CERSEI

"Right this way, Your Grace," said Roose Bolton as he led Queen Cersei down the narrow steps to the Dreadfort's dungeon. "Watch your step. Ramsay has been working on a new form of torture involving these steps. So far he hasn't made very much progress. All he's come up with is pushing people down them. A terribly unimaginative boy, I'm afraid."

"He'd better do a good job," Cersei warned. "Or he'll wish he had."

Lord Roose made no reply to this as they walked the darkened corridor. He relit one of the oil lamps that had gone out. They walked until someone banged on the door of a cell they were passing.

"Hey, dick butt!" screamed Theon Greyjoy from behind the thick oaken door. "What's the wifi password in this fucking dump?"

"Be quiet, you swine," Lord Roose said, and thumped the outside of the door with his own fist. "Stop yelling in there. You're driving the other prisoners absolutely nuts. They're all sick of you."

"Hey man, you got any beer out there?" Theon asked. He threw himself bodily against the door, producing a stiff wooden creek. "I'm thirsty as hell. For alcohol, I mean."

"Young Greyjoy," Roose told Cersei, rolling his pale eyes, "is quite our problem child."

"You should simply kill him," Cersei said, although she seemed uncertain.

"I'd like to, but Ramsay would miss him."

"You should kill Ramsay as well."

"But then, Your Grace," Roose said, with the faintest hint of a smile, "who would perform your flaying?"

At last they reached the flaying chamber. The floor was dark with old blood and it smelled like piss and shit. Ramsay was inside, carefully tying his butcher's apron. When he saw Queen Cersei, he let out an excited grunt and scuttled over to her like a hermit crab. "If I do a good job, will you legitimize me? Your Grace?"

"She most certainly will not," Roose told him, and kicked the flaying knife from his stubby hand. "Go pick that up, you bastard."

Ramsay did as he was told. He was one of the ugliest boys Cersei had ever seen, and she'd slept with Lancel Lannister, whose mustache was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for being extra wispy and unattractive. Ramsay had long, lank brown hair. He was chubby and short, with beady, close-set eyes and a big mouth. He looked like the sort of man who masturbates roughly eight times a day and hates women because of it.

"So," she said, trying to make small talk as Ramsay attached her limbs to the X frame. "How long have you been flaying?"

"Oh, a long time!" Ramsay cried proudly. "I started out practicing on myself. Look!" He shucked his pants down and turned around so Cersei could witness his buttocks, one of which bore a large, rectangular scar where the skin had been peeled away.

"Put your pants back on," Roose said, disgusted.

"Yes, Daddy."

Roose Bolton exited the torture chamber and slammed the door. He was clearly displeased with this scenario.

"Where do you want to start?"

"Hmm. Why not the legs?" Cersei said. As Ramsay cut a circle around the top of one thigh, she closed her eyes and smiled.

When the queen returned from the Dreadfort, she was quite a sight to behold. She was now shiny and red from head to toe, had no hair or eyelids or lips, no genitals, and no nose. Her smile was ghastly. Her golden dress was plastered to her flesh and made a muddy purple by the blood. In fact she reeked of blood, blood and decay, but insisted upon holding court regardless.

"Mother, go take a bath!" King Joffrey yelled, pointing off to the left, where the royal baths were. "You look gross!"

"Shut up, Your Grace," Cersei snapped. "I feel wonderful. I'm finally sane."

"You're getting blood all over the place!"

Grand Maester Pycelle grunted his assent. The old medicine man had never seen a thing quite like post-flaying Cersei.

"So?" Cersei smiled. "I like getting blood all over the place. Now you two idiots know how I felt when you showed up in your stupid loin cloths."

"These loin cloths were sewn by the greatest tailors in the realm!" Vice King Tyrion screamed. He was particularly sensitive about the quality of the loin cloths because in fact he had made them himself, out of towels.

"Well, they look awful," Cersei told him. She sat on the Iron Throne, drawing disgusted gasps from the court.

"Mother, not the Throne!" Joffrey cried. "That'll take hours to clean! Your blood is going to get down into all the swords!"

"Too bad," Cersei said. She shifted, threw one red leg up over the armrest, and reclined lavishly. "I guess you'll either have to clean it or just let it be my official chair from now on."

"I'm not cleaning that shit up," muttered Vice King Tyrion.

"Get off, Mother!" Joffrey grabbed her slimy hand and tried to pull her down from the Throne, but being flayed had given Cersei new powers of determination. She pulled her hand out of Joffrey's and gave him two playful slaps on the face and neck, smearing him with blood.

"Ewww!" he screamed.

"Go to your room or something," Cersei said. "I'm tired. Court is adjourned. Someone bring me two bottles of wine." She smiled. "And one of those mushrooms."

"That's unwise, Mother," Joffrey cautioned. "You're gonna start thinking about all kinds of weird stuff. You'll regret being flayed, I guarantee it. You'll probably cry like I did."

"I never cry," Cersei said. "Crying is for babies, Your Grace."

"Get this bitch some mushrooms," Vice King Tyrion bellowed. Grand Maester Pycelle heaved a weary sigh and started shuffling off to where he kept the royal stash.