The day Eddard Stark stood trial, Sandor demanded that she not go. Near begged her not to. But everyone to the kitchens insisted, so she ended up being dragged to a beheading she had no interest in.

Qerhan had seen her share of executions. In the north, beheading was common. But after coming south she had witnessed hangings, burnings, and even one poor cunt who had been dragged apart by horses. There was no ritual to killing down here, and it seemed alien to her that an honorable man such as Lord Stark could be put to the sword so coldly.

It was cruel, and the suddenness of it far crueller. It was plain on his daughter's face that she had not been told what would happen should her father be deemed guilty. No warning. No goodbye. No sympathy.

And what of the little one?

When Ser Ilyn held the condemned man's head up for the crowds to jeer and spit at, she turned away, and picked her way back to the kitchen alone. There she pottered about awhile, trying to clear up some of that morning's mess, but her mind was wandering in the realms of the dead. She would be useless today, so she returned to their room.

Dakra tried to jump on her. She pushed him down, tutting firmly. The dog worked a semi circle in the floor around her as she washed in the basin. When she turned, he picked up his patchwork hare and shook it playfully. Taking in the walls looming around her, she snapped her fingers at him.

"Come."

The gardens were blessedly empty. Qerhan wondered if Joffrey had announced a banquet to celebrate the execution of the Stark men. The gods knew there had been one following his 'father's' death. She threw the little stuffed hare at least ten dozen times before she and Dakra both tired, then sat on one of the stone benches well past nightfall. Until the half-grown hound put his head in her lap, brown eyes blinking sleepily up at her.

She bent down as the petted him to whisper: "I hate this place. I hate these walls. I hate these people who find pleasure in torment. Yet Sandor is one of them, and somehow I love him."

Dakra huffed in response.

"Alright. Let's get you to bed."

Sandor was there when they returned, guarding the door with his steely expression.

"Leave him outside a moment."

She closed the door, on Dakra, who dropped his hare in his woe.

"You came, today. I saw you."

"I did."

"Tell me."

She stalked over to the table and poured her own wine. Watched it swish around in her cup as she thought.

"In the north, when someone is committed to die, we give them one last drink. If there's time and if they are worthy, they'll be given food and a shag. At the very least, their families are allowed to say goodbye."

"Yet we granted Eddard Stark none of that."

"There was no dignity about what happened today."

He scoffed. "There's no bloody dignity in execution."

"Not among your people."

"My people."

"I'll never be one of them, Sandor. I'll never be able to see something like what happened today and pretend like it was justified."

"Nor will I. But it was the king's will."

"...what happened to the younger girl?"

"She got away."

"Let's hope they never find her."

He took the cup from her hands and set it on the table, hand resting at the small of her back. His lips pressed against the soft spot just under her ear, fingers working the laces of her dress. Slightly confused, Qerhan turned, only for his mouth to greedily enclose hers. He kissed her hard, bruising her lips with the force of his attentions. Heat pooled in her core, and she clutched at him. It seemed so wrong, considering what they had been discussing, yet when he pushed her back, cups and an empty silver dish clattering to the floor, she could not deny it.

In hurried, awkward movements, they half-disrobed her. He squeezed her breasts almost painfully, face buried into her neck. Qerhan pulled her skirts up to her waist, untying his breeches without a word. He pushed against her, unprepared as she was, and she stiffened. No matter, another push and he was stretching her. He kissed her in apology, and she whispered words of encouragement. It did not hurt, far from it, and reaching between them, she managed to find her end, and he came into her mouth. It was all over too fast for either of them to feel much pleasure, but there was something calming about it.

He readjusted her dress, and smoothed her hair, lifting her into his lap as he sat. The cups had rolled across the floor, but of course they had saved the flagon. Sandor lifted the spout directly to his mouth, then offered it to Qerhan, who tilted her head back to drink. A certain amount of shame surrounded them in that moment, and neither of them spoke for a long while.

"My uncle was beheaded." Qerhan said at last. Sandor's arm tightened around her, and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Poor Lachran. He lost his mind before he was even forty. Started to see things that weren't there. One evening, his friend Hronan came to check on him, but Lachran didn't recognize him. We don't know what he saw, but as his friend bend down to greet him, he stabbed him in the neck."

"Who killed him?"

"Our chieftain at the time. Can't recall the name. Morli or Mearra I think." She replied. "My father had vouched for his brother for so many years. Even Lachran's wife - she left with the children before it got too bad - even she insisted he was no threat to anyone."

"Fucking missed the mark on that one."

"Aye." Qerhan agreed. "Anyway of course Lachran's daughter Tveris was there, and she saw my mother's nephew, Darra, and just dragged him into one of the tents…"

"I see." He said glumly.

"And her mother just laughed. Said the life escaping needed to go somewhere."

"You're saying I just took you over a table because Eddard fucking Stark wanted me to?"

"Not in so many words. It's just what people say -"

"Fucking spare me." He rasped. "I had to listen to enough shit about souls and afterlives when the septon arrived today. Don't you start."

"Right." Qerhan spat back, standing up. "You just sit here and contemplate how hard your life is, with your wine in your hand, and silver on the floor, because you had to watch someone else get dragged through the dirt and lose his head."

She threw her gown over the bed frame and crawled under the covers. She was not in the mood for his snark right now. Let him sit there and drink alone if he wanted to. Let him rage at the septons and the maesters and even the poor fucking Starks rather than the real problem. She did not want to hear it.

It was not long before he eased onto the mattress behind her, and draped an arm over her, pressing his forehead into the back of her neck.

"Qerhan." He said. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair on you, what I said."

"Sandor?"

"Hm?"

"I hate this place."

"Aye, love, me too."