[ Another failure - was this some ploy of his own father’s, then? These are words he has been lambasted with before, by both family and those who had seen or heard but would never understand. The crimes he has thus far collected are indeed grave enough to have earned him a place in captivity, but his protest hinges on the fact that, of his most grievous offenses, he has never been caught. And the other, while strictly a crime, perhaps, was an act of bravery and generosity that he had long ago given up hope for ever receiving any recognition for. The people did not generally approve of seeing their king slain, particularly by a man risen to the position of defending him. Risen? Or was it scorn, more truthfully? He’s not sure. All that seems to be clear is the fact that he is being coerced into dressing himself in a peasant’s roughspun. How can he not laugh?
For that he earns a kick, like a dog who has proven he will not reliably listen, and once he’s dressed, a pair of serviceable shackles are clapped around his wrists. Gold would’ve been more pleasing to the eye, more befitting his name and his amassed titles, but iron it is, and when he makes a jape of the slow-moving nature of justice, he finds that he is in company that is not inclined toward conversation, let alone humor.
The cell is less amusing. Sparsely furnished, with a bed that he knows on sight will be too small. Two bunkbeds, a wary glance finds, and several new companions he did not ask for. He would’ve preferred to meet these allies in a suit of gilded plate, but there is only the ghost of a sheath at his side, and a pang of absence where his sword ought to be. A toss of his head flicks golden hair from his eyes, and despite the rather… inauspicious circumstances of his arrival, he breaks into a grin, green eyes bright with a crafty mischief. ]
Looks like your father and your gods both agreed that you were a failure, too.
ii | honorable duel
[ How long has it been since he’s had a fight? Too long. Too long without armor, too long without his sword, too many days passed since he last sat a horse. Too many unfamiliar faces, all made eerily familiar day by day with the unflattering garb they have been given to wear. Too much time spent revolving around the fact that they are all meant, here, to seem equal. Equally worthless, to be sure, but he has never been another man’s equal. He does not have dalliances with defeat in the lists, and he has never relegated himself to the ranks of common thieves and the dithering smallfolk. This was not where he belonged.
They feed him, too, as if he is no more than the cravens that skulk left and right. He is given the same plate of food, as if he is not deserving of the savory meats that cooks baste all day long. There is hardly any meat to speak of at all, in fact, and no sweets, and the small pile of leaves should only have been set before a rabbit, or a pitifully neglected horse. His utter bewilderment has left him more or less compliant, more of less accepting of this woeful fare, but enough is enough.
He rises, strides to the first hapless victim he can find, and instinctively reaches to graze his fingers over his sword, a gesture that proves futile when there is no sword to help give weight to his threat. Fighting for scraps like curs is not the fight he would have preferred, but a fight is a fight. He is as hungry for blood as he is for proper meat. ]
Shall we make this abrupt and fatal, or would you rather I just maim you enough to entertain the masses?
Jaime Lannister | asoiaf | Judgment
i | making allies
[ Another failure - was this some ploy of his own father’s, then? These are words he has been lambasted with before, by both family and those who had seen or heard but would never understand. The crimes he has thus far collected are indeed grave enough to have earned him a place in captivity, but his protest hinges on the fact that, of his most grievous offenses, he has never been caught. And the other, while strictly a crime, perhaps, was an act of bravery and generosity that he had long ago given up hope for ever receiving any recognition for. The people did not generally approve of seeing their king slain, particularly by a man risen to the position of defending him. Risen? Or was it scorn, more truthfully? He’s not sure. All that seems to be clear is the fact that he is being coerced into dressing himself in a peasant’s roughspun. How can he not laugh?
For that he earns a kick, like a dog who has proven he will not reliably listen, and once he’s dressed, a pair of serviceable shackles are clapped around his wrists. Gold would’ve been more pleasing to the eye, more befitting his name and his amassed titles, but iron it is, and when he makes a jape of the slow-moving nature of justice, he finds that he is in company that is not inclined toward conversation, let alone humor.
The cell is less amusing. Sparsely furnished, with a bed that he knows on sight will be too small. Two bunkbeds, a wary glance finds, and several new companions he did not ask for. He would’ve preferred to meet these allies in a suit of gilded plate, but there is only the ghost of a sheath at his side, and a pang of absence where his sword ought to be. A toss of his head flicks golden hair from his eyes, and despite the rather… inauspicious circumstances of his arrival, he breaks into a grin, green eyes bright with a crafty mischief. ]
Looks like your father and your gods both agreed that you were a failure, too.
ii | honorable duel
[ How long has it been since he’s had a fight? Too long. Too long without armor, too long without his sword, too many days passed since he last sat a horse. Too many unfamiliar faces, all made eerily familiar day by day with the unflattering garb they have been given to wear. Too much time spent revolving around the fact that they are all meant, here, to seem equal. Equally worthless, to be sure, but he has never been another man’s equal. He does not have dalliances with defeat in the lists, and he has never relegated himself to the ranks of common thieves and the dithering smallfolk. This was not where he belonged.
They feed him, too, as if he is no more than the cravens that skulk left and right. He is given the same plate of food, as if he is not deserving of the savory meats that cooks baste all day long. There is hardly any meat to speak of at all, in fact, and no sweets, and the small pile of leaves should only have been set before a rabbit, or a pitifully neglected horse. His utter bewilderment has left him more or less compliant, more of less accepting of this woeful fare, but enough is enough.
He rises, strides to the first hapless victim he can find, and instinctively reaches to graze his fingers over his sword, a gesture that proves futile when there is no sword to help give weight to his threat. Fighting for scraps like curs is not the fight he would have preferred, but a fight is a fight. He is as hungry for blood as he is for proper meat. ]
Shall we make this abrupt and fatal, or would you rather I just maim you enough to entertain the masses?
iii | wildcard!