Game Of Thrones : As Tommen Baratheon

The world feels like water.

It's heavy, and it surrounds me. Flowing and fluttering as I move, and then settling back into stillness. Silence reigns supreme.

It's not uncomfortable by any means, this weight. It presses tightly on the tops of my shoulders and arms and back, but it never constricts. It's warm like a blanket.

It reminds me, in a moment of melancholy, of my mother. Not Cersei, my real mother. So full of love and life as she was.

Looking around, all that can be seen is a plane of darkness. Shifting sands and growing flowers and fish jumping in and out of rivers and streams and birds chirping in the air and snakes slithering through grass and snow falling down and shards of ice sprouting a thousand feet into the air, sparkling in the evening sun. My breath emerges from between my lips in a could of mist, and all of a sudden, I'm shivering.

And then, nothing. The black claims me once again.

Why does it feel so strange, to dream? They never used to be like this before. Never so... vivid.

And then, the world swirls and everything changes.

I'm in a tower, in a keep, though not any I recognise by sight. The wind bites my skin, cutting deep and freezing me to the bone, but I don't shiver. Little rivulets of water drip down the walls, sparkling in the fading light of the sun. Ahead of me, a trickle of dots appears over the horizon, then a flood. They are all white, I note, and grey, and sparkling. Panic hits only a moment later, when the realisation of my location finally hits.

I'm at the Wall.

Or, at least, I think it's the Wall. I look around, and I'm alone, I look down, and then I'm not.

So many corpses. Enough to make a man think the world has died. Some of the bodies are big and armoured, though the details of the armour are difficult to make out. I see straps and furs and glittering steel and not much else. There are smaller corpses too, some women, some children. They are all piled on top of each other, each looking like they had been freshly killed. In spite of this, it's hard to tell who they all are. Gold and silver and green and blue and grey and yellow, the colours of all the houses, of their clothes, all blend together.

I look back at the specks, and a morbid sense of calm overcomes me. Maybe the world really has died, I muse. For Westeros, it certainly wouldn't be out of character for things to get this fucked.

The specks are starting to mass in the distance, now. Forming one big clump and charging. I smile, and refuse to allow myself to panic. If this is how it ends, then I'm okay with that. It's as good a death as any other.

Maybe there's another world after this one?

Beside me, a pair of gloved hands grasps the ledge. They're big hands, and looking up reveals dark hair and a powerful body clad in black leather and white furs. This is a warrior, if I've ever seen one. On the other side, another pair of hands, daintier and softer, grips the ledge as well. It's a woman, with silver hair and sharp eyes, though I can't quite make out the colour. A cloak of scales flows down her back and to the bloodstained floor. Neither seems hostile.

I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm flying.

The wind whips through my hair, bitterly cold on one side and unbearably hot on the other. I open my eyes, and I see a thousand men ahorse beneath me. The river forms a fork from above, almost like a trident, and their armour glitters in the sun. It's ice, I realise. They're armoured in ice. And then the ice stops glittering, and the rays of the sun above me are all driven away by a shadow.

The shadow, a dragon, I now realise, swoops down and spews a torrent of fire from it's gaping maw. I'm helpless to watch as the army screams and melts away like dew and turns the rivers into torrents, flooding over and drowning the land. The rider seems to change every time I look. Sometimes it's a flash of flowing silver hair, and other times a shock of blue cropped neat and short.

And then, the dragon turns to me.

It's teeth are too many to count, crammed into a mouth that can barely accommodate them. They are all yellowing, and razor sharp. But the teeth are almost irrelevant, almost as much as the scaly skin and bony wings. It's maw opens, and red hot flames spew out.

All around me, my sheets are slick with sweat.

It's almost pitch dark, my eyes note, and a little movement reveals that I am in my bed. I'm sat bolt upright, my chest heaving, my heart beating a thousand times a minute.

What... what was that?

A small trickle of moonlight filters through the shutters, and I use it to navigate my way out of bed. Without the warmth of the covers, and the sweat on my skin rapidly cooling as I calm down, I begin to shiver. In the corner, there is a small lamp, the candle covered to allow me to sleep. I go over to it, and removing the cover casts a warm, flickery light over the surrounding area.

Though this isn't my office, I keep a table in my chamber. I sit down in my chair, neatly stacking and pushing away the mess of papers I had been working on last night. I have a stack of thick tomes on my desk, all legal volumes borrowed from the Grandmaester stemming from my attempt to create a version of common law for Westeros. It was very much still a work in progress.

When it was finished, I'd submit it to the Small Council for review, and later, the Lords Paramount. It was a beast of a task, and one of my longer-term aspirations. I ignored it for now, however, pulling out a spare scrap of parchment and readying my quill to scratch out the details of my dream whilst they were still fresh in my mind. I kept my notes short, and made sure write them in code. No doubt, anyone who saw it would think it gibberish.

When I was done, I tucked the parchment away under all the other papers, and went back to bed, though sleep evaded me the rest of the night. Thoughts of the dream, of it's meaning and of it's cause, lingered all night long.

The next day, the lack of sleep weighed heavy.

Ser Jaime's swings, kept light on account of my smaller frame and weaker arms, felt as heavy as a plow-horse. There is a harsh clang as metal strikes metal, and an uncomfortable scraping sound as I disengage off to the side, taking the brief reprieve to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. Though we are only training with tourney blades, I insisted on wearing some armour, and it feels like I'm being cooked alive.

Worth it, though. No amount of comfort is worth the risk of accidentally winding up brain-damaged.

We circled each other once again, blades raised in preparation for a strike. I attempted to look for a flaw in his stance, and it was only after a long moment of searching that I found one. His blade was raised a tad too high, and his legs looked open.

I offered a tentative swing to open him up for a follow-up. To nobody's surprise, it's a trap.

He deflected my attack, using the parry as an opportunity to loosen my grip on my sword and open my guard. Then followed a lunge, parried in the nick of time, though it felt like deflecting a freight-train, and then a series of slashes, each one pushing me further and further back. My arms move almost automatically to defend me, and I'm proud to report that his attack failed to penetrate my guard, though it had certainly thrown me off-balance.

In a real fight, I knew, I'd have been killed a dozen times already.

Jaime, even weakened and fighting with his left hand, was leagues above me.

Bronn, clearly, had done his job well.

Though I had always known that, for some reason today, the knowledge of my own limitations enraged me. My focus narrowed, by breaths became fast and shallow, and hot blood pumped through my veins.

I charged.

Jaime, now a more methodical fighter, remained an immovable wall in the face of a storm. He weathered my blows, deflecting my strikes with relative ease, waiting till I exposed myself so that he could become a hurricane himself. I kept up the pressure, and evidently, it was working. My sword strayed near his neck with a stretch of my arm, and he met it in the nick of time with his gauntlet, his right arm, bereft of any hand, raised.

I switched the angle of my attack, and his sword met mine, the blade slipping down mine and striking my arm. Pain flowered from the point of impact, and my teeth clenched. At this point, I would have normally conceded the fight, but a stubborn rage stirred in my gut, and I kept my blade swinging at Ser Jaime, though ultimately it was all in vain.

His arms were stronger, his reactions faster, his reach longer, and I was nearing exhaustion. 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.

...

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