A/N : Sorry for the delay – hope you all enjoy!

A Foreign Stranger

Jaime

At his sister's behest, the small council congregated together within the chamber adjacent to the Throne Room. No longer was the Tower of the Hand the heart of conspiracies and ruses. Those who were required had sullenly offered their presence. Events of late had meant that the small council now perilously dwindled in numbers, so much so that Jaime pondered whether or not their assemblage could even be qualified as a council. In attendance was his sweet sister herself, his Uncle Kevan, Pycelle and Mace Tyrell. The King's presence as ever remained amiss, owing to the paranoia of his mother, who cossetted him away in his rooms for all hours of the day.

Cersei paced up and down the long length of the table of which they sat around. Her black gown whipped furiously around her legs. Jaime found it was somewhat peculiar how his sister had suddenly morphed back into a condition of mourning, despite the weeks in passing in which she had dressed herself in an array of sprightly colours. No doubt her sudden regression into the morbid shades of lamentation, echoed her most recent displeasure.

"…. you should all be ashamed of yourselves for placing that harlot before your King." She continued on, tirelessly pacing, her fingers warping into stiffly coiled talons, where by her own discontent caused her to claw against her bosom.

Each member of the small council had seemingly resolved themselves to allow the Queen to speak her piece and to unleash her anticipated outburst upon them. Jaime was no exception, seen as he, just like the others remained mute, chewing upon his bottom lip to prevent any slips of demurral.

"Draped in gold or not, she is still a whore. The most famous whore that ever lived is she not?" Cersei continued on, whilst Jaime instead focused his attention on the fingers of his good hand, which pattered against the oaken table. "The best in the World – that's how she proclaimed herself. So, that men would flock to her bed and slip between her golden legs."

Deep enraged furrows began sear across his sister's forehead, whilst her mouth continued to spew its distaste.

"I don't care if she's the richest, she's a foul little slut, I could see it from the moment she entered into the throne room." He wrath was quickly turning to a peculiar shade of hysteria. "I want her, and her clad of golden whores, out of my Kingdom."

A silence ensued. Her body no doubt relished the air she had forsaken at the expense of fury.

"Are you quite finished?" their uncle spoke, and rather boldly so in Jaime's humble opinion. The sound of another's voice roused the council, who all proceeded to sit themselves up, straightening their postures from where they sat.

"Why are you acting as though you did not know who she was until this day?" Cersei offered no answer, but merely tightened her brow toward him. "You knew of these arrangements weeks ago when the raven was sent out. You gave your assent."

"Well I've changed my mind." She retorted bluntly. Her face unmoving.

"It's too late for that" Ser Kevan countered, just as swift. "We need her."

"Oh, don't be absurd uncle." She spat, caustically, with eyes that scorned. "We don't need her."

"Yes, we do." He rejoiced assuredly. "We are in debt to the Iron Bank."

"Tis' true your grace" Mace Tyrell piped up, "and the Iron Bank will have its due. Her wealth would greatly aid us."

"Indeed." Kevan concurred. "Not to mention her ships and supporters. The people of the Free Cities adore her. If she is on our side, then there is a chance that they will be to."

"My father would never have stooped so low as to invite a girl like her to Court." Ah, you forget sweet sister, our father was far fonder of whores than what we'd ever thought.

The confrontation at present was becoming quite the spectacle. A far cry away from the usual tedious affair of which Jaime had anticipated. For once he was glad he had attended.

"You father is dead – and that does not diminish the legacy of severe debts that remain." Jaime could sense that his Uncle's patience was slipping away, shown via the newly enforced stringent tone that was being emitted from the raucous depths of his diaphragm.

He seemed to realise this himself, and went to great effort to soften his vocal timbers; "The girl is harmless. She's only six and ten, a mere child if anything. It is widely known, that since relinquishing her days of…." His hands flailed out before him as he tried and failed to find the appropriate word.

"Whoring?" Jaime offered up.

"Yes, thank you Lord Commander" though he was not thankful – whoring was not his desired word, and Jaime knowingly had offered it up anyway. "As I was saying, the girl has ceased in her days of such antics. She now dedicates herself to aiding the destitute with the fortune of which she now warrants daily from various other means of income."

"Yes, I have heard she has invested money into property." Mace Tyrell offered up in support.

"She still owns brothels – I was told at least fifteen. Her fortune is built upon her days of prostitution. We don't need corrupt gold."

"Isn't all gold corrupt?" Jaime spoke, just to add a little fuel to the fire, readily awaiting a scowl from his sweet sister. She did not disappoint.

"There is no crime in owning brothels…" His niece cut his short.

"Uncle are you petitioning for the girl? Or simply trying to tell us that you wish to go to a brothel?" Ser Kevan heaved a deep sigh, shaking his head slowly. Jaime noted how Pycelle went to speak, but then quickly lost his nerve.

"Of course I'm not saying that." Ser Kevan continued, noticeably doing all he could to retain the few fibres of his patience that remained deep down within the core of his temperament. "All I am trying to say, is that the crown needs gold, and she has gold. A lot of it. And we have war to fund, a war that you started." His malice was palpable. Unwise words Uncle, Jaime thought, as he himself had grown to feel uncomfortable as the rooms tension grew tauter.

Cersei did not visibly wither, nor flinch, only her eyebrow arched in what was a rather goading gesture. His poor uncle was getting nowhere, merely spiralling himself around in circles, tying himself up in a knot, a knot of which Cersei had the power to tighten – after all, she was still regent, seven save us.

Realising that his words had been careless, Ser Kevan was quick to move on; "Pycelle, perhaps you could enlighten her Grace with you age warranted wisdom."

The old man, covered in brown age spots, sat up within his chair. He appeared to be downing within the extensive material of his maesters robes, whilst his weighted chain bore down into the sinewy columns of his neck. His eyelids had fallen heavy, his jowls drooping southward along with his scant beard that had not regrown the same as it had once hung.

"Urmm – well – as you Grace knows…... The Kingdom is fragile and…" his words were interrupted by a friction within his throat, in which the Grand Maester proceeded to cough, and subsequently dislodged a large chunk of phlegm. The noise somewhat nauseated Jaime, who felt his own lips curl inwards in repugnance.

"Though that being said, the crown has certain standards of respectability that must be retained." Jaime could not help the way in which his eyes rolled back into his head. He wondered if he'd ever live to see the day in which Pycelle chose to vie against his sister through the pursuit of his own true beliefs.

"Lord Commander…." Ser Kevan continued, swift to move away from Pycelle's repetitive displays of devotion. "Anything you can think to offer up to sway her grace?"

"Well, she's a beautiful woman, it would be a shame not to be graced with her presence a little while longer." Jaime knew that his input would rile his sisters blood with the pricks of jealously, as expected, she shot him a fearsome look that would have crippled any lesser man.

Despite that he'd spoken in jest at her expense, Jaime himself had seen why men had paid the price of the high heavens to spend a night with the foreign beauty. Indeed, every man and woman in the throne room had noticed. The women had scorned her in envy, whilst the men had flailed yearningly.

"I have heard her called a gift given by the Gods." Mace Tyrell interjected, almost as though he was attempting to come to Jaime's defence.

Pycelle once again interpolated, though he had been unusually quiet throughout. "Some say she is a cruel trick played by the Gods to lure all men into temptation and subsequent damnation." As ever, the Maester was tritely going to slander the girl, just to keep close to the Queen.

"Enough" Ser Kevan finally spoke, an acute rasp severed the word curtly. "She is called the Saviour of the Free Cities for a reason, she's the closet thing they had to royalty. They truly adore her. She lives in the people's heart, and will be remembered in the songs and in the tales of generations. We would be fools to turn her away, and we shall not." His fist thumped down onto the table half-heartedly. "I leave this city within the week for Darry and I wish to leave it in good stead. The girl will attend the royal wedding, she shall have apartments in Maegor's Holdfast, and whatever else she may need. You will all attend the feast in her honour tonight."

Everyone marginally nodded, except for the only person he required an answer from. He looked directly at his niece, though she did not yield.

"You don't have to like her, you must just do your part as Regent. For the love of the gods Cersei….." his words faded out as lethargy remerged, however for once, she offered no vicious riposte. A triumph over Cersei, Jaime reflected, what a rarity.His Uncles brusque oration had earnt him a final victory, seen as he had fortuitously prevailed.

"Perhaps we just taken the matter day, by day – don't you agree your Grace?" Pycelle croaked, looking favourably to an unresponsive Cersei as he did so. What a weasel, Jaime scoffed.

"All of you – get out." She spoke. Though No one moved. Is she bluffing? Their eyes questioned - No, no you halfwits – my sister does not bluff. "Get – out!" she hollered again, though this time with snarl.
Pycelle and Mace Tyrell frolicked within their bodies. Halting and fretting as they failed to gain sufficient leverage and momentum. The elder men eventually left the room whilst Jaime made a show of standing up, as if to leave, knowing he'd eventually be made to stay, much like his uncle who was slowly edging toward the door.

"Not you two" she derided contemptuously. Jaime sat back down, and Ser Kevan rotated back on his heel, returning to the place he had once stood. His shoulders were now hung low. His once fighter spirit had perished within his bones, and all that remained was a wearied man.

"Uncle, do you think it right to reprimand me before my council?" her voice to another's ears was soft and gentle, though Jaime and Ser Kevan were both able to perceive the underlying trace of venom that tainted her saccharine coated words.

"Forgive me your Grace, I meant no offence." He was sincere in his tenor, yet Cersei was not interested in sincerity. Though he said no more. Hold your ground uncle Jaime willed. Cersei sat down opposite her brother, her posture alleviating slightly as she took the weight off her feet.

"Shall you be attaining the revelry all in the name of the Whore of the Realm?" She spoke, and Jaime realised she was talking to him. Her tone was somewhat accusatory, as if denouncing him before he'd even offered up an answer.

"My presence has been requested, I believe I am obligated." He answered candidly, yet as always, his sister found an ambiguity in which she used to twist and contort his words against him.

"Well you are also obligated to attend the Small Council meetings and yet you pick and choose when you wish to do that?" Jaime offered no answer apart from uplifting his shoulders in a disinterested shrug.

Cersei's eyes rolled around in a full circle. "Why is there never any wine?" she craped peevishly, looking frenetically around the chamber as though she may imminently die of thirst.

"Perhaps, dear sister, because you've drunk every flagon in the Red Keep" he jested, purposely spoken to madden her – to provoke her. His uncle warned him all the while about toying with his sister's temperament but he just couldn't resist, watching her redden and burn in fury brought him almost as much pleasure as watching her writhe and wither beneath him, with her legs spread astride of his thrusting body.

"Ah – ahaha." She forced a sardonic laugh out of her windpipe. Her mouth bubbled out fits of fake laughter whilst her eyes remained deadened by scorn. "Uncle, we must laugh at my dear brother" Ser Kevan looked hesitant. "Witticism is all he has now he's a cripple." Cersei always turned spiteful when the world was not adhering to her wants. The joke had grown tedious, to him, to everyone. He sighed a tiresome sigh.

"We undergo enough strife with the rest of the Kingdom, and you two bickering will not aid our cause." Cersei rolled her eyes like the petulant child she once had been, and in many ways still was.
"When are you leaving again?" Cersei questioned irksomely, her forehead stretched taut and her eyebrows raised high in partial inquisitiveness.

"The day after the Kings wedding." He replied reverently, with his hands held behind his back. Cersei looked moderately pacified by his answer, but at the same time her eyebrow quirked in a way that exhibited displeasure.

"I had hoped that eventually you'd come to see where your true priorities and obligations lie. Obviously not. You disappoint me Uncle."

"You know my terms Cersei." He spoke sombrely, with direct and lucid words. He was a man of impeccable integrity and Jaime admired that. Her lip curled in antipathy. All at one, like a passing gust of wind, she flung up into motion, and swiftly submitted her uncle into a thrall of intense proximity.

"Who do you think you are to ask that of me? To dare as a regent to resign their place."

The lack of volume to her voice made her seem all the more vicious. "You have no right. The only reason you are anything in this world is because of who your brother was." She snarled.

Kevan winced at her final affront, as though a pinch of salt had been sprinkled onto a freshly cut wound.

"You're not even a shadow of my father." She supplemented, just for added spite.

"Enough Cersei." Jaime spoke with a warning look. His uncle was an honourable man, and Jaime could no longer bear to witness him be trampled upon by Cersei's indignation. "There's no need for that – if our Uncle wishes to leave then he shall go with our blessing." Her eyes bore down onto him like piercing daggers, but he did not flinch. Jaime was far too accustomed to her wayward behaviour to recoil at a mere grimace.

"Your blessing perhaps." She condescended. "Truly I cannot fathom how some of the men who reside in the Red Keep were ever worthy of serving my father. He was unparalleled to all men, and yet that vile little monster, whom you forced me to call brother, did away with such an entity. Yet inane men like Pycelle continue to worm their way onto the small council."

"You chose Pycelle to be on the small council!" Jaime exclaimed, aghast, pushing himself up into a stance. "There are plenty better men than him, and yet you chose him, don't forget that."

"I had to choose him because all others are Tyrells" Cersei refuted blaringly. "They have sunk their sordid fingers deep enough into our son – they will rip him to pieces if we are not careful!"

"Our Son?" Ser Kevan perceived incredulously, his brows arching charily.

"King" Jaime amended promptly. "She meant our King." Cersei made no effort to recant.

"And you are leaving him Uncle! Leaving him at peril – believe me, thorns like blades lay beneath the roses of High Garden" Her fingers had once against become clawed and curled, her posture had hunched in on itself. Jaime glanced over to his uncle, who has pressed his face into his hands, rubbing his fingers into the grooves of his eyes, attempting to rouse himself once again over an issue that had been discussed a thousand times before.

It always comes back to the Tyrells and Tommen's Bride, Jaime pondered, as he had done so often – Yet Stannis is in the North, the Iron Born are closing in, and a Targaryen girl lays across the water with three dragons and an army of unsullied, and all my sweet sister can see the minimal threat of Tyrell men.

Ser Kevan sighed a deep sigh, and shone a futile gaze toward to Jaime. But as ever, his sister had rendered him mute. Trying to sway Cersei was like trying to catch the moon and all the nights' stars within the swoop of a net. Impossible. She had always been obstinate, resolute and dictatorial, and he had once venerated her wilfulness and all other indomitable qualities. But now, not only was Cersei all of those things, now she was also an utter fool, coalesced with a hint of lunacy.

Kevan took a steady breath, and once again took up his piece; "Your Grace, if I believed the King was in danger I would not dare leave his side."

Cersei cut him short with a sharp bite; "Words Uncle. Just words."

"I can say no more." Kevan answered simply.

"And once again you come too short."She sauntered over to the door, her black skirts swaying around her legs, the glistening material snaking smoothly across the ground. Before she took her leave, she turned back to them. "I shall offer my pleasantries to your Whore once and once only. Henceforth after this night, if she dare cross me, she shall know what it is I think of her." With that, she pirouetted upon her heal and headed out of the door. Her guards followed behind her.

Once she was gone, the air resumed to it's familiar freshness, no longer polluted by his sister's animosity. Jaime too, was about to make his leave, though that was until his Uncle's voice brought him to a stay. He was stood, though remained hunched over a straight back chair.

"It's not too late for you too Jaime." He spoke faintly, pushing his body back upright.

"What do you mean?" Jaime queried.

"You too can escape this madness."

"How many times Uncle…." His refute faded out in apathy "My place is in the King's guard." He declared resolutely.

I am the Lord Commander. Did all those around him truly believe that his selection was still only a fleeting phase that would one day pass? Was he really still only just the cruel ploy of the Mad King's doings to spite his father?

"You are your father's heir Jaime. You know it's what he'd want." Jaime shook his head silently.

My father always got what he wanted, must he get his way is death as he did in life?

The thought of Tywin Lannister commanding the world with an army of undead from beyond the grave was a harrowing contemplation, especially when harkened to the image of rotting flesh dripping off skeletal faces, all abiding in blind obedience.

The concept of his father ruling in tyranny beyond the grave made Jaime shiver. He's dead, Jaime retold himself, as a cursory paroxysm of contrition clenched at his heart. I killed him. Even if it was not by my hand.

"And what about what I want?" Jaime asserted, "I don't want the West and I don't want the Rock." He fortified in restrained vigour. "Besides, Cersei gave them both away. Damion Lannister retains Casterly Rock and that other Lannister is Warden of the West"

"Damion and Daven Lannister, are merely acting in your absence. Damion is only castellan. No one would ever dare deny you Casterly Rock. It's in your blood, your childhood home, it's your birth right."

"I am of the Kings Guard!" Jaime's tone hit a stringent pitch. His left hand wrapped around the hilt of his longsword, but he felt not power. His grip was weak. His arm found no harmony in the blame. "Cersei is the Lady of Casterly rock." Jaime continued after a moment of perusing composure.

"Nothing is set in stone – If you decided to renounce you place on the Kings Guard and take your place in the Westerlands on top of the Rock, no one would deny you. Not even Damion or Devan Lannister." His uncle spoke pensively, his eyes tailored in entreaty, imploring him in earnest.

Jaime shook his head silently, his eyes closing slowly. They reopened after a moment of profundity. "Honour is hard to find and easy to lose. I finally have a chance to salvage my honour, and relinquishing my place in the King's guard shall do me no favours"

The Rock should have gone to Tyrion. He had the mind for governing the West.

"I can't Uncle." He sighed bleakly, and to a degree, regretfully.

"Well, if you ever do ever change your mind, then ensure that too long hasn't passed. I know I said nothing is set in stone, but over time things solidify. The West will eventually come to feel like home to your Lannister cousins, and when that happens, they will be much more reluctant to yield their endowments. Don't be imprudent Jaime. Glory can be attained elsewhere – you're wasted in this godforsaken city." And with those words, he turned and walked from the room.

Jaime was left alone in the small council chamber. Silence emerged around him and he was thankful for it. When he was a young boy, he could not bear the sound of silence, nor to sit in a motionless room. He had a zest in his blood that need to be exerted. He would happily throw himself into the thrall of pandemonium in order to feel the rush of vivacity engulf him. But now, in his old age Jaime Lannister could appreciate the silence, even if only for an instant, for moments of peace were scarcely come by when residing in Kings Landing.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Jaime busied himself in the White Sword Tower. He summoned the members of the Kings Guard to discuss the final arrangements for the protection of King Tommen upon his impending wedding. They sat around the circular table in the round room, whilst Jaime distributed commands and placements for the day.

He was meticulous and precise in his mandates to his associates. Cersei had been especially persistent in asserting her desire for there to be upped protection around her son at all times. Which he partially understood, after all her eldest son had been murdered before her very eyes.

Nevertheless, poison was a lot harder to detain than some common assassin, desperate for a martyr's death. Boros Blount was, to his dismay, made Tommen's food taster for his wedding day, which Jaime took a sinister delight when ordering.

He dismissed them to their responsibilities once his charges were dispersed. Loras Tyrell lingered behind a little longer than necessary. Jaime humoured the boy for a while, whilst he flicked through the pages of the White Book, whilst Jaime tested his knowledge. Loras was particularly interested in the life and endeavours of Barristan the Bold. Jaime told the tales that he could remember. The finest man that ever lived. It irked Jaime to this very day that Ser Barristan did not think him worthy of the Kings Guard, believing his honour was scanted and his cloak eternally stained by the blood of the Mad King. I saved them all Jaime thought bitterly. It was these sentiments of over seethed resentment that had him dispatching Loras Tyrell back to his duties.

The tales of the Legends within the White Book were all very heroic, but unless their acts could be imitated in the present day, Jaime found them of very little use. When he was younger and two handed, Jaime has also marvelled at the tales of the great knights of Westeros. Though now he just saw them as the stories of dead men. He had become all the more cynical about it since losing his fundamental aptitude, and coming to the realisation that he would never be able to fill as many pages as Ser Barristan Selmy so long as he lived. And even if he did, King Aery's would forever serve as a blot of ink, eclipsing all other outstanding braveries. His chances of literary glory had all be significantly minimised.

Later on, in the day Jaime went to inspect the Barack's of the Gold cloaks, it was not his prescribed duty but he saw it as necessary. Upon his check, he came across the Commander and his childhood friend; Ser Addam Marbrand. He had wondered whether the copper-haired Knight had taken his check-up as an insult, but if had he did not show it. He offered Jaime common courtesy befitting to his title and Jaime did the same in return. Fortunately, Jaime had no complaints. Everything was up to acceptable quality as far as his eyes could tell; all ringmail was oiled and treated, boots and armour shined, and spear blades were whetted and filed down thinly and sharply. Ser Addam Marbrand seemed relieved that he had pleased Jaime and he walked away with a gratified lift in his stride, his cloak swishing softly behind him, embroidered with the burning tree of the Marbrands.

He returned to the White Sword Tower a little while later, and headed up to his apartments on the topmost floor. His squire, Colton, a distant Lannister cousin, had left upon the table a plate with an assortment of mellowed cheese, biscuits and buttered bread, with a pot of plump raisins, accompanied by a pitcher full of wine. He sat down for a while, and picked at the food before him.

He proceeded to work his way through the books and reports about the service of the Kings Guard, the task made much more difficult and prolonged in the fact that he had still not mastered the ability to write with his left hand. By the time he had finished, the sun was diming and the sky was aligning into a veil of dusk.

Just as he closed the book, Colton knocked on the door requesting entry, his arms laden with Jaime's nightly attire. Jaime bade him admission, and let the boy remove his armour. Colton was painfully shy, and had not yet grasped the art of conversation. No more than the odd civility or request ever passed between them and Jaime preferred it that way. The boy was obedient and submissive, a good squire all in all.

Colton unfasted each golden clasp, and removed Jaime's amour piece by piece. Once his body was uncovered and unprotected, Colten collected the brandishes of affluent metal and took it away whilst Jaime dressed himself at ease. He wore a long-sleeved jerkin of fawn, with adornments of golden studs, ornamented in vertical stripes. Accompanied with matching cream breeches, and black leather boots.

The boy spoke up; "Shall My Lord require anything else?"

"No Colt, that'll be all. Though in the morning bring with you a basin of hot water."

"Yes, very good my Lord." The young lad bowed gracelessly and then scurried away out of the door.

Jaime wrapped the sheath of his is long sword around his waist, he was still not habituated with the feel of his sword dangling at his left side. It felt wrong, and unnatural, going against every single one of his defence techniques that were embedded within his Inherency. He was a knight that could not fight. Perhaps they'll make a song of my misfortune.

By the time Jaime arrived at the Small Hall of Maegor's Holdfast, the musicians were already plucking at strings and thrumming at music boxes, the singer, a white-haired lily-livered fellow was warbling out a rather offbeat rendition of The petal river, which then blended nicely into The Moon that Glitters The moderately sized hall was already brimming over in capacity, some were sat dining, others were already up and dancing. Jaime wandered on through the meandering crowd, taking a cup of wine from a server and drinking the liquid down in one swift gulp. He felt the fruity tang prickle at his taste buds, and thaw the narrow cylinder of his throat, filling his chest with a delightful warmth.

"Ser Jaime" A voice spoke. Jaime turned and saw the ever-portly Mace Tyrell approaching him. The fat flower himself.

"My Lord" Jaime responded relatively amicably.

"I take it all the preparations are in order for my daughter's wedding?"

"The King's wedding shall be heavily guarded and surveyed. You have my assurance" His disparage was heavily concealed by charismatic poise.

"Well that's good to hear, though you did give your assurance last time." He chuckled lightly and his pudgy belly jiggling up and down. "It would look somewhat ludicrous if there were a repeat."

"Indeed." Jaime could not find the source of humour that had tickled him so. "Likewise, it would look awfully unbecoming of your daughter if she were to be widowed a third time before her eighteenth name day – men may think her cursed."

As Jaime had intended, his words put an end to Mace Tyrell's senseless titters.

"Well" His cleared his throat in a sharp grunt "it's comforting to know that no such outcome shall occur."

"Certainly." Jaime concurred. "If you'll excuse me my Lord."

Though Jaime had already walked away before the Lord of Highgarden could make any form of emittance. walking away before The Lord of High Garden had even begun his emittance.

Jaime headed into the central throng of carousing people, recognising familiar faces, and offering polite nods to those he saw that he moderately liked. It was only when Jaime looked beyond eye level that he saw his sweet sister, glaring down from the upper tier of the hall. Surveying the gallivanting people. She was already looking down at him, following his movements, a cup of wine held tightly in her grasp.

He gazed back up to her, with an adoring smile that taunted her in its mockery. Even from afar he could see the scowl that rested on her brow. Nonetheless, she still proceeded to summoned him up with the flick of her finger.

Jaime navigated his way through the revelling people in order to reach the back stairs that led up to the upper gallery. He found his sister where his eyes had previously left her; grimacing down upon all of her jovial subjects. Scorn truly had a hideous way of marring her exquisite complexion.
"Your Grace" he spoke, ever so formerly. Once again, he noted how his sister had morphed back into a condition of mourning, a state of which she slipped in and out of by her choosing in accordance to her disposition. Dressed in a desolate gown, with a subtle pattern of black stitching around the neckline and outer bell sleeves, she looked the very picture of a daughter in the midst of mourn.

"How sombre you look." He quipped, thought she did not rise to the bait, for her eyes were fixated down on the lower ground. Jaime followed the direction of her eyes, trying to work out what had captivated her attentions in such an intent way. He found his answer; stood elegantly along the far side of the hall, was the girl that had Cersei's blood a boil. Jaime could feel the hatred radiating off her, made fierier by her darkened clothing.

"She's just a girl Cersei" Jaime enforced wearily, leading forward to rest upon the bannister.

"Look at her." she sneered, swigging down the last few drops of her wine, swilling it over her taste-buds. Jaime did as he was bid. "Dressed like the whore she is."

She was stood laughing with Margaery Tyrell, and a handful of her giggling cousins. Even from afar, Jaime could sense how in awe the future Queen was of the foreign stranger that stood before her; engrossed by whatever tale she was melodically telling. Jaime eyes trailed further down her slender body to observe the cause of his sister's embittered grievances.

The girl was donned in the shade of lilac. However, in truth, her gown was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was made up of two parts, a skirt and a bandeau top; that sat snugly upon her upper body. The two separate pieces were joined by numerous diamond adorned chains that appended the top section unto the bottom. The chains were delicate and fine, so that her abdomen beneath was revealed to the world, in consecutive revelations of bare skin. The decorative chains continued up to her shoulders, a neck collar in a vast array of white diamonds, which smothered her upper chest.

Her long white gold hair was interweaved into delicate plaits in order to form the basis for a silver headpiece; a large creation of silver work metal work complimented by drooping teardrop diamonds and semi-precious stones. The rest of her gilded hair cascaded down to the small of her back, in soft swaying ripples. Admittedly, he found her choice of clothing rather peculiar, and daring to his Westerosi eyes. Though that being said, he still did not think she had overstepped the boundaries of social propriety,and therefore failed to share in his sister's contempt.

"She's from another place." He spoke, defending the integrity of the beauty across the room. "They dress differently across the water."

Cersei turned to him with eyes that accused him of idiocy; "Jaime, people from Volantis do not dress like that. Whores dress like that." She explained reproachfully.

Jaime looked back down to her, watching her whilst she dedicated her attentions to the Lady Margaery. It's probably their newfound amity toward one another that irks her so – not her gown.

"Well she's not doing any harm." Jaime countered, standing up straight.

"Of course, she is." She ridiculed, "She's glorifying her sordid way of life. And the way in which Saint Margaery is entertaining her company shall make all the other young girls think it's acceptable to present themselves in a state of such dissoluteness."

"I'm impressed Sister, I had no idea you cared so greatly about the social repute of the young girls at Court." She raised a sardonic eyebrow toward him, seen as both were well aware of her hypocrisy.

"Have you offered your pleasantries to her?" he questioned, with hint of mockery in his tone to taunt her.

"I have." She proclaimed matter-of-factly, a smug leer tugging at her lips. "I was a radiant Queen, with smiles and sweet words of nothingness."

"Tis' a pity you aren't always so radiant." He continued, knowing it would goad her. Her hand jerked as if to swat him, but her fist clenched tightly instead. He smirked at her impishly as teasing her and bedding her were two of his most favourite worldly things.

"Where's the King?" Jaime asked a few moments later. Realising that the blonde-haired boy was for once not following Margaery around, ever pining by her side adorningly.

"In bed." Cersei answered, rather blithely.

"Bed?" Jaime answered, bemused. "Is he ill?"

"No" she replied simply.

"Then why is he in bed?" Jaime countered sharply, turning in preparation to catechise her. "Uncle said he was to be here."

"And since when did our meek and mild uncle have the final word?" she retorted spitefully.

"Since the words he spoke were very apt. This is a matter of politics." He griped. "You know that."

"I know what's best for my son." She treaded closer to him, forcing him into a state of close propinquity to appraise is wandering eyes.

"He's not just your son, he is also a King. He has a duty to do. He does not need to be mollycoddled and put to bed by his mother." If an allegiance was to be sought between the girl from across the water and the Kingdom, then the King was required of to commence the union.

"He's still only six and ten. A child." She insisted through clenched teeth.

"Well I remember what we were doing at sixteen. Were we not children?" Her unceasing frown altered within the blink of an eye from a well-defined glower, into a venomous contortion; in which her lips were snarled and her eyes tapered in fury.

"Why must you always go too far brother?" her voice was dark, rasped with menace. Jaime did not accede, his whole posture remained impassive.

"Tommen should be here. I know that, and you know that."

Her silence affirmed to him what he already knew to be true, as with slow sauntering steps, she walked away. For a while he watched her walk, though in the end he turned his attention back to the carousing crowd beneath. He shook his head in dismay

After a few moments of solitary contemplation, Jaime headed back down onto the main floor. He was encompassed the feeling of irritation that Cersei had roused within him. She had a way of crawling up under his skin and in turn flaying him from the inside out. She could be so beautifully evil and benignly cruel all at one. He despised her yet loved her simultaneously. She was a fatal obsession to harbour – like poison that was utterly sweet to the taste, but was in fact killing little by little him in the most blissful of deaths. Yet the captivity the she held over his obdurate heart, no longer seemed so oppressive, nor as compelling. My love for her flutters like silk in a breeze.

He progressed on forward, manoeuvring through the revelling guests who were all high on life and fortune. The Hall had an odd vivacity that Jaime had not seen for a long time, seen as, as of late, the Kingdom had been rather preoccupied by warfare. Recently, all the days in passing had been ones profuse with strain and discord. Ones that continually evoked strife and bloodshed, so much so that The Stranger never felt far away.

And it was these notions that continuously niggled in the back of his mind, that made feel unable to participate in the transient merriment of which he was in the midst of. He longed to share their contentment and partake in carless laughter, though he knew the dire truth of the circumstances at present. He knew that the purpose of the revelry was merely political, simply a stratagem to ensure allegiance with the girl from across the water, or whatever she's called.

The ill-advised residents of the Red Keep had taken it upon themselves to use the opportunity as a means to rejoice at nonentity. Indeed, the fruits are armistice were not yet ripe, and yet all seemed ready to indulge themselves on the bitter taste of false hope.

It was these mediations that brought his meandering gait to a halt, and stirred a conscious desire within him to return to his rooms and sleep the night away. Whether it was the mindless courtiers, the burden of the truth, Cersei's malice, or a combination of them all, he no longer felt willing to even try and participate. He set his distance on a far-off staircase – one that headed to the upper tier, and subsequently offered a quicker departure from the hall.

He began to weave his way through the maze of bodies. Though the careless side step of another, caused him to then knock into another passer-by.

"Oh, forgive me my Lord."

Jaime turned in search of the owner of the endearing voice. Upon finding the answer, his eyes widened. Stood before him was the one of whom had saved great cities from ruin, who seemed to possess the cure for the disease of warfare and who had brought a room full of nobles to an almighty silence.

Jaime too found himself to have become mute and tongue locked. It's her eyes, he deduced, realising them to be the cause of his silence. They were a shade that he could not describe, lying somewhere on a spectrum of shades that his eyes had not graced before. He took note of her unblemished skin of which the Essoi sun had bronzed with its brilliance and as well the magnificence of the gown she donned.

Maybe Pycelle was right after all, maybe she truly is a cruel trick played by the Gods, for she no doubt has the proficiencies to corrupt a man.

"Nonsense My Lady" he spoke once finding his voice. "The fault was my own." he acknowledged, remembering his haste in his pursuit of being relieved of the Halls' fakery.

His words brought about a smile upon her face, so radiant a smile that it seemed to make her whole presence glow.

"I am no Lady Ser, but I appreciate your pleasantries." She smiled politely. "you're the Kingslayer aren't you?" she spoke only a heartbeat later, beaming with a charming sense of fascination.

"Urm – yes." Jaime answered, uncomfortably, watching her whilst she eyed his golden hand.

That damnable name he cursed from within. The world would never let him forget, and it further vexed him knowing that even those from across the water still continued to distinguish him via such a derogatory manner. Until I die, and thereafter, he supposed

Her eyes realigned back to his. "the golden hand, with your golden hair and white cloak are very becoming of you." is she mocking me? He wondered. He winced. "A compliment my Lord." She asserted upon seeing his discomfiture.

"Ah well I thank you." he answered, lowering his head respectfully. "Compliments and kind words are a rarity here in King's Landing." Again, she smiled sweetly, as if relieved that she had no offended him.

Jaime began to ponder at the age of the girl who stood before him. All at once she appeared to possessed the light-hearted glee and innocence of a child, as well as the allure and appeal of a flowering woman.

"That makes me sad to hear." she replied

"Sad but true. If you hold your nose up high you can almost smell the depravity of those within this room." As he had spoken, she lifted her head slightly up into the air, and drew in a deep inhale. "Anything?" he spoke, with a wavered laugh in his voice.

"Not yet." She replied with an easy smile.

"Ah give it time. The air in the Small Hall is far too adulterated by the scent of spiced wine and perfumed potpourri – one day, you too will smell the stench of deceit, and see the extent of false pretences."

She laughed lightly; "Perhaps." She agreed. "or perhaps one day you'll just learn how to accept a compliment."

He laughed aloud; "Perhaps my Lady."

"I told you, I am no Lady – you can call me Ezra if it please you." She spoke.

"That's rather informal." He replied.

"I'm not one for formality. I'm not the conventional type in case you were unaware."

"Indeed." He concurred, "I have heard lots about you."

"And I also, about you." her lips quirked in an endearing smirk.

"So, you know who I am then?" he questioned.

"Of course – as I said before, you're the Kingslayer." She replied, confident in her answer.

He had very much anticipated the answer of which she had spoken, and yet still he could not help the way his heart fell within the cavity of his chest upon hearing her speak that damnable name. My name is Jaime, he consoled to himself.

"Alas, that is not my name." he answered, curious to see how she would receive a censure.

"What should you like me to call you then?" she answered, her words spoken with what he could only deduce as being heartfelt simplicity.

"Jaime" he answered.

"Very well then Jaime" she smiled heartily. "It's very nice to meet you"

He smiled lightly back unto her. Though out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cersei prowling upon the upper circle. Appearing like a dark rain cloud set to ruin a splendid day. Also, her eyes were not upon him, he knew intuitively that she had been watching him, no doubt once glaring with eyes of abhorrence.

He resumed his attentions wholly back to the girl stood before him. "The same to you." with that he reached for her hand, and placed a chaste kiss upon her knuckle.

Let me know your thoughts! Thank you! xox