Game Of Thrones : As Tommen Baratheon

He caught my shoulder with the blunted practice hook that had replaced his missing hand, and he used it to give me a hard shove. I landed on a plate of my armour, the metal striking my back with enough force to wind me. Jaime approached me, and held the tip of his blunted sword to my neck.

"Do you yield?" he asked.

"I yield," I wheezed, gasping for breath.

...

I let my head fall back to the ground. After I had made it clear that I didn't want anyone to take it easy with me, I had not won a single bout. It really gave you a new appreciation for soldiers when you realised just how large a gulf there was between you and them. Between Loras, Balon, Jaime and Bronn, I never found myself wanting for bruises. It was to be expected, I knew, but that didn't make the defeats sting any less.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" he asked, practice sword clattering to the ground, his hand extended to help lift me to my feet, concern lacing his tone.

I accepted his offer, catching my breath on my feet with my hands on my knees, "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just pushed myself a tad too hard is all."

"You have advanced leaps and bounds," Jaime said. "And all in a few months, too. No need to rush. You'll be a great fighter in your own time."

"I still lost," I pointed out.

"You got sloppy in this last fight, Your Grace," he said. "Don't make the same mistake again, and you'll be fine."

The adrenaline was fading, and the pain in my arm was returning, "I know."

Ser Jaime frowned, "Is something the matter? You don't usually attack like that."

I shook my head, "Just a bad dream, is all. Just a bad dream."

Jaime looked around for any prying eyes and ears. Though this terrace, the same as the one Bronn and Jaime used in the show, tucked in the cliffs beneath the Red Keep and overlooking the Blackwater, was secluded, Jaime knew better that to be careless about such matters. Even with Varys gone, it appears that my efforts to impress upon him the importance of caution had been successful, "If you want to tell me," he whispered, "you can. I'll keep your secrets."

"I know you will, Uncle," I said. Then, I feigned a world weariness I only partially possessed, rubbing tired eyes and scowling as I spoke, "But what is there to tell? Just more corpses. Corpses and armies and wars and killings. So many killings. It's all I ever seem to dream about, nowadays," I groused. "I'm so sick of all the corpses. Why can't I ever get a happy dream, for once?"

Jaime looked at me pityingly, though he looked a little uncomfortable with the situation, "I..."

Nothing rankled like pity, even if he didn't mean it like that. I changed the subject, "How's the hook?"

He looked at his right arm quizzically, "It's... practical, Your Grace."

"Well, I figure if you're going to be a fighter again, a hook would be better than a golden hand. I'll have another made for you, of gilded steel this time, with an edge so sharp you could slice through glass." I looked at him, "Only if you want it, of course."

Jaime smiled, "I would like that, Your Grace."

I nodded, my breath fully recovered now, "Good."

I stood up straight, cradling my arm, "Are you injured, Your Grace?"

I nodded, "It seems so. Don't worry, it's nothing serious."

"You should still see the Maester."

I nodded, "I know, I will."

We walked to my chambers, and when we arrived, I called for the Grandmaester. Before Jaime could leave to fetch him, I stopped him on his way out, "Your know, Uncle, I promised Tywin that you would join him at the Rock."

Jaime seemed panicked by the idea, "Your Grace, I have been a Kingsguard since before you were born. Members of the Kingsguard swear their oaths for life-"

"I know," I interrupted, "but Joffrey broke that tradition when he dismissed Barristan. And I swear you'll not lose any honour for it when the time comes." Jaime seemed hesitant, "Circumstances demand sacrifice, Uncle. We must all do our duty. I have sacrificed my childhood for my duty. Tyrion has given his face. For you, the cost will be the white cloak."

"And there is no other way?" Jaime asked, a desperate look on his face.

"Why did you join the Kingsguard, Uncle?" I questioned.

He seemed to have difficulty getting the words out, "To... to be closer with Cersei," he admitted.

I nodded, "And are you close with her now?"

He shook his head slowly, "...No, Your Grace."

"I understand your reluctance, Uncle, I do. With all you have lost, the white cloak must seem like all you have left."

Jaime's eyes glistened, "Your Grace, I..."

"You are a good knight, Uncle," I told him, looking him in the eyes to make sure my words landed. "A good knight, white cloak be damned. Take pride in that."

I had to stop him bowing before he left, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

...

( Arianne POV )

They arrived in the throne room with little in the way of pomp and grandeur.

Arianne stood at the helm of the party. Behind her was Ser Arys Oakheart, resplendent in his thrice-damned white cloak. It was honestly a relief, now, that her attempts to seduce him had been stymied so quickly. Arianne didn't know how she would have tolerated a man who seemed so foreign to the concept of wit. Still, Arianne could not deny he cut a dashing figure.

She knew the King had requested that Trystane attend his wedding alongside Ser Arys, and she watched as his eyes flicked over their party, a flash of irritation crossing his features when Trystane could not be found.

Even here, Arianne mused, I am unwanted.

And that had been the plan, originally, to send Trystane. But Oberyn had interceded with a letter, and specified that it would be better if she came instead. Her father, wanting her out of the way, readily concurred. When they had departed their ship, only the Imp and her Uncle and his paramour stood to greet them, escorting them to the Keep and the King.

And what a King he was!

Arianne, hearing word of him from afar, had expected to be disappointed. The picture in her mind was of a small child, pudgy and naive, more boy than man, and certainly no King. She had expected a ridiculous spectacle, an immature babe sitting in a monstrosity of steel and iron.

Arianne was disappointed, to be sure, but not in the way she had expected.

There was no denying the King's youth. His features were young, his frame small, so much so that Arianne suspected he was no taller than herself. But he was also no suckling babe. The roundness of his cheeks was slight, the baby fat in the process of melting away to reveal sharp and regal cheekbones. His expression was impassive, his gaze penetrating and powerful. Around him, his councillors appeared to either cower, or to pay rapt attention to his every movement. His form, from what Arianne could discern behind his tunic and coat, looked lean and strong, at least for his age.

Were he any other man, Arianne found herself thinking, and I a little younger, I would have him abed.

That was not to say that all was well with the new King, of course. Whilst he was growing nicely for his age, he appeared to have traded away his youthful vigour. His movements were slow and deliberate, and a certain indescribable world-weariness marked his demeanour, of the kind her own father had in his bearing. There were small, dark circles under his eyes.

The King knows more than he says, Uncle Oberyn had warned. Be wary of him. He is not the boy you think he is.

Looking at his eyes, Arianne did not doubt her Uncle. I know, they seemed to say, I know everything.

Those eyes dragged across the party, starting with Ser Arys, making it's way to her cousins, and then finally landing on her. Arianne suppressed a shudder, and plastered a pleasant expression on her face. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft ringlets, shimmering and smooth. Her dress exposed more than it covered, Arianne knew, and sought to arouse. The curve of her breasts was on full display, though her nipples remained mercifully hidden. The yellow fabric was thin and flowing, and in a certain light seemed to disappear entirely. Thin golden chains hung loosely off her form, the glittering adornments only highlighting her features.

The King, again, surprised her. His eyes flicked once across her body, and then landed upon her face, half-lidded from a mix of boredom and curiosity. He seemed utterly unaffected by her manner of dress.

After a long moment of silence, Oberyn proudly declared, "My family, King Tommen!"

"Charmed," the Boy King said, seemingly disappointed by the absence of his sister. "You must be Princess Arianne, yes?"

Arianne curtsied, "I am, Your Grace."

"And the lovely ladies behind you, I assume they are some of the famous Sand Snakes?"

Oberyn smiled and nodded, "Two of my eldest daughters, Nymeria on the right and Tyene on the left."

The King offered an impatient smile as her cousins both curtsied, "Welcome to the capital. If you don't mind, Prince Oberyn, I would ask that your family stand to the side till the regular business of court concludes. Unless there is a more urgent matter they have to present, I will greet them more appropriately on my terrace."

Oberyn seemed unaffected by the insult, though Arianne felt her cousins grow hot with silent anger behind her. They all filed to one side of the throne room as the business of court resumed. A trail of people, smallfolk and hedge-knights and even some minor lords formed a small huddle in one corner, the men emerging from the huddle to greet the King.

The men, though they had clearly made some effort, reeked and appeared in dull brown roughspun. They kneeled down and appeared to tremble before the throne as they begged for justice. Arianne, utterly uninterested in such affairs, looked around. Sat across from her, some few seats away was a hard-nosed, balding old man with a bristling beard and a bowman as his sigil. Lord Tarly, Arianne guessed. Her Uncle had told her he had arrived not a few days ago, only to find himself with a seat on the Small Council.

It was said that the new King valued his martial prowess greatly, and had made him his Master of War within the week. For what purpose, it was not known. The King was an extremely secretive person. Arianne observed him with interest, only to be taken away by a nudge from her Uncle, sat beside her. "Pay attention," he whispered. "You'll learn much more watching the King than you will watching him."

When the smallfolk had finished his plea, the King crooked his finger beckoning for his Great-Uncle, the Lord Kevan, to approach. The Old Lion's lapdog. The King and his Master of Laws shared a few whispers and then the Master of Laws shook his head and withdrew. Whatever words they had shared, the King made the final decision. His rulings were the law.

...

If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.

you can join my p atreon :

[email protected]/Nolma