A/N: Greetings! Firstly, my apologies that this took so long to post, and secondly, my thanks and gratitude to all those who continue to show support.
I have already started working on the next chapter however it's a lonnnnng one, and also, with being back a uni, I only write when I have the chance to.
So, I hope you'll all be able to bear with me, and I'll post asap (reviews truly do help!)

Bears, Banquets and Betrayals

Jaime

The Great Sept of Baelor basked in its own magnificence.

The dome of glass and crystal encased the circular hall, sectioned by seven broad isles, with floors of ivory marble and walls of rich oak, glided by contours of gold. The window above the alter depicted the seven-pointed star of the faith, the sun's rays leaked in through varying hues of colour, making the sacred emblem all the more captivating. Monumental candelabras and colossal bouquets of white ranunculus framed the raised alter. Two towering glided statues of the Father and the Mother stood illustriously tall, overlooking the matrimonial proceedings.

King Tommen, stood in regal poise, was dressed in long-sleeved jerkin of bronzed russet, speckled with daubs of gold, accompanied by the corresponding breeches. His golden crown perched neatly atop of his golden-hair. The boy had not once ceased to smile.

Opposite, stood the girl who was no more than a few words away from becoming Queen. Sweet maid Margaery stood two or so inches taller than her future Husband, and looked far more mature than her tender sixteen years. Cloth of gold sheathed her fair form, her light brown locks whorled down her shoulder, with a golden circlet, almost like a halo, placed upon her head. She stood radiantly, fair in aspect with a desirable grace. None other stood so lovely as the Lady Margaery. Well, all except one.

And for once, the exception was not his sweet sister. Cersei looked morbid and sullen, garbed in black velvet. Leaden shaded silk inlayed the bell sleeves, whilst a silver pendant dangled around her neck, and disappeared below the upper hemline of her gown. Her hair was twizzled formally in her two usual twists, with the crown of her head cushioned with layers of plaits and braids.

His sister's nerves had been overwrought with both fear and fret from the moment her eyes had opened that very morn – which incidentally had been around the same time as Jaime, seen as she had been the one to awaken him from his nightly slumber.

Still dressed in her silken night robe, she had hollered and banged upon his bedroom door, wanting to once again run over the proceedings for the King's protection during the course of his wedding day.

Jaime played his part as he must, and explained over an early cup of wine the precautions and the plans that had been rehearsed for the day ahead. For once, he found himself unable to define his sister's actions as irrational, given that she had watched her eldest son die at the throttling hands of the stranger upon the former royal wedding of late.

Jaime had been so meticulous and precise in his arrangements for the King's Guard, that Cersei for once had been unable to find any immediate criticism. She rambled on for a little while, swilling the wine about her glass, bemoaning over her hatred of the Tyrells, and the little bitch Margaery.

By the time their early morning engagement had concluded, Cersei had already consumed two large flagons of wine, whilst he himself had only stomached one cup. And now, stood within the Great Sept, as he looked over to his sister, he could see the repercussions of her early morning inebriation bleeding into her eyes.

The one who had surpassed even the blushing bride with beauty, was not his sister, but in fact the ambiguity named Ezralaya Cosalario.

She, and two of her Ladies had come to the Wedding ceremony clothed like traditional, southern Westerosi women. A notable mark of respect to the holy edifice and a kindness to the Lady Margaery.

Stood a few rows back, Ezralaya wore a long gown, of thick deep mauve material, etched with plum stitching of shimmering leaves, which acted in continuation across the length and breadth of the gown.

It fell loosely off her shoulders, whilst a golden chain occupied the bronzed space of her chest. The extensive bell sleeves hung long down her body, and the wine silk within, glistened when the daylight fell upon it. Her long white-blonde hair was styled the same as his sisters, with two long twirls hanging down her front, whilst the crown of her head lay array with mounted plaits.

The Ladies that were stood either side of her; an older flaxen haired one, and an exotic brunette, were clad in similar colours and patterns, though on a lesser degree of splendour.

He let his eyes linger a little too long upon her presence, as without warning her eyes flicked up and latched onto his.

The piercing shade, that he could see even from afar, visibly startled him, though more so due to the fact that he realised he'd been caught gawking. Though all she did was smile sweetly to him, a smile that seemed to last within him far longer than it did upon her.

Her attentions promptly turned back to the ongoing ceremony, and Jaime too turned back to observe the habitual cloaking ceremony. Tommen lifted the hefty weight of the cloak and shrouded Margaery on his first attempt.

The cloak that cascaded down Margaery's lean frame was the same one that he'd watched Robert Baratheon cloak his sister in many years ago. Back then, the cloak had been vibrant, and vivid, with a black stag stalking of a field of gold.

Though now, draped upon Westeros's new Queen, the colours had receded and the stag no longer appeared so mighty. The boys not a stag. He's a lion. Through and through.

The cloaks discolouration commemorated Cersei's lack of sentiment toward the memories of her wedding day. If a fondness had endured then the cloak would have been preserved and well-kept. She wanted both her sons to cloak their brides in Lannister Crimson. She'd hoped in vain that the Stag would never again see daylight.

The High Septon's strident voice filled the glass-topped vault; "Cursed be he, who would seek to tear them asunder" The velvet strip that bound their hands together was unravelled, and their hands clasped onto one another's.

The fair-headed King turned assuredly to his spectators. His gentle, still slightly shrill voice spoke aloud; "With this kiss, I pledge my love." With that, he stretched himself tall, leant forward and placed a tender, chaste kiss upon his new bride's lips.

A subdued show of ovation followed, as people joined their palms together. He glanced to his sister and saw that her hands clapped reluctantly in slow, blunt beats, her face harmonised with the dreary melody of her own making.

The congregation proceeded on back to the Red Keep. Jaime rode on his white stallion, with his white cloak catching the air and flapping behind him in the gentle breeze. A peculiar familiarity apprehend Jaime as his horse sauntered alongside the carriage of Tommen and his new Queen. The last time he'd been in the seven towered Sept was when standing over his father in vigil, only a matter of weeks ago.

The stench of death still singed his nostrils whenever the notion came across him. And now, the journey he was currently taking, was the same one he'd taken once he'd seen his father's body sent off to the west. The whole commotion had passed by so fleetingly that Jaime barely had time to register what was happening around him. And with Tyrion gone…. No, no, let me not think of him. The veiled guilt and woe of his brother's absence was still too raw.

They arrived at the Red Keep a little while later. The whole procession had been a slow and longwinded process. Exacerbated by Margaery's cousins who had kept hopping out of their carriage every few minutes or so, to hand out alms to the poor whenever a wretch begged loudly enough.

Margaery and Tommen went their separate ways to freshen up and prepare for the banquet. Margaery headed to the Maiden Vault, whilst Jaime and Ser Loras escorted the King back to his chambers in the holdfast.

Loras remained out of the room, and stood guarding the door of Tommen's chambers at Jaime's command.

"Did I do ok Uncle?" Tommen asked, removing the heavy crown from upon his head, permitting himself a few moments of relief, before having to bear its burden once again.

"You did very well your Grace." Jaime answered, pouring out a cup of warm lemon water for Tommen.

"Did I speak loudly enough?" He took numerous slow gulps, allowing the warmth of the liquid to soothe the drought within his mouth.

"I heard every single word." Jaime replied with a reassuring intonation.

"Though you were stood rather close to me." his brow creased in thought, the same ways Cersei's often did when she was concentrating. "Mother will be angry if I mumbled my vows."

"I assure your Grace, you did not mumble." The boy smiled, relieved.

As though she'd heard herself being mentioned, the woman they'd spoken of entered the room in a miasma of drab shades.

"What are you drinking?" she demanded of Tommen, still mid-stride and half a room away.

"Some lemon water." Tommen answered, timidly. His finger stroking the rim of the cup of which only the dregs remained at the bottom.

"Why?" she questioned, bracing her arms upon one of the high, straight back chairs of the table Tommen sat at.

The boy looked up Jaime hovering by his side, silently asking him to bolster the truth; "His Grace's throat was a little sore when we arrived back to the Red Keep – we though a little warmth would ease the discomfort." Cersei launched forward at Tommen like an inexorable shadow of black and pressed her palm against his forehead in search of a raised temperature.

"Are you Ill?" she probed anxiously, as Tommen tried to squirm free of her cossetting gestures. "Tommen do you feel unwell?" she demanded to know.

"No mother, I feel fine." Tommen maintained with a huff under his breath, craning his head out of her reach.

She turned to Jaime, overcome with angst; "Should I summon Pycelle?" her eyes bustled with dread.

"What? – No – Cersei, he was thirsty, the air was dry." Cersei remained unresolved. Her lips pursed and her teeth nipped at her bottom lip, whilst she folded her arms over herself. "Tommen leave us a moment."

"But mother it's…"

Her strident tone stifled his feeble protests into nonentity; "Go Tommen!" he stared at her aghast and uncomprehensive. "Now!" she hollered, her arm striking out with a finger pointed toward the adjacent door that led to his bedchamber. "And why aren't you wearing your Crown!" she yelled, as a hindered rebuke. Though the King had already scampered away from his mother's frenzy, and now hid behind a wooden door.

Once Tommen's presence was removed, she cowered forward in exasperation, slipping down into one of the cushioned seats.

"Was that really necessary?" Jaime questioned, with a hint of habitual sneer.

Her fingers tentatively probed into her gilded hairline, as her eyes remained fixated upon a vacant point of air. Slowly, yet vituperatively, her head turned back around to face him, her eyes slithering around within their sockets.

Her voice that spoke her words was pallid and defined, she spoke so inertly that Jaime found himself bracing his reflexes to act in defence against her hysteria induced wroth; "Need I remind you of Joffrey's wedding day? A sore throat could be signs of gradual poisoning throughout the day."

"Cersei, don't be inane." Her brows raised up in high, riled arches.

"Don't be inane?" she echoed in a satirising tone, contorting his words rhetorically. "How dare you. I watched my son die in agony." No less than he deserved. "We cannot be too careful!" Her fists were clenched into white balls of stretched skin.

"Tommen had a sore throat. That is all." Jaime reasoned as best he could, but it came at no avail.

"Exactly." She spat in blatancy. "He complains about a sore throat – he is too meek and mild for the life he has been forced to take. He's as fragile as a seed-headed dandelion and as docile as a dog."

Her flagrant disgust at her own son's gentleness was something that Jaime found hard to construe.

"He can't even suffer that for an hour." She pointed directly at his crown, which sat atop the dark-oak table. A thick circle of wiled gold, dashed with large rubies upon the gilded kingly piece was by no way light in weight. It was a heavy, burdensome thing, and Jaime pitied having to put it upon the boy's head, first thing in the premature hours of his wedding day.

"We must toughen him up or else the Iron throne shall rip him to red ribbons.

"Cersei, he still just a boy." Jaime protested mildly, as she drew up into a stance, manoeuvring around the chair of which she'd sat.

"Joff was never so insipid"

"Joff was older and a vicious bastard at that." Jaime countered tersely. Cersei glared at him hatefully, though no malicious words amounted from her scowls. She knows it's true.

Her gaze fell low, and her posture slumped as she exhaled thinly; "Jaime we must make a man of him. Of our son" she appended in a low cautious undertone. "Or else the Kingdom's shall crush him."

He's not my son – you made sure of that. "Your son is only fourteen." Her eyes narrowed at his determiner. "Let him grow into himself. There is nothing wrong with timidity."

"There is, he's King!" she disputed.

"Just let him be Cersei. Father saw a King in him." His temper was slipping through the gaps of his remaining five fingers.

"Father saw a boy whom he could rule through." Her head shook silently, whist she mediated over her thoughts; "You'll protect Tommen with your life today – won't you?" fear had seized her once again.

"Of course." He vowed devotedly in assurance.

"The Tyrell's are everywhere. And I love him too much to let them ruin him."

"Just, try and enjoy the day." He reached for her arm, but she flinched away in rebuff.

"Enjoy it?" she questioned his words, and Jaime regretted them instantly. "How am I supposed to watch my son sit married to that scheming bitch?" Her hatred was emitting into intense sparks of intangible animosity.

"He likes her." Jaime upheld without cause. "Maybe it'll be a marriage of love." Why am I defending the Tyrell girl? Why am I defending any a one of them? Like I give two shits about the Roses of Highgarden.

"No one is that lucky." Cersei was always cynical when it came to love. Jaime had begun to wonder in recent days if she even understood the concept.

"Mother and Father?" Jaime offered up.

It was well known that Tywin Lannister loved no other how he'd loved their Lady mother, Joanna. Although he seldom spoke of her, the mention of her name made his eyes glisten with her memory. His uncle often said that the best part of Tywin died with Joanna. The latter always made Jaime feel queerly melancholy.

"It was sweet whilst it lasted I won't deny that – though the love our father bore toward her ruptured his lionly nature." Always the pessimist. And always so goddam blinkered.

His sister was rendering him weary; "Say what you will, Tommen is married." The abruptness seemingly knocked her down a step upon her self-constructed ladder of fortitude.

She sighed pungently;"Marriage is not as permanent as these high Septon's say. What is done, can always be undone." She contended, and proceed to move on; "The Alcehmist's tell me all is ready – the wildfire is assembled beneath the Tower of The Hand."

"Wonderful. I cannot wait to be burnt alive come twilight."

Immediately, she proclaimed words of vindication; "It's safe! They told me so. It's contained and there is no chance of it spreading."

"It's called wild fire for a reason sweet sister." Every hint of condescension was intended. Cersei was oblivious to her own follies. Her irrational nature continued to hold all their lives in a loose grasp above the black abyss of peril. "Nevertheless, the occasion would make for a jolly good song. I wonder what the singers would call it. – I know; The Queen who cooked her subjects or The Tower that Killed the King or….."

"Enough." She raised a flat palm to silence in mockery. He acquiesced. Though a lazy, subtle smirk remained upon his face. "How funny you are." She said, unsmilingly. "The tower will burn." Her assertion was definite.

"Only at your command." He, nor his men, nor any other would take responsibility for the grand spectacle of his sister's doing.

The burning of the tower of the hand was going to be of her own making and he had half a mind to tell her ignite the Wildfire herself so none other could incriminated by her madness.

"I want it gone Jaime." Her teeth and jaw clenched so hard her cheek quivered. He understood why. He wanted the unsightly thing gone as well. Whenever he gazed upon its edifice or, whenever its vast shadow fell o'er the White Sword Tower it reminded him of his father, and his untimely death. And of who'd caused it.

"I know." He agreed. It was a tender subject, one he cared not to broach.

"You never know, the flames may chase out the vermin or imps that are hiding within the passages."

"Tyrion's not in there Cersei." It had been a long time since Jaime had said his brother's name aloud. And still it hurt no less.

"No – of course not, how could he be when you let him set sail over the narrow sea." Jaime shied in shame. "Just to be sure though."

"Very well." He concluded. Her resolution was impenetrable, and he had not the care to try and imbue it. "The hour of the feast approaches. We must make our way."

"The sooner it begins, the sooner it shall all be over." And the sooner we'll all be stood before the flames of my sweet sisters madness.

The Wedding Feast was a grand affair, though not so grand as its predecessor.

An array of courses was served throughout the banquet. From, wild boar, stuffed with olives, peppers and onions, and then smothered in brown gravy, having been braised for hours within its own fat, the meat practically fell off the bone. To honey-roasted chicken, stuffed with creamed cheese, and waxed over with a sauce of garlic. Tables were piled high with aurochs, thick soups of venison and red cabbage, bowls of spinach, pickled plums and crushed nuts and herbs, all for seasoning. With sides of sweet-bread, salads of sweet grass, and the sprinklings of pomegranate seeds.

Jugglers, tumblers, magicians and trapeze artists had the Small Hall of Maegor's Holdfast in engrossed silence, apart from the moments of frequent ovation, and the sound of sharp gasps of young girls in sheer amazement. The fool took centre stage a little while later.

Mace Tyrell laughed so hard Jaime watched wine spew out of his nose and Tommen could hardly breathe for fits of laughter kept seizing him. Margaery too had laughed along pleasantly, though not quite so immaturely as her third husband. Cersei looked as unamused as Jaime felt.

Whilst the rest of the room gallivanted in glee and jubilation, Jaime had a duty to uphold. He could not divulge on the food nor savour the sweet flavour of Dornish wine. Until the night was done, he would not rest. He needed to keep clear head and to be on high alert lest a fatal incident occur.

Whenever he heard a gasp, a scream, a shout, he immediately assumed that Tommen was sprawled out on the floor; halfway to death and in the midst of spasms and convulsions. His faced lined by bulbous purple veins, threating to fissure, with blood and bile and vomitus caked around his lips. His eyes bleeding blood, streaking his temples red.

Each time fear seized him, so did the memory of Joffrey's death, which played out before his very eyes. He shook his head and blinked rapidly to cast the visions aside, though their absence was only ever transient.

The sweet courses were being served just as the mists of night began to chase away the daylight of the outside world. Lemon cakes came out first, sprinkled with sugar, and drizzled with honey. Then came apple strudels, imbued with cinnamon and traces of ginger. A fruit course followed, of diced apples, blackberries, gooseberries, cherries and the essences of burdock, all of which polished off the nightly spread.

Jaime, stood upon the upper circle, surveying the room with a cautious, circumspect eye. He glanced across to the far side of the room saw Ezralaya sat with her Ladies, laughing, chattering and making merry, indulging upon the last few mouthfuls of lemon cake that remained on her salver. She, and her ten Ladies were sat in courteous proximity to the King's presence, but also an acceptable distance away so that his mother would not have to suffer the sight of her.

Ezralaya had changed out of her Westerosi gown from early at the ceremony. Now she wore a gown of lilac silk, though it was hardly a gown, for she had morphed back into her Volantian elegances. The silk, covered her right shoulder, and then swooped down across her body in a sash, ending up just above her waistline in wilted glossy pleats. The entirety of her left shoulder was left exposed, as would her left breast have been, had a bralette of lavender diamonds not been there. A thick band of silver cinched her in at the waist, outlining her petite figure.

The rest of the silk flowed elegantly down her body, a daring slit split the skirt in two. Her hair was partly up, the top assembled into plaits, woven and spun into coils which resembled the tightly clustered petals of a rose in early bloom. The rest of her hair hung down to the small of her back, like a river of rippling gold. Upon her head, balanced a large creation, of spun silver. The piece was finely detailed with huge arches, enwrapped by vines of silver, in which a jewel floated beneath the curve, honed with webbings of silvery strands and fine dangling chains.

The dark-skinned-dark-haired girl spoke something into her ear, and whatever she had spoken, had caused Ezralaya great amusement, for she laughed aloud so charmingly in hilarity that Jaime suddenly felt the desperate urge to know what she had found so amusing.

All of a sudden, she rose from her seat, five of her Ladies shadowing her rise. Surely she can't be leaving so soon? The night is still so young and so is she.

It was only when his gaze meandered on ahead of her reckoned direction that he saw Margaery Tyrell beckoning her over, her cousins coaxing with smiles and waves.

All at once, in a bustle of lilac silk and Tyrell greens and golds, a danced commenced.

The sound of thrummed strings, compressed concertinas and the swishing's of air propelling through wooden pan-flutes, evoked the commotion of a song within the Small Hall. The velvety voice of some sweet singer accompanied the brightly thrilled descant. The tune started slow, with the soft plucking of musical threads, and then gradually thrived into the beloved, yet ribald song of The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

Ezralaya Ladies, and Margaery's Ladies joined in a circle at the centre of the hall, their hands linked.

A bear there was a bear, a bear!
all black and brown and covered with hair.

The Ladies spiralled around in the delightful formation. They skipped, and twirled, and pranced around in rings.

Oh come they said, come to the fair!
The fair? Said he but I'm a bear
All black and brown and covered with hair.

None appeared to miss a single beat or step. Every breath and motion was perfectly timed. So much so it seemed like they'd been practising for a life time. The spontaneity made it all the wonderful.

And down the road from here to there,
three boys, a goat, and a dancing bear!
They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!

They formed arches with their arms, as the others capered through in melodical configurations.

Oh, Sweet she was and pure and fair
the maid with honey in here hair!

And oh how sweet and fair she is he thought shamelessly.

The maid with honey in here hair.
the bear smelled the scent on the summer air.

The Bear! The Bear!

A double clap sound out the two words, and before long the whole Hall was clapping along with arms swayed and their hands clapped, whilst wide-grins painted their faces, and laughter bubbled out of their mouths. It was a welcomed scene for all. And the composition made for delightful change from that goddam Lannister song.

Oh, I'm a maid of pure and fair!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!

The sight of Ezralaya smiling so freely and so gaily, caused an involuntary beam to spread itself across his face. If fact, it was only when his sister voice shattered his illusions that he realised how extensive his smiles of contentment had become;

"She's a little young for you – don't you think?"

The smile dissolved instantly from his face, and was replaced by the stoic expression that he had once worn. He sidestepped her jeer and turned to his sister with an incredulously raised eyebrow; "Jealous?" Her brow creased amusedly in response.

"Jealous? Of that slut? – I think not brother." She laughed darkly. "There's more chance of Casterly Rock melting into the Sunset Sea." Jaime glanced back down at the swaying damsels.

The Bear! The Bear!
Lifted her high into the air!
The Bear! The Bear!
I called for a knight but you're a bear!

"Everyone in the hall is jealous of her – She's the richest, most beautiful woman in the world – according to voice of the Westeros that is." Jaime voiced pointedly.

"Not according to me – I've seen better looking girls in the whore houses of Flea Bottom." She replied, her deep-seethed revulsion kept at a simmer.

"I had no inkling that you were such a frequent visitor to the whore-houses of Flea Bottom."

In her day, Cersei would have been a pertinent contender against the beauty of Ezralaya. Except now, her flame of vitality, youth and beauty was dimming, the remaining embers merely turning into the bitter remnants of ash and dust, whilst the smell of smoky-woodchip lingered on forever, continuously taunting her with the memory of the days when her flame had burned the brightest of all.

"Why do you loathe her so?" he questioned, watching her gaze be consumed by obsessive abhorrence in observing the dancing maidens below.

Usually Cersei gave very little away, she held her composure as statuesque as Baelor the Blessed, but when Jaime looked upon her, he saw a war of angst and hatred warring within her.

He could tell by the rigidity of her neck that she was desperate to look away, to free herself from the shackles of her integral malice, but her obduracy prohibited such mercy.

Jaime moderately understood his sister's hatred of the flowery girl from High Garden, except Ezralaya was a stranger from another land far away, merely a caller passing by, she had no desire to marry the King, no Mother to take up Court or no Father to submerge himself within political intrigue.

Jaime's gazed wandered from Cersei's spite stricken mien, back to Ezralaya's demeanour of radiating joy.

Oh I'm a maid of pure and fair! I'll never dance with a hairy bear.

"She's a whore." Cersei put simply. "And whores don't dine with Kings and Queens."

Like himself, Cersei had too been raised within The Rock of Lannisport, and all her life she'd been blessed with boundless wealth and fortunes, and bestowed with the rarest of privileges, ones of which few would ever behold.

And yet to anyone who met her, would have thought it was she who had been raised in the gutter with not so much as a copper to her name. For Ezralaya smiled so brightly no one would never have known that she'd endured such misery.

Being blessed with a life of everything had left Cersei wanting all that she could never attain, as eternal youth and beauty could not be bought – not even with all the gold of Casterly Rock.

The bear, the bear! Clap-Clap. Lifted her high into the air!

"She's built and empire from dust and dirt. And desires to help your people, she told me she wants to establish bathhouses and orphanages within the city – Surely that's commendable." He reasoned with a slight shrug.

He felt her gaze turn upon him, laying on his skin as nicely as a swarm of wasps.

"Why are you vouching for her?" Her eyes had narrowed, he knew just by the menace in her voice; "I swear it, if you dare shame our family with that whore I will…."

Jaime cut her off with an abrupt retort; "You'll what? Kill me?" he ridiculed her own inaptitude.

She could impend the threat of his death until she was blue in the face, but they both knew she would never go through with it.

"We both know you won't." he grinned slyly, just to added a little more pungency to his affront.

She kicked and wailed the Maid so fair, but he licked the honey from her hair.

Once again the dance below seized his attentions. Their slender bodies twirling, their arms swaying with grace, with air uplifting the light fabric of their gowns as the pirouetted in sequence.

Jaime counselled; "She's no fool you know. She'll see through your false flattery like a pane of glass. Kindness shall be the only way to win her favor, and in turn, reap the rewards."

"I don't want her favor. All I want is for this damn night to be done with."

As she spoke, the Hall beneath erupted into the sound of hearty applause, a few whistles rarefying the air. He glanced down and saw the Ladies bowing and curtseying in thanks, Margaery and Ezralaya stood together hand in hand, laughing in clandestine.

Just to kindle Cersei's internal fire of fury a little wilder, he too clapped along.

Except the sound of his hand of flesh meeting his golden limb proclaimed a sort of dull-clunk with a blunt ricochet which heralded little volume, it was more like the clap of a mourner. Nonetheless, his intended slight exceled with the clarity of candlelight cutting through a scope of darkness.

"Say, Sweet Sister, shall you do me the honor of a dance?" her face furrowed with thick lines of distaste when glancing down at his golden hand extended toward her.

"What? You and I?" she laughed flippantly under her breath. "You'll make a jester of us both with that stump. I think not."

With those words, she turned on her heel and headed away, her black velvet skirts trailing behind her.

Somewhere along her travels, she must have encountered their Uncle Kevan, for the next moment he saw her back down on the main gallery they were walking together side by side, Pycelle loitering at her tail like some irritating fly.

Jaime searched amongst the people in search of the king. He found him, perched upon his royal chair, admiring his new Queen for he appeared in awe of every word she spoke.

Jaime's gazed meandered further afield, with a sharp eye he surveyed the area to ensure all was well and his King was kept safe. He could feel himself wearying within his own skin, despite that he was very much aware that the night was still young.

Whether it was out of spite or want of a kind word, he found himself wandering down the stairs and pacing over towards Ezralaya's table.

She was surrounded by an assortment of Tyrell maidens and her own Ladies, as well as some gentlemen of her household, and other men who appeared to simply be courting her favour.

He found Ezralaya sat between the Lady Margaery, and a young dark-haired, olive skinned Lady, whose measuring eyes were an unexpected blue. It was she who looked up first, followed by Lady Margaery, and then lastly, Ezralaya who welcomed him with a kind, and oddly comforting smile.

He acknowledged Margaery first, as propriety stated in accordance to her newly acquired title; "Your Grace." He offered, with a slight bow.

"My Lord" As always, she smiled graciously.

Jaime then proceeded to turn his attentions wholly unto Ezralaya, who was perched as neatly as a rain drop upon a petal.

He had the judging eyes of her Ladies upon him, deliberating his worth in addressing their savior.

"I was wondering, if maybe you'd like to dance?" The fleeting pause that existed between his proposition and her answer felt like a small eternity. The disdainful glares of those around her making it all the more worse.

Jaime was used to derisive stares and cruel remarks, it was an aptitude he'd developed over the many years of being called Kingslayer. In fact, the malice of others had enabled him to construct such an apathetic outlook that the opinions of others rarely, if ever, fazed him.

In spite of this, rejection from Ezralaya seemed to carry the capacity to penetrate through his barricade of indifference and he was unsure as to why.

Thankfully, she rose to her feet, despite the impelling eyes of those around her urging her not to.

"Of course! I would be honored to." She neatened her dress, soothing out a crease in her lilac silk gown that had formed from where she'd sat. Her dark-haired Lady looked patently displeased with her admission but made no attempt to dissuade her.

She turned to Margaery; "May I be excused?"

"Of course!" Margaery beamed, reaching up hold her hand from where she sat. "You must dance! I shall be watching in adoration from afar." Ezralaya smiled readily, and began to maneuver her way around the lengthy table and inebriated people.

When she neared, he held up his golden appendage, curious to observe her reaction.

"Thank you for asking." She smiled, reaching forward to hold onto his forged hand, unfazed.

He found it passing odd how Cersei could be so contemptuous to him, and yet Ezralaya possessed such refinement as to respond to the exact same question with immense gratitude and appreciation. They are built from different fabrics entirely. Cersei wrought in Iron, and Ezralaya is a confection of silks and chantilly lace.

They progressed on forward with mellow strides; "I saw you dancing earlier, I was unsure of whether you would want to exert yourself again."

"Nonsense." She protested, turning her body toward his as they walked. "I love to dance, I would be dancing all night long if I could. Though you are the first to ask, well the first gentleman to ask that is."

He was unable to hide his surprise; "Truly?" he queried, seen as he had assumed that the whole throng of suitors he'd careened through to come before her, had all been offering camaraderie, though had unfortunately been met by the blunt rebuke of rejection.

"Truly. It seems you were the only one bold enough." From the kink in her eyebrow he could not be wholly certain that her retort was a compliment.

He smiled wryly; "I would assume that the only reason no other men have asked you, is because they are intimidated."

"Am I intimidating?" She asked, seemingly taken aback.

"Perhaps to some. They do say that you're the most beautiful woman in the world, and so the men mostly likely could only envisage rejection."

Her eye brow raised curiously; "So I'm intimidating to some, and yet, not to you?"

"Westeros deemed me the most handsome man, and because of that, I feel as though there is a mutual sense of vanity between us."

"The most handsome?" she nudged him with a playful chortle, a charming smile spread widely across her face.

"Ah, well, maybe in my youth." He replied, knowing she'd take amusement at his drollness.

"Oh, how modest of you." She teased. Jaime shrugged indifferently, with a haughty grin.

They lingered near with center of the hall, waiting whilst the musicians readied themselves to play something other than The Rains of Castamere.

"You know..." she began, seizing his attentions within an instant. "I think it very peculiar how well arrogance suits you." A compliment lies in there somewhere…I think, I hope.

"Is that bad thing?" he queried, partly curious, partly fearful of her answer.

"I guess it depends on the person. On the Island I grew up on, the Goats people of the isle used to tell the children scary stories about a woman named Heloisa the Vainglory, in order to steer them from vanity. They believed that vanity existed as one of the seven hells."

"What was the tale about that they told?" He asked.

"Well, they say Heloisa lived during the Age of Hero's, and that she was the most beautiful woman who'd ever lived. Suitors came from all reaches of Slavers bay in order to catch a mere glimpse of her magnificence. Though, what they didn't know, was that Heloisa was completely oblivious of her own beauty. Except that was until a steady admirer bought her a looking glass." She took a moment to pause, and looked around the Small hall, perceiving the extent of the vanity that surrounded her.

"When Heloisa looked into the looking-glass, she fell in love with the beauty of which she saw. She rejected all other swains for she realized that she could love none other as much as she loved her own reflection. Her fascination grew into and obsession, so much so that the day came wherein she could not bear to put down the mirror. She carried it before her face where'er she went. And so, one day, Heloisa, consumed by self-obsession and conceit, did not see the well before her where she walked. And so, she tripped and fell to her death. At first, men were too fearful to gaze up the looking-glass, fearing it to be cursed or blasphemed by the suitor who had bestowed it, desiring to ruin her for all other men. However, when one brave fellow summoned the courage, he gazed at his own reflection, and loved himself no more or no less than what he had before. Heloisa had blighted herself."

Jaime felt himself to be in some sort of half-lucid trance. In fact, an odd desire to repent had come upon him, thought he could not fathom why.

Couples had begun to congregate in the center of the hall. Himself, and Ezralaya, took heed.

Before he'd had time to voice his unease at the telling of her tale, the trilling of strings unsettled the air as music and song commenced. The melody of the Mockingbird began to take form after a few twiddles, tweaks and taps.

He bowed first, slow and low, his hand held behind his back as chivalrous custom. Ezralaya responded with a refined courtesy, spreading out her dress as she dipped, allowing her lean bronzed leg to peak through. His heartrate quickened at the flirtatious sight she'd evidently intended him to see, as a mischievous smile tugged at her lips.

Their hands reached up like an arch, as they stepped in and out, she twizzled under his arm after the third in step, remaining in perfect congruence of the other pairs. He had wondered how the slight issue of his artificial limb would fair, however Ezralaya had merely adapted to a lighter grip upon his right hand, allowing her fingers to slip easily around the shiny metal.

Jaime, was and never had been, the dancing type, but he just couldn't resist asking her. It felt all too much like one of the tales from the songs in which the golden Knight danced with the fair maiden from a land far away.

Ezralaya's hair caught the air in a twirl, and it cascaded down like a golden waterfall. Every step was precise, every gesture perfectly timed, and twirl preformed with a smile so warm that it could thaw the hardest of hearts, except my sisters. The world around him started to move in slow motion, with blurs and smudges of colour passing by.

The distortions that had led his mine in to a state of obscurity permitted Ezralaya's tales of yore to resurface within his mind. The parable of Heloisa had triggered an odd sense of familiarity to simmer in his stomach.

At first, the idea of falling in love with oneself had sounded absurd and nonsensical, however, an afterthought of Cersei had amalgamated the illogicalities together in a way that stimulated recognition.

Did I fall in love with myself? The notion filled him with a dread, confirmed by his minds reluctance to offer further contemplation.

At birth, he and Cersei had been identical, and things had remained that way for the first few years of their lives. Both had inherited the Lannister traits of well-defined cheekbones, emerald eyes and blonde hair. It wasn't until Cersei began to grow her hair long, and take on a womanly form, that people were able to distinguish them.

The older they got, the more they differed.

Jaime was well aware he emitted an arrogance that others despised, even in his youth he'd possessed a swagger of which men had scoffed at, only to then imitate. Men had always hated him, just as much as they desired to be him.

Jaime, however had never dwelled on his airs, he'd let the world do that for him. It was his abilities as a fighter that he admired the most about himself.

Failing to acquire an answer, his thoughts were led elsewhere into contemplations much more cutting; does that mean Cersei is Heloisa? Did she fall in love with the part of herself that she saw in me?

This theory was far more caustic to his inners, corroding any sentiment for his sister with mordant acid. Jaime knew he was vain, but not so vain as to fall in love with himself, Cersei on the other hand was far more prone to such extremities.

The culmination of the dance was impending, and Jaime forced his mind back into cognizance. His attentions fixed wholly unto Ezralaya, who swirled into his body and nestled tightly until the beat of retrieval had her twizzling away.

The partners then exchanged, and he found himself with Elinor Tyrell, whilst Ezralaya partnered Alyn. Elinor smiled politely to him and danced around him pleasantly, but he could not help longing for Ezralaya to return to his side. He was no dancer, and felt simply inadequate without here. Thankfully, a few side steps, in steps, twirls, whirls, gyrates and pirouettes, Ezralaya twizzled back to him.

After one final whirl, the music concluded and applause succeeded. He was breathless, as so was she. The close proximity of which the dance's formation had led them to, had only enhanced his intake of shallow breaths. She smiled, his eyes inadvertently glanced down to her mouth and he noticed how her bottom lip glistened with moisture.

The applause of the guests was lapsed by the sound of a spear butt hitting the floor in blunted thuds. Every sound within the Small Hall dwindled to a silence, every motion to a still.

"Your attention." His sister voice clawed into his perceptions him like nails. He heard her but he could not see her. It was only when he saw the craned necks of those around him that she appeared before him; stood supremely above them all upon the upper circle, Tommen by her side.

Cersei smiled placidly, once the silence of the hall reaffirmed to her, the power of her command.

"Thank you." Her voice remained thick with authority; "If you will, I'd like everyone to accompany me outside into the small court yard."She swayed her hand to the outlet whilst her eyes bore directly down onto Jaime beneath her, he did not yield, but simply held her glower; "A show awaits."

A sinister element that only Jaime seemed able to perceive was present in every word she'd uttered. She thinks she's going to smoke out Tyrion, except all she'll be left with is rats and rubble.

The whole populace of the Court began to scrabble and scurry in an attempt to be first. The entry was rammed with people; pushing and shoving, trying to squeeze through the tightest of gaps to beat the masses. Jaime and Ezralaya stared on bewilderment, watching all those around them dart towards the door in order to contend for departure.

"Do you know what's happening?" Ezralaya turned to Jaime, who winced whilst watching the rabble turn in on themselves.

"No." Jaime lied, not wanting to be implicated in his sisters madness.

Her eyes harbored a curiosity; "Do you want to go and see?"

"Do you?" he asked, despite knowing that nothing more than a raging fire was awaiting them.

"A little."

"Come then, I know another way." Unintentionally he reached out to take her by the hand. The notion of what he'd done did not register within him until they were already halfway up the back stairs with her towing on behind him.

Once upon the upper-circle, he led them through a back door, the same on of which he assumed Cersei had used in order to avoid the horde. The dimly lit corridor of which they crossed the threshold onto was wide enough for them to walk side by side, and so, much to his apparent disappointment, their hands detached.

"It would take me a life time to learn my way around this place." She spoke, gazing around at all her newfound sights.

"I used to think the same. Though, these days, it no longer seems as big or grand as it once did."

"There are so many places I still have left to explore here."

"In the Red Keep? Or Westeros?" he queried.

"Both." She answered with a light laugh.

"What else in Westeros do you desire to see?"

"There's so much; the Ruins of Castamere, the Tower of Joy in Dorne, the fields of the Stormlands and the ashes of Summerhall – have you seen them?"

"Only the ruins of Castamere, and even then, that was when I was just a boy. You must be careful though, times of war are seldom the best to go exploring. Perhaps stick to the Red Keep for a while. "

They turned down a flight of stairs, and then on through a door which opened upon a more familiar passage of Maegor's Holdfast.

"I agree and there is still much to do here, especially within the city itself."

"Like?"

"Like, venturing into the Godswoods or the White Sword Tower, and then maybe seeing the Sept or the Dragons Pit."

"Well, as Lord Commander, if you should ever desire, a personal tour of the White Sword Tower, I shall gladly oblige." He'd spoke mostly in jest, and so had been unprepared for the way in which her eyes came alight.

"Would you do that?"

"Of course, if you'd like."

"Very much so." She smiled, gratefully.

"I could show you tomorrow if you wish?"

She nodded, eagerly. "Yes, I do. Though in the morning I am having breakfast with Lady – Queen Margaery." She amended. "And then in the afternoon, my ladies and I are venturing into Flea bottom. So, my evening is yours if you're free?"

"The evening it is." He smiled, as they paced on forward.

The shades of the sky had turned from a beiged, cloud wisped marble, into a mosaic of monochrome.

The iron sconces that lay upon the walls with a burning candle within, threw off flickers of light that created a chasm of eerie shadows.

Jaime and Ezralaya proceeded to scurry on through the empty darkness; like thieves of the night.

It wasn't until they arrived at the foremost courtyard that they heard the vague noise of amassing people, stood before the Tower of The Hand in its last few moment's eminence.

They had come to a transitory halt as Ezralaya took a moment to embrace her surroundings, observing and relishing in the feel of the nights darkness sheathing her. Her head tipped back to observe the stars above.

"Aren't they beautiful?" she sighed in awe.

His eyes glanced up at the darkness. At first, the sky above seemed like any other; swollen with obscurity and stagnated by a veil of mist. However, the way in which she appeared utterly entrance by then, seemed to make him look upon all that floated above in a different way.

For once, he strained his eyes in an effort to see the stars, and took noticed of the silverness of the sky that surrounded the moon.

From nowhere, her head fell forward and she giggled in delight, her eyes glowed, having seemingly absorbed every trace of trifling light from the twilight hours

Two knight's stood guarding a large, study door, lined by strips of steal, that led out of Maegor's Holdfast.

The guards saw Jaime approaching, and moved to unbolt the ingress, sliding off the locks and removing the large wooden blockade that fell across its width for reinforcement.

They passed on through, and crossed the drawbridge, over the spike of iron that lay abed beneath. They wandered on ahead in the direction of the large edifice that was in its final moments of prime.

When they arrived, the rest of the wedding guests were still filtering on through, sharing quizzical glances betwixt one another, bemused as to why they were stood before the Tower.

He heard a few complaints of boredom, a few grumbles about the coldness and the odd protest about standing.

As they headed closer, Jaime saw Cersei stood over on the opposite side, Tommen and Margaery on her left, stood sweetly holding hands. He caught Cersei eye, and watched how her own flickered between his and she of whom stood beside him.

He felt an odd notion of triumph pass through him. He was glad she could see him with Ezralaya, he wanted her too. He wanted to madden her with fury.

With no warning at all, the wildfire dashed up the tower like a rabid beast and the gasps of a hundred or more resounded in the stillness

A fiery whoosh propelled it to the top as the green flames licked at the bricks with tongues of lime, devouring and consuming every inch. The blazes grew strong and more ferocious, with powerful surges of flame encircling the large barbican. The bricks creaked and weaned, as though the monstrosity was crying out in agony, the wooden panels and door were slowly sweltering and withering into charred cinders.

A pain of glass smashed in torridity, and the screams of the imprudent rebounded through the air in piercing shrills as the glass tumbled down in fiery shards and fragments, falling to the ground beneath. He turned to Ezralaya, who was gazing up in trepidation at the burning chaos that loomed above them, in what looked like a candle of the Gods.

Her eyes glimmered with the reflection of the flames which were crawling higher and higher, up to the turrets. She turned slowly to look at him, and for once he did not recoil trying to pretend otherwise.

He held her gaze assuredly, whilst a languorous smile curled her lips. She reached down between them, and latched onto his hand, allowing her fingers to interlock with his own.

The tower was corroding from the inside out, the sound of crackling wood and decomposing walls began to resonate. He shuddered when the first ceiling had caved in, and dust and grime were spat out into the air, proceeding to tumble down upon them all like a baleful blizzard of ash.

The flames, after having secured domination over the helpless bricks, began to throw off an unworldly level of heat, the crowd beneath maneuvering numerous paces back, to shield themselves from the blistering conflagration.

Jaime looked across the crowd and over to his sister, who was belched by a discoloration of green, her eyes were enraptured by the flames, staring dreamingly into the colossal blaze. Her intensity outwardly appeared to border on the endeavors of the insane.

The sphere of the Red Keep stood in a silent trance, as the flames hypnotized any who looked upon it.

Eventually, once the smoke became thick and stifling the crowds began to disperse, and the inner courtyard began to clear, leaving Cersei bathing in the light of the candle.

This is the light of the Crone he heard some faceless-nameless person decree, this is not the light of the Crone, this is the light of madness. And it is slowly devouring us all.

Thanks Again! I'd love to hear all of your thoughts!