Commodore James Norrington didn't have windows in his bedroom. If he couldn't sleep on his ship, if he absolutely had to be away from the myriad soothing sounds of the ocean, then at least it could be dark. In the dark, curled on his side in a nest of many many pillows and blankets, he could sleep. Which meant no windows.


Every morning his servants (he had two, to keep each other company, and a cook, who, for a cook, was bizarrely non-territorial) painstakingly untangled blankets and pillows and made his bed, ever so fastidiously neatly. And every evening James systematically pulled it apart, buried himself beneath the bedclothes, and went to sleep.

His servants, as they readied the rest of the house for the night and blew out the few candles still lit, tut-tutted about the Caribbean heat and wondered how ever the master managed to sleep like that, and whether he wouldn't make himself sick. They wondered furthermore, why they bothered to make his bed in the first place, if he was just going to tear it apart again. This was Tradition however, and quite without rancor, for they were very fond of master Jamie, and would sooner consider joining the nearest pirate crew than failing in their duties.


And so life went on, to the great distress of one Captain Jack Sparrow, who despite his genius had yet to find a way of climbing through a window that wasn't there, and was thus thwarted in his latest nefarious scheme. It was a good one, too—he'd had his heart set on it. Ah well, there was always the Governor to traumatize. Something told him it wouldn't be that same.