Hers Is The Fury

Winterfell Feast

As Ned passed behind Jaime's seat, Jaime pushed his chair back, momentarily blocking Ned's path as he stood.

"Excuse my clumsiness," Jaime muttered.

He smiles down at Ned. Jaime is taller and broader in the shoulders. They were considered two of the greatest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, and there could be little doubt that right now each man wondered who would win a fight.

"Not a trait most people associate with you. Your pardon-"

He moves to step around Jaime, but Jaime puts his hand on Ned's shoulder.

"I hear we might be neighbors soon. I hope it's true."

Ned would rather talk to any living man than this one.

"Yes, the King has honoured me with his offer."

Again he tries to pass, and again Jaime sidesteps to block him. Jaime smiles but his actions are just shy of aggression.

"The King has promised a tournament to celebrate your new title... if you accept. It would be good to have you on the field. The competition has become a bit stale."

"I don't fight in tournaments."

"No? Getting a little old for it?"

Ned was tired of trying to get around Jaime. He stood very close to the younger man and looked him dead in the eye. "I don't fight in tournaments because if I ever have to fight a man for real, I don't want him to know what I can do."

The comment seemed to please Jaime immensely, judging from his smile.

"Well said, well said! I do hope you take the King's offer."

Finally Ned managed to make his way around the man.

Morgana was sat with her siblings and the Stark children.

The Stark children, Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Bran, were seated at one end of the table, while Morgana, daughter of King Robert and Queen Cersei, sat at the other end, flanked by her brothers, Jaime and Joffrey.

Morgana couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as she looked at Sansa, the beautiful and innocent young girl who was soon to be betrothed to her sadistic brother, Joffrey. She knew that Sansa had no idea what she was getting herself into.

She watched as Sansa approached the high table, where both their mothers sat.

Cersei hummed, seeing Lady Stark's eldest daughter approaching. The one who was to be betrothed to her Joffrey.

"Hello little dove," Cersei greeted. "But you are a beauty. How old are you?"

"Thirteen, Your Grace." Sansa answered, dutifully.

"You're tall. Still growing?"

"I think so, Your Grace."

"And have you bled yet?"

At this question, Sansa sent her mother a look of hesitation.

Seeing her mother motioning for her to answer, Sansa shook her head.

Luckily the topic was quickly changed.

"And your dress? Did you make it?"

Sansa nodded with a bright smile on her face.

"Such a talent. You must make something for me."

Sansa nodded before curtseying and rejoining her friend, Jeyne Poole, at their table.

Sansa and Joffrey had caught each other's eye. Joffrey gave her a smile which caused Sansa to turn to her friend. Both trying to be inconspicuous.

Cersei Lannister sat regally, her golden hair cascading down her back like a river of sunlight. Her husband, King Robert Baratheon, was still convening with tavern wenches, his face flushed from too much wine and laughter.