know any). She used to live on Tortuga, working in a tavern called the Cantina. When Gwendolyn had gotten enough money, she relocated to Spain... actually two days ago she arrived-she worked on a crew of her friend's in order to gain passage. And she was already sick of it. Spain was beautiful, yes—sí. But drinking on the beaches with no friends could become boring.

She wouldn't be surprised that Jack didn't know she was there, in Spain, which could be why that his ship, if that were really his ship, sailed right past her. That was why she left Tortuga anyway, to get away from him. It was hard living on an island when all the whores on it with broken hearts had slept with your brother. She'd take all his shit from them while he would sail Scott free—literally, too.

Gwendolyn smirked as she downed the rest of her bottle of rum. Ah, rum. It was truly a God sent during times like this. It was the only thing that she could depend on, really.

When she finished, she stumbled backward dropping the empty glass bottle. "I love this land," she shouted, twirling around in the sand with her arms out wide. "Whoa." Gwendolyn stopped as the world around her began to spin. She looked down at the sand as the ground beneath her twirled as she had done before.

She was unconsciously swaying. Gwendolyn made a face at the ground and asked it, "Why are you spinning?"

Gwendolyn's eyebrows perked as she bent over to study it further. She actually went to go touch it, but found that it was still. She murmured, "Curious." Gwendolyn made a quick turn to see if the 'Black Pearl' was still there, but the ship disappeared.

Slowly, she made her way toward the shore, her eyes narrowing. The Black Pearl was a fast ship-she knew that, of course-but it wouldn't sail out of her sights that quick. How strange. Then without warning, her body swayed to one side too much and she collapsed onto the ground. She lay there for a while, staring up at the cloudless, blue sky with her hands folded on the top of her stomach.

Gwendolyn did feel the bile build up in her throat, her chest tightening, as her stomach was making weird noises as it flipped. She tried to put it to the side. Gwendolyn couldn't tell how long she laid there, but it was long enough for her to be surprised with the pounding of boots.

They were quickly approaching her; it sounded like a hundred pairs at most. Though they surprised her, she didn't move. There was nothing that she could really do, and even if she did move, she wasn't going to do anything to stop them. She was too drunk, and her stomach would hardly allow her to do anything. No, they would either trample over her or go around her. Either way, she didn't really care.

Soon, though, the boots stopped. Her brow furrowed as she heard them gather around her, almost forming a perfect circle. Not only did she hear the boots gather around her, but she also heard something like weapons being cocked and pointed. Gwendolyn hoped that was not the case. A pair of boots took several small steps towards her, stopping right at the side of her face.

For a moment, she was frozen. Gwendolyn listened to the silence that surrounded the circle she was in the middle of and was just a little disturbed by how eerie this was. The sounds of the waves rolling onto the shore did not help. It didn't give her any solace.

At first, she turned her head toward the closest pair of boots. She caught glimpses of the bayonets directed at her, but she was going to be as calm as a cucumber still. She looked up to see a Spaniard looking down at her with a disgruntled sneer on his face—she couldn't tell if he was an Officer or not. He probably was. But she didn't want to label him as such yet. Gwendolyn glanced down at his boots before pointing and touching the shine on them. "Oh, 'ello. Me apologies," she said, making an effort to stand up and face him, but when she sat up she felt her body sway. Her finger was up as she leaned all of her weight on her other hand to get up-but she only failed.

"I'd speak Spanish now, but I can't speak." She gave the Spaniard a wide grin, looking up at him as the gold caps on her teeth shined. The disgust on his face spoke it all. He spoke quickly in a language that normally she'd understand. The men around her lowered their weapons, and before she was able to make a comment, he lifted up that shiny boot and gave her swift kick to her face.

Gwendolyn's face was thrown to the side; the sound of her nose cracking seemed to echo in the air. Her hand immediately went to aid it, but both of them were pulled away before she could. She was brought onto her feet, and the sharp tip of a cutlass was pointed at the crook of neck. She faintly felt the blood trickle onto her lip. Her nose wasn't broken, but a bruise would most definitely form there. If he kicked her directly in her nose, then he could have broken it.

They tried to talk to her, and ask her something, but Gwendolyn wasn't able to process it. Her head was barely being held up and the cutlass' tip was hardly doing its job to scare her in staying awake.

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. She eventually couldn't take it any more. The man was getting more and more frustrated with her one-worded answers and she was just waiting for them to take her into prison. That was where she was going to end up anyway, prison, she didn't know why they were stalling.

When it all became too much, she shouted, "Fine, I'm a fucking bloody pirate! Pull up me sleeve and you'd see, yo soy una pirata!" To even add to that point, she gathered all the moisture she could in her mouth before spitting it in the officer's face. It did not make him happy. Before she was able to take back what she did, the butt of a bayonet had hit her in the back of the head.

She yelled out before her head lurched forward. She closed her eyes tightly as the resonating pain made her head hang. Soon, the sounds of the ocean and the birds that were hovering over her disappeared. Then Gwendolyn Jailbird Sparrow felt her feet being dragged in the sand as the soldiers took her away.

Three Weeks Later

It was sickening in there.

Gwendolyn walked around her small cell with her hands on either side of her back. Her eyes were scanning everything around her, looking at every nook and cranny that could possibly get her out.

Unfortunately, there was nothing. "Chica, you are not gonna get out of here," the man in the cell next to her said. Gwendolyn took a deep breath, closing her eyes and putting her hand on top of her forehead. Francisco was a friend of hers for... the duration of a week, but right at that moment she did not need to hear his voice. He needed to go away.

"I'm a Sparrow," Gwendolyn said, walking to the bars of her cell. Her hands gripped them, feeling the cold iron against her calloused skin. She sneered, noting the rust that coated the bars. Though rusty, they did seem strong, strong enough to actually keep her in there. "I can't be held in this cage for much longer, mi amigo. I need to get out of here."

"A Sparrow?" Francisco asked. She sighed, knowing that he probably didn't know what that meant. Her brother wasn't known in those waters. "You look like a person, girl."

"I am a person, Sparrow is my last name," she replied, looking up at the ceiling, pushing against the bars to see if the top of them would move. They didn't. Not really to her surprise. Her hands fell down as she searched the hall of the prison for any guards. So far, no one. She probably had the hour before they would make their rounds again. "And my family is pretty well known," she said, dropping down to her knees to look for something, anything, that would help her with the lock. She bit her bottom lip, extending her hand to reach the only thing that was on the floor-a plate. It would probably be of no use to her.

She carefully moved it into her cell, turning it straight to pull it in through the bars. Gwendolyn went on to Francisco, "Not in your seas, but along the Spanish Main... which is why they have me here, and maybe why they haven't killed me yet. I think your government wants to hang all of us together." Too bad they didn't know, or cared, that she was there. She hadn't heard from her father in a decade and her brother only cared for her when she would be of use to him.

She stood up, holding the ceramic plate and letting the sun catch it. She shook her head. "I cannot believe this, there's no bloody way to get out of here."

"I've told ya, chica, if there was, I'd be long gone."

"Aye, you and all your wrinkles," Gwendolyn shot back. She plopped down on the ground, hearing Francisco grumble to himself about her. She didn't care because she was right. The man's skin was sagging from the weight of his eyes and also was dry and spotting. His once black hair was mostly gray and his clothes were rags, hanging off his limp body. "Maybe I could break it over one of their heads when they come to bring me my food. Do you think that'll work?"

"'Till they catch ya."

"Shut up."

He muttered under his breath, "Ella es una tonta."

"I know what you just said and I am not," she snapped. She heard Francisco say that he meant for her to hear that, and then heard him shift away from her. His back was to her cell, which meant that he would most likely leave her be. Gwendolyn flipped the plate in her hands, examining it. Actually... she could probably make some sort of plan with the use of this plate.

She hated saying this, but she was a Sparrow. She should be able to get out of this... and...she knew exactly how.

Gwendolyn suddenly heard boots walking down the prison hall. Several prisoners already had gotten up, causing quite a bit of ruckus in order to be noticed. Their hands were extended out to catch the glimmering keys on the guard's side, but they weren't the smartest tools in the shed. They didn't have the wit, unlike her, to get out. She kicked herself backward, using her boots to push herself toward the ledge of stone that was to be her bed. She looked for her hat, placing the plate tentatively underneath it, and held it on top of her lap.

Gwendolyn tried to figure out quickly how she was going to get the guard in there. She was going to get him in there so she could smash the plate over his head. Once he'd be crying over the pain, she'd steal his cutlass from his side and point the edge at the very spot she knew would be fatal. She wouldn't kill him though. She'd rather kill the Commander that bloodied up her nose-now, he surprisingly didn't break it, but that wasn't the point, savvy? He bloodied it up, and that was all that mattered.

After that, she'd take his keys, contemplate about letting Francisco free, and strike down any guard that was in her path. Hell, she might let all the prisoners out and cause a riot. She could burn this whole place down if she wanted to as well.

Bloody hell. Her plan was flawless. If she weren't pretending that there was no plate on the top of her lap, she would be beaming.

The footsteps were getting closer. Her fingers drummed against the brim of her tricorne, waiting for the guard to pass Francisco's cell so she could yell out some obscenity. She could pretend to be doing some ancient spell, some juju that her mother could have taught her before she died. She could pretend that she spent all of her life on the island of Puerto Rico, instead of just five years and then relocating to Shipwreck Cove with Teague and her brother. Or she could pretend someone threw a curse at her, she would make her body spasm across the hay, make them confused and then try and help her, but then—.

It was too late. Her excitement had gotten the best of her. The guard walked past her cell with not even a glance her way. Gwendolyn's shoulders slumped realizing this.

Francisco laughed from the other side, irritating her. She glared over to the cell next to her—the old man was ruining his chances. She was not going to help him now once she executed this amazing plan of hers. He would be the only one in the prison, as everyone else would be released.

She had the slightest temptation to hit his side with the plate, but she decided against it. She was going to need it later.

Angrily, she tossed the plate aside, hoisting her knee up and letting her head fall against it. "I need to get out of here," she whined. She couldn't take it any more. If there was a God, if there was anybody, she was going to pray to them. She didn't care how, she didn't care for what reason, all she cared about was to get out of there by whatever means.

But the moment the prayer escaped her she regretted it.

"Is this her?" She heard someone ask. Her head shot up from her knee, her hands immediately falling on top of her tricorne to promptly place it on her head. There was her and another woman in this prison that they brought in yesterday. The man, well, she assumed it was a man based on the deep voice, was not in her sights. She heard a guard say no, making her eyes widen.

Gwendolyn turned her head toward Francisco, whose mouth was open and eyes were practically bulging out of his head. He looked over at her, in shock, but did not say a word. Gwendolyn, in response, only childishly stuck her tongue out at him. She picked up her ceramic plate, trying to figure out a way to conceal it before the men were to come to her cell.

But the plate fell out of her hands before she could. "Shit," she hissed. The sound of the plate breaking echoed throughout the prison, making the two pairs of feet quicken their step toward her. They were too far down though to catch her with the broken plate. Gwendolyn bent down, gathered all the broken pieces she had, and looked up at Francisco, who eyed the pieces in fear. She smirked.

"Oh, Francisco Fuentes, you'll regret the day you laughed at me," she said.

"You better-." She pushed all the broken pieces into his cell and scurried to the other side before he was able to finish his sentence. Gwendolyn tried to look nonchalant, even annoyed, sitting on top of the ledge that was to be her bed innocently with her tricorne pushed down just enough to cover her eyes. Gwendolyn even managed to put a piece of dirty hay in between her teeth and chewed on it.

The guards stopped at Francisco's cell while just one pair of boots walked over to hers. She didn't need to watch what was going to happen. She heard Francisco try to explain the broken plate with fear trembling in his voice because he knew what was going to happen as well. The guards yelled at him and swung open the door, slurring in their tongue, as one rushed in to pull him out. They probably didn't understand his intent with the plate; they probably thought that he meant it as an accident rather than a means of escaping.

But she did hear them drag him down the hall to his latest fate, which was either a cruel flogging or something other than death. She wasn't cruel. Just cruel enough to have that fate happen to somebody else. She was tempted to wave goodbye to him.

The pair of boots in front of her cell did not move. She felt eyes on her as the assumed man, with the deep, English... English... did she hear an English accent before? Her eyes lit up, her eyebrows perked. She did.

Gwendolyn could have sworn she heard a smirk in the man's voice as he said, "Gwendolyn Sparrow, is it?" His accent was English. She was frozen for a moment, but then she slowly lifted up the brim of her hat, swallowing. She looked over to see, not a red coat, but a blue, English Navy coat. The man had a decorative uniform, the white powdered wig, and a smug grin on his face with twinkling blue eyes that looked as though they had found something valuable. He was tall as well. At least, six inches taller than her.

She tried not to look so anxious. "Depends," she mustered.

"Well, you fit the rumored description of her."

"There are rumors of me?" Gwendolyn questioned, standing up from her ledge. She wanted to hear them. Most talked of her brother, most talked of her father, hell, some even talked about Grandmama Sparrow. Never of her. She tucked her thumbs under the belt of her breeches before taking a few steps toward him. "I highly doubt that, mate."

The Navy Officer snickered. "The scar above your lip, brown, curly and matted hair-you have 5,000 pounds on your head. Your brother, 10,000."

Gwendolyn cringed, biting her lip. "Eh, doesn't ring a bell." She was surprised she even had that. Her name probably earned her a few pounds alone but she didn't nearly create as many rumors of her success as her brother did.

"You have numerous crimes against both the British and Spanish crown, ranging from kidnapping, pillaging, raiding, embezzling-."

"Sounds like you're trying to sing a song, mate."

"And you as well have the brand of a pirate above your left wrist from your encounter with the East India Trading Company." Her fake grin had fallen at that. The man gripped that wrist tightly; making her grimace as he pulled her sleeve up to reveal the risen up 'P' she had gotten a few years back. She twisted her wrist out of his grip, noticing that his smirk never wavered. His hands met behind his back as hers met in front of her. Though he didn't hold her wrist tightly, she nursed it anyway, rubbing it.

She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it. Then opened it again, just to close it soon after. The man waited for a word to come out of her mouth, patiently. She separated her hands from one another to hold up a finger at him. He raised his brow as she attempted to make a noise that sounded like a word. But all she came up with was, "Gwen."

"Pardon?" He questioned, but he didn't look so confused. He looked as though he succeeded.

She took in a shaky breath, her hand falling down to her side. She took a few steps back in case this man was going to get an idea. "Gwen... I like to be called Gwen. Gwendolyn is just... too formal."

"Right, Miss Sparrow." That sounded even worse.

She shook her head before walking back to the ledge-bed, gritting her teeth. For whatever reason, the Spanish were keeping her alive. She knew the moment that she was handed over to the English; she would most likely be hanged. "I'm afraid, sir, that the Spanish beat you to capturing me. So sorry, it was a pleasant visit though. Have a good day and soak up the sun while you can," she said in an attempt to brush him away. She looked at the man's fair skin, noticing also how his eyes blinked a few times. He seemed a little peeved by her. She made her whole body shake as she sat down, crossing her legs like the lady that she surely wasn't. She added, "You kinda need it, mate."

The man's smirk fell. It seemed to harden into a stoic, serious expression that suddenly showed the manner of his business. "I'm afraid they are holding you upon my orders, Miss Sparrow."

"I'm...I'm..." she was flabbergasted. She didn't really know what to say to him, this was ridiculous. "You are giving the Spanish orders... to hold me captive?"

"That is what I said."

"Why?"

"It does not concern you, Miss Sparrow. But what does concern you is," he said as he moved aside, allowing two Spaniards to open the door, "that you are now held in my custody. As someone who has committed treason as a citizen under the British crown-."

"Actually, I was born under the Span-."

"You are to be punished under the British crown." The two guards moved swiftly in her cell, taking her by the arms and pulling her up on her feet. She tried to pull her arms out of their grasp, but failed. Damn it, she should have used the plate when she was supposed to use the plate. Her wrists were forced in front of her, and she cringed once she felt the iron around her wrists. She bit the inside of her mouth, glancing up at the man who stood there, smug yet again.

He was taking too much pleasure in this... did she happen to know him? What did she do to deserve this?

She was pushed towards him, her bare feet tripping over each other. As they twisted, she realized how torn and sore they actually were. Gwen wished they brought her boots when they took her away. She couldn't imagine how her feet looked; she hadn't really looked at them in the three weeks she was there. The man caught her by the arm, his grip on her wasn't as tight as theirs, but it was definitely firm.

"I cannot believe this," she muttered, letting herself be led by the man in blue.

He sniggered, "Believe it, Miss Sparrow, this is the day you will always remember as the day you were caught by Commodore James Norrington."

Commodore James Norrington... the name was familiar. She could have sworn she heard it before. But there was no time to contemplate it; she was concentrating on not letting the man drag her feet on the floor. But... she definitely caught his tone, how it mocked her, how it emphasized Sparrow of all things. It all soon clicked... this was because of one of her brother's messes, wasn't it?

With this revelation, she hissed through her teeth, following the Commodore's lead.