King of Winter

by X.x.Try.Defying.Gravity.x.X

Eddard Stark has escaped & been proclaimed King in the North. He never expected an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, to leave one daughter behind married to the most cruel King in an age, and to betroth a son to Myrcella Baratheon in attempt to stop a war already begun. The Iron Throne isn't be comfortable to sit, but Eddard thinks the Throne of the North might just be worse.

4. Moon Three (New)

A/N: I've updated the playlist. New songs are bolded and at the end of the list. Thank you to Monkey Kix Ass for reviewing last chapter!

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Moon Three (Waxing)

Our Saving Grace

Strange cloth against skin that felt naked and chilled without fur. Senses that seemed dulled, an alarming sensation indeed — half deaf practically, and all the smells are missing. Weird front paws — long toes and a functional dew claw that all worked both independently and together. But they felt too weak to walk upon. Strange center of gravity. Two instead of four. Strange mind unfamiliar, expansive, thoughts overwhelming, cramming in, almost enough to make her draw back in distaste. But if she goes away, she will not be able to protect her Pack. She has no body of her own any longer, so there is only this. It's a little easier to manage during sleep when there are less thoughts. It will serve, she supposes.

Sansa woke with a gasp like coming up from under deep water. She bolted from the bed and was standing in the center of the room before she was even quite fully aware and blinked as the cold of the lonely, far-away chamber in Maegor's Holdfast seeped into her bones and reminded her of everything. She went back to bed.

The sensation of being watched was stronger than ever tonight. She dreamed of that sensation, but the dream was shifting. It was as if the watching was coming from within herself, which made even less sense than if there had been a guard posted inside her room rather than in the hallway. The guards in the hallway were Lannister guards, and somehow she didn't feel as easy as she had when she was in the Tower of the Hand with Fat Tom outside her door.

She wondered where her father was and if he was okay. 'He'll be okay. As long as he does all of the things the Queen and Joffrey tell him to do. As long as he does everything he's supposed to, we'll be okay." It had become almost like a mantra that she repeated over and over to herself now.

Joffrey had promised he would be merciful, and Joff was good and kind, and she would marry him and they would have children with his golden hair and her blue eyes and live happily here in King's Landing. And the Wall wasn't such a bad fate. Perhaps her father could even like it there. After all, the Black Brothers defended the North — the whole of Westeros — against the Wildlings. He would find happiness in defending the North. And her father was a strong soldier. He would be an asset to the Watch. Jon was there and so was Uncle Benjen. And Arya, well, Arya could bloody well go back North. Sansa would send her back up North when she was queen. Arya wouldn't complain. She hadn't wanted to come to King's Landing in the first place, and Sansa didn't want her here. She ruined everything. Arya was the reason Lady was dead. If she would have just behaved herself for once and ridden in the wheel house like she was supposed to and not played with that vile butcher's boy and fought with Joff then Lady would be fine. Sansa would be able to bring Bran to court or maybe even to the Citadel and all the arch-maesters could look at him and maybe they could fix his legs so he could be a knight after all. She could snuggle baby Rickon. And she could see her Mother again. Everything would be fine if Father would just see reason! And he would. She knew he would. Father was wise. Yes, he'd been wrong about wanting to send her and Arya back to the North on the Wind Witch and break her betrothal to Joffrey, which was why she'd reached out for the Queen's help, but he'd been right about most everything else.

Lady. Sansa still dreamed of Lady. She dreamed of her almost every night, but dreams weren't the same as if Lady could really be there with her. But when she dreamed of Lady, she felt safe and happy. During the dreams, she felt a strong connection with Lady. Inexorably, the dreams had been getting stronger somehow, as if the connection was growing. But that was just because Sansa missed her more. She sighed and crawled from her bed and went to her trunk. She knelt and opened it and then began to paw carefully through all of her dresses until she reached her small clothes. She reached inside one pair and carefully withdrew two things.

First, there was the doll her father had given her. She felt bad for telling him she was too old for dolls; he'd just been trying to make her happy. She clutched the doll to her chest. Then, she removed a small pouch — white with grey embroidery she'd done herself — the Stark Direwolf and words on one side and a silvery scene of winter knows with Winterfell in the background on the other. It had taken weeks. She had made it a few years ago, and she still remembered how Septa Mordane had praised it.

She pulled the string at the top and reached inside. She took out a generous length of grey fur tied tightly together with a golden ribbon. Lady's fur and a ribbon the color her eyes had been. Sansa brought the fur to her nose. It still smelled like Lady somehow. Her father had cut it and given it to her before he sent Lady's body home to Winterfell to be buried. She would have like to have worn the little pouch beneath her clothes, always. She couldn't, though. She dare not give the Lannisters a chance to find it now. When she'd been moved into Maegor's, she'd carefully hidden the pouch where no one would find it. Late at night, when she was sure no one would bother her, she would take the pouch out and hold Lady's fur against her heart.

"I wish you could be with me in life like you are in my dreams." She whispered, biting her cheek to try not to cry. "You would make things better, wouldn't you?"

She sighed and carefully put everything back in her trunk and then went back to bed. There was no point at staying awake at this hour. Even so, it took quite some time before she drifted into a fitful sleep again.

And when she was finally asleep, it was to dream again of Lady. Though, this dream was not as strange as some of the ones she had had. In some of them she had dreamed as if she herself was lady, and that was disconcerting. This was better. This time she was at Winterfell in the Godswood with Lady at her side. Only now, Lady was big. She was as big she should have been by now and her face had evened out to have less of a 'puppy' look. She looked more like a young adult female wolf now. Though the growth rate of direwolves was much different than for normal wolves, so that wasn't surprising. She had already been almost the size of a regular wolf when. 'No, don't think of it," She chastised herself. Nothing good would come of dwelling on Lady's death. But there lady was before her, a young teenage direwolf. She was beautiful. She came to nuzzle under Sansa's chin the way she used to do as a pup and realized she had to practically kneel down to make that work. Instead, she leaned over and mussed Sansa's hair with a gentle mouth. Sansa wrapped her arms around Lady's neck and buried her face in Lady's pelt as her tears came, unbidden as they were.

"My Sansa, I am with you. Your father did what he must to keep you and Arya safe. I do not begrudge you. I am with your family and you have my love and protection to what useless extent I can give it without a physical form." Lady said, nuzzling against Sansa's cheek even though Sansa didn't let go of her or stop crying.

The truly odd thing was… the wolf was not speaking. Her mouth was not moving. And Lady had never 'spoken' like that before. And Sansa became aware of something different. She was hearing the voice from within her own mind. Her heart pounded and she realized it was not just the voice. There was a presence in her mind. She was not alone within herself. It felt queer but yet not disconcerting.

"No, it's my fault. I should have told the truth. I didn't want to get Joffrey in trouble. He's.. He's … nice he just has… a temper sometimes is all. I didn't think…" Sansa was near hysterical with tears. "I'm so sorry, Lady."

The wolf wrapped her neck around Sansa's body and used one grey paw to simply push Sansa up against her chest. She batted her as effortlessly as a cat bats a mouse, and yet Sansa was not afraid. "Listen to me, my Sansa. It is not your fault. You did not know. You could not have known. You were not brought up in a world of cruelty as can be found at court. This world is not like Winterfell. You made an honest mistake. It takes a great deal of courage to protect someone we love. You care for Joffrey and you were worried about him. And Nymeria is my sister, but she should have known better — even protecting Arya, she need not have been so fierce."

Sansa swallowed, tears still coming out in gasps that made her hiccup. "I do love Joffrey; I do, I do that's why I've done everything I've done!"

"I know, my sweet Sansa. Love is a precious gift, and you have a heart which can give much love. Never lose it." But her voice in Sansa's head was getting a little fainter now, and Sansa was feeling tired even though she was dreaming and a little light headed besides.

"Lady?"

"I can't stay much longer, but you need to know that hard things are about to happen, but it will be okay. You must not lose your faith in the goodness that is in the world."

"But.. But.. You'll.. You'll be there right!? Now that you can talk to me! Where are you going? Lady!?" But the wolf was growing paler and farer away.

"It takes… much energy…" but Lady's voice in Sansa's mind was so far away she wasn't even sure she had heard her correctly. It didn't make sense anyway. What took much energy? And when Lady had disappeared from her she was crying all over again and all the more.

When she woke up the tears on her cheeks were real and she was tangled in her sheets. Her hair was a frightful mess. She did not understand what had happened. Lady had been inside her head. But that was a dream. Dreams aren't real. Dreams are just figments of the imagination. Once Maester Luwin had talked about greenseers, but those had died out a long time ago, and she certainly wasn't one of those. It was just a dream. Just a dream. She told herself again and again. But it felt like the most real dream she had ever had in all her life. The vivid color, the sensations, it made her mind all muddled and confused. Seeing Lady and losing her again was worse. Sansa got up and went to retrieve the fur cutting and brought it back to bed with her to hold against her heart as she tried in vain to calm herself down.

Eddard Stark had played the Game of Thrones and lost. He had failed Robert and his family both. All for his precious honor. He had allowed Cersei the chance to leave with her children, and by so doing he had tipped his hand. Then, Little Finger had betrayed him. Everything had gone spectacularly wrong to be sure.

He had never truly been able to envision how being in a dungeon could make a man go mad until now. The darkness was absolute, the rushes on the floor reeked of urine — or perhaps that was the chamber pot that had not been emptied since he had first been brought here. There were no windows, and the utter darkness and silence — silence all except for the crying and moaning of dying men in cells — was almost more than he could bear. Then, there was the business of his leg. At one point, it had been properly tended to, but he was quite sure that had been ruined. His cast was filthy and smelt horribly of rot, the leg no longer looked straight, and the pain was so intense it took his breath away every time he moved his leg even slightly. He wavered between feeling hot with old memories running through his mind that he had no reason to think of now and feeling so cold he could hardly bear it. That meant he had a fever.

And then there had been Varys. Damn him. Admit to treason he never committed, take the black, but save Sansa's life. His own life was not worth the ruination of his honor, but Sansa. Sansa his sweet baby girl. And when Varys had left him alone in the dark again, Ned smashed his fist against the rocks in the wall so hard he saw stars and crushing pain resonated through every fiber of his being. Sacrifice his honor or see Sansa die. What choice did he have, really?

So, here he found himself on the steps of Baelor's Sept prepared to make a confession to a treason he had never committed hoping it would save at least one of his children. The tolling of the bells sounded like a dirge whether it was meant to be or not. To either side of him were gold cloaks; as if they expected him to be able to run in his current condition? Eddard was haggard and exhausted. He had lost a stone maybe even two, and he had been a lean man before that. His leg was in terrible shape. He had had very little to drink. He could barely stand. Really, the gold cloaks were holding him up more than anything.

He looked and saw a knot of high lords. Joffrey was there, of course, arrayed in crimson Lannister colors and wearing a crown. Cersei wore mourning, but even her black dress was slashed with crimson. The Hound was wearing the white cloak bestowed upon him. Eddard could still remember when he had taken the cloak but refused the knighthood, and his lips curved very slightly at the corners. Varys (damn him) was there and so was Little Finger who had betrayed him.

Bile rose in his throat, and Ned could not look at Petyr Baelish without wanting to fight loose of the gold cloaks and go slam a fist into Petyr's smug face. Whatever love he had once borne for Catelyn was clearly gone now. 'Or, perhaps he was simply getting me out of the way by sending me to the wall while he took my wife,' Ned thought bitterly to himself.

None of that was the worst. The worse was Sansa. She wore a dress of sky-blue silk and had her auburn hair done in the style of the court. She looked safe and well-cared for. Perhaps his untrue admission of guilt would be worth something for true, then. But, it was still not something he wished his eldest daughter to witness — him giving away his honor and his truth to try to keep her safe. He had no other choice, so he spoke.

At first, his voice was so hoarse from disuse that he could barely be heard. He had to clear his throat and try again. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King." The bitterness of those last words was not lost on him. He had never wanted this. He had agreed because Robert was his friend, but now Robert was dead and he was friendless and alone at his moment of greatest need. Perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps he should have said no to Catelyn when she had encouraged him to accept. It was too late for should haves and maybes, though.

He forced himself to go on. "I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men." It took every bit of self control he had to keep his voice from shaking, though whether it was in sadness, anger, or an abject sense of betrayal, he wasn't sure anymore. "I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

It took all the self control Eddard Stark had ever had to utter those words. It made him feel sick at the lies, at the loss of his honor — though what had his precious honor done for him so far anyway? Then, things seemed to happen in slow motion as a rock came sailing out of the crowd and struck him full in the face, its sharp edge cutting into his skin. He could feel the warmth of his blood trickling from the deep gash on his temple. The impact of rock on skin and bone was cringe-worthy, but far worse was the fact that it had made him instinctively pull back; that had moved his leg. A cry of agony clawed its way up his throat. Black swam at the corners of his vision from the pain in his leg, but he fought it.

He could see he was not the only one being attacked. The Kingsguard had moved in front of Joffrey and Cersei to protect them. No surprise that not a soul moved to protect him, not that it much mattered at this point. Not much at all mattered at this point. His shame was full on his face, and it was perhaps the worst punishment Eddard Stark could have ever endured.

Through his pain, he was aware of the High Septon kneeling before Joffrey and the Queen. Most of his words just felt like a buzzing in Ned's ears after the hit with the rock, but he did make out "The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?" Then, all Ned had to do was wait for the pronouncement that would take him from his family forever — all but Jon, but that was good enough. At least he would have Jon. But Catelyn. The other children. The thought of rarely, if ever, seeing all of them again filled him with a kind of grief he had never before felt.

Through the haze of pain both emotional and physical, he heard Joffrey speaking, but he barely had it in him to care what the boy playing at king had to say. They had already taken everything away he had to live for: his honor, his family, Winterfell. And he had been foolish to think he could keep Sansa safe. She belonged to Cersei now, whether she realized it or not.

"My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father."

Eddard turned sharply to see the face of his daughter, who was smiling. She was so beautiful, so precious. His heart swelled to see her. He knew she was far from safe, but the smile on her face and the spark of hope in her Tully blue eyes — so much like Catelyn's — was enough for him right now. He could not speak to her now, but Ned hoped Sansa felt his love for her through his gaze.

But then Joffrey was speaking again. "They have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished."

Was not taking the Black punishment?

"Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" Joffrey exclaimed.

It all happened too fast for Eddard to truly react, to even try to flee. And he would not have even so. At the very least he could die with dignity. He would not run — could not have run even if he had been so inclined. The agony in his leg was intense. The noise of the crowd in his ears was a roar; somehow, above it all, he heard a hideous keening that he recognized as Sansa screaming.

In that moment, he would have done anything to get to her, but found himself being thrown to the marble by the gold cloaks such that his head and chest hung out over the step. There would be no headsman's block or final words for him, it appeared. He did not know what he would have said anyway. He did not know if there was anything to be said. Perhaps he could have reminded Sansa that he loved her and he was proud of her, but how far would those words go? Was she still angry with him for trying to send her and Arya away to safety?

Eddard caught a glimpse of Sansa for just a moment. He almost wished he had not, though that probably made him a coward along with the list of other crimes he had apparently committed. Sansa had fallen to the ground sobbing hysterically as she clutched at Joffrey's breeches. He shrugged her off hard and sent her reeling back on the cold marble the way one would swat at a troublesome fly while he looked at the King's Justice approaching him. Ilyn Payne. Eddard got a glimpse of him as his stomach churned violently. In Payne's hands was Ice. It was so cruel he might have laughed. He was to be beheaded with his house's own ancestral sword. And so he laid still and waited for death.

Sansa's body slammed into the cold, hard marble and blood filled her mouth from biting her tongue. Sobs tore from her body with a forcefulness she had never before felt. No, No, No! She was blinded by her tears and the anguish in her chest overcame her. She wanted to cry out, to scream her father's name but all that came out was a hideous sound she couldn't even be sure was coming from her at all. She wanted to grab for Joffrey again, but he had moved away from her and an iron grip held her still, forcing her back to her feet. She didn't even know who had pulled her back to her feet, nor did she care. She was beyond caring about anything at this moment. She was blinded by her tears, and maybe that was a good thing. She knew she needed to turn away; she knew she should not watch, but it was like a horror in front of her eyes that she could not escape. She was frozen, unable to move as the King's Justice raised Ice over his head.

"I can't stay much longer, but you need to know that hard things are about to happen, but it will be okay. You must not lose your faith in the goodness that is in the world."

"But.. But.. You'll.. You'll be there right!? Now that you can talk to me! Where are you going? Lady!?" But the wolf was growing paler and farer away.

The memory came somehow, unbidden and unexpected. It felt so long ago: It belonged to another lifetime. Was this what Lady had meant? How could she not lose faith that there was goodness in the world? Her father was about to die for a crime that Sansa knew, deep in her heart, he never would have committed. No matter what she might know she needed to say to make the Queen happy, her father would never have betrayed Robert, his friend. Even if he was a mean, drunk old man.

'Lady, help! Please!'

She did not know where the unbidden thought had come from, but it resonated through her mind with the force of swords colliding in battle. It filled her. No, the words were not filling her. It was like a presence was within her, growing larger and larger and too much for her body to hold. The energy of it made her stagger despite that she was being held. She felt as if her head was going to explode. There was something inside her mind, inside her very skin.

Humans. The amount of them was staggering. The degree to which her senses were accosted, overwhelmed, was nearly too much for her. She was trying, oh she was trying because Sansa needed her! She would do anything for her sweet Sansa. She was part of Sansa just as Sansa was part of her, and the pain that resonated inside Lady from within Sansa was of such an intensity that Lady was not sure how to bear it. She had to bear it. She had no choice. She needed to act if she was to help her mistress. She summoned all of the energy she could take from Sansa, using it as Sansa fell prone to the ground, her body belonging, now, to Lady. The wolf hoped she had not hurt Sansa too much in taking her, but there was no time to waste, no time to explain, only time to act if she was to save Eddard.

Later, Sansa would not remember seeing what happened. The last thing she would remember was crashing to the ground despite gold cloaks holding her by the arms.

Eddard was waiting for the end to come.

Over the years, he had passed a number of death sentences and, holding to the beliefs of the North, had carried through with those executions. He wondered if the Old Gods or perhaps Catelyn's Stranger would come for him quickly and take him to whatever awaited them after this life was over. He wondered if he would be united with his father, Brandon, and Lyanna. He hoped so. He wondered if it would hurt, though he could bear pain — his leg was a testament to that. He wondered if it would be brief. From his peripheral vision, Eddard saw the flash off Ice's dark, rippling Valyerian steel as Ilyn Payne raised it above his head. Instinctively his eyes closed as the blade fell.

Summoning Sansa's energy to such a degree came with a power Lady had not felt since her mortal body was taken from her, and it was exhilarating! She could feel that she was almost real, almost. She had never manifested to this degree. She gathered her energy within her haunches as she surged forward from Sansa and leapt high into the air, paws lifting from the ground, pelt rising from skin as wind flew past her and rippled over her fur and brought all the scents of the crowd to accost her nose. In Sansa's head, she had always experienced muted human senses but not now. Not now! It was almost like she was herself.

Cersei, later, would tell Jaime she had never experienced anything like this. That she would have believed she was going mad except for the fact that every person who had come to Baelor's Sept that day, in the thousands, to the summoning of the bells, had seen the same thing Cersei had seen, was seeing now. Of course, their accounts of it were all different and all kinds of mixed up, but they could no more deny what they had all seen than she could.

First, there was Sansa falling to the ground. Cersei had only noticed that because of the shifting of the gold cloaks, and she had thought perhaps Sansa had fainted. Really, that was for the best. The girl should not see her father die. Cersei herself was still trying to process what had even happened. They had all agreed about what would happen. Eddard Stark would take the Black. Without that they had no recompense to get Tyrion back, and while Cersei might have been happy to let her hated little brother stay in the clutches of Catelyn Stark, he was still a Lannister and it would not serve. Therefore, when Joffrey had proclaimed Eddard Stark's death sentence, Cersei had reacted in something between disbelief and horror. She was not the only one. The small council was surging around her son, but he only held up his royal hand and would not hear them, calling for Ilyn Payne to bring him Eddard's head. Despite being Queen Regent, she somehow found herself unable to open her mouth though she might try. Everything was happening too fast for her to process or intervene much as she might wish.

Suddenly, something that felt as forceful as a leaping body came hurtling through the crowd, buffeting people and knocking them aside as she passed — including Cersei herself. She only barely managed to stay on her feet to see that the creature leaping through the air was something that looked like it belonged in a fairytale rather than in life.

It was a direwolf. No, it was the shade of a direwolf. It was wrought in silver light of its own making — glowing, shimmering. The light of the creature still showed its grey coloring, in a slightly muted fashion giving way to the light as if the body was only semi-solid. The only thing not basked in the silver glow was the creature's eyes: those were perfectly amber gold just as they had been in life. Lady. It took Cersei a moment to recognize because the shade was the size the wolf should have been had she lived… Had Cersei not demanded her destroyed in place of Nymeria. Something low in her stomach twisted. Fear.

The wind of the jumping creature ruffled its pelt visibly as it leapt boldly into the air, soaring forward, its shimmering pool of light following, surrounding it everywhere it — no she — Lady — moved. Cersei's green eyes probably could not have been any wider than they were just now.

The direwolf slammed into Eddard's prone body nearly pushing him off the edge of the steps with the force of her landing. There was not a sound of the wolf crashing into him, but Eddard's body moved, twisted, sunk, pushed forward almost over the step, exactly the way it would if a real creature of the size landed upon him. Eddard's hands scrabbled for purchase as the air was knocked out of him even as he tried to look over his shoulder, grey eyes widening in disbelief.

Ilyn Payne was so shocked that, though he could not check his swing, it was botched, a poor swing that was nowhere near Eddard Stark's head. In fact, the swing did not reach the man at all. Instead, Ice fell through the air and cut deep, so very deep into the shimmering pelt of the direwolf, passing all the way through to the other side, rending her body nearly in half. No blood spilled from the Shade, and no sound came from her either. It was the expression that would haunt the mind for eternity. The wolf's mouth mouth opened in what surely would have been a howl of pure and absolute agony, her golden eyes showing the whites — more like opaque silver now — and then closing. Her teeth clashed together as her muzzle closed, every muscle tightening, slather running from her lips. A shudder ran from her head, down her flanks, through her legs and into the tail tucked beneath her.

No one heard or even saw Ice clatter to the marble steps and go spinning out of the hands of the King's Justice completely, landing at the feet of the High Septon who jumped backward as if he had been branded. Swords were not for clergy.

Then, the direwolf seemed to dematerialize before their very eyes, disappearing into a last shimmer of light. Eddard Stark's hands were clenching into the stone so hard his knuckles and fingertips had turned white, and his shoulders were wracked with panting breaths as he slowly turned himself onto his back to look up at the utter chaos going on around him. No gold cloaks moved to hold him down, but they didn't have to. Ned didn't think he could have moved even if he had wanted to. All the air was knocked out of him. He couldn't sit, couldn't speak, could barely draw breath. A pattern of hideous purple bruising was already making its way up his side; though he hadn't seen it yet, he could feel it. — broken or bruised ribs to join the mangled broken leg — that hurt too. Black swam before his eyes, but he fought it. A memory wove its way through his mind unbidden.

'Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.' And I killed Sansa's. What folly have I done?

At first, there was a deafening silence amongst the crowd of thousands gathered at the steps of Baelor's Sept. Cersei had never heard a crowd so stunningly silent. She would have believed it impossible if she were not witnessing it for herself. Then, as suddenly as the silence began, it ended and the crowd burst into a clangor louder than a murder of crows. She struggled to pick any individual pieces out of the conversations. Eventually, Cersei was able to piece together various strands of thought.

They were telling each other what they had seen — or thought they had seen — as if to confirm they had not all shared some mass hallucination. "It was a wolf," "No, a direwolf," "It was neither wolf nor direwolf. No, at least not merely that. That was no natural creature." "A monster." "A shade," said others. "The ghost of a creature that did not physically exist. Yet, it had wrought that." "A sign," said others. "A punishment from the Gods for trying to spill blood on a holy place, I tell you." Some of the people in the crowd surged backward, leaving as quickly as the mass of observers would give them up. A few screamed. Some merely took it for a sign. One thing was for sure and certain, a thousand accounts about what had taken place at the Sept of Baelor that day had already made the rounds of King's Landing by evenfall that very day. The rumors were sufficient to keep the tongues of King's Landing's denizens wagging for well over a fortnight.

From over the crowd, Cersei heard Joffrey's whining voice "I told you to bring me his head, and I want it! I want it NOW. I will have the traitor's head on a spike immediately! I am the King!"

Before Cersei could even begin to respond to that immature and infuriating display of immaturity, she heard a rough "Fuck that! She needs attention!"

The Queen turned to see Sansa Stark in the arms of the Hound. At a glance, she could see Clegane was correct. The girl's face was as white as a sheet, ashen around her lips and eyes, and she was deathly still. Cersei's breath froze for a second. Seven hells this day was not going well! "Is she…?"

"Breathing. Barely," the Hound barked in a harsh voice.

"Maester Pycelle, see to her," Cersei snapped in something between irritation and exhaustion, though the doddering old maester was already on his way toward them. The way Sansa's head fell over the Hound's arm reminded her uncomfortably of something that was dead. That had never been Cersei's intent. Seven bloody hells, killing Eddard Stark had certainly not been her intent either, and that must woulds lead to a conversation with her son that Cersei was not looking forward to in the least.

"What will you have done with him, your grace?" one of the gold cloaks asked, kicking Eddard in the broken leg, which caused his face to pale to grey even though he did not make a sound, only twisted his lips together more firmly and screwing his eyes shut, jaw clenched.

"Mother! I said I wanted his head! I will have his head! Ser Ilyn finish what you started! What kind of an incompetent King's Justice are you if you cannot even properly complete a beheading. Give me that." He reached for Ice, but Payne pulled it back away from him. "I will have it! I will take his head myself!"

"Stop! Stop this, now!" Cersei's voice was low and dangerous, as cutting as Ice's blade. "I will not have you making a fool of yourself in front of the whole of King's Landing. Go with Ser Meryn, and I will see to you later." Joffrey opened his mouth to protest, but Cersei cut him off. "I will not suffer you acting with the maturity of an infant, Joffrey. Go. Now. I am still your mother, and I am the Queen Regent and you will stop having this fit right now. Be gone from my sight!" Cersei was shaking with utter fury as she watched Trant bodily remove Joffrey.

When she turned, she saw that the Hound was still holding Sansa in his arms. She looked between he and Pycelle. "Well, I suppose you had better go as well." She was quite aware that Maester Pycelle was not strong enough to carry even a relatively small young woman.

"And what's to be done with the traitor?" asked Boros Blount, taking the moment to give Eddard a sharp kick in the side that Eddard was sure would leave him pissing blood for days. He gritted his teeth to keep a scream of agony from leaving his lips and managed it — barely.

'Seven hells! Do I have to be responsible for absolutely everything?' Cersei wondered. And, for the millionth time since Jaime had left the city after the melee in the streets, Cersei wished so very desperately he was here with her. Then, she wouldn't have to do everything alone. But he wasn't there and she did have to, and that was just the way it was. "Take him back to the black cells. I'll deal with it later."

Finally, she looked down to the still numerous crowd beneath her. "Well, why are you still here? This mummer's farce is over. Be off with all of you!" she exclaimed, the wrath evident in her voice. The crowd scattered like rats looking for cover when they were suddenly exposed. Cersei turned on her heel in a whirl of black and crimson silk.

She returned to Maegor's and into her bedchamber where she sat and put her aching head in her hands. There was a stabbing in her temples that she could have likened to a Grumpkin coming out of her skull with a pickaxe. The morning had been perhaps one of the most stressful she'd had in any recent memory. She wished she had time for a bath with salts and oils to try to coax her head to stop throbbing, but she did not have that luxury right now.

She jumped in surprise when Blount entered her chambers. "Maester Pycelle is without."

Cersei was incredibly tempted to tell him he could bloody well wait, but she realized this would be a poor decision if he might know something about Sansa Stark. A growing dread had begun to fill her stomach — barely less worrisome than the pounding in her head — regarding the girl. If Sansa Stark died and word got out that they had tried to behead Eddard Stark, there would be absolutely no way to prevent war.

"You have news of the girl?"

"I do." Pycelle said.

"I would see her for myself." Cersei said with a pained sigh.

"… As you wish, your grace." Pycelle said, seeming slightly surprised. "But I must warn you, she has not woken."

"Did I ask if she had woken?!" Cersei demanded, patience fraying more quickly than she knew she should allow it to do.

"No, your grace." Pycelle said, bowing his head before he moved to lead her out of her chambers.

Cersei followed the Maester. He had settled the girl in chambers near to his where he could better tend to her for the moment. Sansa was bundled tight in a mound of blankets in the middle of a big bed with a pillow beneath her head. It would have looked comfortable, normal even if not for Sansa's face. She was nearly paper white without a drop of color in her cheeks. Deep purple circles that looked like exhaustion were beneath her eyes and even her lips held no color. She looked like death, and that made Cersei's heart pound, though she forced her voice to remain calm. "Do not let her die, Maester."

"I… your grace, I do not have any idea what exactly is wrong with the girl nor what treatment to give her. She has been as such since that, that thing seemed to come out of her. Initially, I thought she had just fainted in shock, but that is clearly not the case. She has a high fever and is not conscious. Nothing I have given her seems to make any difference."

"Pycelle, I command it. Save her. If we are to lose her…" Cersei spoke no more, simply shook her head.

Pycelle bobbed his old head in acknowledgement. "Yes, your grace. I will save her."

"Good." Cersei turned to leave. She hesitated at the door for just a moment with her back to Pycelle. Then, she said. "What… was that creature?"

"Your Grace, I have not personally seen anything of its kind but I… believe it could be a shade."

"A shade? Like magic? Magic is for children's fairytales, Maester." But she felt a cold chill pass through her body nonetheless as she thought about an old crone sucking a drop of blood off of her finger all those years ago. Gold will be their crowns and gold will be their shrouds.

And there was something else. Something that Cersei had not, and would not, tell Pycelle (or anyone else if she could manage); that shade, if it was in fact a shade, had been Sansa's direwolf. It could not be doubted. Cersei had barely seen the creature a handful of times and it was now far larger than any normal wolf, but its features were unmistakable. And she remembered the way the direwolves at Winterfell had howled and howled after Bran… while he slept for days.

If only there had not been thousands of people to witness the event, perhaps Cersei could have found a way to still the rumors, to hush it all up. But there was no way. Was this their penance from the Gods (even though Cersei struggled to believe in the Gods) for mistreating Eddard Stark? Because deep, deep down Cersei realized that Eddard may have lost the Game of Thrones but perhaps, just perhaps his honor made him a better person than she. Too many questions that made Cersei incredibly ill-at-ease. She knew there would be no sleep for her this night. She would toss and turn until dawn without a doubt.

Now, she had to go and deal with her son who had very nearly — and might still be responsible for — setting the whole of Westeros to civil war. She could not think of a time she had been more furious or thought Joffrey more inept. She wondered where she had gone wrong in her parenting of him. She had not done anything particularly different with Myrcella and Tommen and they were joyful children. No matter what, Joffrey desperately needed to be taken in hand. She wondered what Jaime would have done if he was there or even her lord father. But they were not and it, like most other things, fell to Cersei to rectify.

She entered Joffrey's quarters to find her son with a great sword, a sword far too large for him to swing, across his knees. Then, Cersei realized that the naked steel was not just any great sword. It was Ice. "Joffrey."

"Mother," he said rather passively.

"What are you doing with that sword?"

"Hm.. What do you think I am doing with it?"

"Joffrey, I am not of a mood to play games with you. Do you have any idea of the consequences of your actions today? Now where did you get that sword?" She enunciated every single word.

Joffrey shrugged petulantly, and Cersei wanted to scream at him. "Told Ilyn Payne to give it to me."

"And why did you think to do that?" Cersei spat, her fury continuing to grow.

"Because he is the King's Justice. He belongs to me, and I can command him to do as I will. And I commanded him to give me the Traitor's sword."

"We return to the question of what you intend to do with it."

Again, he returned a question. "What do you suppose I intend to do with it? You are a smart woman, Mother. At least I believed you to be, but perhaps you are not after all. I intend to execute the traitor with his own—"

The blind rage that had filled Cersei and built throughout the day finally reached its breaking point when Joffrey insulted her. It was like a white, hot light behind her eyes. She lunged forward before Joffrey could have expected and sent the sword clattering to the floor, spinning across the room and then brought her hand across Joffrey's face so hard it would leave a bruise for days, sinking her fingernails in too such that blood ran down his face.

Joffrey drew back from his mother in shock, his eyes neither shamed nor hurt but filled with anger. "You dare to strike me?! You presume too much, Mother!"

"I presume nothing! You are my son and I will discipline you how I see fit! You will listen to me and listen well!"

Joffrey's mouth twisted in a nasty expression and his eyes were as hard as stone, but he did not speak.

"You have no idea of the ramifications of your actions. You are like a boy playing at being king! Your father taught you nothing of how to run a kingdom, quite clearly. Then again, he was worthless and ineffectual, so why am I not surprised. You very nearly sent the whole of Westeros into Civil War!"

Joffrey opened his mouth to speak, but Cersei cut him off."

"No! You will listen," She demanded. "You will listen, and you will hear!" Her voice was barely more than a hiss. "There are consequences to the things you do! Your uncle Tyrion is in the clutches of Catelyn Stark. If her daughter dies or if her husband dies we cannot use them to exchange as a hostage for —."

"I do not care about the stupid dwarf. The Stark bitch can kill him if she wishes. He's as useless as my father was. Why do you think grandfather has not named him his heir to Casterly Rock even though Uncle Jaime cannot inherit?"

Cersei wanted to hit him again. While she, to some extent agreed about Tyrion, she was not blind to the other consequences that would come with that. She might not move to avenge Tyrion's death, but it would hurt Jaime greatly. And if he wanted to raise an army and move, he had the respect, skill, and gold to do exactly that. Jaime would not hesitate to cause a war. As a child, she had often teased him she thought he'd start a war purely for cause to fight in one. Regardless, for some reason Cersei had never understood, her twin liked the Imp. Moreover, Tywin Lannister would not suffer the murder of a son, even a hated one, in silence. And if they moved, so would Robb Stark who was now Lord of Winterfell in his father's absence. If the Starks moved, that would probably also bring down the wrath of Riverrun and the Vale upon them.

To make matters worse, if Sansa Stark or, worse, Lord Eddard died in their care, not only could they not use them as exchanges for hostages but they would be incredibly fortunate if their deaths — even one death — would not raise the North and bring it down upon their heads. And, much as she hated the taste of the Stark family words in her mouth, Winter was coming. There would not be time for another harvest. If villages were ravaged, burnt, the smallfolk who worked the field killed, it was likely the populace and perhaps even they in King's Landing would starve. Well, not them exactly. Not the Lannisters. Lannister gold could buy anything but…

"We are not in a position to go to war, Joffrey!" Her voice was higher pitched than she wanted, nearly losing control of herself again. "And that is what you are going to cause if you do not get your childish, petty desires under some modicum of control!" She pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew Joffrey had never seen her this angry, but she did not care. It was time he saw the consequences of his actions. And this was all she knew to do. "We, the country, cannot bear it and that is very nearly what you caused to happen today. Do you understand that?"

Joffrey just looked at her sullenly.

"Maybe here is something you can understand." Cersei loomed over him and put her hands on the arms of his chair so her face was right in his. "Your hold on the Iron Throne is tenuous at best. There are many claimants who have fair reason to balk at your reign — let alone with a regent — ."

"Then I'll kill them all!"

"Listen to me you little fool! You cannot just kill people for your own amusement! That does not keep your ass on the throne. And mark my words, Joffrey because they are the same words I told Eddard Stark —."

"I don't want any words you told that traitor!"

"I do not care what you want." Cersei's voice was like ice. It was so harsh it made even Joffrey draw back in surprise. "When you play the Game of Thrones you win or you die. And right now we are not winning. And so you will get yourself under control immediately! And you will pray to the Gods that neither Sansa Stark nor Eddard Stark die. And you will not cause one more shenanigan!"

Cersei went to sweep out of the room before she remembered Ice on the floor. "And one more thing." She reached down to retrieve the sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. "Do not ever bare steel if you do not intend to use it forthwith!"

"What would you know about it?" Joffrey whined.

"A great deal more than you!" Cersei snapped. She could still remember all the lessons she had switched places with Jaime for during their childhood right under their father, instructor, and septa's noses with no one the wiser. Cersei was actually quite an accomplished swordsman because of it. She could have unhanded Joffrey easily.

Cersei left then with intent to return to her own chambers, bearing Ice along with her until she was able to thrust it into the hands of one of the the Kingsguard. She would not regret her actions or wonder what she had done until hours later, and even then, she would remember the rage and wonder if she still had not done right. There were some things a good beating might cure Joffrey of, apparently. She was sounding more and more like her father every day, and she did not take that as a compliment. Nor could she change it.

"Draw a bath and leave word I am not to be disturbed under any condition short of a pronouncement of war," Cersei snapped when she returned to her chambers. She wanted to believe that was a slight joke, but these days she really wondered. It probably fell flat. "And send to Pycelle for a goblet of dream wine!" She called after them as the ladies scattered.

Her ladies quickly did her bidding, getting together the tub, the hot water, and the herbs she preferred in her baths. Soon, there was steaming water in the tub and her ladies had let down her hair around her shoulders and she was just moving to put a foot into the water when there was a knock on her door.

"Gods' blood! Whomever it is may the Others take them!" Cersei swore. She took the robe one of her ladies handed her and wrapped it about herself stomping to the door to see Meryn Trant.

"Whatever this is, it had bloody well better be important or it is your head I will have on a spike rather than Eddard Stark's!" She exclaimed.

Trant barely had the good grace to look concerned. Cersei thought about slapping him too, but restrained herself — somehow. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms so hard they left half-moon indents that would probably bleed.

"Janos Slynt is without."

"And without he can wait!" Cersei snapped, feeling at the end of her very thin rope.

"Ah, I think you will want to hear what he has to say."

Cersei threw her hands up in frustration and said, "Then show him in." She was already planning what she would do to both Trant and Slynt if their interruption was not something truly spectacular.

As it were, the interruption was something truly spectacular, though she did not recognize it as such right away. Slynt was standing in the antechamber holding a filthy, bedraggled boy by the arm quite tightly — tight enough to leave a bruise. The boy was short and very thin with messy hair all around the shoulders and Cersei could see lice. The clothes were too big and he was covered in dirt from head to toe, filthy. He also stank like he had not bathed in days.

"What is this?! I was not aware we are now taking in street boys!" Cersei exclaimed in a voice that came far too close to belying just how overwhelmed she was.

"I'm not a boy!" the boy exclaimed in obvious irritation. "And let go of me!" and she began to struggle all the more against Slynt. Cersei realized that Slynt had a black eye — a very prominent black eye. Surely this boy had not given him that. Surely a boy so small would not know how to….

It was only then, and after Cersei stared at her for a long moment, that she recognized Arya Stark. Cersei's green eyes widened in disbelief. She had had the gold cloaks looking all over the city for Arya Stark for a over a fortnight and had started to accept that the girl was gone.

"Where did you find her?" Slynt opened his mouth to respond but Cersei cut him off. "Actually, I do not care where —."

Very suddenly, Arya managed to jerk free of Slynt by kicking him in the back of the shin in the exact place one is likely to lose their balance if kicked — which he did given he wasn't expecting the maneuver. Then, before Cersei could predict it, much less get out of the way, Arya came at her with a battle cry and fists pummeling her chest. "YOU TRIED TO KILL MY FATHER!" Arya shrieked at Cersei. She was hitting hard enough to cause numerous bruises. Cersei tried to grab the girl by the wrists, but she could not hold her still and the fists continued to pummel and then Arya kicked her with boots still on. One of them came perilously close to kicking her right between the legs.

Cersei let out a hiss of pain as she managed to grasp Arya by the wrists and spin her around. She crossed the girl's arms over her chest and held her against Cersei's own chest, wrapping her thighs around Arya's bony knees rendering her unable to move. "Hold still you little Wildling!" Cersei exclaimed, trying not to gasp in legitimate pain from Arya's fists and feet.

Still, the girl was struggling, and Cersei suddenly understood how Arya had given Janos Slynt a black eye. "UNHAND ME!" Arya shrieked.

Meanwhile, Meryn Trant and Janos Slynt were looking on the scene before them with their mouths hanging open.

"Are either of you imbeciles going to help, or are you merely going to entertain yourselves at my expense?!" Cersei demanded. Thank God for Jaime and all he had taught her or she probably would have been knocked out on the floor by now. Arya was still struggling, and it was taking every bit of Cersei's strength to hold her.

Finally, Janos Slynt got control of Arya. He had her over his shoulder, with her head hanging toward the floor and his arms wrapped so tightly about her legs she wasn't able to move, though it didn't account for her hands slamming into his back or her mouth, and she was swearing to make a sailor blush.

"Did your Septa teach you to speak like that?"

"You killed my Septa!" Arya screamed. And that much was true. Most of the household staff left over, all of them actually, had already been beheaded and put on spikes before Lord Eddard had.

Cersei was losing a battle to a child not yet ten years of age, and losing badly at that.

"I cannot do anything with her like this. What did you expect me to do!?" Cersei demanded, gesturing toward the thrashing, furious, red faced girl.

"We… thought you would wish to… see her your g—."

"You thought I would enjoy being assaulted by her more like? I am surrounded by completely incompetent fools, the two of you included! Take her to chambers in Maegor's — I don't care which ones. Then call women to give her a bath. Make sure she is scrubbed —-"

"I WANT TO SEE MY FATHER!" Arya shrieked, tears now running down her red face. She was still being held upside down, but this didn't seem to hinder her from sounding like a harpy.

Cersei knew nothing to do except ignore her and continue. She could not cope right now. "Her hair will have to be shaved to deal with the lice. Burn those clothes and dress her in something appropriate. See that she gets some supper and send Myrcella's septa to see to her after that. I will deal with her in the morning. Now go! And do not disturb me again!"

"….except for the dream wine?"

"Have one of my ladies bring it. I do not wish to see either of you again until the morrow," Cersei all but growled. This had been one of the most disastrous days she had muddled through in a long time. So much hung in the balance waiting for fate or the Gods or whatever else to decide what would come to pass from all that had happened.

Then, they all stood there just looking at her for a moment.

"Be gone!"

And, finally, she was alone in her room save two of her ladies who moved to take her robe from her and let her sink into the bath, preparing to wash her hair. Cersei ordered more hot water brought and went down to her neck in the near-scalding liquid, for that was how she liked to take her baths. She laid still and let the women wash her in soft candlelight and the embers from the hearth as she tried to still the misery occurring in her head. She did her best to focus on their hands rather than her pain. She could only find herself wishing their touches were Jaime's. Oh how she missed him and longed to see him. He would have known what to do about all of this.

---

(AN — Chapter could probably alternatively be titled 'Cersei's bad day'

Cersei's comment: "Alexander who had the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day: I see your stag and raise you a dragon.")

Thank you for reading! You can expect another chapter in a couple of weeks or so. Please leave me a review if you enjoyed the work and have time.