A/N: contains violence and mild sexual content.

Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

"The next time you raise a hand to me will be the last time you have hands."

As time goes by, it became easier to settle into palace life. Rose spent hours with her sisters, reading, sewing, even entertaining Arya, waving sticks in the air and frolicking around like they were knights. When she was with them, it was easy to forget about Winterfell, about Theon, and Joffrey's threats. Especially since Arya had finally started to behave herself.

Dressing the part was the best bit. All the beautiful dresses she and Sansa tried on—Arya had wrinkled her nose and said, no thank you—and the elaborate new ways to do their hair. Sansa fashioned hers in a twisted crown over her head. Rose tried to imitate, but felt it looked ridiculous on her, settling for a braided knot at the back of her head.

The fabrics turned from fur into silk, showing more skin that she would normally find acceptable. But Rose loved the way it fitted on her body, highlighting her long legs and the slight growth of her breasts (helped by all the messy flowering). She even found some golden belts that she could wrap around her tummy, sucking it into a better shape. Looking at the skinny ladies of the capital, she was starting to regret all the gorging at the Northern feasts.

"What do you think of this one?"

Looking up from her reading, she sees Sansa standing in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection. Rose smiles, brightly. "Stunning." She gets to her feet and approaches her. "Purple is your colour."

Sansa plays with her hair. "Do you think the prince will like it?"

Rose tries not to flinch. "I think you're the loveliest lady in King's Landing. Anyone who thinks different is a fool."

Sansa beams and sits down in her chair. Rose begins to twist her fire-kissed locks up and away from her face, with gentle care. Sansa is quiet for a long time. Then, she asks, in a timid voice, "What does it feel like? To flower?"

Rose grimaces. "It hurts, I won't lie to you."

"But, do you feel like a woman? Like mother or the Queen?"

She considers this. Then, she moves to stand in front of Sansa, kneeling down and taking her hands. "Since we left Winterfell, we've all had to do an awful lot of growing up. Our childhoods belonged there. Things are different here."

Sansa nods, solemnly. "We were never supposed to stay there forever." Her gaze travels downwards, and turns curious. Without warning, she stretches out a finger and prods the exposed part of Rose's breast.

"Sansa!"

"Sorry," she murmurs. "They look different."

Rose rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. "I'm getting a woman's body, I think. It'll happen to you too, not long from now."

Sansa looks down at her own chest. "I hope mine don't get too big."

Rose cradles her face in her hands, grinning. "They could hang from your chest, and you'd still be beautiful."

She giggles. "Still, I'd rather they didn't."

A knock at the door silences them both. The door squeaks open, revealing a baby-faced, skinny page. He bows his head, then stretches out his hand, which holds a folded-up piece of paper. "A raven came for you, Lady Stark."

Rose walks over and takes it, scrutinising the handwriting.

"Is it from mother?" Sansa asks, excitedly.

"No, it's . . . it's from Theon." She has to contain her delight. Holding herself with dignity, she smiles at her sisters. "I'll be back soon."

Edging past the page, she scans the gallery to make sure she's alone, then picks up her skirt and dashes into her room, closing and locking the door behind her. With trembling hands, she practically tears the letter open, her breath quickening.

Rose,

I miss you terribly. Things haven't been going well here in Winterfell. I hope your father is taking good care of you and your sisters. Bran is alive and well, but finding his new condition difficult.

I fear that your father will keep you in the dark to protect you from the truth, but I want you to know. Your mother has found evidence implicating the Lannisters' involvement in Bran's accident and believes it to be a failed assassination attempt. Robb and I have insisted on taking revenge through military action, but Maester Luwin has counselled us with patience. It seems things between our families will never be peaceful until your mother has hunted down those responsible for her son's fall.

Please, keep this information to yourself. Burn this letter once you've read it, and do not tell your sisters, nor your father.

Regardless of circumstances, you are constantly on my mind. I think of you, and my entire body ignites. I miss your soft skin against mine. I miss hearing you moan my name as you ride me. I miss watching your body writhe beneath my touch.

I hope that you find someone in the South who gives you the same pleasure. Be safe, and do what your father asks.

Until we see one another again,

Theon.

Rose stares at the words on the page, not seeing them. A swell of different emotions, the sadness from her brother's suffering, the revelation of the Lannisters betrayal, the heat in her body from Theon's coarse words, overwhelm her. But, she doesn't cry.

Instead, a new sense of resolve forms inside of her.

Between Joffrey's threats and someone crippling her little brother, it's like seeing the world for the very first time. And, she hates it. Trusting that Robb and her mother can deal with the Lannisters, she silently promises to protect her sisters against those who turn against her family. King or peasant, she doesn't care.

They'll all have to go through her first.

The tournament is alive with laughter, glistening armour and drunken behaviour under the scorching sun. The warm, summer air provides a little comfort to the three girls sat in the stands with Septa, whispering, and admiring the Southern knights.

Sansa peeks behind her every so often, trying to catch the prince's eye. But Joffrey only glances at her, fleetingly, then turns his head. Rose gives her hand a comforting squeeze when she looks crestfallen.

"Lover's quarrel?"

The girls look up to see a slender man, with cold blue eyes and hints of grey in his dark hair, smirking down at them. Sansa frowns. "I'm sorry. Do I—?"

"Sansa, dear, this is Lord Baelish," Septa introduces. "He's known . . ."

"An old friend of the family," Baelish interrupts.

Rose's eyes narrow. "Then, how come we've never met you before?"

His focus shifts to her, taking her in, with a warm smile. "I've been somewhat distant for a number of years. But, I've known your mother a long, long time, I can assure you, My Lady."

Rose stares him out as he sits down next to Sansa.

"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya asks.

Sansa gapes. "Arya!"

"Don't be rude," Septa scolds.

"No, it's quite all right." Lord Baelish's eyes light up. "When I was a child, I was very small, and I come from a little spit of land called The Fingers." He chuckles, but it rings hollow. "So, you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname."

From the rostrum, the King pulls his heavy self to his feet. "I've been sitting here for days," he roars, drunkenly. "Start the damn joust before I piss myself!" Then, he slumps back into his seat as the crowd erupts in cheers.

The sound of galloping hooves turns heads. A knight, larger than any Rose has ever seen before, makes his way down the jousting grounds, to the sound of tremendous applause.

"Gods, who is that?" Sansa gasps.

"Ser Gregor Clegane," Littlefinger says. "They call him the Mountain. He's the Hound's older brother."

The Mountain halts in front of the King, and bows his head.

"And his opponent?"

"Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he's come."

Hugh lifts his helm and also bows his head, but not before giving his competitor a wary glance. Looking at the Mountain, Rose wonders if she'll ever see his face, alive and breathing, again. She feels awful that she didn't take the time to study it.

"Yes, yes, enough of the bloody pomp," the King slurs. "Have at it!"

The Mountain and Ser Hugh fix their helms and divert to opposite ends of the jousting lane. The sound of a horn blowing, echoing in the summer air, sends the crowds into another fit of cheering. Rose feels a little exhilarated, watching the two knights face one another from afar.

Then, they charge at one another, the horses no longer galloping, but sprinting on the dusty lane, both of the knights pointing their lances. Sansa's hand clenches around Rose's so tightly, the blood flow momentarily stops. It's over in a blur, the knights grazing past one another, but neither one falling from the lance's punch.

There isn't time to exhale in relief. The knights reach their opposite ends, round them, and start hurtling towards each other again. At the last moment, the Mountain slams his lance through the wooden barrier that separate their lanes, splicing through Ser Hugh's neck. Sansa lets out a shriek at Rose's side.

The knight is sent flying from his horse, onto the ground, directly in front of the Stark sisters. Rose gapes in horror as Ser Hugh twitches, uncontrollably, on the ground, the splinter in his neck sending blood spouting everywhere. When it fills his throat and spills from his lips, he finally goes still.

Then, two servants make their way on the jousting lane and drag his body away.

Littlefinger turns to the girls. "Not what you were expecting?"

Rose bites down on her bottom lip. Although the nature of the knight's death was horrifying to say the least, the sight of them charging at one another, their jousting sticks raised, the roar of the crowd, was thrilling. A part of her suddenly understands why Arya is so desperate to be a knight. Imagine riding out onto the battlefield with that very same feeling, striking down your enemies, watching them bleed out before your very eyes. The thought both disturbs and stimulates her at the same time.

"Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" Littlefinger asks, leaning closer. "Lovely little tale of brotherly love."

Rose glances over her shoulder at where the Hound is stood, close to the King, his scarred face expressionless, but his cold eyes fixated on the Mountain.

Littlefinger's voice drops into a whisper. "The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire. Gregor's toy, a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted."

Sansa goes very, very still at Rose's side.

"There aren't very many people who know that story," Littlefinger says.

"I won't tell anyone," she stammers out. "I promise."

"No, please don't." His eyes watch Sansa, intently. "If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you."

Sansa's face pales.

Rose loops her arm through hers. "Does the King pay you to frighten little girls with your stories?" she asks Littlefinger, her voice cold and biting.

He grins. "If he did, I'd be far richer."

Rose says nothing. She pulls Sansa closer to her, further from him, and glares at Littlefinger until his smile fades.