And then she started sobbing, and it was as if every tear she had wanted to shed in the past three years were finally flowing out now; she cried for Lady, her poor sweet wolf who never did anything wrong, she cried for her father whom she had called a traitor, she cried for Arya, the annoying, sword fighting sister who had disappeared, she cried for every beating that Joffrey had ordered, every threat that he and his mother had made, she cried for Robb and her own mother, betrayed and slaughtered at a wedding where they were honoured guests, she cried for her poor little brothers with their heads on spikes and every other slain man in Winterfell, she cried for Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter who had been her closest friend, she cried for her home, a smoking ruin in the far north, she cried for her marriage to Lord Tyrion and the horrible accusations against him that were partly her fault, she cried for escaping on a ship in the dead of night while the sept bells rang the death of her king, she cried for her drunken Florian, at the bottom of Blackwater Bay, she cried for Littlefinger and his roaming hands, she cried for her aunt Lysa as she fell to the ground a thousand feet below, she cried for poor little Robert with his shaking fits and temper tantrums, she cried for not knowing who was alive or who she could trust, but most of all she cried for that stupid little girl who dreamed of true knights and fair maids; for that pretty little idiot who defended her prince and betrayed her father, she cried for the child she had been and the woman that she had been forced to become.