A/N:

- You'll soon see that this chapter contains the notorious 'stripped in front of the court' scene. Please note that I have kept the dialogue pretty much faithful to the original scene in the books / show at the beginning, though it does change as the scene deviates from canon. That means it's a good time to mention, as usual, that of course none of this world belongs to me and it all belongs to GRRM. I just enjoy playing with his toys.

You'll notice the relationship between Sansa and Ser Dontos is missing here as the way Sansa's story develops and the absence of a Purple Wedding make him unnecessary.

You'll also notice that Sandor drinks what I view as the Westerosi version of absinthe. I think it's a little ahead of it's time given Absinthe was in the 1700s, but I figure if they can have Moon Tea there, I can get away with absinthe lol.

Would you like to see the TV version (I didn't like the book version at all!) of Shae show up? Obviously, with Tyrion captive, her storyline with him will never happen (nor her betrayal) but I'm sure I can think of another way to press her into service as Sansa's maid if you all would like to see her. Let me know in the comments!

I made the minor changes to Stannis's letter, later in the chapter, that he asked Pylos to make after he 'proofread' it in ACOK.

I've also borrowed some Jaime/Cersei quotes that haven't been actually said yet at this point in the books to serve story purposes. The other quotes you may or may not recognize are ones she remembers from other pieces of my writing, such as Bound.

Thanks to SkySamuelle for the 'wine and self destruction' quote. And for always being amazingly supportive of my work. And Thank you to Max for reviewing again and again and letting me know someone here is reading!

There is one minor playlist change. Songs that go with this chapter are: Proof Of Your Love, Once Upon a December, I Know Places, We Are Broken, Demons, Let The Flames Begin, Dragon Age Inquisition, Kiss Me Like Nobody's Watching, Call It What You Want, Iris, Stronger,

Honestly, I'm not sure whether Sansa's situation or Cersei's broke my heart more. This was a difficult chapter to write, but I'm pleased with the final product.

**This chapter has significant physical violence in it, reader discretion is advised. The abuse contained herein is of a physical and verbal nature (no sexual abuse).**

Moon Four (Waning Crescent)

And In Their Triumph Die Like Fire and Powder

Something sunk in the pit of Sansa's stomach like a rock down into the depths of the frigid, black pool in Winterfell's Godswood, swallowing it up. She wasn't sure why she thought about that pond just now, but the mental image made her shudder slightly. The Hound was standing in her doorway, his terrible face pulled into a grimace. There was only one reason The Hound ever came to Sansa's bedchamber, and that was because Joffrey had summoned her.

Sandor knew he didn't need to say it but did anyway. "The King commands your presence in the throne room." Sansa struggled not to show her fear. Her eyes were hollow, emotionless, dead. He might have believed her act if he had not seen the shudder of her shoulders when he spoke. She was becoming better, Sandor decided, at playing the part expected of her. And he did not feel bad because it was what was expected of all of them, and it was how she might actually live to see her home and whatever remnants of her family survived this war — if any did.

Sometimes, Joffrey called Sansa to court to stand beside him and attend him while she looked pretty. Despite the mutual loathing that now hung between them, Sansa was still his betrothed. When Sansa thought about that — when she thought about her newly flowered status, thought about the fact that marriage would soon follow, thought about surrendering herself to him, it was enough to make her despair, enough to make her think long and hard about that day on the Traitor's Walk where, for one horrible moment, she had considering pushing Joffrey to his death and, like as not, tumbling down along with him.

Other times, Joffrey called Sansa in front of the court to face some sort of chastisement he believed she had earned and which he exacted on her in front of nobles and smallfolk alike. Often enough, it had to do with the victories her brother Robb was quickly amassing to his name now that the War of the Five Kings was in earnest. Sansa remembered on the Traitor's Walk. just a moon ago now, she had spit at Joffrey that maybe Robb would bring her Joffrey's head on a spike rather than the other way around and shuddered. How foolish she had been even a moon ago. Now, she feared word of Robb's victories almost as much as she feared word of Lannister victories.

"Hurry up. The longer you keep him waiting the more angry he'll be and the worse it'll go for you," The Hound warned her, spurring Sansa out of thought and back into action. Sandor watched her with crossed arms and an impatient expression on his face. Yes, he could admit that all of this was wrong and unfair, but he barely flinched at that. Sandor's own life had been filled with undeserved, bitter, unfairnesses. They had jaded him, turned him into The Hound.

Until he had met Sansa Stark, Sandor had not believed truly good people even existed anymore. He would have said they had never existed, but his sister had been the proof against that. But she had died, and with her had died Sandor's last hope of any goodness left in humanity — until Sansa. He had watched her for so long, waiting for her to drop her innocent facade and show the ugliness that seemed inherent in human beings, but then he had realized — to his even greater horror — that it was no act and she would be devoured here.

Sansa didn't even acknowledge that she had heard him, though she tried to speed up getting ready, her fingers fumbling with buttons and knots and trembling. She had no idea where her maid was, but her hands were shaking too badly to do up her hair in any of the complicated court styles Joffrey liked. Even the simple ones.

"Stop." The Hound said from his place at the door.

Sansa stared at him in fear for a second as he advanced on her and not-all-that-gently pushed her hands away from her hair and grabbed the pins out of her hand. His hands in her hair were no more gentle than they had been when he knocked hers out of his way, but he never hurt her. She started to crane to look over her shoulder at him but he just turned her head back in place. "Hold still," he commanded. Sansa did. Sandor's hands were no nonsense and brisk as he threaded her hair through his fingers, pinning it here and there until he had piled it into a braided bun at the back of her head with two looser braids hanging down each side of her face along her shoulders. "There," He said with a sigh, shoving her away from the mirror.

"H-how… Did you?" Sansa asked, staring at her auburn locks twisted into one of the perfect court styles Joffrey liked seeing.

"Stop talking and move godsdammit," Sandor growled. The last thing Sansa needed was for Joffrey to become impatient. Sansa seemed to remember then and flew to the door in a flurry, any questions that she had wanted to invoke gone from her mind as she recalled the probable horror waiting for her in the throne room.

"Tell me what I've done," Sansa murmured as they walked.

"Not you. Your kingly brother."

Of course, Sansa knew the words she was expected to say and said them quickly. "Robb is a traitor. I had no part in whatever he did."

Sansa's head was spinning and she felt as if she could not breathe properly. She knew part of it was the too small dress stretched over her budding teats but the other part was deeper, deep inside her chest and came from fear. Gods be good, don't let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb has done something to Jaime Lannister, I will die. Though at this point, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"They trained you well little bird," The Hound muttered.

As it often was, the throne room was crowded with people: lords and ladies, petitioners, smallfolk, and all the members of the Kingsguard only notably excepting the Kingslayer. Sansa tried to suppress a shudder as her eyes slid over Ser Boros and Ser Meryn.

And another sight as well. Perhaps she would have stopped walking altogether if The Hound hadn't grasped her by the upper arm and pulled her along. Joffrey was standing before the Iron Throne with an ornate crossbow in his hands, winding it slowly, so slowly, with a sadistic smile on his wormy lips. Sansa's eyes widened, flashing to his hands and the menacing looking crossbow quarrel. Somewhere far away and yet altogether too close, she heard a cat meowing piteously. Sansa was willing to guess she knew why and felt sick. She could taste bile and the bread she had eaten at breakfast creeping up the back of her throat, but she forced it down.

Sansa immediately fell to her knees before the King, prostrating herself on the floor.

"Kneeling won't save you now." Joffrey's voice was like ice. "You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons.

"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part in it! You know that, I beg you — please!"

"Get up!" Joffrey demanded, voice like stone.

Sansa could not react fast enough, so The Hound pulled her to her feet instead, though his grasp on her arm was surprisingly gentle. The feeling of not being able to breathe intensified as Sansa looked at the anger and cold in Joffrey's face and the way his hands were white where they gripped the, now completely wound, crossbow. It was aimed right at her. The sound of the dying cat was too loud in her ears and seemed to reverberate in time with the pounding of her heart.

"Ser Lancel, tell the Lady Sansa of this outrage." There was something very unkind about the way he sneered the word Lady — as if it was a curse.

"Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."

Sansa's throat felt as if it were closing off, as if she was breathing through a reed. Her head reeled, her heart screamed, but her voice had deserted her. She wanted to yell at Joffrey that Robb would never do that kind of vile thing — that last part. Of the victory, she had no doubt, but it was war wasn't it? She could not speak. Her tongue was too thick, too big for her mouth. The room felt as if it was closing in around her, and she was a moment from complete panic.

"You have nothing to say?" asked Joffrey.

"The poor child is shocked witless," Ser Dontos said, though Sansa barely heard him.

Dontos. He had tried to speak to her after she had saved his life on Joffrey's name day, but Sansa has said only, "I appreciate your thanks, but I must go now," with her new dead tone, eyes hollow as usual. She could not risk being seen with a man who raised Joffrey's ire. Ever. She already walked on a wire as it was without added risks. She tried not to think about the visit to the Black Cells. Risks like that. She had been completely unable to resist that, but Ser Dontos the Drunk she could resist.

"Silence, fool!"

Now, Joffrey's raised crossbow was pointed at Sansa's face. She tried not to flinch but wasn't at all sure she managed. Everything in her screamed at her to run, but she couldn't. Not now. Joffrey would shoot her if she moved.

"You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me."

The response came before Sansa could stop it, bursting forth like an unwanted wave of sickness, "That was Arya's wolf!" As soon as she said it, Sansa regretted it. Arya's wolf might be out of reach, but Arya herself was not. And Sansa would never forgive herself if Joffrey also turned his wrath on Arya too. Joffrey seemed to understand what Sansa was thinking when she could not mask the horror sliding across her face.

The words came tumbling out against her will again. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway!"

"No. Would that I had, but your father did that. But, when I kill him, well, that will be far more satisfying, so I really can't complain. I've been practicing, actually. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat. Then, he was quiet." Joffrey laughed an ugly laugh.

"A..and he died?" Sansa got out. Anything to get him off the topic of her father, Arya, wargs, the direwolves…

Joffrey looked at her as if one might look at a simpleton. "Of course he died. He had my quarrel in his throat." He continued, "There was a woman throwing rocks; I got her as well, but only in the arm." He frowned. "I'd shoot you too, but Mother and Grandfather forbid it. Instead, they still expect me to marry you. And Grandfather says they'd kill my Uncle Tyrion. He's worthless, but Grandfather still seems to care if he's murdered — can't see why. Instead, you'll just be punished. After all, I have to make you into a good, obedient wife."

"Your Grace, I will be the perfect wife and do all that you say. Please." Sansa's legs were shaking beneath her dress.

Joffrey frowned more and Sansa flinched. That had been the wrong answer. 'Stupid, stupid. He didn't want you to say anything,' she berated herself. It was too late now.

"Oh of course you will. I'll make sure of it. But that is not our subject today. Instead, you'll be punished and we'll send word to your brother about what will happen to you, your ugly sister, and your father if he doesn't yield. And it is a fitting punishment." The gleam in his eyes terrified Sansa right to her very core. She was not sure how long her wobbling legs would hold her.

Joffrey turned to Ser Meryn, "I want to see her when she's punished. Make her naked!"

Sansa barely had a chance to gasp before Ser Meryn was on her, hands ripping, tearing at her bodice, her corset, her shift. She did not fight or yell. The sounds and protests caught in her throat and the fear made her body numb and stiff though the terror and humiliation in her eyes was so poignant even The Hound looked away from her. Sansa tried so hard, but the tears started sliding down her cheeks unbidden and unchecked as Ser Meryn threw her ripped clothing on the ground, piece by pice while Joffrey looked on, unchecked glee and pleasure in his eyes.

And when Sansa stood bare to the world, her tears, silent as they were, only increased as she tried to use her hands to hide her breasts and woman's place but simply couldn't cover everything. Not even her hair was a help, twisted up as it was. Her face was burning with shame as the entire court stared at her nakedness. She wanted to give in right then, fall to the ground and cry without getting up, but she couldn't. Arya and their father's safety depended on her keeping Joffrey's mind off them as much as possible.

She tasted the saltiness of the tears that reached her lips, and she came to accept the fact that she could not hide her body. Especially not when Joffrey said, "Stop hiding! I said I wanted to see you!"

With her face burning as if it was aflame, Sansa forced her hands to drop away, but she would not meet Joffrey's eyes. She looked anywhere but at him.

He noticed that too. "Look at me!"

A tiny sound, a whimper, escaped her throat and made Joffrey smile.

"Please, Your Grace. Please. I… I am sorry for the wrongs I and my family have committed but… please allow me to get dressed again." She knew her pleas would like as not fall on deaf ears, but she had to try. Her skin felt as if it was burning under the stares of the hundreds of people in the Throne Room. She had never felt so degraded in her entire life.

Joffrey only laughed. "I think not. This is rather too much fun, don't you think?" He was addressing both her and the crowd at once. "Now that I can see you properly for this, we shall proceed."

Sansa's throat felt dry even though tears coated her cheeks. Was he not done with her? Would he never be? She would have given anything to be able to flee, to run to her chambers and never, ever come out again. How was she ever to look into the faces of anyone in the Red Keep again after this, after they had all seen her stand naked in the middle of the court?

"The members of my Kingsguard are assembled here. Minus, of course, my Uncle Jaime who is on the battlefield right now, working to bring me your brother's head." He paused for a minute. "Look at them, you fool!"

Sansa turned her face toward the six members of the Kingsguard but tried to look anywhere other than their eyes.

"Do you see them, Sansa?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Her voice was so soft and she could barely force out the words.

"Look upon them well."

Sansa would have moaned if she could, but forced her eyes off the ground to pass over each member of the Kingsguard. She noted that the Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy, was the only one to avert his eyes from her. For that, she silently thanked him.

"Your brother currently holds 12 Lannister hostages and Tyrion makes 13 — or maybe 12 and a half." Joffrey laughed at his own joke, but then stopped abruptly and continued. "You must be duly punished so The Young Wolf knows what happens to those who cross the true king of Westeros. For every one of those hostages, you will receive a lash with this whip." Joffrey's mean lips parted into a grin as he watched Sansa's eyes dart back to his and fill with fear as she took in the centuries old dragonhide braided whip he had commanded Ser Ilyn Payne to find for him amongst the Red Keep's vast collection of armaments. A whip capable of 'real' damage he had ordered, and Ser Ilyn had delivered. "Two from each member of the Kingsguard present and Three from the Lord Commander."

Barristan Selmy stared mutely up at Joffrey Baratheon in disbelief. Then, he looked for the presence of the Queen Regent or the Lord Hand, but saw neither. This had already gone much too far, was wildly out of hand. This young king was a horror to rival Aerys for true. He had averted his eyes from Sansa Stark the entire time Ser Meryn stripped her, refusing to look upon the young lady's shame. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of the whip, heard it sing and meet flesh.

Sansa had told herself she would not cry out, no matter how badly it hurt, but when the whip licked her skin she screamed. It was Ser Boros who had control of it, and Sansa could not tell if it was the speed with which he had swung it or the braided dragonhide which caused such agony when it bit deep into her skin. Sansa looked over her shoulder and saw a deep cut dripping red with blood across her shoulder. Before she could even breathe, a second laceration formed an X across her back and she let out a second cry of agony, trying to curl into a ball, but Ser Meryn grabbed her by the arm and flipped her onto her stomach again so that his lashes would go across the back of her legs and her ass. She could not stifle her cries, but she knew better than to beg Joffrey to stop them. He wouldn't. In fact, he might increase the number. Sansa was not sure she would survive thirteen lashes. Blood already coated her pale skin and her entire back felt as if it was on fire. It amazed her that each new lash could still hurt as her back and legs turned completely red with blood, but each one did.

Ser Barristan stared at the girl on the floor in abject horror, but his mind was elsewhere, filled with disquiet as he remembered a night not unlike this one when Aerys had burned his hand Lord Chelsted. He had to specify the night because Chelsted was not the only Hand Aerys had fed to the fire and far from the only person.

Barristan stood beside the King as he watched the fire begin to lick at Chelsted's feet and the man began to began and plead and then scream in agony as the flesh of his feet turned black. His screams were horrible as they echoed off the walls of the Throne Room. The flames licked up his legs and as pieces of skin sloughed off, they made a horrible sizzling sound dropping to the pyre beneath.

Aerys looked on with a light in his eyes, a mad gleam, that Ser Barristan saw only when Aerys burned someone. Sad it was that Aerys had burned so many people that Selmy knew his proclivities by now and knew that mad look. He felt absolutely sick as he noted Aerys slide his hand down to unlace his breeches part way to relax the tightness on his raging erection, and he knew that night the Queen would have a visitor in her chambers. The knowledge made Barristan grit his teeth.

He was not wrong. As the flames reached the inner part of Lord Chelsted's thighs, Aerys apparently decided he had seen enough and swept from the room with purpose toward Queen Rhaella's chambers. Ser Barristan followed at a distance unable to stop the cringe that went through his body. He paused in the corridor as Aerys swept into the Queen's chamber. When he had withdrawn inside, Ser Jaime and Ser Jon resumed their positions guarding the door. Something stopped him from joining them. Perhaps it was the distraction (and horror) of Rhaella's cries, far from those of passion or pleasure, that were soon added to the litany of hideous sounds, for he could still hear Lord Chelsted's agonized screaming and wished for the poor man's sake that pain would take him.

Ser Jaime's face was taut, worried, horrified. The youngest of the Kingsguard, he had not learned to school his features like the others.

"We are sworn to protect her as well," Jaime said, green eyes deeply troubled.

"We are." Jon was quiet for a moment. "But not from him."

Older but no wiser, he thought mutely. Ser Barristan had not thought to find himself back in the same situation once more. Or at least one similar enough to make his conscience protest to the breadth of its ability.

"Here." Ser Barristan was pulled back from his memory when the dragonhide whip was pressed into his hands. It felt entirely wrong there. He held it and stared down at Sansa Stark lying prone on the floor. She was not moving save her back rising with shallow breaths. The floor of the throne room was a river of her blood, and it covered her like a hideous scarlet blanket, the flesh of her back torn to pieces and her hair sodden with her own blood and sticking in the open wounds in a way that looked incredibly painful.

It was too late for him to make another decision about Rhaella Targaryen, but not too late for him to make one for Sansa Stark.

"No," He said quietly.

"Excuse me?" Joffrey stared at the old knight in something between fury and the confusion of a toddler about to have a temper tantrum.

"I said no." Ser Barristan's voice was steady though quiet. No one had to strain to hear him despite his quiet.

"Ser, you are defying an order from your king."

Ser Barristan was quite well aware of that, but he said nothing merely keeping eye contact with Joffrey, refusing to break first.

"If you cannot follow through with the orders of your King, then you have become too old to effectively do your job."

The old man looked confused for a short moment before a kind of understanding seemed to drift across his face. Still, he uttered out, "Your Grace, the Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust."

"You let my father die. Clearly, you're too old to protect anybody."

Ser Barristan felt as if he had water in his ears, felt dizzy and sick and hot and cold all at once as he began to truly understand. Everything in him protested with a violence that surprised him. He had not felt so angry and sad at once in any time since his youth.

"Your Grace, I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up claim to my ancestral Keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place. I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows. To ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his. I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne, beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys and his father Jaehaerys before him… three kings…"

"Yes, and they're all dead. Are you senile as well as old? Clearly so. Exactly the sort of man I want protecting me. No. That will not do. Perhaps… perhaps I will give your cloak to my Dog." Joffrey turned his gaze on The Hound who jolted slightly in surprise as people turned to stare at him, finally for some reason other than his hideous face — though he couldn't say he liked this reason any better. His eyes flicked to Ser Barristan.

Lord Varys spoke over the whispers that had begun to overtake the Throne Room. "I am sure the King is not unmindful of your service, good Ser," the eunuch rushed to say. "Surely his grace will be generous and grant you a tract of land, a nice keep, even a lordship perhaps," Varys looked up at Joffrey who seemed to be considering the proposal if it would rid him of the doddering old fool. He was much more interested in seeing his Dog's investiture into the Kingsguard now that the idea had come to him.

Ser Barristan's expression was sharp with anger, perhaps that was why he took less care with his words than he ought to. "A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords… but I spit upon your pity." He forced his fingers not to shake as he undid the clasp of his white cloak and let it fall to the floor in a white pool around his feet, soaking up the blood of Sansa Stark. Next, he dropped his helmet with a clang and his silver breastplate went next with its white enamel scales. "I am a knight, and I shall die a knight."

"A naked knight, it would seem," quipped Littlefinger.

Barristan Selmy's eyes blazed with fury.

Everyone seemed to think Littlefinger had said something extraordinarily amusing including the King and they began to laugh. Even the five other men of the Kingsguard were laughing. And, Sansa, from her pile of agony on the floor couldn't help but think that surely that must hurt the worst — hurt even more than her wounds. The five men who had been his brothers until a moment ago, turned on him and laughed along with everyone else. Her heart ached for the old man, though she did not dare speak. She did not think she could move to lift her head anyway. She was in too much pain.

She heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed and the steps of boots moving forward to meet it, right over the top of her aching body. No, please.

But Ser Barristan only flung his sword at Joffrey's feet. "Have no fears, sers, your king is safe. No thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easily as a dagger cuts cheese. Not a one of you is fit to wear the white." Ser Barristan regarded both his old sword and Joffrey with contempt, a hot anger licking his belly and rushing to his head. This was the kind of display he had not made since he had earned his nickname: Barristan the Bold. Yet, he couldn't seem to stop. "Melt it down, add it to the others." He gestured to the sword. "It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne."

A gasp was raised from the crowd as Joffrey's face slowly reddened in fury.

Sansa forced herself to sit up, cringing at the agony her back punished her with for daring it. She stared at that old, proud knight who did not seem afraid. Sansa had been wrong, she realized. True knights did exist, but perhaps the last one turned on his heel and stalked toward the great doors of the throne room.

"Seize him! He could be making plots with my uncles! What are you waiting for? I want him seized and questioned at once!"

"What is the meaning of this?"

The voice was loud and sharper than the whip Sansa had been struck with. She looked over her shoulder, still trying to shield her breasts, little matter that it made now, and saw Lord Tywin Lannister standing by the great doors from which Ser Barristan Selmy had just departed. Now, the crowd was turning to look at the Hand with interest — clearly curious to see what he would do.

Lord Tywin took in the scene before him with equal parts mounting anger, shock, and revulsion. Sansa Stark lay bloody, her back a carnage, and naked in the center of the throne room floor, the room was crowded with people, the five remaining knights of the Kingsguard stood untroubled and unmoving and Joffrey was still shrieking about wanting Ser Barristan seized which was the last of their concerns at present moment.

"Ah Grandfather! How good of you to join us. I was just dealing with the transgressions of my betrothed and offering the newly opened place on the Kingsguard to my sworn shield, The Hound. A fitting choice, don't you think?"

Tywin stared at his grandson, light green eyes filled with abject fury. "You. Have gone too far, boy." Tywin bit off each word short and taut, seeming to struggle mightily to keep himself under control. "You are done now." Tywin looked down at Sansa Stark on the floor. "Get dressed, girl."

Sansa struggled to get to her feet and grab the ripped pieces of her dress, but could not even make it onto her knees without gasping in agony. She would never be able to dress even if the ripped, bloody rags were fit for it — they weren't.

"I will assign someone to the Kingsguard, but it is not going to be Sandor Clegane." Tywin turned to The Hound. "Without offense, you aren't even a knight."

"No offense taken. Wouldn't wanna be on your Kingsguard anyway."

Joffrey seethed in anger, fists balling as he stared down Sandor Clegane. "If you weren't my Hound, I'd beat you bloody for that."

"Like you did her? Give me some more pretty scars to go with my face?" The Hound asked, laughing bitterly.

Joffrey grabbed for the crossbow, but Tywin was faster, knocking the weapon from his Grandson's hands. "You. Are. Done. Now." This time he repeated the words enunciating each one. The crossbow hit the floor and a crack fissured up its ornate wooden side. The sight couldn't help but make Sansa almost grin despite her pain.

"With me. Now!" Tywin bellowed, grasping Joffrey's arm so hard the boy actually squeaked. He tried to pull away, but Tywin had him firmly. "And someone deal with that!" Tywin indicated Sansa as he bore Joffrey off.

Sansa felt herself lifted and realized The Hound was holding her. He had wrapped his black cloak around her shoulders. It wasn't the cleanest or newest, but she could have kissed him for it as it covered her shame. However, the movement of him lifting her and trying to shift her into a position to carry her that did not put weight on any of her whipping cuts had Sansa borne away on a wave of pain.

With Tywin leading Joffrey away and no further instruction, the throne room irrupted in chaos.

In that chaos, no one saw the pale face of a waif-like girl with hair cropped close to her head and a writ of dismay all across her face, disappear into the crowd.

The drapes were drawn and the fire in the hearth was high and hot. The smell in the room was one of inherent sickness. The boiled wine made her head spin and the acrid scent of vinegar burned her nose. There was a thick, bitter-sweet scent of herbs lingering in the air like incense hung in a sept.

Sandor had brought her back to her room and retreated to look for Grand Maester Pycelle, but the fool was nowhere to be found leaving him to see to Sansa's wounds himself. He was not, Sandor reflected, the worst with wounds. He'd managed plenty of his own throughout years of fighting, but he still would have preferred Sansa be tended to by a proper Maester. Of course, the Lannisters could not even see she got that. It was as if Tywin Lannister had completely forgotten the wounded girl on the floor once she had been removed from his sight. Mayhaps he had.

Sandor did not relish the mess the King's Hand now had to mollify what with Joffrey having dismissed the singular most gifted knight on the Kingsguard and Joffrey's response to the riot outside the gates to the Red Keep the previous night of which he had boasted today. And that was all without the rumors that would, no doubt, make their way to Robb Stark's ears about today's nightmare. No, he could well understand (though not forgive) that Tywin had completely forgotten to send anyone to attend to Sansa's care.

He had spread a clean linen, grasped out of the hands of a startled young laundry maid who squeaked and didn't look at his face, across Sansa's bed.

They never looked at his face and he preferred it such. They were scared of him, and that was fine. It did not give him any respect for those too craven to look upon it even so. It was not lost on him that, as of late, Sansa did not avoid his gaze — had not ever since that night of the Hand's Tourney when he had drunkenly told her of his childhood miseries. Looking back on it, he wondered why he'd been such a fool to share those things he did not share with anyone with Sansa Stark. Sometimes, he still wondered why he had.

Once Sansa was deposited, he returned to his own chambers to gather wine and other such supplies as he figured he might need. They were not fancy, just the same sorts of things he treated his own injuries with after a spar — or an actual fight more often. They'd do well enough; they'd have to.

First, he washed the blood out of her hair as best he could in her current position. That part didn't seem to bother her, but he didn't have to touch the ruined mess that had been the skin of her back to do it.

Sansa was very quiet as he next coaxed the fire to life and boiled the wine over it and mixed things in a bowl with a mortar and pestle. Her wounds hurt her too much to speak and, like as not, the horror of the day had not yet worn off. It was better that way. Sandor never knew what to do with the Little Bird's idle chatter anyway. Though, he had noticed, she was less prone to that nowadays.

Finally, Sandor sat on the edge of the bed and placed the kettle of boiled wine on the dressing table, which he had pulled near to use as a work space. He regarded Sansa for a moment before sighing and saying, "This is going to fucking hurt, and I'm no maester with milk of the poppy."

Sansa grit her teeth, "Just do it."

She did not think it could possibly hurt worse than what had already been done.

She was wrong.

It was only by biting down on the linen beneath her that Sansa managed to keep from howling with pain as The Hound began to dab a cloth soaked in the wine against the cuts that ran the length and breadth of Sansa's back. Her entire body shook as Sandor pressed the cloth against her wounds again and again. She knew he was just making sure none of them were left unclean, but it also felt as if he was torturing her. She wanted to beg him to stop, but knew the wounds had to be cleaned. She'd be receiving the same treatment from Grand Maester Pycelle. Yes, he might have given her milk of the poppy, but Sansa did not trust him enough for that — did not trust anyone in King's Landing enough for that. No matter how agonizing the treatment was, at least she was awake and could try to defend herself if it were to go wrong.

"Breathe, Little Bird. It hurts worse if you don't." His voice was surprisingly tender, perhaps the most Sansa had ever heard it in fact. It wasn't a tone she was used to from him and it did soothe her more than she might have expected. She tried to follow instructions and took some shuddering breaths. He was right that it did seem to help the burn of the alcohol at least a little — that or she was simply getting used to the pain.

Finally, Sandor was satisfied with his work and set down the wine-soaked cloth. Sansa's cuts were cleaned thoroughly and all the blood was gone, though the room still smelled of it where it lingered in the fabric of the cloak he had carried her upstairs in and the rags he had used to clean off the excess blood before he started with the boiled wine treatment so scabs would not form. "Scabs aren't good for wounds. They trap infection," he had grumbled in explanation. Gods knew how many times the maester at Clegane Keep had told him that while cleaning Sandor's wounds as a boy — months of ointments, tinctures, wine baths. He supposed he had his life but sometimes wondered if it wouldn't have been more a blessing if he had died back then and saved everyone the trouble.

Sansa watched from her peripheral vision as Sandor washed his hands and then cleaned them with the wine as well before reaching for the mortar on the table. "This should feel all right. Let me know if it doesn't."

Sansa nodded, waiting, unsure what he was going to do. When he first moved, she leaned up slightly to try to look over her shoulder, though the movement caused a grimace. The Hound's only response was to push her gently back to the bed. "Take care before you re-open those cuts." His voice was harsh, but Sansa could hear the caring note in it all the same and she laid still.

The salve he spread across her skin felt like cool water on a hot day and Sansa actually let out a small sigh of relief as Sandor spread it across her cuts. It seemed to quench the fire that had been burning in her skin ever since the whip had left its bloody marks and the wine had cleansed them. "What is that?"

"Paste of goldenrod, aloe, and arnica. Should keep the bleeding to a minimum and help the swelling and bruising."

"It feels good," Sansa admitted, feeling slightly relieved at the surprisingly gentle brush of fingers and soothing mixture gliding across her cuts. "Have you used this before?"

"Sure. Ingredients aren't hard to get. Most every soldier's used stuff like this to patch himself up — or a field medic did."

"Did you always want to be a soldier?"

Sandor barked out a laugh, "Yeah. I suppose that's the one thing I wanted I actually got isn't it." The question was rhetorical and Sansa now knew too much about Sandor's past to question its jadedness. She couldn't help but wonder what his dreams had been before Gregor had burned him, but she also knew better than to ask. Questions made Sandor shut down, and Sansa was actually surprised he had indulged her in speaking this much. Perhaps he was only trying to distract her from her wounds, though if that was his reasoning she was grateful as it had worked.

"There. Now, do you think you're able to stand? I'll be able to bandage you up better if you can."

"I think so," Sansa said. The movement of her muscles caused her to cringe, but she did manage to lift herself to her knees and then The Hound pulled her the rest of the way to her feet as carefully as he could. He could not help but be slightly amused, though unsurprised, when Sansa brought the linen with her, hiding the front of her body from him even after all he had seen thus far.

He supposed she was probably one of the few true ladies he had ever known — his mother and sister being two other notable examples. They would hate what he had become and so he pushed the memories away like an angry storm cloud chases sunshine. He had been doing well at forgetting until Sansa Stark had come to tear down his carefully constructed refusal to think on them.

He took a fresh bed linen that he had cut to be as close to size as he could guess her to be and wrapped it around her from behind and wrapping it thrice such that it was snug and supportive, "This isn't too tight?"

It was Sansa's turn to laugh. "If corsets were this loose, I doubt even Arya would complain of wearing one. Yes, it's fine."

"I know those are supposed to be tighter," The Hound groused, shooting Sansa an annoyed look. "But you don't want it to be that tight."

"No, I don't." She agreed. Sansa could not imagine the agony of a laced corset just now; even slight movements of her body hurt, let alone tight lacings.

Sandor pulled the edges of the linen together and tucked it expertly with no knots like any proper field medic would do. None of them were as good as maesters, but most maesters he didn't trust anyway. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd put a knot in the back anyway as he knew full well Sansa wouldn't be laying on her back for weeks, but it seemed he should do it the proper way even so.

"Try and see if you can move now," The Hound directed.

Sansa was able to take a shuddering step forward and one more. It was enough for him to decide he had done the bandage to his liking and that it was going to stay tied. "That's enough. No need to over do it either," He said firmly.

Sandor pulled the bloodied, wine-soaked, salved linen off the bed and tossed it in the floor to deal with later. He turned down the comforter and snug bed linens beneath it and arranged the pillows quite comfortably as he could for a person who would need to sleep on their stomach. Once satisfied, he took Sansa by the arms and helped her sit back down on the bed and lay over onto her stomach, which was the only way she could lay without agony. Sansa curled her head into the pillow with her hands beside her face, suddenly realizing how weary she was.

"You need to eat something," The Hound decided watching her pragmatically.

Sansa shook her head with a slight moan as she thought about food. Even the mention of it currently made her stomach churn. Both emotionally and physically, the day had taken its toll on her, and she knew she would not be able to eat. "I couldn't."

"At the very least, I'm going to get you some tea to help you sleep."

True to his word, Sandor returned in less than ten minutes with a cup of tea. When he held it out to her and she shifted up high enough to accept the cup, the smell that rose to greet her instantly took her back to her childhood and had tears pricking in her eyes. It was chamomile just like Maester Luwin made for them as children when, for one reason or another, they'd been unable to sleep. I hope you, and Bran, and Rickon are safe and happy. "Thank you," Sansa said, taking a sip of the tea.

"Don't thank me. You need anything else?" He stepped forward and lifted the comforter and blankets over her once Sansa was settled.

"No. I'm fine."

The Hound nodded. His eyes and his demeanor were closing off quickly even reflected in him stepping back from her, putting physical distance between them. Sansa could not understand his reaction. She did not think she had done anything to offend him. But she also knew she could not truly understand Sandor Clegane either. Perhaps one day she would. "I'll come back tomorrow to change the bandages." His voice was detached now, but Sansa knew his words were good. She was too tired, suddenly feeling the weight of the day as she sipped her tea, to puzzle out why he had started to act oddly. Maybe tomorrow. Her eyes would barely stay open for her to finish the last of the tea.

The Hound stalked away from Sansa's bedchamber and through Maegor's Holdfast with heavy footfalls and the billow of a black cloak behind him. It still had Sansa's blood on it, but he supposed it'd wash. He'd had plenty of blood on his clothing before.

In the corridor, he ran into a young maid who looked particularly cowed at him when she made the mistake of not looking down fast enough and saw the mangled mess of his face. In a foul temper, he lunged toward her like the dog he was in recrimination for her ridiculousness — as if he could do something to her just because of his hideous face. The maid shrieked and hurried away. It was not his face she ought to fear he thought sullenly. His hands could snap her neck, his sword could open her from cunt to throat, but it was his harmless, if ugly, face she could not stand to see. Fool girl.

Sandor stalked on until he reached the dry moat at the entrance of Maegor's. In the outer bailey of the Red Keep, rain sheeting almost horizontal in the strong wind accosted him due to an autumn storm. It was slightly hard to see in the darkness and the onslaught, but The Hound made his way through it all the same, barely seeming to notice the inclement conditions. Perhaps it was the terrible expression on his face, but no spoke to him, much less delayed him. Or, perhaps, it was simply the misery of the weather.

With every step, his boots pounded into the cobblestone streets and carried him away from the Red Keep, which was all the better. He went past the Street of Silk and Eel Alley soon finding himself in the maze of Pigrun Alley. The buildings here were so dilapidated that they leaned dangerously to the side, so far over that they nearly touched at an arch over the alley below — not that this was much a feat given how narrow the alley was, barely wide enough for a single wagon to pass one direction at a time.

It was here that Sandor frequented the taverns and brothels. The purse he had won at the Hand's Tourney was more than sufficient to fund him to visit an establishment as fine as Chataya's every night for the rest of his life with plenty left over if he'd wanted. He didn't want. The Hound knew he could never feel comfortable amongst those girls in their airy silks and near upper-class ways. He wasn't fit for it anyway. The whores in Pigrun Alley already charged him double what other men were charged, so he could only imagine how those pretty, empty-headed women at Chataya's would likely react. It was humiliating to be charged such and know exactly why, but what choice did he have really? He was a man and still had a man's needs. So, this is where he came; where everyone else was no better than he was — their reasons for being so were just different.

Inside the dingy brothel he most often frequented, he sat down heavily and waited for the barkeep to get to him. With the wind and rain, the place was crowded tonight as the denizens of Flea Bottom sought refuge from the weather. Here, at least, no one stared at him.

"Girl and a drink?"

"Only cunt I'm interested in is the one the Green Lady of Misery's got to offer. And then I want to be alone," he growled. The barkeep was familiar, was one of the few people The Hound could call something like an acquaintance — not a friend because The Hound had no friends. That required trust, and it was better not to trust anyone. Trust got you killed. Still, he couldn't help but growl at him (and everyone else) all the same.

"Who pissed in your boot?" The barkeep had seen The Hound in worse moods over the years, but he seemed particularly nasty this evening.

"If you don't get me some alcohol, it's your boot I'll piss in," The Hound said in annoyance. He did not want to talk. His acquaintance got the message and went off to see to The Hound's demands. He gestured him off to one of the rooms at the quieter end of the building — none of it was quiet, but it was the most he'd get. The man went without delay and looked up with something almost like relief when the barkeep came in with a tray bearing the Green Lady of Misery he'd ordered. "Now just leave me alone. I don't want to be bothered. Bring me another of these in an hour."

The barkeep raised an eyebrow, gave a slight shake of the head and left. The Hound was bound for a morning with his head worshipping a chamber pot, but he'd been drinking long enough to know that already, so the barkeep didn't comment, just left him alone.

The Hound dumped in the green spirit and then set the spoon and sugar atop it. This done, he poured cold water over it. No doubt, some girl had been sent out in the weather to Alysanne's fountains to retrieve cold enough water. He waited, stirred, and drank deep, barely tasting the bitterness. He had chased down the Green Lady of Misery in mere minutes and cared little. Though, the second one, when it arrived, he drank more slowly while brooding at a murky window down which water ran in rivulets.

He did not know how to deal with the feelings today had forced him to confront. The Hound did not feel. The Hound was simply a dog, a cur, walking at his master's heels and doing what he was supposed to do. He was not made for this. He was not made to see a pretty, young girl stripped and beaten bloody for no reason but Joffrey's sadistic pleasure, and then care for her while memories of Hazel washed over him unchecked, much as he tried to force them away. He could not manage.

He ordered a third round of the Green Lady of Misery.

Godsdamn them. Fucking Godsdamn them all.

It had been forty-four days since Cersei had seen Jaime, and already she missed him almost more than she knew how to bear.

She always missed him when they were apart, of course, but the strain of the last seven weeks had, perhaps, been worse than any she had endured in all the years she had been in King's Landing. Not only did she have to cope with being separated from her soul mate, her twin — the person that everything in the world felt wrong if he wasn't beside her — she also had to cope with her life being turned upside down faster than she could rectify it. Jaime was the only person she trusted unequivocally. If he were by her side, he would know what to do, and she could trust his counsel. Instead, she was in the den of vipers alone and struggling with realizations she did not want to be having. But Cersei had no choice but to move forward and to manage. Without Jaime.

The strain without him took its toll. She was exhausted, and her head ached almost constantly. Those knots he had massaged out of her shoulders were back with double the force. Joffrey was constantly either causing some sort of disaster to be dealt with or hosting a feast. Once, she'd have enjoyed the feasts if nothing else. Right now, they just served as a worry. She was too anxious to enjoy such trivialities: she didn't want to dance or eat or make merry. She could not stop her head from racing.

Cersei had always hated being weak. She had hated being out of control. She hated that people looked upon her as being incapable of strength, control, cunning, and wise decision making just because she was a woman. And the events which had transpired over the last few weeks had only served to make her feel the weakest and most ineffectual she had ever felt. If Jaime had been here, he'd have reassured her. Perhaps he would not have been able to stop this wreck anymore than she (apparently) could not, but at least his arms would be around her and, she would know everything was okay. Because everything was always okay when Jaime's arms were there for her.

And the Gods knew there had been no end to the slew of incredibly nightmarish incidents. No matter what she did, it was like a wheelhouse running completely out of control picking up momentum as it went, with her left to watch. But today's nightmare, well, today's took the pigeon pie, so to speak. And her Lord father had done absolutely nothing to stop it! Stripping Sansa Stark in front of the court, having Sansa beaten in front of the court, and dismissing Ser Barristan Selmy — in one fell swoop. Cersei was struggling to fathom which of the incidents was the worst.

She was ready to be done courting one nightmare after another. And her father had allowed today's folly? What on earth could he have possibly been thinking?

As evening faded to black, Cersei bore herself off to the tower of the hand and gave a firm knock. 'Enter!' she heard her father command.

Cersei opened the door and let herself in, closing it behind her. "Would you like to explain what happened this afternoon?" She asked. She was barely managing to keep her voice steady. Generally, her father was an excellent participant in the game of thrones, but clearly that had not been the case today.

Tywin Lannister looked at his daughter. His gaze, with his gold flecked green eyes, was something frightening to behold. "What happened today is simply what happened today. It is not my preferable course of events, but it is not as though it can be changed now." He looked back to a paper on his desk. The response was plain enough 'I know, and I'm not bothered.' But he should be bothered!

Cersei knew her eldest son, knew what he'd been thinking. Godsdammit, she loved him so much, but sometimes lately she despised him too: a terrifying realization to say the least. Joffrey had done this for amusement, a jape to see his 'dog' in a white cloak on the Kingsguard. She would have placed gold on it. At least, Tywin had not allowed that.

"What happened today lost us one of the most valuable members of the Kingsguard and will enrage the Starks when word finally gets to them — and it will given the entire court bore witness!"

Tywin Lannister looked up at his daughter and could feel his anger building. He did not like having his decisions questioned. He especially didn't like having his actions questioned by his child — and a woman. "We are already at war with the North, and Selmy is old and ineffectual. He failed to protect the late king."

Much as Cersei had despised Robert, she knew that Tywin's words were just a convenient excuse. Selmy had had no more responsibility in Robert's death than had any of the other Kingsguard. She might prefer that the entire Kingsguard were Lannister-aligned — the better to keep herself and her children safe, but dismissing Ser Barristan, especially under these conditions, seemed rash.

Not to mention, Cersei could not fail to recognize that Ser Barristan, old though he might be, was probably the most talented member of the Kingsguard excepting perhaps Jaime — it was always a close match between the two when they sparred. However, Jaime wasn't here, and in a time where her priority was to keep her children safe, losing someone with such talent did not please her.

She could also see that her words had not pleased her father. Let him be angry. She was angry too.

Tywin would never have responded well to such a direct charge, for Cersei was plain that she believed the fiasco to be his doing, but the raven he had received earlier that day had sealed the fate on his absolute fury with his daughter.

The contents of that letter… well, it was not the kind of thing they could afford just now. Sometimes he wondered how all three of his children had come partially from his own body. Jaime, the fool who seemed intent on throwing away everything Tywin offered him — even Tywin's beloved Casterly Rock; Cersei, the girl who presumed far too much and needed to return to her embroidery and look for another marriage — not that that would be easy given the raven of today; and Tyrion, the little monster who had killed his beloved Joanna and spent his time staining the family name by cavorting with whores and drinking himself into comas all over King's Landing. All three were a disappointment to the name Lannister.

Tywin Lannister rose, standing behind his desk, resting his palms on its top. Fury filled his face and made him flush. "Need I remind you that I am the hand of the king, and these decisions are left to me." His voice had an edge of danger to it as sharp as a sword.

Cersei's green eyes narrowed. "Need I remind you that I am the Queen Regent!"

"As you said, you are the Queen regent."

Cersei did not miss his implication regarding her sex. Her anger flared and, for just a moment, she exemplified the words of House Baratheon as much as House Lannister: 'Ours is the Fury.' Yes, this was her fury, and she would let it show. She would not suffer to be put in a gilded cage like some pet to sing pretty songs but have no other purpose. I'll show him what it means to put a lion in a cage. "And as the Queen regent, I would have you do something to fix this nightmare."

Tywin's face was a mask of fury. "I will pretend, for the love I bear you, that you did not have so much insolence as to presume to lecture me. I suggest you mark well never to display such impudence in my presence again," Tywin growled.

Cersei's eyes burnt like wildfire. "Do not presume to relegate me as ineffectual! All of our lives you have favored Jaime. Have you failed to notice that Jaime despises politics and wants no part in it? Have you failed to realize that I am the one who enjoys — "

Tywin's fury crested like a white-capped wave on the Sunset sea.

"Jaime." Tywin's voice held a note of something that should have made Cersei cautious, should have made her draw back, but it did not. "You have reminded me of something that I intended to discuss with you before you presumed to barge into my solar and instruct me on how I will or will not behave." Tywin flung a letter across the desk at her with surprising force.

"This is all over Westeros." Cersei grasped for the letter and caught it. "You will tell me the truth of this, which is that it is a lie: a sick, twisted, disgusting lie! No child of mine has dared such an unnatural act of abomination!" Tywin was yelling now.

Cersei stared at the letter as her face paled. Somehow, she could not stop her hands from shaking even as she held the letter and read the words.

All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honor of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the Light of the Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Cersei felt very much as if she was going to be sick. Her skin was clammy and her stomach was churning in knots as she thought about all the potential ramifications if anyone besides her Father saw this. But, how had he gotten this letter? 'This is all over Westeros' "What do you mean this is all over Westeros?" It was a true battle for Cersei to keep her voice level, to keep from betraying the truth (and her fear) in her voice or face. Her heart was pounding so forcefully she could hear it in her ears.

"Every city, every village, received this letter to be read out loud and then posted."

If it was possible, Cersei's face paled even more.

Clearly she did not do as good as job as she believed hiding her fear as Tywin snapped, "I can see you are afraid. Good. You should be afraid. Do you recognize what a precarious position this puts us in? Five kings claim a right to the Iron Throne; all are realistic claims. That does not change that they are undeserving, but people have united behind each all the same. Your son is a boy, a boy not of age for years. The country does not suffer regents well — especially in a time of war with autumn arrived." Tywin leaned toward Cersei over the desk so their faces were too close together for her comfort. It took all she possessed not to step backward. She would not show weakness in front of Tywin Lannister. If it took everything she had, she would not show him her fear. It would only serve his beliefs about her as incapable.

Cersei lifted her chin, proudly. "My children are the heirs to House Baratheon. My son is the king. I am the queen regent. My children will rule Westeros and all Westerosi will bend the knee eventually," Her words were surer than she felt. She wore a mask of confidence over the true face, the face of fear.

"You will tell me the complete truth, and you will do it now. Are your children the legitimate heirs of House Baratheon?"

Cersei met her father's eyes with a gaze as fierce as his. "Yes."

Who had fathered her children did not make them any less legitimate in Cersei's eyes. Perhaps others would not have agreed with her. Perhaps the entire bloody realm would not have agreed. But she did not care. They had not been the ones who had to suffer marriage to Robert Baratheon. Not to mention, it wasn't as if Robert had been successful at putting a baby in her belly with all his rutting around. And the one time he had… She almost shuddered at the memory. The one time he had, she had thought of how he had said 'Lyanna' on their wedding night. When she thought of it, she had not been able to bear the notion of carrying a piece of Robert within her. She found it difficult enough to accept his cock for the few miserable minutes it took him to be done taking his 'rights.' How could she carry and love his child? And she would not carry a child she could not love. Cersei knew what it was to grow up without love. She had had Jaime find a woman to cleanse her.

Tywin's gaze was steady but as cold as the ice that made up the Wall.

'Is it as cold as the ice in your soul, Father?' Cersei thought to herself.

"So, you insist that the children are Robert's. That is not the only charge that lays at your feet. You did not deny this horror, this shame regarding Jaime."

Cersei struggled to keep a mask of indifference firmly on her face. She would not be afraid of Tywin Lannister. He was not worth her fear. He was not worth her reverence. Once he had been. Once she had wanted him to take her into his favor and teach her the way he did Jaime. But he had not, and that time was past. She didn't need him anymore. She would no longer let him control her. She had learned how to play the game without his help.

"You will tell the truth. You will deny this… this.. disgusting, abhorrent, repulsive, rumor. I will not have the name Lannister become synonymous with the term brother fucker!"

Cersei actually winced, though only slightly, at the last term. Yes, Jaime was her brother and her lover, but somehow the contempt, the judgment — not for herself but for Jaime — that echoed in that last word and the tone it was hurled at her with bothered Cersei more than she could say.

For just one moment, Cersei thought of Tyrion. There had never been any love lost between them. Cersei had never been able to forgive him for killing their mother. But sometimes she found him amusing. She could hear him asking 'Have you left out any other adjectives for which I should atone, Father?' Cersei was not foolish enough to do so. Tyrion would have been, but then again he ran on wine and self destruction, so that was no surprise. Nonetheless, she could appreciate the jape her brother surely would have said all the same.

"Tell me the truth. Tell me that you have not fucked your brother!"

Cersei understood. Tywin did not want to know the truth. Tywin was telling her what the truth was and expected her to parrot it back to him like a good little girl. But she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of controlling her anymore. It would be dangerous not to. She didn't care.

She thought of Jaime. Jaime was strong, and Cersei felt strong when she was with Jaime, but Jaime wasn't here. Jaime was gods knew where in the Riverlands fighting Robb Stark. Maybe it was time for Cersei to be strong alone somehow. One thing she knew was that she would not hear such words used against her other half, the only other person aside of her children who made her world complete. Cersei had long believed that she and Jaime were two souls split into one body constantly trying to find their way back together. She would not have him dishonored or maligned — not by anyone.

Cersei straightened her spine and stared into Tywin Lannister's eyes with the force of a lioness.

She did not say a word.

The blow came before Cersei realized it was coming, catching her off guard. How it had, she didn't know. Was she not used to Robert's abuse? Had she not endured it for years? Tywin's blow was harder than Robert's (or had she just forgotten how harsh his were in the last few months without him around?) Tywin slapped her with force across one cheek and then across the other when she tried to turn her head out of the way. The garnet ring he wore on his finger split her lip on the second blow and she tasted blood. A bruise already bloomed across her left cheekbone.

'I shall wear this as a badge of honor.'

'Wear it in silence or I shall honor you again!'

But Cersei did not want to be silent any longer.

"I will never let anyone hurt you. Never. If they try, I'll kill them."

"Never anyone else, never again." "Never." "Mine." "My brother, my lover, my Jaime." "Yours. Always."

"I will kill the whole bloody lot of them until you and I are the only two people left in this world."

"I am sick of being careful. Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it's me you want."

"Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies."

"I'd give you my cloak and say the words."

"My brother is worth a hundred of your men."

"You beautiful golden fool!" "Yes, but I'm your beautiful golden fool."

"No one will ever take me away from you."

"What happened to your mouth?" "Well, it was healing before you happened to it."

"All right. We can talk. As long as I can fuck you again after, sweet Cersei. And with decidedly less clothes. And you'll put your mouth on my cock."

"The Gods themselves couldn't keep me away from you."

"I am yours and you are mine." "Yes."

Cersei would not be silent any longer.

"I am in love with Jaime. I have loved Jaime for as long as I can remember. Jaime is my other half. I am not whole without Jaime. Jaime is my brother and my lover. Yes, I fucked Jaime. Yes, Jaime makes love to me, and he fills me and I am complete."

Tywin stared at Cersei with a look so full of loathing and disgust that she might have been no more than a bug about to be crushed beneath the weight of his boot. Cersei had never seen that type of revulsion on someone's face before. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet Cersei almost couldn't hear it, but it was dangerous. The undertone was something fearsome to behold. It should have frightened her and brought her to her senses — or maybe she already was in her senses. "You want to recant that."

"No."

It was one word, but Cersei Lannister had never felt more powerful in her entire life.

Tywin drew his sword and its steel glinted in the sunlight from the window. Cersei watched the sword.

"Tell the truth, Cersei."

"I love Jaime, I fucked Jaime, the children are ours and you will not harm them. Or you will see wrath like you have never known. Jaime is my soulmate and I will always love him. I will love him and no one else."

The sword flashed forward quicker than Cersei expected, but not so fast she couldn't get her hands up to protect herself. She felt the cool metal bite into hot flesh and sucked in a breath as blood rose to the surface of her palms when she turned them to look at the damage. Tywin took that moment to deal another savage blow with the flat of his sword. This one struck Cersei full force in the chest and caused her to stumble backward, though she managed to catch herself before she fell.

"You will not stain the legacy I have worked my entire life to build. Take it back," Tywin growled.

"No."

This time the sword struck her in the ribs as she moved to turn out of the way, and a pain exploded through her side with the sword leaving behind an ugly bruised welt.

"You will tell me the truth! I will have the truth out of you, Cersei!" .

This is how it would be then. He meant to break her. She would not be broken. Not by him, not by anyone. She was a lioness of Lannister. Lionesses do not break.

The sword flashed again and the smack hit her in the hip and groin. Her eyes raised to Tywin with a fury he had never seen before in his daughter. Perhaps it should have frightened him, but it did not. He would have Cersei learn her place, learn what was acceptable, recant this despicable, revolting abomination so they could come up with some other decent explanation and move forward.

But she did not say a word this time when the sword hit her. She only kept those fury-filled eyes fixed on him.

Cersei refused to cry out despite how badly the blows hurt. He wanted her to cry, to beg, to repent and she would not do those things: not for Tywin Lannister, not for anyone. Instead, she did the only thing she knew to do. She went away inside. She went away to a place where Tywin Lannister could not reach her, to a place where she was safe in her memories with Jaime.

Pivot, parry, thrust, up the center, bind! And in barely a second the tip of Cersei's sword was against Jaime's throat. It was so fast and smooth it took him by surprise before he could parry. "I yield!" Jaime said, tossing down his sword as he fell backwards into the soft grass breathing hard, his verdant green eyes shining with pure happiness — even if he had just technically lost. He let out a laugh too, a sweet, beautiful laugh; it was her favorite sound in all the world.

Then it seemed Tywin's tactic changed. "You will never defile Jaime in such a way again nor yourself! Never again. Swear it."

"No!"

"No?" His voice was so cold, without a touch of warmth.

"I won't! Jaime is mine and I am his. And I will be with him and make love to him and he will make love to me for all of our days."

Tywin's sword smacked Cersei's shoulder.

Cersei dropped her sword — admittedly they were just blunted practice swords — and collapsed in the tall grass beside Jaime. Her green eyes were shining with unadulterated joy. Jaime was slightly breathless, though from their closeness or the sword play it couldn't be said. They lay shoulder to shoulder and he looked at Cersei and thought she was the most beautiful thing on earth with her slightly sweaty face, her hair coming down out of its braid she'd put it into to keep it out of the way, and her cheeks high with color.

"You're getting better, sister," he told her, grinning at her as he looked at his yielded sword on the ground. When they were young, they had switched places at lessons with no one the wiser many times. But then she had gotten too old to be able to do it. Now, on the rare occasions he was home from Crakehall, he taught her in secret.

"Tell me you do not want to be a brother fucker anymore."

"No!"

The sword smashed into Cersei's stomach this time.

And they laid there together in the grass as her fingertips brushed his. Then, something, something Cersei recognized well, flickered in his eyes behind the joy, and he rolled on top of her and kissed her. Oh Gods how he kissed her. His lips were so hard and hot against her own, his tongue immediately delving into the softness that was her mouth. It turned her weak at the knees even though she was laying down. It made her head spin. Cersei forced herself to pull away, turning her head from his. "Jaime! We'll be seen!" She hissed.

"You will not do disgusting, indecent things with Jaime. In fact, I will send you and Myrcella and Tommen back to Casterly rock while Jaime remains here to ensure you no longer behave in such a disgusting, despicable manner."

"No!" The thought of being separated again was almost more than Cersei could bear.

The smack was over her thighs this time, blisteringly painful. She did not make a sound.

"No." He said firmly. "The grass will hide us." And it was true that the grass on the cliff above the Sunset Sea, well outside the inner grounds of the keep, had been allowed to grow tall and wild. "Kiss me, Cersei. Please," Jaime begged. And she kissed him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, the swords all but forgotten. Her mouth was on his and his on hers, their tongues dancing and stroking one another until they pulled away breathless. They dare not go any further here than kissing — even with tall grass. She reached to brush his golden waves of hair, just like her own, out of his eyes. "Gods, Cersei." And so she kissed him again.

"Tell me you do not want Jaime anymore. Tell me or by the gods I will not stop until you do!"

Cersei did not speak, did not even look at him.

The blow was at her lower back this time, sending a cringing pain reverberating up her spine.

Her eyes were far away.

They could never get enough of each other. His visits were infrequent and never long enough. Jaime wanted his cock in her every minute of every day. They stole every moment they could to sneak behind a closed door, a deserted hall here, a spare room there, and attack each other's mouths fiercely and hold each other close. She loved Jaime more than life itself. She loved Jaime more than herself. She knew sometimes they were reckless: how quickly a door could open, a deserted hallway become no longer deserted, and yet the risk somehow made it all the more desirable. "Gods, Cersei. You are all I can think about. I only want you." He breathed, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling his face into her sun warmed hair.

"Say you do not want him!"

Cersei lifted her chin and refused to look at Tywin while another crushing blow rained down, this time on the back of her head and making her vision black at the edges for a moment,

"No! I won't!" Because she thought about Jaime and what he would have said, and he never ever would have denied his love for her in this position, no matter the circumstances. Never. She would not deny him either — no matter what.

The next blow hit her knees and sent her toppling to the floor where Tywin loomed over her, large and menacing, sword in hand. She tried for the strength to get up but wasn't sure her bruised and aching legs could hold her. When had he hit them? Was there anywhere he had not hit her? Was the better question.

Cersei grit her teeth and forced herself to her feet. "I love Jaime and I choose him. Always."

Before Tywin could hit her again, a knock came at the door that made both of them jump and Tywin's eyes flick toward it holding an emotion Cersei could not define.

"Who is it?" His voice was obviously irritated.

"There is word from our troops in the Whispering Wood," Kevan Lannister responded.

Tywin turned his gaze on Cersei who had pulled herself to her feet.

"This is not finished."

Cersei only lifted her chin, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her entire body felt as if it had been mangled. Her skin was on fire both with bruises and cuts. The only pain worse that she had ever known was birthing her children. In some ways, this felt worse. There was nothing to find joy in this. Cersei forced herself to her feet and to stand straight and not to show the agony in every fiber of her being. He eyes glittered with anger rather than tears because Cersei Lannister would not be broken. She did not deign a response to her father's comment that this was not finished.

After a long beat and a hard stare between them, Tywin looked at the door again, irritation clear in his features. Finally he slipped his sword back into its scabbard and said, "Enter."

Cersei turned on her heel and marched from the room with an inscrutable expression on her face and without any indication of her pain, passing her uncle on the way in and nodding at him briefly before walking away from her father's solar.

In her chambers, Cersei called for a bath and some clean, cool water besides. When she had it, she dismissed all of her ladies and was completely alone. Only then did she shift down the shoulder of her gown.

The skin revealed was mottled red and purple and already swelling. Cersei poured the cool water into the wash basin and dipped a cloth into it and began to gingerly dab the cool water over the bruises on her shoulder. Every time she touched one, she winced. Her muscles seized as tight as coiled spring — especially her stomach and back. Those seemed, along with her chest, to have taken the most violent of the hits. Her hands were still sore and bloody, which make it difficult to undo her dress, but she would not have anyone see her this way. The only person she might have allowed to help was leagues away.

She continued with the dress, then all the underpinnings until it was just her smallclothes. She left bloody handprints on all the garments as she removed them. Her pale skin was a map of bruises, connecting one to another in hideous colors and already swelling. It all hurt. The ache was not just from her skin but deep inside as well. If it was possible for bones to ache, Cersei thought hers did. She tried to dab cool water on her lip, which was already swollen and a scab had begun to form at the split. It hurt so badly she cringed and stopped trying immediately.

Perhaps it was a good fortune Jaime was not here or he might add kinslaying to his list of crimes. Jaime would have been furious, perhaps even more-so than Cersei herself. Right now, she could not bring herself to be furious. She couldn't bring herself to be anything except bone weary and in pain as she continued to try to dab cold water on the bruises. It was a poor substitute for ice or a maester's soothing creams, but it would serve. The other option — to let someone know — was unthinkable.

Somehow, she felt more soiled than she had even after her wedding night. Robert had slipped into sleep very easily when it was over. Cersei had meticulously cleaned herself of his cum before donning a robe and going to sit at the window. She remembered curling into a ball and crying as she thought about the name he had said that hadn't been hers. Much as Cersei had only wanted Jaime, Robert was strong and handsome, and she had thought maybe there was some way they could at least find affection for one another. But that night she knew the truth. She had never felt more disgusting and used. She could feel his cum on her legs for hours after she had washed them, and she knew she would find no fondness in her heart for Robert Baratheon. She could not compete with a dead woman.

The scent of blood had started to gather and covered her like an unwanted, dirty, used cloak. That was what brought her out of her memories. The wet stickiness she felt between her thighs was real and not imagined as she looked down to see blood coating them. It was gummy, hot, and startling against pale skin mottled with bruises. She stared at it with a sense of not even belonging in her own skin, as if the legs and blood she looked at belonged to someone else. Her smallclothes were soaked with blood, she realized. She slid them down her hips and kicked them across the floor to join the rest of her pile of clothing. The dress could be cleaned; the rest she would burn before her ladies saw them. The clinical nature with which she approached dealing with it as she dropped each of the undergarments into the fire, one by one while just staring at them in a haze of no particular emotion at all, probably should have been disconcerting. But it wasn't.

Her blood soaked small clothes were the last to feed the fire and made her remember that the scent of blood was still strong. More blood had accumulated between her thighs when she looked down. Cersei reached down and swiped her fingers along her sex and found that they came up stained red with fresh blood. Moonblood? No. It was not the time for it, and she had always been unfailingly regular — as if her body needed to remind her routinely that she was just a woman.

She had felt so betrayed when it had finally come the first time. She had said it wouldn't happen to her. She had insisted. It had. She remembered running and hiding from her septa and everyone else — even Jaime. But he had finally found her and sat beside her and held her while she cried. It would be all right, he assured her, kissing her hair and never letting her go.

Cersei ran her fingers slowly across the smooth, cool surface of the alabaster hair clasp he had given her that day so many years before. Slowly, she took it in her hand and twisted her hair up. She wanted Jaime close to her now.

Her stomach clenched painfully, startling her out of the memory.

'Jaime, Would you ever…'

'Yes.'

And then she understood.

"No," she whispered.

"No!" her voice sounded plaintive and so very broken — even to her own ears. "No!"

The answered response from her body, ever betraying her, was a pain that made her double over for a moment. Her fingers swiped more blood. It was too late. Gone before she had ever realized…

Another agonizing clench of muscles made Cersei's legs give out beneath her as she fell to a pile on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Jaime.

Up Next: Jaime gets more than he bargained for, and Cersei takes matters into her own hands.