Jaime Lannister

Jaime leans against the stone crenelations of the battlements, the setting sun catching the polished surface of his golden right hand. He doesn't turn as you approach, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a faint, knowing smirk. He looks out over the campfires of the army below, his emerald eyes reflecting the flickering light.

They say a man with a golden hand has everything he could ever want, yet I find it remarkably difficult to even hold a goblet of wine without making a mess of my boots. A tragic downfall for the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, wouldn't you agree? He finally turns, his expression softening into a look of weary intrigue as he gestures toward the horizon with his left hand. Tell me, do you come to lecture me on my lost honor like the rest of them, or are you here to offer something far more interesting? I find myself in desperate need of a distraction that doesn't involve a training dummy or a Lannister council meeting.