- At the beginning I've mentioned it's the 'grass moon' I simply saw the names for the 12 moons of the year in a Farmer's Almanac and thought they were neat, so those names might pop up throughout the story occasionally.

- As always, thank you SO much to everyone who reads and reviews. Without you guys, I'd probably have lost interest in this project a long time ago. It's turning out to be longer and more complex than I'd planned and you guys are the best for continuing to stick with it! A special thanks to Max 20.7 who has continuously reviewed the heck out of this thing.

Moon Four (Third Quarter)

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

Summary: The lessons of a man grown are more painful than Tommen expected.

A half moon in its third quarter hung above the clearing of rolling grassy hills of Winterfell and the tall, dark trees of the Wolfswood. It was the fourth moon of the year 299 AC — the Grass Moon as it waned in the sky above them to give itself over to the Planting Moon and, if the Gods were good, that name would be apt and once more the ground could be harrowed and planted with one last harvest able to be brought in before Fall turned to Winter.

Lady did not know if that was possible. She was of the North just as her mistress and her pack. Winter was coming and it was more than the words of House Stark. She could feel it within herself, just as the others could. Very soon, the late summer would give way to the thick, cold Autumn snows. This Autumn would not be long and this Winter would be longer than any they had seen for a time. They would be lucky if this Autumn lasted more than a year. She knew this in the same way she knew other, seemingly inexplicable, things.

She lay beneath the boughs of a tall Sentinel tree at the edge of the Wolfswood where she could watch the moon and the hills spread out before her. Her silvery glow was phosphorescent and beautiful in the spilling light of the moon in the dark sky above. The Sentinel had sweet, sticky sap with a unique taste, though it was not unlike honey. Lady lapped demurely at the sap, being sure not to get it even into the odd fur that glowed, that made up her Shade. It was an odd thing indeed. She could lick it. It could bleed. But it was not like normal fur all the same. Nonetheless, she did not want sticky sap on her and was very dainty and took care to avoid this at all costs.

She did not know where the others were tonight. They did not always dream together as they had done that one evening. Nonetheless, she did not feel uneasy and thought the others were all right. Her ears pricked instantly when she heard the snap of a twig. While she had hunted earlier and had a filling meal and was now enjoying the sap from the tree, if some rabbit or other creature was foolish enough to walk right up to her then it would be a shame to waste it. She sensed she no longer needed to eat, but nourishment allowed her to keep a physical shade form longer before she faded.

It was not prey but her mistress! Sansa stepped from the tree line. Lady noticed she still looked a little pale and as if she had lost weight she did not have to lose. Guilt prickled at Lady's heart. She had done that to her mistress. Nymeria, who was watching, told her just how sick Sansa had been. But then, had she any choice? Only a more solid form would save Lord Eddard and the solidity she needed took far much more energy than Lady usually could draw from her own spirit. Despite her guilt, she rose to her feet and padded over to Sansa.

If her mistress had any such inclination to feel angry with Lady, the direwolf could not sense it in her. Instead, Sansa leaned down just slightly to wrap her arms around Lady. The touch was not the same. It was as if receiving a hug through layers of fabric perhaps, but it was enough. It was more than either had ever thought to have again. Sansa did not have to lean down far. Though Lady was not quite as large as Grey Wind — already up to Robb's chest — she reached the middle of Sansa's ribs easily enough — and she was the smallest of their pack. Ghost was the largest and strongest and Lady knew by now his head reached to the very top of Jon's chest near the top of his arm. She refocused on Sansa hugging her and then did a very unladylike thing and began to lick her mistress all over her face in joy to see her again after over a month apart, her tail bobbing back and forth. If Sansa minded the behavior, though, she gave no inclination and just held Lady all the tighter.

"You saved him. Thank you!" She said, tears already pouring down her cheeks as she stroked Lady's pelt. Her fingers encountered the place where a hideous scar would always be — a diagonal cut along her right flank from hip to shoulder where Ice had struck her and buried deep past muscle, sinew, and bone. It seemed to be mending after Ghost's healing licks, though it was still tender and she tensed slightly when Sansa examined it.

"Oh my sweet, beautiful girl. I'm so sorry," Sansa whispered, careful to barely let her fingers brush over the puffy, irritated scar. It looked to be healing. Then again, how did you tell if an oddly colored, glowing, Shade was healing? It wasn't the normal color of skin certainly. But it looked like it was somehow healing. Then, they went through the process of Sansa hugging her all over again quite tightly. Lady buried her head against Sansa's chest, stretching up slightly to be able to do it, hoping to convey to her that it was a sacrifice she had chosen and would choose again if she had it to do over.

And oh how Lady wanted Sansa to open her third eye. She wanted Sansa's mind mingled with hers. She wanted to be able to communicate. But most of all, she wanted to run. She wanted to feel the wind in her fur of light and have Sansa feel it too. It would not free her from the prison of the Red Keep, but maybe, for just a short time, her soul could be free at least. Oh how she wanted that so much, but how could she get her to understand. Sansa needed to understand. Lady's connection to the other wolves let her know Summer and Bran already did it, let her feel Bran's utter delight at being able to run free over Winterfell's rolling meadows and through the dark forests with every sense so much more alert than a human's while he left his broken body behind even for just a few hours.

But how could Lady get Sansa to do that? She refused to go inside Sansa again after what had happened last time. Clearly, she could not control herself well enough to keep Sansa safe. No. That would not serve. If only she could will her thoughts into Sansa's mind. They had spoken before when Lady had comforted her, but she wanted more! She wanted what Bran and Summer had, what Jon and Ghost were starting to develop — though not yet to the level of Bran and Summer. Speaking would wane her energy. And she wanted to run with Sansa.

"Open your Third Eye, Sansa." She said. "Like Bran and Summer." She conserved her words carefully. She knew she had told Sansa this before. But Sansa did not seem to understand. Lady could feel her confusion in waves. She had connected only once and so briefly — during their last dream when they were all together.

"The book, Sansa, the book Nymeria brought you. The book on your bed. Read the rest. Do not forget it. It is important. There are handwritten notes in the back. Notes from a Warg. Nymeria says so. Read about your Third Eye. You must open it fully!" As she felt her strength begin to wane she spoke with more force, desperate to get everything out before her energy failed her and she dematerialized and slept until energy returned to her once more. She was strained, struggling, her color becoming less and less luminous, fading.

"No! Don't go yet!" Sansa protested.

"I…" Lady tried to tell her she could not control it, that manifesting even as a less physical shade — far less physical than her shade of the day she had saved Ned — was still a prospect that required so very much energy. She would sleep the night and all the night day away mayhaps.

"Lady Sansa!"

She felt as if she was coming back from a long way away. But when she sensed a touch on her hand, Sansa jolted into wakefulness and flinched away from the touch as quickly as she was able out of instinct. Gentle touches could easily become forceful and mean, that much she knew from experience.

However, when she blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes she realized, to her surprise, that it was Tommen standing at the side of the bed, holding a candle that lit his young, earnest face. Sansa's maid had braided her hair before she went to sleep to keep it from becoming tangled in the night, but it was coming down rather badly now and Sansa had to push an auburn lock out of her eyes to look at the young boy properly. "Tommen? What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here. Why aren't you asleep in your bed? It must be the middle of the night."

"It's the hour of the Owl." Tommen stated, not moving.

"What is a good little boy like you doing out of your bed at this hour? If your mother or sister came to look for you, they would be very worried indeed." Sansa said, finally sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed so she could face Tommen and talk to him properly. It was clear he was not leaving her bedchamber any time soon. She regretted her movement almost instantly as the cold air accosted her and goose prickles rose over her skin.

Tommen noticed her shivers and retrieved the dressing gown laying on the back of her dressing table chair and brought it to her. "Here. You look chilled," He said. Tommen always did his best to take care of his mother and his sister and any other lady really. And he could tell Sansa must be cold by the expression she had made when she uncovered.

Sansa smiled in spite of herself and wrapped the dressing robe around her shoulders, snuggling into its warmth in relief. Tommen, she realized, was always such a perfect gentleman. For a moment she felt a pang in her heart. If only he could have been the eldest Baratheon child. He was truly good, not like Joffrey who was golden on the outside but rotten inside. Though, none of that explained why Tommen was in her room, missing from his own, in the middle of the night.

"Thank you. But you did not answer my question."

Tommen looked just slightly nervous and then seemed to recover himself. "You fixed my knee, and it was very kind of you. You were nice to me even though Joffrey hasn't been nice to you. I know he hasn't because he isn't nice to me or Myrcella either. I wanted to do something nice for you this time." Tommen paused for a moment. "Come with me." He held out his young hand to her.

Sansa felt drawn to Tommen as she stood and took his hand when, all the while, she was telling herself that she could not do this. It was dangerous, foolish, could get both of them in trouble. It could have dire consequences not only for herself and Tommen but her family as well if they were caught doing whatever Tommen was of a mind to do. And, yet, she was on her feet, wrapping her dressing robe tighter about herself, and moving to follow him as she pushed her feet into some soft slippers. "Can you at least tell me where we are going?" Sansa asked as she made herself presentable to leave.

"I found out where they're keeping your lord father. One of the Turkeys is my friend and is going to help us. So you can see him."

The rush of emotions that overcame her in that moment felt like a waterfall breaking over Sansa's head. There was terror because this was asking for far more trouble than she ever could have imagined, worry for her father, anxiousness that Tommen had involved another person whose loyalty Sansa did not know — even Tommen himself was a Baratheon and a Lannister. However, more than any of those things, there was a relief and joy that filled her nearly to bursting. Her heart pounded as if she'd run as far and as fast as she could. There was a true smile tugging at her lips and happiness that wasn't a hollow, pretend mask all across her face.

In the back of her mind she knew it was something she shouldn't do, but no power in the world or that she possessed could stop her either. She needed to see her Father. There was so much she needed to say to him, so much she needed to apologize for, and this might be her only chance. They were far from safe. Joffrey still wanted her father's head to adorn that spike he had left right in the middle that he'd shown her little over a fortnight ago. The thought made her shiver in a way that was completely unrelated to cold. Her father could, again, be sentenced to death at any minute, and this time she knew nothing would save him. She went to the Godswood, for her Father since he could not, to pray every single day that that would not happen, but that did not mean the Gods would see fit to answer her prayers. No, she had to see him and this might be her only chance. Her mind was made up.

"The turnkey. He's safe?" Sansa asked, anxiety filling her soft voice. She wondered if Tommen truly understood the danger he could be placing all of them in.

"Yes," Tommen said solemnly. "His name is Tomas and he is not so much older than us. His lady mother works in the Red Keep too — as a washing woman. I trust him. But we must be quiet now, and quick."

The two of them made swift work along the passages of Maegor's Holdfast. Tommen seemed as if he knew the way like it was the back of his own hand, and Sansa wondered how much time he had spent exploring the Red Keep to know his way around so effectively. She had to hurry to keep up with Tommen, for even though she was taller, he was quicker. She did not want to be separated at all as he had the candle and her only protection, scant as it might be, should they be discovered.

Sansa felt a certain amount of guilt relying on a boy only about to see eight namedays for protection, but it was the best she had at the moment. She tried not to think about what would happen if he turned on her just as the other Lannisters had. It was all more risk than she was prepared for, but she had no other ideas and simply could not resist the opportunity to see her father.

Tommen scampered like a little monkey of the type mummers often brought along, Sansa thought as she followed him down a narrow, dark, steep flight of servants' stairs that she had never even noticed before. Then again, she supposed thats what servant stairs were for — to keep the maids and valets and others out of the main stairways and corridors as much as possible while they went about their work.

Down and down they went and it was chilly even with Sansa in her robe. "Are you cold?" She asked Tommen softly.

"No, I'm fine." He was a little, but it wasn't very much like a man grown to admit he was chilled. It had never felt quite so cold down here, but he also didn't make a habit of coming in his nightclothes either.

They came upon a door and then another at the bottom of the stairs. Tommen opened them and guided Sansa through. Even in the darkness, he had no trouble reaching into a niche near the doorway carved into the stone and removing a torch. He touched the candle to its oil-soaked cloth tip and it flared to life casting a much larger flame than his meager candle. He left the candle on the shelf for their return trip.

Sansa lurched backward toward the wall when Tommen's torch lit up two rows of gigantic monsters. They weren't moving, so maybe they hadn't seen them. Maybe it wasn't too late to get away! Sansa could see teeth. The monsters had teeth. The monsters had teeth longer and far thicker than her arm! Some of them had teeth as tall as her waist. Seven save them! She stuffed her fingers in her mouth but still didn't manage to completely hide a squeak of terror.

"It's okay." To her surprise, Sansa felt Tommen's small, warm hand work its way into hers. "Myrcella was terrified the first time she saw them too. They aren't alive anymore. It's just skulls."

"Skulls… Just skulls…" Sansa repeated, sucking in a couple of breaths as she tried to calm the frenetic pace of her heart.

"Yes. The Targaryen dragons. Well, some of them. There are nine and ten skulls here in total, but there were far more than nine and ten dragons over the years. Many of the skulls have been lost in time. They used to line the walls of the Throne Room, but Nuncle Tyrion said Father had them put down here. It's really a shame to let them languish here. I do wish he had put them where they could be appreciated — away from the throne room of course."

Sansa shook her head in disbelief as they began to make their way between the two rows of dragon skulls. Her blue eyes were wide in the darkness. Walking between these skulls — many of which were larger than she was — was eerie indeed. Further on, the skulls got smaller but still managed to retain an unsettling degree of eeriness even so. Sansa disliked walking between them and let out a long breath once they were through and out the door at the other end of the cellar where she could no longer see the skulls.

Arya would have loved everything about this place, and Sansa wondered if she'd seen it. In their first weeks in King's Landing, Arya had explored the Keep from the tallest tower to the dungeons to the exteriors. A sharp sadness passed through her. Her wild little sister had driven her to tears of frustration at times, but oh how she missed her now, little wildling child or no.

They were going down again. At each turn of the story there was a door. They went down three turns. "There are four levels of dungeons. No one knows what happens on the fourth floor, but people don't survive there," Tommen told her, causing Sansa to shiver violently again. But he continued, "Your Father isn't there. He's in the third level, the black cells. There isn't light there but people do live to come out of them." He gave her hand a soft squeeze.

Sansa shied away as a tall, lithe figure jumped out of the shadows and into the light of Tommen's torch. The boy grinned and the new arrival grinned back. As far as Sansa could tell, he was probably her age give or take a bit. She suspected given that Tommen was saying hello to him that this must be the turnkey, Tomas.

"Rugen?"

"Snoring loud as a man sawin' logs," Tomas crowed. "I replaced his regular night cup with dreamwine. He won't be awake for hours and he'll just think he fell asleep on his chair. Easy," Tomas shrugged. He handed Tommen a little brass key. "Stark is the eleventh cell on the right."

Tommen grinned. "Thank you, Tomas!" He said as he took the key.

"You're welcome. Was kinda fun actually. Now go. Just knock when you're ready to come back out." He gestured the two of them through the door.

"Wait. Tomas, do you have a candle? I.. Don't want to hurt their eyes — poor, miserable things."

Sansa realized, while she waited for Tomas to root about for a candle that she suspected from Tommen's words why these were called the 'Black' cells. These prisoners were kept totally isolated in the dark. She shuddered when she thought of her father being kept here — other men as well.

At one time, she would have thought that if they were prisoners they deserved such a fate. They had, after all, disturbed the King's peace or behaved traitorously in some way or another. Now, she understood things were not so simple as all that. How many of these men might be here for unfair reasons such as her father was. Sansa did not know what all had happened, but she knew her father never would have betrayed King Robert. Even if the late king had not been like a brother to him, it was everything Ned Stark stood for and believed in to act with honor. Betraying one's king before his body was even cold was not acting with honor.

She had no more time to think as Tomas found and lit a candle for them and gave it to Tommen.

Tomas pulled open the heavy door that led into the black cells. It was so thick Sansa knew she never would have been able to pull it, but the lad was stronger than he looked, apparently. "Watch, there's a step here," Tommen said, offering his free hand to help Sansa down. Once again she was struck by just how much a gentleman Tommen was.

She had little time to dwell on Tommen as the black cells accosted her. She almost regretted the door closing behind them, thought to turn back, right then and there. But, no, she needed to see her father. It was the smell even before the darkness. The foul stench was so horrible she could not help but gag, struggling to keep the supper she'd eaten a few hours ago in her stomach. Sansa pressed her face against the cool stone and forced herself to breathe slow and try to acclimate herself to the rancid smell.

Tommen stopped to wait for her. His own stomach roiled at the stench, but he was determined to act as a man grown and not show her that. So, instead, he steeled himself and simply stood at the bottom of the step and waited for her to join him.

Eventually, Sansa thought she had enough control over her stomach to proceed. She took note that the floor and walls were stone by the meagre light of Tommen's candle. The walls were lined with thick, wooden doors very close together. Sansa could only imagine how small that meant the cells were.

The stone floor sloped down on either side and a gutter ran the length of the center with a drain that must lead down into the sewers. Sansa made a face as she realized this must be where they emptied out the chamber pots — and she was walking in it with the only pair of slippers she had. The knowledge made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. She hurried even faster along with Tommen and tried to keep her feet out of anything that seemed particularly wet, choosing to walk on the sloped floor now rather than directly down the middle. Tommen did the same, but he was wearing boots, and it wasn't so bad for him.

When Tommen cast the candle about the hall, rats squeaked and scurried to find places to disappear when exposed. Sansa barely avoided letting out a little squeak and found herself stepping up right behind Tommen — as if she could expect a boy of seven to defend her? Ridiculous! Nonetheless, it was what she did. Fortunately, the rats seemed to abhor the light and quickly disappeared, though Sansa could still hear their squeaks and scrabbling from whence they had gone and it made her skin crawl. They both hurried along a little faster until they reached the cell Tomas had indicated.

Tommen put the little brass key into the lock and turned it. It took both he and Sansa to swing open the big door, though they finally managed it.

Sansa realized at once that things were worse than she had ever imagined. The stench of human waste, rot, and infection swept over her the moment the door was open. Looking around from the light of Tommen's candle, she realized there was no chamber pot. The floor was covered with dirty, reeking rushes. With no other recourse, the prisoners had no choice but to try to just choose a corner of their tiny cell in which to relieve their bodily needs. Moreover, it looked like the rushes were not changed regularly; whatever corner had been chosen, urine and feces were taking over more and more of two corners now. Anger flared inside Sansa not only for her father but for all the poor wretches unfortunate enough to be kept here in conditions no better than animals in a stable — worse actually — even horses had their stalls mucked twice a day.

But when Sansa caught sight of her father, all of these concerns went right out of her mind. The cast he had been wearing was nearly rotten all through now. She could see that his leg was unhealed, though she remembered the leg had been kicked by the guard holding her father when he went down after the botched execution. Eddard was ghost pale after the months of not seeing sun. He was gaunt and wore rags that barely covered his thin frame. Through them, Sansa could see far too many bones in his body. Her father had always been tall and lithe, not carrying extra weight. Now, he looked as if he was legitimately starving. A pattern of horrible purple, green, and black bruising (could it truly be from the execution attempt so many weeks ago?) traveled all along his sides from what his ragged clothing revealed. "Father," and her voice broke, quavering on the word.

Eddard Stark looked up in disbelief. "Sansa?" He asked in consternation. He had to be dreaming this. He hoped he was dreaming this. Much as he wanted to see his daughters, he would not have them see him like this or journeying to this place or putting themselves in danger to be here! He found, as per usual, he struggled to rise and was obliged to lean against the wall for support, not truly being able to stand properly at all. He was having more and more trouble with the now twice broken leg and broken ribs. They did not give the prisoners enough food for bodies to heal. Probably, they hoped to kill him off here in the dungeons. Then, they could say his blood was not on their hands.

To his even greater surprise, beside his daughter in her nightclothes stood Tommen Baratheon with a brightly burning candle. It made his heart start and his breathing quicken. Sansa was not safe with the Lannisters. Surely, surely she understood this? And yet she seemed nonplussed about Tommen's presence or maybe even grateful for it. So many questions bubbled to his lips but he wasn't able to form any of them. Instead, he said only his eldest daughter's name again.

Tommen stood back, not interrupting.

Not even caring about her ruined slippers (for surely by this point they would be), Sansa dashed across the soiled, putrid rushes and into her father's arms. She hugged him so tightly she was a little afraid she would break him, especially given his return hug was no stronger than the way she imagined a bird would hug. Nonetheless, her arms were around his neck and her face buried against him as her tears coursed down her cheeks silent and wet.

Eddard struggled to keep his own emotions in check but tears streaked down his dirty face all the same (oh what he wouldn't give for a proper bath and a good scrubbing just now!) He linked his arms around his daughter's waist. Part of him did not want to touch her, filthy as he was, but he couldn't help himself at the same time.

"Sansa, what are you doing here? This is dangerous," Eddard managed once he had recovered hold on his emotions a bit. "You cannot stay here. You must go back to your room!" He was becoming more agitated, but Sansa gently pressed a finger over his parched, cracked lips.

"Shh, Father. I have an escort to help me."

Tommen stepped forward just slightly and gave a polite bob of his head. "Lord Stark."

Eddard's eyes were worried as he gazed into his daughter's face, trying to see if she recognized the danger. Tommen was a Lannister. Eddard felt that Tommen would as surely betray Sansa as the rest of that wretched family had done. It was imperative he somehow make Sansa understand this before she left — a difficult thing since Tommen was standing right there. Nonetheless, Eddard had to try. "Sansa… he." Ned breathed against her ear under the guise of hugging her again.

"He has become my friend. I can trust him." I hope. Sansa whispered back with more conviction than she had, for she didn't want her father to worry.

Eddard's blood felt chilled in a way the cold air of the black cells themselves couldn't cause. He had no way to safely continue this conversation with Sansa for he was sure, even in the dungeon, there were ears. Moreover, Tommen was standing just at the other side of the cell at a polite distance — not as if it was much of one considering the tiny size of each of the cells. He would have to find a way to get word to Sansa through some other means — not that he had anything to offer in exchange for such a favor and that was even if he could find someone he trusted to deliver it — and not into the wrong hands.

For now, he was powerless and all he could do was hope Tommen would not betray his daughter, and he had little trust for Lannisters. He did not like the feeling of powerlessness he had regarding his daughters' safety. It was a unique kind of torture all its own to know one's children were in danger and be able to do nothing. He spent a good part of every day wishing, bitterly, that he had never accepted Robert's near-demand for him to become Hand. He should have said no. He should have found a way, but he had not and now it had cost him dearly. He did not care, really, about the cost to himself but certainly the cost to his family was a toll so heavy on his shoulders he could hardly bear it. If not for his children and Catelyn — surely home at Winterfell by now — he likely would have given up completely and let his wounds claim him.

He found he could not stay on his feet, even leaning against the wall, as pain lanced through his broken leg. He sunk back into the rushes. They were clean there if nowhere else. He managed it by shimmying down the wall away from where he usually sat. It leached all his strength to do, but he still had enough pride to be unwilling to sit amongst his own excrement — though maybe that would eventually fade too, he thought, blackly.

Her father's inability to stand reminded Sansa of how sick he really was and swept away her thoughts of her own situation and Tommen. "Your leg has not healed. And you are so thin. And the… conditions…" Sansa breathed, sinking to her knees beside her father.

Somehow, he could tell that she had grown, had matured. She would have been unable to cope with this situation only a few short months ago — were it that she did not have to! Eddard Stark had never thought to be in such a position, but something brought back the memory of that last night he and Catelyn had spent together before he accepted the position of Hand and he had morosely pointed out how his father and Brandon had gone south to the summons of a king and never returned. Now, it seemed the same was very likely to be his own fate.

Eddard reached to clasp his daughter's wrist and draw her near so he might kiss her on the cheek and bid her to go, to return to safety. It was enough for him merely that he had been able to see her and ascertain she looked healthy at least, though her eyes were far from happy. However, when he did this, Sansa let out a hiss of pain and drew back instantly.

Before she could stop her father, he drew back the sleeve of her dressing gown slightly, enough to see the ugly purple-black bruise blooming across her lower arm above her wrist where her clothing would conceal it. Her stomach flipped.

"Sansa!" Eddard whispered, aghast. "How did this happen?"

Both were so fixated on her wrist — Sansa in horror her father had discovered the bruises and Eddard in horror his daughter was in such a state — that neither noticed Tommen's eyes had widened and his mouth had set in a grim way.

It made Tommen angry to think it, but he had a strong feeling of how that bruise had gotten on Sansa's arm. After the previous week, he had a couple of his own and the cut on his knee, though much improved, was still healing and had a scab. Tommen was beginning to despise his elder brother in a way he had never despised anyone. Tommen was a kind and sweet boy and had not been designed to be hateful, but he could not help it with Joffrey.

Sansa kept her wrist pulled back even as her father tried to reach and examine it. She quickly covered it again with her dressing gown. "It's nothing." She said, not meeting his eyes. Sansa had never been a good liar, and she knew if her father saw her eyes she would be given away. Likely, she already was before she had even started, but there was nothing he could do, and he was already worried enough without additional concerns anyway.

"Sansa. Look at me," Eddard commanded his daughter, though his tone was gentle it also brooked no refusal.

Reluctantly, Sansa lifted her face to Eddard who could see the truth in her eyes. "This is not nothing," Eddard said, reaching for and claiming her wrist. Sansa let him this time as he rolled back her sleeve to take a better look at the hideous bruise. It was finger shaped. Eddard recognized at once this was from someone grasping her arm so tightly she had been bruised and fury rose in him perhaps stronger than any he had known before. "Who did this to you?"

Sansa shook her head and downcast her eyes again, pressing her lips together mutely.

Eddard reached to tilt his daughter's face up. "Sansa. Tell me." Again, his voice was gentle but commanding. He had, at this point, completely forgotten Tommen standing across the cell.

"Joffrey," Sansa mumbled, barely audible.

Tommen couldn't hear her, but he didn't need to. It made him angry. Sansa was a good person whether she was a traitor's daughter or not. And was Eddard Stark a traitor anyway? He had always been kind to Tommen and Myrcella and had clearly loved Tommen's father. Moreover, Starks, Tommen knew, were noted for their honor. It did not seem like the man he had briefly known. Even if he was a traitor, Sansa was not and she did not deserve Joffrey's cruelties anymore than he or Myrcella did.

Eddard wanted to rage. He wanted to scream. He wanted to take up Ice and go and kill Joffrey Baratheon. He would have happily joined Jaime Lannister amongst the ranks of kingslaying if he had had the strength and a sword to do so. His anger boiled hotter and higher than his reason, which would eventually catch up. Right now, though, it was only a black fury. Eddard did not have the strength or health to do any of those things. Were he to even manage to escape and procure a sword from somewhere, the Kingsguard would cut him to ribbons, weak as he was, before a single slash reached the King's body. While Eddard was not afraid of death, it would be useless to do so if it did not even have a chance of helping Sansa.

"Father. Stop." Sansa said, seeing his fury and reaching to touch his cheek. "There is nothing to be done for it. It is better not to think of. He wishes me to…" What was it the Hound had said? "Be his lady love and sing him pretty courtesies and love him and fear him too. And so that is what I must do. We must all do things we would rather not just now. There are no other options," Sansa said with greater conviction than she felt. She only knew she had to keep her father safe, and he could not do something foolish. "It is my own fault. I begged for the betrothal."

"No. I shall not hear you say this is your fault again, Sansa Stark. Do you understand me?" Eddard stated, pulling his daughter's face up gently so their eyes met. His were burning with a fierceness Sansa could never remember seeing there.

"Yes," Sansa whispered, her voice taking on a meekness that made Eddard feel slightly guilty, but he would not have her blaming herself.

She pulled her sleeve down again.

"For now, be careful. Trust no one. Especially not the Lannisters." He said the last leaning forward to whisper in her ear as he recalled Tommen's presence when the youth shifted. It was amazing how still he could be, Ned thought.

Sansa just nodded, still a little frightened of the tones her father's voice had taken on much as she knew everything he said was exactly right. "I will be, Father," She told him, doing her best to smile for him.

"How is Arya?" Ned finally asked his mind recalling that he had yet to ask, and a stab of guilt hit him in the belly. But Sansa and her troubles had been right before his eyes.

"I don't know," Sansa responded sadly. "I have been unable to even see her since… it happened." She could not bring herself to say since her father had been betrayed and, she, Sansa had been partially responsible for that. "They say for a while she got out of the Red Keep — for weeks — but was found in Flea Bottom eventually and brought back. I have only caught a glimpse of her once or twice. She didn't look harmed, but her hair has been shaved, so she must have come back with lice," Sansa could not help but make a face. She had never had lice but thought the prospect to be absolutely vile. She would never want bugs in her hair nor to have her hair shorn all off.

The expression on her face reminded Ned of a time before everything was so dismal and he could not resist a slight chuckle, though stopped right away when he realized it hurt his ribs, gasping slightly and reaching for them.

"I wish I could see her too," Sansa admitted with a small sigh. "I… I need to apologize to her. I am the elder sister, and I should have been kinder to her and more patient with her even if she is trying and terribly unladylike."

Ned couldn't resist a chuckle and a grimace once more. "It is just that she is more like your Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon than your Mother," He pointed out with a soft smile. "But I understand how she is vexing to you. All I have ever wanted was for the both of you to try to get along the best you can, but you are two different people and sisters are bound to disagree at times. So you mustn't think I'm upset with either of you for what has happened. It has passed in any case and nothing can be done about the past, so it is best not to dwell upon it," Eddard told his daughter softly.

Sansa knew her father was right, but that did not make the advice any easier to follow.

"Do you know anything more of your mother and brothers?"

Sansa bit her lip thoughtfully. "Nothing new. Robb and the Northmen are at war with the Lannisters. I… have heard they are doing well." She was about to say she hoped they would march on King's Landing and rescue she, her father, and Arya and destroy the Lannisters. However, she quickly shut her mouth again when she remembered Tommen was still behind them. She had likely already said too much in front of the Young Lion. And… he was a good boy. Sansa realized, suddenly, she would not want he and Myrcella to die if Robb should win the war.

Fortunately, Eddard did not ask for more details, simply nodding and taking this as a good sign.

Reluctantly Tommen broke into their conversation and said softly. "Sansa, we should go. The cooks and maids will be awake soon, and I need to have you back in your room before that so they don't come upon us in the hall or notice you are missing." He looked legitimately sad, when Sansa turned, that he had to cut their conversation short, but Sansa could only be thankful he had brought her in the first place.

Sansa leaned forward to give her father the most gentle hug she could manage since she was aware his ribs pained him. He hugged her back tighter in spite of the grimace and wince of pain it caused him. He kissed her gently on both cheeks and said, "Keep yourself safe."

"I will," Sansa said. Both of them were aware it was hardly a promise she could be certain she could keep.

She hugged him once more before she forced herself to let go and rise to her feet. She wished she could ask Tommen to get more food for him or at least for a Maester to see to him. But doing such a favor, for Tommen likely would try Sansa was starting to see, could put her young friend in danger as well as herself. She did not wish that for either of them. She would only be able to pray Robb and his army of Northmen arrived soon.

The two of them stepped out into the hallway between the cells and Tommen locked it again carefully, covering their tracks. They were very quiet as they walked and Tommen could tell Sansa was lost in her thoughts and did not bother her as he led the way once more, with his candle. At the main door, they knocked again and Tomas let them out. Tommen gave him back the key and both Sansa and Tommen thanked Tomas once again.

The walk back was utterly silent between them. Sansa barely even noticed as they walked back through the dragon skulls.

Once they had reached Sansa's bedchamber, Sansa realized Tommen had been right about the time, and could only be grateful to him once again. It was already the hour of the Nightingale and the castle servants would be up and about very soon! She paused as they entered her room once more and gazed down at Tommen. "Thank you," Sansa whispered, struggling not to let her glistening eyes drop their tears.

"You're welcome," Tommen said, smiling softly at her. "I should go now before I am missed." With that, the boy disappeared out the door of Sansa's bedchamber.

When Sansa was certain he was gone, she quickly stripped off her clothes. Her shift was badly stained where she had knelt in the straw and the slippers stank of urine so badly she knew nothing could be done to save them. They were a price she would have paid a thousand times over to see her father. She buried the slippers in the hearth's ashes, pushing them back as far as she could reach. The shift, she balled up and put beneath her mattress. She would have to find a way to wash it on her own. Then, she went to clean herself at the wash basin as best she could.

When, at last, all of that was done all Sansa could do was lay back down for the short time until her maid would arrive to get her ready for the day.

She knew it was a fruitless venture to try to sleep again, so she merely laid on the bed and replayed the events of the evening over again in her mind from the odd dream about Lady that she had not had a chance to think about until now and the trip to see her father replaying itself over and over in her mind.

His breathing was ragged and a painful stitch tugged at his side as he rounded yet another turn in the steps, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't let Joffrey catch up to him or else Joffrey would make him fight again just like he had a sennight ago. Tommen's knee was still scabbed from that incident, and he was loathe to add to the collection with more wounds.

He might have avoided the training yard altogether, but Lord Tywin had announced there would be a tourney the next moon's turn. Perhaps it was to cheer everyone up and distract the lords from their troubles with the war and entertain the smallfolk in King's Landing? Or, perhaps, it was to distract Joffrey and keep him out of trouble. Tommen wasn't quite sure. Regardless, Tommen had doubled his training efforts even so because he was hoping he might be allowed to ride his pony in the joust if he continued to work hard. However, Tommen was not the only one who wanted to ride and that kept Joffrey in the training yard more often as well.

Joffrey was always rough when they fought and he was older, stronger, and had had more lessons and Tommen always wound up hurt and mocked as well. Joffrey wasn't patient or helpful like Ser Fiore. Tommen had sworn he would never let Joffrey catch him in the training yard without the Master at Arms again, but here they were once more. This time, though, Tommen had simply fled rather than let himself get drawn into a fight.

Of course, Joffrey had yelled after him about being a craven and that Joffrey was king and Tommen, as his little brother especially, should honor his wishes. Then, when Joffrey had seen taunts would not draw Tommen to fight with him, he had started chasing Tommen. Joffrey's legs were longer but Tommen had a head start and intended to keep it that way.

Once again, his mother was locked away in Small Council and Tommen had no one to go to. He didn't want to go crying to someone else anyway. He was a man grown and should deal with Joffrey on his own. He shouldn't need their mother to fight his battles for him. Therefore, it had seemed like running was the best option. So, he fled the training yard and ran for Maegor's as fast as he could.

Tommen couldn't explain why it was to Sansa Stark's chamber that his feet took him. He didn't even know what he would have said to Sansa if she was there — which she wasn't. Looking around, Tommen decided that the wardrobe made the most sense as a hiding place in case Joffrey followed him this far.

Of course, as he crawled inside, he felt guilt. He was aware Joffrey was just as beastly to Sansa as he was to Myrcella and Tommen himself, so he was probably just making it worse by being here. Then again, Sansa wasn't here and if he went out again he would risk Joffrey having caught up to him. He decided to stay put. Tommen wiggled himself in behind Sansa's cloaks and dresses until his back rested against the far corner of the wardrobe. One of the cloaks had fallen, and he rested his head on it where it was trapped between himself and the side of the wardrobe. Then, he could only pray to the Gods Joffrey wouldn't find him here.

The next thing of which he was aware was raised voices — well, one raised voice. Joffrey's. Tommen reached up to rub his eyes and winced at his stiff back and neck. He had, he realized, fallen asleep in Sansa's wardrobe with his cheek pressed against the cloak that had fallen as a makeshift pillow.

The wardrobe around him muted Joffrey's words, so Tommen couldn't hear what Joffrey was upset about, but the volume and pitch of his voice told Tommen he was definitely angry, very angry. Tommen sucked in a breath as he heard a second voice join — Ser Meryn. Something about this situation, Tommen very much misliked. He knew he should come out of the wardrobe and help Sansa. She had helped him when he had needed, had she not? He should come out and tell Joffrey to stop being mean. He always tried to do that when Joffrey picked on Myrcella, though the results were usually rather ineffectual. Sometimes, he could distract Joff long enough for Myrcella to flee though. Maybe he could have done the same for Sansa.

Tommen crawled forward slightly and pressed his fingers against the door of the wardrobe just enough that a crack appeared through which he could listen and see a small sliver of the room beyond.

"Punish her, Ser Meryn."

Sansa looked for a moment as if she would speak and then she just closed her eyes and seemed to resign herself as Tommen watched in horror as Ser Meryn took a big mailed fist and punched Sansa in the stomach causing her to lose her breath and tumble to the floor. She didn't even cry. She didn't do anything except curl in on herself in a fetal position to try to protect herself from further 'punishment,' which Ser Meryn then doled out, hitting and kicking Sansa as she lay on the floor.

Tommen knew he was a horrible craven, but he could not bear to look at what was happening. He was breathing fast and had pressed his hands over his eyes as he listened to the sound of Ser Meryn hitting Sansa and becoming more rough because Joffrey said he wanted to hear her cry as an apology to him.

Tommen felt sick at the sounds and frightened by the way Joffrey bellowed. Later, he couldn't even remember what it was Joffrey had been upset about, only the hideous 'punishment' Joff was having Ser Meryn enact upon Sansa. Surely, Sansa could not have done something so awful as to deserve to be beaten even if she was the daughter of a traitor. Tommen clenched his eyes closed and prayed to all the Seven that Ser Meryn would stop as Sansa finally cried out.

Tommen had wanted to come out of the wardrobe and help Sansa after Joffrey and Ser Meryn had left, but he couldn't make himself do it. Undoubtedly, Sansa would think him an awful person for having been in her wardrobe all of that time and not saying or doing something to help her. He knew he should have done something and couldn't explain why he had frozen and become too scared to intervene. He was almost a man grown. It was unseemly for him to allow what had just occurred. Yet, he had. Shame colored his cheeks. He would not refuse to intervene the next time, he decided. It made him shiver to think that, like as not, there would be a next time. There always was with he and Myrcella. Tommen was going to put his foot down now. He was going to do something to protect all of them.

Finally, only after Sansa had cried herself to sleep, did Tommen leave the wardrobe and go scampering out of her chambers. His feet carried him to his mother's chambers. He hadn't specifically meant to go there. He hadn't really known where he was going, but this seemed as good a place as any he supposed. His mother would be done with Small Council by this late and soon they would have supper. His stomach bubbled anxiously. He was not looking forward to seeing Joffrey at supper. At least, though, Joff wasn't going to do anything to him right in front of Mother.

Tommen found Cersei and Myrcella sitting contentedly together embroidering in the circle of light cast by an oil lamp. "There you are, my love. I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to. Did you go to the ravenry?" Cersei asked, making room for Tommen to join them.

Shaking his head Tommen said, "Not this afternoon. I'll go tomorrow." He sat on the chaise where Cersei had made room for him and traced his boot in patterns on the floor, biting the inside of his lip in thought about how to bring up what he was thinking. Much as he didn't like not being able to do things on his own, he couldn't even protect himself from Joff, let alone someone else. He would have to ask for help and there was no getting around it. And when Tommen needed help it was always his family he went to. Usually, it was Uncle Tyrion, but he was still a hostage. Tommen wished his grandfather would make an offer and bring Uncle Tyrion home, Tommen missed him. He had decided that he did not like war even if he did still want to be a knight.

"Mother, can I talk with you about something important."

Cersei tilted her head in curiosity and said, "You know you can always talk with me about anything, my sweet," She sat her embroidery aside so she could listen to whatever Tommen had to say. Cersei could not miss the worried look on his face or the fact that he seemed quieter today: pensive and worried about some matter.

"I think that… we should talk about it alone. Sorry 'Cella." He said, looking guiltily at his sister.

Myrcella didn't seem to mind though. She gathered up her embroidery silks, thimble, and other odds and ends. "You can come find me later if we are going to play cards or cyvasse," she said.

Often enough, Cersei and her children played games of an evening if there was time. Lately, everyone had become quite obsessed with the game cyvasse, so they were playing it a good deal. Tommen adored the war and strategy game. Myrcella was good at it. Their mother was very good at it, and Uncle Tyrion was the best of anyone in the family. He had taught Tommen and Myrcella to play the previous year before their trip to Winterfell. They all had their own strategies. Tommen focused on attack principles but sometimes found himself getting too excited and taking too many militaristic risks. Myrcella was a defensive player — careful and coordinated. Meanwhile, their lady mother was sneaky and cunning never keeping the same style.

When Tommen and his mother were alone, he suddenly found himself without a voice and not sure of what words to use for a minute, but with a little encouragement, he began to talk.

"Father used to hit you."

Cersei stared at Tommen. That was not what she had expected. She believed she had always made it a point to keep the fights between herself and Robert away from her children. Nonetheless, sometimes they heard or saw things she would have preferred they had not. Usually, Robert kept his abuses out of sight, but there were times he did not. She never told the children where those marks came from, but Tommen and Myrcella were incredibly intelligent and clearly they had figured it out on their own.

Cersei's cheeks flushed. She was embarrassed that Tommen knew. She did not want her son to think her weak. She did not want Tommen to know Robert had hit her and claimed his marital rights whether Cersei wanted or not — though thank the Gods that had decreased significantly in the last few years of their marriage.

Tommen and Myrcella were innocent and they should not hear of such horrors. Moreover, it shamed Cersei that these things happened at all. She did not want anyone to know them — least of all her children. "I… see." Cersei finally said, realizing she had not responded to Tommen so lost as she had been in her own thoughts.

"It was not right of him. It is not how a man should behave toward his lady wife. A man should be tender and kind and protect women from harm. Even men who are not knights."

Cersei's lips tugged at the corner. She wished her son could stay so innocent forever: a little boy who believed all men treated their wives gently and with the respect a woman was due. She loathed the day when he would know the truth of the matter, just as she dreaded the day he would eventually realize that very few truly chivalrous knights any longer existed, the Kingsuard no longer held the best fighters in the realm (not by far) and the Brothers of the Night's Watch were a ragtag group of thieves, murderers, rapers, and reavers. Couldn't he stay her little boy forever? She knew the answer. Soon, he would have seen eight name days (how was that possible?) and he was growing up far more quickly than Cersei wanted.

"That's true, my love," She took a deep breath. "But not all men… behave in the manner that they should."

"Like Father."

"Yes. Like that."

"Was Father a bad man, then?"

Cersei had to clench her jaw for a moment. She thought about rough, grabbing, painful hands, thought of public humiliation when Robert would have a whore or kitchen wench in his lap with Cersei across the room watching, thought of the sting of a smack across her cheek — the badge she would wear with honor, thought of a dead woman's name on his lips in their marriage bed — the marriage bed to which he had come drunk, of how Robert considered her inferior and incapable at most things because she was a woman, the way he wanted her to look pretty more than anything else. She could have helped him. A slight flare of anger came when she thought about that, the way it always did. They could have ruled together and made King's Landing and all Westeros amazing. Robert's Rebellion could have been a dawning new era with the two of them at the helm. Of course, she would never have left Jaime behind her, but she could have found room in her heart for both of them. They could have made it work. But that hadn't happened. It wasn't what Robert wanted. Frankly, Robert didn't even want to rule himself let alone rule beside Cersei — or any other woman.

Then, she thought about soft hands, hot lips and tongues seeking each other, of manes of long golden hair and eyes mirrored as twin green emeralds. She thought about how he held her hand while she had birthed her children, thought about how he was the only one who could comfort her during the worst times, thought about how he taught her swordplay and sat in her boring lessons with her septa so she could learn of politics, history, the art of war, and how to fight, thought about how he had looked when she told him he had put a baby in her belly, thought about how carefully he had held each of the children when they were first born and wrapped in a blanket and handed to her because Robert was off hunting somewhere, unable to deign to be there. She thought of her twin and her other half.

And even though Tommen believed, had to believe, that his father was Robert Baratheon and Robert had often chosen to be a bad man — though Cersei knew he had had it in him to be better and often wished he had done so — she could not bring herself to say it. She could not say that Tommen's father was bad because he wasn't. Jaime might have his moments. He and Cersei both did, really. They had done horrible things sometimes. But Jaime was not a bad person. There was such goodness in him if one only looked for it. Cersei wondered sometimes if there was any left in her. There had been once. No, she could not bring herself to say he was bad even if Tommen believed she was speaking of someone else.

She took a breath and then settled for, "Even good men can choose wrongly."

"Is the choice more wrong if it hurts someone else?"

Cersei's lips pulled up again. "You are asking very difficult questions tonight. I.. Suppose I would say yes. A wrong choice that hurts only oneself is unfortunate, but it is more unfortunate still if it might hurt another too." Were it only that she was as able to do as she said with her own choices at times.

"And if a man behaves in such a fashion, he should be stopped?"

"Well, in an ideal world, yes."

Tommen sighed catching on to what his mother meant. "But we do not live in an ideal world."

"No, sadly," Cersei said her expression truly sorrowful as she ruffled Tommen's hair and finally asked, "Where have all these questions come from?"

Tommen was quiet for such a long time, failing to meet her eyes all the while, that Cersei thought he might not speak at all. However, she waited him out and finally Tommen did break the silence. "Today, I ran away from Joffrey in the training yard. He wanted to fight, and I didn't want to. My knee's already hurt enough. So, I ran. I hid in Lady Sansa's wardrobe."

Cersei raised one eyebrow. Of all the places Tommen could have gone, why was it that he kept winding up with the Stark girl? She would prefer to keep her children far, far away from anyone with the last name Stark. Yes, she knew Sansa had helped Tommen with his knee, but that far from meant Cersei trusted her or wanted Tommen spending time with her. "Why there?"

Tommen shrugged. "I don't know. That's just where my feet went. I thought about going somewhere else after I'd hidden, but by that time I was worried Joff would catch up to me, so I stayed. Sansa wasn't in there anyway. In her room, I mean. So, I didn't bother her or anything. Anyway, I guess I must have fallen asleep in the wardrobe. I don't know for how long. But then when I woke up Joffrey and Ser Meryn and Sansa were all there. Joff was angry with her."

An uncomfortable feeling started to spread through Cersei's belly. She had a feeling she might know where this was going, but waited for her son to continue.

"I don't know what he was angry about because the wardrobe muffled most of the yelling, so I tried to look out." Tommen steeled himself and forced his voice not to shake. "And Joff.. He had Ser Meryn beat Sansa. First, he punched her in the stomach with a fist and still had his mail on and she… she just… collapsed. And then he… Joffrey wanted her to cry as an apology and wanted Ser Meryn to keep beating her until she did. And he listened. He kicked and hit her over and over until she cried. Mother, I couldn't watch."

"I'm glad you didn't watch," Cersei said, true relief flooding through her body. Tommen should not see such things.

"I should have. I should not just have watched, but I should have stopped it. I should have come out and said something. Because… I.. I don't think this is the first time. You say it's not befitting of a man to strike a woman… so I think he just has Ser Meryn do it. And not just this one time."

Cersei felt bile rise in the back of her throat. She could not pretend she wasn't aware that Joffrey was often unkind to Sansa. She herself could not claim to have been particularly warm and welcoming to the girl ever since Cersei had learned what Eddard Stark knew. She could not trust Sansa. She could not become close to her. It was a risk she could not take. Sansa's father wanted to destroy her and her children, and the daughter of a traitor could as easily be traitorous. Nonetheless, if what Tommen was accusing Joffrey and Ser Meryn of was true… Cersei had no reason to doubt her youngest. He had always been unfailingly honest with her.

"My love, why do you… think it wasn't the first time?" Cersei asked.

Tommen swallowed. He remembered the bruise on Sansa's forearm where her father had touched her and how she'd drawn back with a hiss of pain. But Tommen couldn't explain all of that. He knew his and Sansa's visit to the Black Cells had to stay absolutely secret. So, he invented. "I… saw a bruise on her forearm. It wasn't new. It was all green. It was the shape of fingers. Someone grabbed her and held her so hard it left a hand imprint." Tommen murmured. "If Joff or Ser Meryn did that… then this can't be the first time."

Cersei remembered all too well the conversation she had had with Joffrey. She had told him it was not fitting for a man to strike his lady. She had hoped by doing so she could keep Sansa from too much harm. After all, they would need her to trade back for Jaime, and the Starks would want Sansa unharmed. Clearly, he had taken her at her word then. He did not strike his lady. Instead, he simply had a member of the Kingsguard do it. The way he'd worked around that rule, the way it didn't seem to bother him to hurt women or young ones, made Cersei's skin crawl. Moreover, a frustration that somehow this had not come to her attention rose in her blood.

Joff was cruel to Sansa and there was no doubting that. Cersei had done nothing. The world was cruel, that was the way of it and the sooner Sansa Stark realized that and set aside her precious fairytale fantasies about Jonquil and Florian and shining knights the better off she would be. Not even Cersei's shining knight was a Florian no more than she was a Jonquil. Such an outlook on the world was dangerous for a girl of three and ten who had already flowered. Perhaps that was part of the reason Cersei had not done more. Her own father had been harsh with her as well — and Jaime and Tyrion. Over time, Cersei knew King's Landing and the Game of Thrones had jaded her, but had it jaded her so much as this? Clearly it had.

"Mother?" Tommen's voice interrupted her thoughts. "You're going to stop him aren't you?" The way Tommen looked up at her with his eyes so trusting could have broken her.

"I… will try my love, but I… cannot promise."

Mayhaps that was Tommen's first lesson of manhood, painful as it might be for Cersei to witness.

Joffrey had been cold with Cersei ever since that black day when he had called for Eddard Stark's head and, later, she had chastised him and even smacked him. She had noticed the coldness but had not known what to do about it. She had no regrets about the things she had said to him that night. Such foolish actions could be the death of all of them and now all Westeros was torn apart by war. Cersei did not know how much Joffrey's attempted execution of Eddard Stark (at the Sept of Baelor for gods sakes!) had contributed to it, but it certainly hadn't helped matters, either.

When they had dinner together, she often found that he japed at her in a cruel way, a way that reminded her of how Robert used to speak to her when he was in his cups. It made her shudder. How much had her late husband managed to influence Joffrey? Clearly, it was more than Cersei had realized. Perhaps her own spoiling of him had certainly contributed as well. But there was something else she could not explain that seemed to make Joffrey cruel — almost as if it was embedded into his nature. Robert said the things he did when he was drunk and seemed guilty later. Joffrey could say them when he was sober without batting an eye. And when he made those comments over the dinner table, Cersei usually had something to say back but it rarely seemed to make a difference.

She found herself more nervous than was seemly for a conversation with her son. Perhaps it was because she recognized this was not the first time they would have a conversation about his treatment of others (though before it had been about Tommen and Myrcella) and it had never turned out like Cersei had wished by the end. Joff would always manage to wriggle out of the fault-finding or spin the tale somehow. He had Cersei's intelligence, Tywin's cunning and entitlement, but none of the gentleness Jaime could show when he was of a mind to do so. It was not a good combination.

From the beginning, it seemed as if everything went wrong. It was as if Joffrey somehow knew what Cersei had called him to discuss and had no intention of humoring her. He appeared to her summons late and in a sullen, sulky mood that Cersei had no patience to question. Two moons before, she'd have asked him what was causing his black mood, tried to cheer him, talked to him with attempted understanding about his behavior, tried to get him to see the error of his ways, perhaps even begged him to listen. Now, she did not do any of those things. She did not care if Joff didn't like what she had to say.

She rose to her feet and stared at her son. He stared back at her, completely uncowed. He was waiting for her to speak first but not as a sign of respect. Cersei fell for it only realizing as she was speaking that she had done so. Already, this was going badly indeed — like a game of cyvasse where all the pieces were put wrong from the moment you lifted the screen but it was too late to change anything and all you could do was go forward.

"When I told you it was not fitting for a man to strike his lady, I did not mean you to have it done by proxy." Cersei was frustrated that the irritation showed in her tone. She would have preferred to appear collected.

At one time, she recognized that Joffrey would have donned that false chagrinned 'was-that-what-you-meant?' expression at her accusation. It was a tone she was starting to recognize had been false, though for how long it had been she couldn't say. Certainly in the past year or two he had not had true regret for his actions. Had he become so good at lying and scheming or had Cersei just been too distracted to notice the change?

Regardless, he did not react that way today. His demeanor remained chilly, his countenance cold. His green eyes, so similar to her own, held no warmth. He stared at her, not looking away or blinking. It was not a kind look.

"What do you suppose the Starks would do if they heard of this?"

Joffrey looked at her for a very long moment and then he laughed.

Cersei's tone was tense, "What exactly about this situation do you find amusing?"

"Your naiveté, mother."

Cersei's nails pressed into the skin of her palms so hard she thought they might actually bleed. Fury filled her. As a house motto, It had always suited her better than Robert anyway.

"We are already at war with the Starks. I do not fear them. I do not make decisions based on the simpering whims of weak-minded fools who place too much value on women. I make my decisions of my own accord. They are not stopping me; nor will they, nor will you."

The vision of the shade of a direwolf checking the sword of the King's Justice flashed through Cersei's mind. Perhaps you should fear them. "It is not wise to underestimate your enemies. Even weak enemies can prove stronger than you might believe under the right circumstances."

"Fear the Starks?" Joffrey laughed again. "Robb Stark wasn't even allowed to fight with a real sword a year ago!"

"The Young Wolf is not who worries me." Cersei's jaw clenched as she thought about the Blackfish — who worried her far more than Robb Stark ever had — and what he might do if he found out about Joffrey's actions. The veteran of half a hundred battles with the majority going in his favor and the might of all the Riverlands and the North behind him…

"The Blackfish…"

"Brynden Tully is an old man! I could unarm him myself! He poses no threat to King's Landing while I sit the Iron Throne, that I can assure you. And make no mistake, Mother, it is I who sits it."

"That is not what your Uncle Jaime believes…" Cersei had always kept a mental list of every knight in Westeros who Jaime believed to be of any particular merit. Ser Brynden Tully was near the top of the list.

"If Uncle Jaime is afraid of an old man then perhaps it is a good thing he is not here. I have no use for feckless cravens."

The fury was like a lightning bolt had shot through Cersei's body, a bright white flame burning through the very core of her being. No one would call Jaime a craven — the name he would least like to be called — in front of her. No one. The slap was harder than she had intended both fingers and nails making contact with skin. It left a visible mark, and her nails has scratched his face so badly that tiny beads of blood hovered at the edges of the scratches. Cersei was shaking with a fury as strong as she had ever known.

Joffrey stood up with a hand on his cheek, staring at her and Cersei saw true hatred in his eyes.

His voice was dangerous when he spoke again. "I am your king. What you just did is punishable by death. You will never do it again. Never. I will handle my betrothed how I see fit, and you will not interfere. Do not mistake to cross me again."

At that, Joffrey turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

Up Next:

Cersei is not the only one finding Joffrey's behavior to her disliking; Stannis's rumors cause trouble.