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Chapter Forty-Seven: No King of Mine

Lenora

Lenora followed Robb and his uncles into the audience chamber. She did not want to be there. She was sure that she did not belong. Robb was going to decide what to do with his bannerman. The one who proudly admitted to murdering her cousins. As much as she believed that she truly was a Stark. As much as she believed that Robb had the right of it, that if there was a righteous king in this battle of five it was Robb. But it was hard to be so certain as she stood and looked down at the bodies of her murdered cousins.

She must have been standing stiff. Because Robb approached her and ran a calming hand down her spine. "I assure you, Nora, they will be punished. You will see justice for your cousins."

But will they? Lenora wondered. And will I? She could not help but wonder if she would be punished too. If it had been, in part, her presence in the castle that had helped push Lord Rickard to kill the boys.

"The Karstarks are gone," the Blackfish told them as soon as he shut the door behind them.

"All?" Robb asked, his voice thick. Lenora turned to study his face, she could not decide if it was anger or despair that colored his tone like that. Both would have been appropriate.

"All the fighting men," Ser Brynden replied. "A few camp followers and serving men were left with their wounded. We questioned as many as we needed, to be certain of the truth. They started leaving at nightfall, stealing off in ones and twos at first, and then in larger groups. The wounded men and servants were told to keep the campfires lit so no one would know they'd gone, but once the rains began it didn't matter."

Lenora's heart fell and her fists clenched in the same moment. It was premeditated then. "Will they reform away from Riverrun?" she asked after swallowing some of her disgust.

"No, Your Grace," Ser Brynden assured her. "They've scattered, hunting. Lord Karstark has sworn to give the hand of his maiden daughter to any man highborn or low who brings him your uncle's head."

"Has he not gotten enough vengeance?" Lenora hissed, stepping away from Robb's calming hand. She did not want his comfort. She wanted to be angry. "Does he want it so much that he would have his daughter married to any lowborn man who somehow had the luck of capturing Jaime?"

Robb sighed, "Near three hundred riders and twice as many mounts melted away tonight." He lifted his right hand to rub at his temple, "All the mounted strength of Karhold, lost."

Lenora turned to look at him, understanding his despair. For the moment he held the riverlands, but his kingdom was surrounded by enemies to every side but east, where his aunt sat aloof on her mountaintop. She was not an enemy, but he would get no help from her.

"No word of this can leave Riverrun," Edmure told Robb, his voice quick and desperate. "Lord Tywin would ... the Lannisters pay their debts, they are always saying that. Mother have mercy, when he hears."

Robb's glare was icy, "Would you make me a liar as well as a murderer, Uncle?" he asked, turning to Edmure.

"It won't be a lie," Edmure told him. "We will bury them and remain silent, until -"

"Until we can bring the murdered dead back to life?" the Blackfish snapped at his nephew.

"Until the end of the war," Edmure corrected.

Robb turned to Lenora, "You're too quiet," he told her. She opened her mouth to tell him that she wanted no part in the discussion, no part in the decision, but he shook his head. "These are your cousins," he told her, reaching out to gently cup her cheek in his hand. "Your blood. Tell me, Nora, what would you have me do? Hide their deaths?"

It would make him safer, but she shook her head, they could not hide them. Lord Karstark had seen to that. "The truth escaped with the Karstark men," she told him. She glanced at Edmure and shook her head sadly, "If there was a time to play your games, Lord Edmure, that time has passed."

Robb sighed and nodded, "I owe their father truth," he told them. "And justice. I owe him that as well." He moved away from Lenora and threw himself down in a chair, reaching out for her once he was seated. Lenora moved to him quickly, without thought, and was shocked when he pulled her straight into his lap, as if his uncles weren't in the room. As if his mother was not in the chamber. "Lord Rickard defied me. Betrayed me. I have no choice but to condemn him."

"Lord Rickard has one more son," Lenora murmured quietly. "His son at Harrenhal, his new heir. Disown Lord Karstark, take away his lands and his title. Name his son Lord Karstark. Send Rickard to the wall. Nothing will shame him and his family more. He murdered my cousins for his family, make him lose his own."

Edmure nodded, "Keep Lord Rickard as a hostage," he urged his nephew. "Tell the Karstarks that as long as they remain loyal he will not be harmed."

Robb looked at his uncles for a moment, debating. "The Others take him," he growled angrily with a sigh. "And Theon Greyjoy, lazy Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, and all the rest of them. Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king?"

"Because not every man rules like you," Lenora told him thinking of her father. And her brother.

"When everyone was shouting King in the North, King in the North I told myself ... swore to myself ... that I would be a good king, as honorable as father," he murmured, pressing his lips against the back of her neck as he spoke. "Strong, just, loyal to my friends and brave when I faced my enemies. Now I can't even tell one from the other. How did it all get so confused? Lord Rickard's fought at my side in half a dozen battles. His sons died for me in the Whispering Wood. Willem and Martyn Lannister were my enemies. Yet now I have to kill my dead friends' father for their sakes."

Lenora glanced at him sharply, he had asked for her opinion. No one in the chamber had suggested that he execute Lord Karstark. And yet, it seemed that Robb had already made up his mind.

He lifted his face from her neck and looked around the room at them. Though it was Lenora who he posed his question to. "Will the Lannisters thank me for Lord Rickard's head?"

"No," Lenora told him, shaking her head while wishing that she had a different answer for him. "They will not."

"All the more reason to spare Lord Rickard's life and keep him hostage," Edmure urged him.

Robb's hand slipped under her chin and he lifted her gaze up so that she would look at him. She could see it, in his hard blue eyes. He had made a decision. He was only looking to her for approval. But he would do what must be done, with or without it. She would only make it easier on him. She closed her eyes and nodded.

Robb nodded back, his face hard, "Lord Rickard dies."

"But why?" Edmure asked. "You said yourself -"

"I know what I said, Uncle," Robb snapped at him. "It does not change what I must do. In battle I might have slain Willem and Martyn myself, but this was no battle. They were asleep in their beds, naked and unarmed, in a cell where I put them. Rickard Karstark killed more than two Lannisters. He killed my honor. I shall deal with him at dawn."

...

He sent her back to their chambers though he did not accompany her. He told her to try to sleep and she assured him that she would do so much more easily if he came to bed with her. He told her that he would try, but that he had some things to attend to first.

She would never know what he did in those long hours before the dawn. But she knew what he was about. He hoped that she would return to their bedchambers and fall so deep asleep that she would not wake up at dawn. He was attempting to protect her. To keep her from having to watch Lord Rickard's execution. But she would be there.

She made sure of it. She needed to be there, to see justice done for those two young boys. She went back to their chambers as Robb asked her to but she did not sleep. She paced around their bedchamber. She changed her gown. She braided her hair. And then she sat in a chair by the windows. Watching as, despite the rain, the sky began to lighten in the east.

And then, once the sky was grey with dawn's light, she donned her cloak and went out to the Godswood. Despite the steady, soaking rain the wood was crowded. River Lords and Northmen, highborn and low, knights and sellswords and stable boys. They all stood together amongst the trees, waiting to watch their king deal out his justice.

She saw Robb sigh when he looked up to see her standing by his mother. He truly had hoped that she would not come for this. Lord Edmure had already given the commands and the headsman's block had been set up before the Heart Tree. That was kinder than what Lenora would have done. Lord Rickard had murdered two innocent boys and betrayed his king. Now that the decision had been made, that he would die, Lenora would not have given him the honor of a northern death in a Godswood. She would have taken his head in the yard.

And put it on a spike on the wall.

Rain and leaves fell all around them as the Greatjon's men led Lord Rickard through the press, his hands were still bound. One of Edmure's men waited beside the block, but Robb took the sword from his hand and ordered him to step aside. "This is my work," he said, his voice was soft, though Lenora heard every word. His blue eyes searched out her face in the crowd. He nodded to her, "He dies at my word. He must die by my hand."

Lord Rickard bowed his head at that, "For that much, I thank you," he growled out. "But for nothing else." He was dressed for his death in a long black wool surcoat emblazoned with the white sunburst of his House. "The blood of the First Men flows in my veins as much as yours, boy. You would do well to remember that. I was named for your grandfather. I raised my banners against King Aerys for your father, and against King Joffrey for you. At Oxcross and the Whispering Wood and in the Battle of the Camps, I rode beside you, just as I stood with Lord Eddard on the Trident. We are kin, Stark and Karstark."

He was telling the truth of it. Lenora could still remember when her maester in King's Landing had told her about the Starks and the Karstarks. The Karstarks could trace their descent to Karlon Stark, a younger son of Winterfell who had put down a rebel lord a thousand years ago, and been granted lands for his valor. The castle he built had been named Karl's Hold, but that soon became Karhold, and over the centuries the Karhold Starks had become Karstarks.

They were kin.

Just as the boys Lord Rickard had murdered had been her kin.

"The kinship did not stop you from betraying me," Robb told him. "And it will not save you now. Kneel, my Lord."

"I do not want it to save me," Lord Rickard growled at him. "I want it to haunt you."

"Kneel, My Lord," Robb commanded when the man remained standing. "Or must I have them force you head onto the block?"

The man glared at him as he kneeled. "The Gods shall judge you," he warned. "Just as you have judged me." He laid his head on the block.

"Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold," Robb started as he lifted his sword with both hands. He turned to look at Lenora, steeling himself once more before his gaze lowered to the man in front of him. "Here in the sight of Gods and men, I judge you guilty of murder and high treason. In mine own name I condemn you. With mine own hand I take your life. Would you speak a final word?"

Lenora's chest tightened as Lord Rickard turned to glare at Robb, "Kill be and be cursed," he growled. "You are no king of mine."

The blade crashed down. Heavy and well-honed, it killed at a single blow, but it took three to sever the man's head from his body. And by the time it was done both living and dead were drenched in blood. Robb flung the sword down in disgust, his fist clenching once it was free of the sword.

He turned his back on the Heart Tree wordlessly and stormed away. Lenora took a step forward, meaning to follow him, but Catelyn caught her arm. "Best to leave him alone for now," she warned her, her blue eyes far away. Lenora wondered if Ned had been like this the first time he had executed a man. "He'll find you when he's ready."

That was the last she saw of her husband that day.

-.-.-.-.-

Jaime

His hand burned.

Still, still, long after they had snuffed out the torch they'd used to sear his bloody stump, days after. When he closed his eyes he could feel the fire burning its way up his arm, he could feel his fingers twisting in the flames. The fingers he no longer had. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he prayed.

But no matter what he felt the burn.

They tied his hand to a cord and hung around his neck. But at least they were kind enough to give him his own horse to ride to Harrenhal. Though kindness was not the reason. They enjoyed watching him fall off of it.

His throat was so raw that he could not eat, but he drank wine when they gave it to him, and water when that was all they offered. Once they handed him a cup and he quaffed it straight away, trembling, and Locke laughed, harsh and cruel, before he said, "That's horse piss you're drinking, Kingslayer." Jaime was so thirsty that he drank it anyway, but afterward he retched it all back up. They made Brienne wash the vomit out of his beard, just as they made her clean him up when he soiled himself in the saddle.

On the third night of their ride, he tried to fight.

He was riding beside Brienne, trying not to focus on the insult that they had bound the wench to her horse, but had not bothered to tie him to his. He was not a threat to them. He could feel her concerned eyes on him, but he did not look up. Instead he kept his chin down, his eyes focused on his hand as it bounced against his chest with each of the horse's steps.

"How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?" he heard one of the men ask. His companions laughed.

"It depends if he's had any practice," Locke answered. "Is that the sort of thing you and your sister go in for, Kingslayer?" he taunted, riding closer to Jaime. Jaime wouldn't look at him either. "Has she loosened you up for us?"

The men laughed louder as Locke rode away. Jaime closed his eyes, his world was going grey and spotty. He felt dizzy. He heard the wench beside him, she was yelling to their captors. "He's going to fall!" she announced. "He's going to fall off his horse, someone help him."

But the help did not come. And Jaime did fall, face first into a patch of mud. The men laughed as he tried to push himself up. On the first attempt, out of instinct, he tried to push with his right hand, his stump hit the ground and he almost passed out from the pain. The second attempt was better, he used his left hand and managed to push himself up into a kneeling position.

One of Locke's men approached him from behind and grabbed onto his right arm, yanking him to his feet. That was his mistake.

They may not have needed to bind him to his horse, they may have forced him to drink horse piss, and had the wench clean him up when he shit himself. But he had been the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. And the fool grabbed the arm that ended in a stump.

It was clumsy, when he reached for the sword handle, but successful. He pulled the sword from the sheath and stepped away from him, quick and unsteady, the sword wobbled in his hand as he tried to keep his grip on it. But he was weak. And he had never fought with his left hand. The sword felt heavy. Even to him.

One of Locke's men approached him and Jaime swung his sword. He met the man's swings with very little force, but at least he was able to keep his grip on his blade. For a moment he thought he saw fear in the man's eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone. He heard someone approaching from behind him so he turned to cross swords with him and his first attacker kicked him in the back and he fell to the mud again.

But still, he kept his hold on the sword.

"Stop!" the wench ordered them from her horse. "Stop it!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw her jump from her horse and attack one of Locke's men with a head butt. More men went to surround her and Jaime turned his back on her as he pushed himself to standing.

There were still two men with swords facing him. Let them kill me, he thought, so long as I die fighting, a blade in my hand.

But they did not try to kill him. They humiliated him instead. They took turns as he spun around to face each of them in turn, hitting his back with the flat sides of their swords. They did not fear him any more than he had feared Lenora when she was a young child.

They knocked him to the ground again. And this time, before he could stand up Locke kicked him in the stomach.

Once. Twice. Three times. Then he stood on his wrist, grinding the heel of his boot into Jaime's one working wrist until he let go of the sword in his hand. One more kick to his stomach and Locke turned around, heading back toward his horse. "That was amusing, Kingslayer," he threw out over his shoulder. "But if you do that again I will take your other hand." He called out to his men, telling them that they would make camp there that evening.

Jaime did not try to stand up. He rolled over onto his back and lay there, staring up at the night sky and trying not to feel the pain in his right arm every time he moved it, trying not to feel the shame of not being able to fight. The night was beautiful, in a strange and cruel way. The moon was a crescent in the sky and he was sure that he had never seen as many stars as he did now, laying in the mud with his severed hand tied around his neck. The King's Crown was at the zenith, and he could see the Stallion rearing, and there the Swan. The Moonmaid, shy as ever, was half-hidden behind a pine tree.

How can such a night be beautiful? he wondered to himself. Why would the stars want to look down on a man such as me?

"Jaime," Brienne whispered, making her way to his side. "Jaime, what are you doing?"

He voice sounded distant. Too far away. He wondered if he was going to faint again, he had done it before. Perhaps this time he would not wake up, perhaps this time the Gods would be kind and he would die. "Dying," he finally told her when he realized that she expected an answer.

"No," she told him. "No, you must live."

He wanted to laugh at her but he did not have the strength. "Stop telling me what to do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me."

"Are you so craven?" she asked him.

That shocked him enough that he opened his eyes. He was Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard, he was the Kingslayer. No man had ever called him craven. They whispered behind his back, made his greatest deed something shameful, but no one ever called him craven. They called him oathbreaker, liar, murderer; they said he was treacherous, reckless, cruel. But never craven.

"What else can I do, but die?" he asked her, turning his head to the side so that he could look at the wench's face.

"Live," she told him, her voice a hushed whisper. "Live and fight and take revenge."

Live. She made it sound so easy. But he had always been his sword hand. And now his sword hand was hanging around his neck, useless and rotting. What use was he? What was he? How could he live when the thing that made him him was no longer there? But the wench had the right of it. He could not die. Because he was not just a sword hand. He was a brother. And an uncle. Tyrion was waiting for him in King's Landing. And Lenora, somewhere in the North. He needed to bring her home. He had sworn an oath.

And his enemies were waiting too; the Young Wolf who had beaten him in the Whispering Wood, Edmure Tully who had kept him in the darkness and chains, and Locke and his men.

When morning came he made himself eat. Live, he told himself harshly. Live for Lenora, live for Tyrion. Live for vengeance. A Lannister always pays his debts. His missing hand throbbed and burned and stank. When I reach King's Landing I'll have a new hand forged, a golden hand, and one day I'll use it to rip out Locke's throat, he promised himself.

...

Locke wanted to make a show of parading him in, so Jaime was made to dismount a mile from the gates of Harrenhal. A rope was looped around his waist, a second around Brienne's wrists; the ends were tied to the pommel of Locke's saddle. They stumbled along side by side ahead of his horse.

It was his rage that kept him walking. The linen that covered the stump was grey and stinking with pus. But with every step he took he made himself a promise. He was stronger than these men, smarter than these men, he was still a Lannister. He would pay this debt back. With interest.

As they approached the clifflike walls of Black Harren's monstrous castle, Brienne reached out to squeeze his arm, "Lord Bolton holds this castle. The Boltons are bannermen to the Starks."

"The Boltons skin their enemies," Jaime told her, his voice flat. She could hope all she wanted, but the wench would not find kindness here.

They were made to kneel in front of Lord Roose Bolton, though Jaime did not remain on his knees for long. "Lord Bolton," Locke greeted the Lord of the Dreadfort when he approached them. "I give you the Kingslayer." And with one quick kick to the middle of Jaime's back Locke sent him face first into the mud of the courtyard.

"Pick him up, Locke," Lord Bolton ordered.

Jaime waited until Locke and one of his other men had pulled him back onto his knees and then he squinted up at Roose Bolton. "Can this be the Lord of the Dreadfort?" he asked, his tone taunting. "When last I heard, my father had sent you scampering off with your tail between your legs. When did you stop running, my Lord?"

Bolton's silence was a hundred times more threatening than anything Locke had told him on the ride to Harrenhal. Pale as morning mist, his eyes concealed more than they told. Jaime misliked those eyes. They reminded him of the day at King's Landing when Ned Stark had found him seated on the Iron Throne. The Lord of the Dreadfort finally pursed his lips and said, "You've lost a hand."

"No, My Lord," Locke chuckled, jerking Jaime to his feet and reaching out to tap his right hand. "He has it here."

Lord Bolton's jaw clenched and he moved forward toward Jaime quickly, ripping the hand from his neck and shoving it at Locke, "Take this away," he ordered.

"I'll send it to his father, then?" Locke asked, jeering at Jaime.

"You'll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it," Lord Bolton snapped before he turned, his pale eyes landing on Brienne. "And cut her free." His voice was quiet, but harsh. It smoothed out, got softer when he spoke to Brienne, "My apologies, my Lady," he told her as one of his men cut her bindings. "You are under my protection now."

"Thank you," Brienne told him, though her voice did not sound particularly grateful, "my Lord."

Bolton watched her as she stood up before he turned back to Jaime, though when he next spoke it was to his men, not Jaime. "Find suitable rooms for our guests," he ordered. Then he nodded to Jaime, the only indication that his neck statement was for him, "We'll talk later."

But Jaime could not wait until later. He had questions and he would have answers now. "What is the news?" he asked, risking a beating if Lord Bolton was displeased.

Lord Bolton had been walking away from him, but he stopped, pausing for a moment too long. Jaime was sure that he was going to keep walking away from him when the man turned and moved closer again. "Lord Karstark has taken his men from King Robb and sent them out to search for you," he told Jaime, his voice quick and soft. "But the Young Wolf has shortened him by a head for treason and murder. Your father remains in King's Landing. He will stay there till the new year when King Joffrey takes his bride from Highgarden."

"Winterfell," Brienne cut in, voicing the same confusion and surprise that Jaime felt. "You mean Winterfell. King Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark."

"No longer," Lord Bolton informed them. "The Battle of the Blackwater changed all. The rose and the lion joined there, to shatter Stannis Baratheon's host and burn his fleet to ashes."

"Is there any other news?" Jaime pressed, his voice urgent, he would take whatever Lord Bolton deigned to give him. "Word from my sister? From my brother? From my niece?"

"Your sister is well," Lord Bolton assured him. "As is your ... nephew." He paused before he said nephew, a pause that said I know. "Your brother also lives, though he took a wound in battle. And Queen Lenora has healed from her injuries at the Crag. She is at Riverrun now, with King Robb."

Jaime's eyebrows lifted at the word injuries. He had not known that Lenora had been injured. He wanted to ask more. He needed to know more. But it would seem that that was all he would get from Lord Bolton for now. He turned away from him, his lips pursed in thought. He beckoned to a dour northman and waited until the man approached, "I've changed my mind," he informed the man. "Escort Ser Jaime to Qyburn. And unbind this woman's hands." He waited until the rope between Brienne's hands had been slashed, "Once again, my Lady, I must ask your forgiveness. In such troubled times it is hard to know friend from foe."

"They took my sword," Brienne informed him, not quite comfortable with the idea of forgiving the men around her. "And my armor."

Lord Bolton waved her off, "You shall have no need of armor here, my Lady. In Harrenhal, you are under my protection." He looked at the men around him, "Find suitable rooms for the Lady and bring Ser Jaime to Qyburn at once," he ordered with the air of a man who was not used to having to ask for things twice.

This time his men listened to him.

-.-.-.-.-

Cersei

Her father had sent for her.

As much as she hated being sent for as if she were a young child, as if she were not the queen regent of the Seven Kingdoms, she was heartened by his message. He said that he had things he wished to discuss with her.

Perhaps she had gotten through to him when she had begged him to rely on her. Perhaps this was the beginning of it all.

She went straight to the Tower of the Hand, she would not make her father wait. He was seated at the head of his Council table, a piece of parchment in front of him when she arrived. "Ah, good," he said, looking up from his parchment when he heard her walking into the chamber. "You are here before Tyrion. I have some news to share with you."

It hurt her that her father had also sent for Tyrion. She had hoped that he would only trust her with his plans and schemes. But he had news that he wished to only share with her. "Is it about Jaime?" she asked as she sat down in the seat to his left.

Her father arched one eyebrow at her, "That news would involve Tyrion too, would it not?" he asked her, his voice harsh. Just as it had always been when she displeased him when she was a child. Cersei looked down at the table in front of her, shamed. Tywin sighed, "This news involves your daughter," he told her after a moment.

Cersei looked up sharply, forgetting her shame. "Lenora?" she asked, waiting for a silent nod from Tywin before she continued. "What has happened? Is she alright? She hasn't been murdered has she?" In her mind she was thinking of all the terrible things that could have happened to her daughter. The memory of when Joffrey admitted that he had paid a man to murder her was still fresh in her mind. She worried that he had tried again, and this time he had been successful. "I told Joff," she started before she cut herself off, afraid to tell her father what Joffrey had done.

Tywin did not ask. "She is alive," he told her, soothing her fears. "Nothing has happened. The fools in the North still call her Queen. Lady Sybell Westerling wrote that Lenora is quite safe at Riverrun, that the Stark boy has ordered two guards to follow her everywhere. She is constantly surrounded and it would seem more safe than we are in King's Landing. Robb Stark will not have her harmed if he has any say in the matter."

"Westerling?" Cersei asked, her brows furrowed. "But they surrendered to the boy. They swore allegiance and fealty to him. They -"

"And yet," Tywin interrupted her, tapping his index finger on the folded parchment in front of him, "she writes coded messages to her maester at the Crag who decodes them and sends them to me. I assure you, Cersei, the Westerlings are still loyal to House Lannister."

Cersei nodded, thinking over everything her father had told her. He said that he had news of Lenora, but all he had told her was that she was still alive. And safe, Robb had given her guards, even amongst his own men. He desperately wanted to keep her safe. "Is she with child?" she asked suddenly, thinking that would be the only reason the Stark boy would have given her guards. If she was carrying his child and the heir to the North he would want to make sure that she was safe until she birthed the child.

Tywin's smile was victorious, his chest even seemed to puff out a bit with pride, "She is not," he told her. "She has tea every afternoon with Lady Sybell, and Lady Sybell has assured me that she is not with child. And that she will not be with child."

"How can she know?" Cersei pressed, wondering what had her father so happy.

"Because each afternoon Lady Sybell pours Lenora a cup of Moon Tea," Tywin told her, chuckling at his words as if he had just told the funniest joke. "The Stark boy could try to get a baby on Lenora every hour of every day but as long as she continues to have afternoon tea with Lady Sybell nothing will ever come of it."

"So that's your big plan?" Cersei bit out, a bit angry that this was what her father had hid from her since returning to King's Landing. "To keep feeding her Moon Tea until the end of the war?"

"No," Tywin told her, his voice hard. He was no longer happy, he was angry at her for questioning his plan. "But Lady Sybell will keep feeding it to her until I can finalize my plan to get her out of there. All the pieces are beginning to fall into place, save one."

"So you do have a plan to bring her home?" Cersei pressed, she wanted to hear it. She wanted something to hold onto, to hope for until her daughter was back in King's Landing. "Tell me!" she ordered when her father did not speak.

Tywin shook his head, "You will know," he told her.

"When?" she pressed. She could hear footsteps in the hall outside the chamber. She was running out of time to learn her father's plan. "When will I know?"

"When it happens," Tywin told her as the doors swung open and Tyrion waddled into the room. "You're late," he told Tyrion, speaking louder than he had when he was speaking to Cersei alone.

"What's she doing here?" Tyrion asked, making no attempt to politely greet their father. Cersei could not help but grin, her father might not share his plans with her, but at least she knew that out of her and Tyrion he enjoyed her more than the little monster.

The same could not be said for Jaime.

"Our business concerns her too," Tywin told him. "Sit."

Tyrion sat. "You will be happy to know that after just one conversation with Olenna Tyrell I have saved the Crown hundreds of thousands on this wedding," he informed them, grinning like a small child who expected to be praised for doing what was expected of him.

"Never mind that now," Tywin ordered. "We have something more important to discuss."

"I'm the Master of Coin," Tyrion told them. "Saving money is important." He turned to Cersei, "Stop that, you're making me uncomfortable," he ordered. It was only then that Cersei realized that she had been smiling at her brother. She had not expected him, but now that they were both there and her father had no news of Jaime she could only think of one thing.

Perhaps her father had listened to her when she brought him proof of the Tyrell's plots regarding Sansa Stark. And if it involved Tyrion, she was sure it would be good.

"Your sister has informed me that the Tyrells plot to marry Sansa Stark to their boy, Loras," Tywin informed Tyrion. Cersei's smile grew wider. She had been right. And she had proved useful to her father.

It felt good.

"She's a lovely girl," Tyrion said, leaning back in his chair. "Missing some of Loras' favorite bits, but I'm sure they'll make do."

"Your jokes are not appreciated," Tywin snapped at him. "I bring them into the royal fold and this is how they repay me. By attempting to steal the key to the North right out from under me."

"Sansa is the key to the North?" Tyrion asked. "I seem to remember she has an older brother. An older brother married to our girl."

Cersei grinned, Yes, she thought. But our girl will not give him an heir. Now she saw why her father had been so happy about the Moon Tea. He would not share his plan with her, but it appeared to be working.

"The Karstarks have marched home," Tywin told Tyrion, as if it were news to him. "Half the Frey's too. The Young Wolf has lost half his army, his days are numbered. Theon Greyjoy has killed his two younger brothers. Provided that Lenora stays without child that would make Sansa Stark's children the heirs to Winterfell. I am not about to hand her over to the Tyrells."

"The Tyrell army is helping us win this war," Tyrion pointed out. "Do you really think it's wise to refuse them?"

"There's nothing to refuse," Tywin told him. "This is a plot. Not public knowledge. They had not spoken of this plan to many. And they won't, not until after the wedding, when their daughter is on the throne and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." He shook his head, "They won't act until it is Margaery, not us, who controls Joffrey," he continued, speaking more to himself than his children. "We need to act quickly. To nip this in the bud."

"And how will we do that?" Tyrion asked.

"We find Sansa Stark a different husband," Tywin told Tyrion as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And it was. Cersei could not understand how her brother had not gotten it yet. He claimed to be so smart.

"Wonderful," Tyrion said sarcastically, no doubt wondering why he had been put on the council to find Sansa Stark a new husband.

But he was not the council, he was the husband. "Yes it is," Cersei sneered at him, turning to grin at him. Watching as the realization hit him. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, and then they got impossibly wide as he glanced quickly between Cersei and their father. He chuckled to himself as if he thought it was a joke.

And it was a joke.

A joke on him.

And a joke on Sansa Stark.

"You can't mean it," he said, his voice flat as he turned to stare at their father.

"I can and I do," Tywin told him.

Cersei laughed to herself. Tyrion glared at her, "Joffrey has made this poor girl's life miserable since the moment he took her father's head. Now she's finally free of him and you give her to me? That's cruel. Even for you!"

"Do you plan on mistreating her?" Tywin asked. "Do you plan on humiliating her? Do you plan on making her life miserable?" He shook his head, "The girl's happiness is no concern of mine, nor should it be one of yours."

"She's a child!" Tyrion yelled at him.

"She's flowered, I assure you," Cersei told him, rolling her eyes. "She and I have discussed it at length."

"There," Tywin agreed with a nod, though he had not been privy to those conversations. "She's as much a woman as the whore you brought into your bed when I sent you here. You will wed Sansa Stark. You will bed Sansa Stark. And you will put a child in Sansa Stark. Surely you are capable of that?"

"And if I refuse?" Tyrion asked, his ugly eyes dating between Tywin and Cersei.

"You wanted to be rewarded for your valor in battle," Tywin sneered at him. "Sansa Stark is a better reward than you could have dared hope for. And it is past time that you were wed."

"I was wed," Tyrion interrupted.

"To a whore," Cersei sneered. She leaned forward in her chair, "You should be thanking the Gods for this, little brother," she told him. "This is more than you deserve."

"Tyrion will do as he's bid," Tywin assured her. Cersei laughed to herself, she could not wait to see the day when Tyrion and Sansa were married. The girl would have a heart attack. "As will you," her father added.

She shifted in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable. "What do you mean?" she asked, her eyes darting to her father's face.

"The Tyrell's want another wedding," Tywin told her, his eyes hard and cruel. "You will marry Ser Loras."

Cersei was mortified. She could feel Tyrion's gaze on her, but she refused to look away from her father. This had been a fun game while they were discussing Tyrion marrying someone against his will. But it was no longer fun. Her father had forced her to marry someone before, she was no longer a little girl. She was no longer his to order around. She was Queen Regent. She shook her head, "I will not," she told her father. She had hoped that her voice would sound strong and firm, but it came out shaky and embarrassingly weak.

"He is heir to Highgarden," Tywin pointed out. "Tyrion will secure the North and you will secure the Reach."

"I will not," Cersei tried again.

"Yes you will," Tywin ordered her. "You are still fertile. You need to marry again and breed."

Breed? That word sent rage coursing through her veins. "I am Queen Regent," she snapped at her father. "Not some brood mare -"

"You are my daughter!" Tywin thundered at her. "You will do as I say and you will marry Loras Tyrell. And put an end to those disgusting rumors about you once and for all."

They're not rumors, she wanted to tell him. And it was not disgusting. But that was not the way to win this argument. She dropped her gaze from his face to the table. One moment insolent, the next shamed. "Father," she begged. "Please don't make me do this again."

"Not another word," Tywin roared, slapping his hand against the table top as he stood up. "My children," he sneered, glancing between both Cersei and Tyrion. "You've both disgraced the family name for far too long."

He left them then. And Cersei, broken hearted for herself, glanced up at her brother. They were feeling the same pain. She had delighted in it when it seemed that only Tyrion would be punished with a marriage that he did not want. But once again her father had stolen her joy too.

She wondered if she would ever be of an age where her father could not order her around like one of his servants.

Author's Note:

It seems to be good luck for the Cavs when I post during game time. So here I am watching the game on my couch surrounded by cats and posting a new chapter.
And the Cavs are up by thirteen!
Maybe it's you guys that are the good luck?
Anyway, happy Sunday friends! I hope you've had a great day.
And I hope that you enjoyed this chapter!
If you did ... let me know. Reveiws make me really happy during my work weeks!
HUGE thank you to those who reviewed yesterday's chapter. You are wonderful!

writingNOOB: But Karstark's right too. I think this is where Robb lost the North. Everyone says it's when he broke his vow to marry a Frey girl, but with the Karstarks he might have been okay. He lost half his army in a night. He's honorable and that's why I love him, but a smarter man would have kept Karstark alive. Even if he is a bastard.

ZabuzasGirl: Thank you! Here's your new update!

Archangel Igneel: I completely agree with you. This is where he lost the North. His biggest mistake. And still a mistake in this story. The first time I read the chapter when he killed Karstark I was so angry at Robb. Because it was the biggest mistake he could have made. But I've come to love it.
Because he's his father's son. Ned wouldn't have died if he had decided not to do the honorable thing in warning Cersei that he knew the truth of her children. Robb wouldn't have died if he had decided not to do the honorable thing in executing Rickard Karstark for his crime. But the Stark men died because ... they were too good for the world.
I love that response! It's wonderful!

RHatch89: Thank you! Hope this one is just as awesome!

Janaoliver: Thank you! I hope that you enjoyed this chapter as well!

HPuni101: Thank you dear! Hope this chapter did not disappoint!

That's all I've got for now guys. But thank you for all your support. You are completely wonderful!
See you back here soon!
Chloe Jane.