Chapter 9: In Sickness and In Health

"Long Live the Queen!"

Those words followed Cersei through the winding corridors of her home, striking her like a knife to the heart. Ser Meryn Trant followed two paces behind, his golden armor clanging with each step while he kept a trained eye on each passing servant.

Curious eyes watched as the former Queen Regent gracefully stormed her way through.

"Long Live the Queen!"

I can still hear them, Cersei grimly realized, I can't escape their lies.

Just the sight of that conniving wrech Sansa standing next to her Father had nearly emptied the wine from her belly. And worse, Jamie and their cretin of a brother had started the false cheer for the vile child. Tomorrow the people would talk of their new Queen, how beautiful and merciful she was.

Cersei nearly slipped down the last step leading to the large kitchens, but Trant righted her with a hand on her elbow. She smiled at him in thanks but thought you should be Jamie, he should be by my side.

Wiping a hand down her front, Cersei fully stepped inside the quiet workplace; seeing as the food had been served, most of them were milling about. The Head Chef, Eleana, nearly tripped over herself to bow to Cersei. The others followed suit.

"Which one of you is in charge here? I would like a word." Cersei smiled with teeth. Her hands remained clenched in her beautiful dress, not wanting the skirt to touch the ground.

Eleana stepped forward, "'S me, m'lady, Eleana Brackwell. How can I be of service?" The Head Chef smiled at the former Queen Regent and wrung her hands behind her back.

"Have you received any word as to where the leftovers from the feast are to be placed?" Emerald eyes watched the Head Cook nod. "And?"

"They're to be given to the poorest in the city, m'lady. I've men waiting to bring some right to Fleabottom and the like. It will take time to ge' it all out, m'lady, but I've my strongest boys on the job. They've even meant to bring some to those sparrows by the Sept, m'lady. Real godly men over there, but everyones hungry."

Cersei smiled at the Head Chef, taking one step closer. "You'll be doing no such thing. In fact, every last scrap that is left behind will be given to the dogs."

The smile on Eleana's face vanished quicker than the snap of a whip. "Pardon, m'lady?"

Cersei pierced her eyes and smiled at the servant, "Are you unclear on your new task?"

"I…" Eleana felt sweat drip down the back of her neck as the Lannister woman watched her with emerald eyes. "I'm afraid I cannot do what you've asked, m'lady.

"And why is that?" Cersei could feel herself slipping. "Are you not here to uphold my commands as Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms? Does my family not pay you well?"

Eleana started to sweat. "No, m'lady, your family has been very generous… but Lady Sansa is to marry the King. I can't go against her word, m'lady. I'm sorry."

As if the word of a whorish child bride means anything. Cersei kept a smile on her face, eyeing the cook up and down. I'm above them, every last one.

"Ser Trant," she turned to her guard. "You just witnessed what this cook has done to me, yes?"

"Your Grace?" His voice was filled with confusion.

"She struck me with her own hand." Cersei gestured to a butcher's knife that was innocently lying on the table. "You do know the punishment for striking a Lannister?"

Chaos ensued; kitchen maids wept for the mother's mercy as Meryn Trant grinned ferociously, taking the knife in hand and advancing on Eleana. She too wept, eyes glassy with tears and hatred for the eldest daughter of their king. Even the young boys that peeled potatoes and turnips flinched when the knife cut through the bone of their head cook's left hand. Blood splattered the counter, and a few drops hit Cersei in the cheek.

Trant wiped the knife on his sleeve before throwing it to the ground, taking his rightful place behind the Queen Regent.

"I will ask one more time," Cersei sneered with a sickening smile. "Where are the leftovers from tonight's feast to go?"

Eleana couldn't hear anything over the pain, her eyes shut in agony as blood continued to rain down on the dan kitchen floors. The kitchen maids answered instead, "The dogs, m'lady," and Cersei strode from the kitchens, growing bored of the tears and grief suffocating that room.

She turned her head the slightest to whisper to Meryn, "If anyone is to ask why we're in need of a kitchen servant, tell them this was their new Queen's doing."

Meryn Trant nodded as they walked up the flights of stairs to her private chambers, internally wishing a woman of Cersei's standard would invite him into her bed. But alas, if the rumors were true, she preferred blond hair. And besides, Meryn preferred the younger variety.

Once she bid her guard away, Cersei slipped into her chambers, unsurprised at the sight of Jamie lounging in her sheets. His blonde hair lay messily on her pillow, his top buttons undone, and she licked her lips.

"You left early." He eyed her up and down. "I missed you."

Instead of answering, she drifted up the steps to her bed and climbed atop her brother, letting her kiss speak more than any words could. Their tongues clashed in a battle they always longed to fight, his arms slipping to squeeze her thighs, and she could feel his cock growing stiff.

He pulled away first, "Where were you? I've been here for quite some time." The green eyes she'd grown to love searched her face for an answer, and his brows furrowed when they found a red spot.

"Cersei." His voice turned hard. "Don't tell me you've done something you'll regret."

"I never regret my actions. I only wish they could've played out differently, but not this time." Jamie's hand played with the ends of her hair.

"And what action was that?"

Her green eyes bore into his own twin pupils, "I took a cook's hand."

Those serpentin eyes that she'd loved from birth turned sour, those hands that pleasured her beyond belief moving her off his hips. "You did what?" he said with furrowed brows.

Her lips curved into a smile, "I did it for us, Jamie. I have to do everything I can to protect this family, our name and our legacy."

"Oh gods," Jamie groaned, slipping from the bed. "You sound like Father. And I'm sure that wanting Tyrion dead sort of muddles your idea of keeping our legacy alive."

"Don't," Cersei snarled, "speak the name of that wretched creature in my presence."

"He's your brother, and mine as well." Jamie began to button his shirt and re-tussle his hair. "I didn't come here to fight."

"Then what did you come here for? I'm not your own personal brothel."

Jamie snorted, "You're right. I wouldn't come back twice for a pair of warm thighs that disfigures servants in their free time."

"She disobeyed her Queen!" Cersei stopped his escape from her chambers, pushing against his chest. "I'll not be disrespected in my own home. When I say I want something done, I want it done, now. Anyone who sees fit to not heed my command shall pay the price for disobedience."

This time, Jamie looked as though he'd been struck, "You're mad, sister."

"Maybe I am," she took his shirt in hand, ripping the buttons free. "Now get on your knees, Ser Jamie. Or I'll have you hanged."

For a moment, she was unsure whether he would listen, but then he fell to his knees, looking up at her as though she were the mother herself, or all seven gods in one perfect being. His lips trembled, his eyes watering, and he whispered, "I'd die for you, my love."

I'd kill for you, my love. His hands sweetly lifted her dress, lowering her smallclothes and finding purchase on her cunt, his nose nestled in the golden hairs that emulated her sweet scent. He ate as though she were his last meal, and Cersei's eyes fluttered, staring up at the ceiling.

Never leave me, Jamie, she pulled him closer, we'll die apart. I love, I love you, I love you.

When she reached her peak, she screamed her lover's name.

Castle Black, The Wall

Ice fell from the sky and found itself a new home in the untidy locks of Ned Stark, the beard on his face covered as well in the frost that cloaked the air at Castle Black. Every inch of the once dirt ground was now bright white with snow, and a few black brothers stood against the decrepit walls, blue lips and glassy eyed.

Bruises and blood covered most of them, while some were too weak to stand.

In the middle of the training field, where long ago Ned and his brother, Benjen, had parted ways, spikes were plunged into the ground with frozen severed heads on the other end. Ned recognized one of the heads as Janos Slynt, former Lord of Harrenhal, and another was Othell Yarwick.

Both of their eyes were frozen, bloody, and there was little doubt that the crows had been making him their evening meal.

Between them were boys no older than ten and two, their eyes unseeing as well, noses frostbitten and chewed off. They reminded Ned too much of his own children, and he looked away. However, the Stak lord prayed for them in hopes that the Old Gods would be kind and just in their judgement.

In the hall that held the meals of the black brothers, Samwell Tarly shivered. He could barely feel his fingers… or is it my toes this time, or maybe that's my ear.

Since Ser Alliser had left to go Beyond the Wall with nothing but a sword and his promise of a return with victory, and had brought hell upon his brothers in arms, it had been so cold.

"Stop whimperin', Piggy,'' hissed Grenn, who was bundled up in a musky blanket. "Else they'll come back and take more of us."

"I c-c-can't help it." Sam wouldn't be surprised if his teeth weren't cracked from how hard they were clacking together.

Grenn hadn't been the same since the moment before the Giants broke the lower iron gates. Aemon had sent Pyp out through the front gate, whispering something that had the young boy looking hopeful. As far as the black brothers were concerned, he never made it.

Sam could no longer tell if the men surrounding him were asleep or simply dead, having frozen in the night or bellies having given out from hunger. His own belly trembled in pain, craving a scrap of crusty bread or ladle of watery turnip stew that Pyp always overcooked over the warm fire.

Gods, the things he would give for just a scrap of meat. Saliva pooled the fat of his cheeks, and swallowing it only made his belly ache more. Dreams of finding a rat had played in his mind, but nothing could survive this cold.

"Snow! Snow!" cried the crow from the other end of the hall.

The men with still enough wit had thought of eating the bird more than once, but the crippled and aching Maester Aemon had protected his friends. Sam couldn't lie and say it hadn't crossed his mind, but he'd placed his wide body in front of the Maester and held his ground until notions of eating the crow were gone.

Before, a red haired woman with a devilish sneer had stood at the door, watching them. Her arrows had killed four brothers; two for trying to escape, one for yelling that he wanted out… and the last one simply snored too loud for her taste.

She'd not been around for five days, and Sam felt his belly grow tight.

Outside the closed doors, he could hear horses neighing and footsteps trudging through the snow. All of their animals had been killed upon the first attack of Free Folk, which meant this was a visitor.

Maybe they're here to save us, he nearly hopefully whispered, Pyp too, but instead remained silent while the crow yelled "Snow'' with all its might.

Ned Stark stood at the base of bloody wooden steps, sword still sheathed at his side. "I've come to speak with your leader. My name is Ned Stark-"

The red haired woman, Ygritte, cut him off. "Don't care who you are."

Nonetheless, he continued. "My wife, Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, and I have come to-"

"Don't care why you're here." Ygritte sucked her teeth.

Her mouth housed fangs that curved against one another, no longer white and pristine but dark and chipped. Her hair reminded him of his sweet Sansa, both of them blessed by the sun Gods for locks like no other. But this girl was no fair maiden.

Cat tugged on his arm, whispering harshly "They won't listen, Ned, we should leave while we can." But he shrugged her off, taking one bold step closer to the red haired Wildling.

Ygritte moved quickly and had her arrow at the ready, pointed at the temple of the Northern Lord.

"I swear on the Old Gods, I mean none of you any harm. As you can see, I've not brought an army with me, nor do I wield my sword against you or your people. We've traveled hundreds of miles to speak with your leader, and I cannot leave until I've done just that."

Ygritte sneered down at him, "Your crow, Thorne, said the same. And Mance died for his lies." She pulled the bow tighter, "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I left my home, my children, in the hopes of aligning our people after years of hatred and spilled blood. I am not Alliser Thorne, nor do I approve of his actions." Ned shook his head. "I knew Mance. He was a good man."

"Ay, but he's dead all the same now."

The bow trembled in her hand.

"Ygritte!" was shouted from the higher levels of Castle Black, and her bow dropped to her side. She sneered up and spat on the ground, stomping her way to the indignant voice that had called her name.

Catelyn watched the fiery redhead stalk off, whispering to her husband, "We can still leave."

"No, Cat. I am a man of my word," he looked behind them at the boy, Pyp, who they'd dragged down the road. "The men of the Night's Watch will not survive long if we abandon them now. We can do this, sweet wife."

Ned lightly kissed her forehead. "You must trust me, as I trust you."

Thundering footsteps echoed through the training yard, and Ned stood stall with his head held high. All of the Free Folk that had been talking amongst themselves along the edges of the yard became silent, and Cat squeezed his hand.

"So," bellowed a deep, husky, voice. "What brings a kneeler here?"

Tormund Giantsbane, true to his name, stood as tall as a giant. His red hair burned brighter than the woman, Yrgritte, and he donned a long beard that hung lower than any man he'd ever seen. His dark green eyes were pierced and fearsome, but something about him seemed jovial and excited.

Furs of animals that Ned would never see covered his chest and legs, and nearly all the Free Folk wore the same.

"I come to negotiate for the release of the Night's Watch," Ned pointed to the spiked heads, "And an end to the violence our people have had with yours."

"Pfft, you come to talk, kneeler?" Tormund came to stand where Ygritte previously had, watching the two with a smile. "Are you going to kiss me every time I shit too?"

"You are speaking to King Eddard Stark of Winterfell. You will show him the respect he deserves."

After a moment of silence at Cat's fiery words, Tormund let out a deep belly aching laugh. "Southerners! You make me laugh!"

Other Free Folk joined in on the laughter, and Cat's tugging on her husband's arm grew more insistent. I'll not die here, Cat swore, and leave my children motherless, by the Gods, I will not.

It was clear her husband saw something in the savages that no one else did, for she spotted their weapons and lusty smirks. They were brutes with no Gods to obey or loyalty to uphold.

"Please, listen to me!" Ned begged, taking one step closer to the Wildling. "If you do not, then much worse than myself will come through those gates, and they will not have a mind for talks of peace. I am no more a King than Mance was, but it is my duty to protect the North, but we must talk like men if that is to happen."

Tormund stroked his beard and gave the Northern King a weary look, "I'm through trusting kneelers."

"Then I will not kneel to you."

"Good," Tormund said. "My people do not kneel. We only did for Mance because he earned it. I, on the other hand, am no King."

"During my time here, do not treat me as one either. We speak as equals and will come to an agreement if you would allow."

Ned swallowed, taking another step and staring up into the man's raging green eyes. "Mance would've done the same. He may have been your King, but I had the honor of calling him a friend."

Up above in the sky, clouds trembled with thunder, and light rain began to cover the icy ground. Even the Free Folk began to shiver in their furred layers, and Tormund shifted his weight to pat Ned on the back, as one would an old friend.

"You want to talk?" Tormund eyed Cat and began to lead them up the wet wooden steps. "Let's talk."

King's Landing, Red Keep

Storm clouds hovered over the Red Keep. Grey clouds filled with thunder lingered above the Capitol, and gusty bursts of wind blew through the streets. At first, the bursts of aggressive rain were near and far, but now, an eternal downpour covered the city.

Peasant mothers sought shelter with their babes when muddy water flooded their homes, and children old enough to run fell in puddles of mud mixed with waste.

High above in the Red Keep, Sansa lay amongst the mountains of fluffed pillows in her bed, looking out her window at the furious sky, wondering how far the thunder reached. A chill had overcome her body the previous night, and had manifested to a sickness that left her bedridden and shaking with chills.

Her lips were pale, her eyes glassy and tired, and her nose red and warm.

Shae had been the one to find her in this state, shaking her arm with distressed eyes. The handmaid had seen small illnesses take children from Mother's and Queens from Kings. And her Lady Sansa was too good to be taken from the world by a cough and chill.

Maester Pycelle had arrived posthaste, his case of remedies jingling at his side. Glass bottles and tubes clinked against each other when he dropped his bag to the floor and began to prod the heavily breathing Sansa, but before he could attempt to shed her nightgown, another body entered the room and Shae's worried muttering grew silent.

"What seems to be the cause, Grand Maester?" said Tywin, his face impassive as he stepped to his wife-to-be's side. He donned a dark red tunic with gold around the collar, and dark inky trousers hung down his lower half.

"I've yet to examine her, your Grace." Pycelle did not meet his eyes.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Do it now." Tywin glared at the old man, clenching his hands at his sides.

He turned his attention to Sansa and felt his jaw clench. Joanna looked just like this when she took her last breath.

He willed away that horrid image when Sansa's eyes fluttered open, her blues glassy and tired, and gave him a warm smile.

"Tywin," she whispered. "Has something happened?" Her voice was barely audible to the other occupants of the room, but he heard her all the same.

When the Maester finished feeling her chest and his hand drifted to her belly, she attempted to move away, but Tywin laid a hand on her arm.

Her glassy eyes turned to him, and he shook his head in a silent command to sit still. I will not lose another wife, by the Seven, I will not.

"There is nothing that would leave me to believe it is infection or injury, and there are no signs of bruising or trauma on the body. The issue could lie in her blood, which would call for a leeching, if his grace commands."

Pycelle looked to his King, and received a bone-chilling glare. "Otherwise, I would offer milk of poppy to help with rest, and a concoction of wormwood and mint to will the sickness away."

Pycelle lifted his bag and called for Shae to bring him a cup of boiling water. The glass bottles in his bag clacked together, and his aged eyes squinted when his shaky hands began to prepare the leaves for the tea. All the while Tywin grumbled under his breath, eying the bumbling Maester with disdain.

Once the tea was brewed, and under the eyes of the watchful Measter, Sansa sipped it carefully, attempting not to spill or burn her tongue. She did achieve just that, sighing deeply as the warm, bitter tea flowed into her belly.

"You're dismissed," commanded Tywin with a sneer, waving away Pycelle. Shae hid in the corner until she too was waved away, shutting the door softly behind.

With half-lidded eyes, Sansa watched her husband-to-be.

"You're angry with me," she murmured.

"Yes, yes I am." Tywin stepped closer to the bed, running a trembling hand down her covered form. "The purpose of marrying a young maiden is so that she may carry my young and pass on my bloodline. How can one do that if they fall under the spell of sickness every time the weather is not in their favor?"

Instead of frowning or fighting back, she looked at him with a gaze that turned his insides to mush. She's delirious, he told himself, half out of her mind.

Her eyes were clearer than the skies, and she looked nothing like Joanna. He only saw Sansa, his wife-to-be.

"Forgive me," she whispered.

He waved away her words, "Forgiveness is unnecessary. However, I do require that you do not leave your chambers under any circumstances." He leaned in close, "You will heal, Sansa."

Through a haze of sickness, she became acutely aware of how close Tywin was, the smell of sweet wine on his breath and the herbs that he kept in his clothes to prevent a redness of the skin when the weather grew too warm.

"And if I do not?" she whispered back, watching his eyes. "What then?"

"You will," he insisted. "Sleep, Sansa. I must return to my solar, but I will return tonight to sup by your side."

She began to protest. "My King, I could pass on this illness to you, I must deny you my company for one night."

Tywin waved away her protests, "Nonsense. I shall have the finest bone broth made for our evening meal. Now, go to sleep, Sansa, I'll hear nothing more of this."

"Darling-"

"Sleep," he commanded again. "Or you shall have milk of poppy to quiet your whining."

Much like the proper lady she was, Sansa barely kept her eyes open long enough to see him leave, succumbing to sleep.

When she awoke, it was dark. The clouds had shrouded even more of the night sky, covering her room in darkness. And in the corner where Shae would normally sit, was a stranger.

In her hand, she twirled a dagger with a pointed tip, slowly spinning on the arm rest of the chair.

It took Sansa's sleep-addled brain a while to see that it was indeed not Shae, but not a stranger at all. Her brown locks hung like a curtain of rough silk, her dress no finer than the servants in the bellows of the castle, and her face...her face…

"Hello, Sansa." The girl smiled. "Or should I call you my Queen? Which do you prefer?"

Swallowing twice, Sansa uttered, "My name will do just fine."

"Good," said the girl, dropping the dagger to her lap. She jerked up and quickly circled the bed, staring down at the weak bedridden girl.

"W-who are you? Where is Tywin?" Her glassy blues attempted to search the room. "Jon? Sandor?"

The girl shushed Sansa. "None of that, Sansa. I've been meaning to get you alone for weeks now, but you always seemed to have somebody by your side. You brother, your mutt… the Imp… Kingslayer… but now, you're finally alone."

Chills crept up Sansa's spine, her mind screaming that this woman was no stranger. "I've seen you before."

"Yes, yes you have." The girl gave a mock curtsey.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I do believe we've graced each other's presence before, but never had the chance to speak to one another. But seeing as someone close to me has just arrived and I've no doubt I'll be leaving with them, I had to meet you."

The girl standing over her had been there that day with Margaery. Her laugh had sounded like a dying beast. Mercy, Robb called it, when you killed something that was near death.

"My name is Myranda," she said, falling into a crouch to get closer to Sansa's face. "And I've heard a great deal about you, Lady Stark."

Before Sansa could even ask how, or why, or what exactly was happening- the fuzziness in her mind wasn't helping this situation, she took a deep breath, ready to try to yell for help.

But Myranda was quick, placing the tip of the knife against her throat, nearly nicking the skin.

"I wouldn't try that, Sansa. The last person who did…" the tip of the blade started to press in. "Didn't look very pretty afterwards. But that's how I like it."

Attempting to keep her composure, Sansa spat, "What do you want?"

But Myranda rose over Sansa, and gently ran the tip of the knife along her plump, pale cheek. She knows better than to kill me, Sansa was sure of that, but her eyes look like they would without mercy.

"You know, my lady," Myranda pulled the knife away and smiled. "I've heard a great deal about you from a friend of mine. They can't say much most of the time, but when they could, they would say that you were the prettiest Stark there was."

Sansa said nothing.

"Now all they can say is…" she sighed deeply. "Reek...Reek...rhymes with weak."

"What?" Sansa couldn't have been more confused. "I-I… I don't know why you're here or what you want." She sat up and leaned in closer to the other woman, attempting to meet her gaze.

"If you go now, no one will know you were here. I swear on it, by the Old Gods and the New."

In truth, Sansa believed in the good of people, she always had. And in that moment, with her whole heart, she believed that Myranda was listening and would leave.

The two had hardly met, and even through her sick addled mind, she hoped Myranda would go and never come back.

Unfortunately, Sansa was wrong.

"Oh!" Myranda playfully smacked her forehead. "Silly me, when you knew him, he was still...Theon Greyjoy, Son of Balon Greyjoy and ward to the Warden of the North."

Both of their heads jerked to the left as a harsh bang! hit the door, the voice of Jon Snow asking if everything was alright.