The handmaiden came to get Cersei for breakfast the following morning. Jaime had woken early as he always did, while the light outside was still faded, and was long since back in his own room. Cersei pulled the counterpane over her head and tried to ignore the maid, a plump girl of around sixteen, as she bustled around picking up pieces of shattered vase and broken candle sticks. When she found the mangled remains of the gown shoved under the rug she didn't say a word, just paused and then added it to her basket of rubbish to be removed.

'You had best be gettin' yourself downstairs M'Lady,' the maid said, shaking out the rug, 'Your father is waitin' for you, and you know how he don't like waitin'.'

'Doesn't like waiting,' Cersei corrected, her voice muffled by the bedding.

'Beg pardon, M'Lady?'

Cersei sat up, sighing heavily. 'You know how my father doesn't like waiting, not how he don't like waiting. Learn how to speak properly.' This maid is even dumber than the last one. Where does Father find these imbeciles? Is he deliberately surrounding me with them as a torture?

'Sorry M'Lady,' the maid bobbed her head, contrite.

Cersei got out of bed and pulled her underclothes off, tossed them onto the floor. She stretched her long limbs and yawned. 'Where is my gown? Or am I to go down to breakfast with Father naked?'

The maid looked at the tattered ball of silk in the rubbish pile, and dithered, as if uncertain what to say that wouldn't aggravate her mistress. She went over to the wardrobe and pulled it open, began to shuffle through the dresses and robes hanging inside.

Cersei had forgotten that revealing her bare skin, which she normally loved to do, was this morning also revealing the marks of her caning. She felt a twinge of humiliation that her maid should know this, a feeling which turned immediately into a desire to get back at the maid in some way. 'Don't even consider bringing me an old gown. You know Father expects me to be in a new gown all the days that he's at home. He leaves a great deal of gold to the maids so that they can ensure I'm dressed as a Lady of quality should be dressed. Should I go down there like this,' Cersei gave an extravagant twirl, proudly showing off her nudity, marks and all, 'and demonstrate how, despite his generosity, my handmaidens have failed to provide me with quality clothing?'

The maid looked anxious, wrung her hands together. 'No M'Lady. Of course not, M'Lady. I shall go and fetch Septa, if it please you, M'Lady. She will find a new gown for you directly. I shall let your father know you'll be late, M'Lady.' She bobbed her head yet again, and sidled out of the room. On the other side of the door, Cersei heard the maid's footsteps pattering away in a run.

Cersei giggled. Poor fool. So far she had destroyed two new gowns in two days, and, after the events of yesterday, now planned to destroy all the others in similar fashion. None of her numerous servants or maids, not even Septa, would dare report her involvement in the matter, because they knew she would have them replaced, not to mention punished, as soon as Father left for KingsLanding again. They would just report that the gowns had mysteriously fallen apart, and Father would complain to the dressmakers in Lannisport that their handiwork was shoddy, and probably demand compensation.

Cersei walked over to her wardrobe and opened the door to reveal the full-length mirror. She admired her reflection's slender shape, the narrow waist and boyish hips, the long, flawlessly shaped legs. Even the ankles curved just right. Sometimes it surprised her how she was changing, how her familiar childish looks were transforming every day into something that was so pleasing to the eye.

If she raised her chin and looked down with lidded eyes, her thick eyelashes winged out and gave her heart-shaped face a smouldering appearance, at odds with her age. She pouted and smirked, opened her green eyes wide then half-closed them, trying out different expressions. She had to admit, she looked attractive in every one of them. The emerald of her eyes, the dark arched brows and golden hair. I'm going to be beautiful, she thought, mesmerised.

Her thoughts drifted, as always, to Jaime. She wondered how long until Father was kept busy doing some urgent duty or another, and they'd be able to go off together again. Maybe it would be prudent to wait until Father goes back to KingsLanding. The rock pool wasn't going anywhere, after all. They could sneak off during the day easily enough when there were only servants and Septa to evade. This week was really going to drag, though.

Cersei turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder. The lines of the cane striped across her buttocks and lower legs, pinkish-red against her porcelain skin. In the places where they crossed over each other, the lines were tinged purple with bruises. Cersei frowned at the unsightliness of the blemishes, but knew they would fade. None had broken the skin. Father is as fastidious in punishment as he is in everything. He would never mark me permanently, no matter what I did. That would devalue his investment. And what worth is an ugly daughter?

Cersei opened her drawers and pulled on fresh undergarments, then sat on the bed and waited for her handmaiden to return with a new gown, and help lace her into her corset. After five minutes she grew bored, and with one foot tipped the pile of rubbish out of the basket and back onto the floor.

Father rested his elbows on the dining table and leaned forward. The cupbearer was re-filling their goblets with fresh juice from a pitcher, but he waved her away. 'Leave us,' he said, and the girl scurried out.

Cersei, dressed in an immaculate sapphire-blue gown, edged in cream lace and with wasp-waist corsetry, which was as unbearably itchy as it was stunning, sat on one side of the wide table. Her brothers sat across from her, side by side.

Tyrion had only recently been allowed to eat in the dining room rather than in the nursery with his nanny. He was so tiny behind the massive dark-wood table that his chair needed to be boosted with several cushions, and his arms only just reached to the plate. Jaime helped him cut up his food into manageable pieces, and Cersei could tell this irritated Father, by the way his pale eyes narrowed every time Jaime leaned over with his knife. To Cersei's disappointment however, Father said nothing; neither banning the dwarf from the dining room nor forbidding Jaime from helping him. And so Tyrion managed to eat most of his breakfast, despite his deformed presence putting Cersei off her own food. Not that the incredibly confining corset allowed much to fit in her stomach, anyway.

She shifted in her seat, trying to find a position that didn't hurt her sore backside, and trying to get her lungs to take in enough air so that she wouldn't actually pass out. Her handmaiden had laced the corset fastenings tighter than usual, maybe as a small act of rebellion against Cersei tipping out the rubbish. I'll have her sent back to the slums in Lannisport, Cersei thought. I'll tell Father the lowborn whore broke my vase.

She wondered where the puppy was. Tyrion seemed as happy as usual, so she guessed Father had not found it. Yet.

Father dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 'I have come to a decision regarding your futures,' he announced. He let his gaze rest on the twins in turn. Cersei hadn't expected such news, and her heart beat a little faster. She felt even fainter. What does he mean? Is this because of yesterday?

Jaime also looked up, wary. Tyrion continued trying to scoop the last piece of blackberry custard pie into his mouth, while it seemed equally determined to evade his spoon by sliding around and around his honey-smeared plate.

Father regarded his older children in silence a while longer. He never made a statement without considering it carefully beforehand. Since everyone he ever met always waited on his every word, it didn't matter how long it took him to come up with them. Finally he fixed his gaze on his daughter.

'I have decided that you, Cersei, shall accompany me to Kingslanding when I return, in five days hence. You are becoming wilful as you grow older, and it is time for you to be shaped by firmer controls. It seems I cannot trust the servants here at Casterly Rock to do a good job of it.'

Cersei opened her mouth to speak, but Father raised an eyebrow, silencing her with a withering look. Satisfied that she was not going to try to interrupt again, he turned to his oldest son. 'Jaime. You will remain here with the Captain of my Guard, to continue with your training. You are heir to Casterly Rock, and this is the time of your life when discipline must be formed and consolidated; life-long habits of restraint and diligence acquired. There is no room for any... ' here he glanced at Cersei, '... distractions.'

Take me away and leave Jaime here? No, he can't. Even Father wouldn't be so cruel. He's scaring us, that's all. Cersei looked over at Jaime, who slouched and stared at the surface of the table. His fringe fell in his eyes, and under it his expression was mutinous. He refused to meet Father's gaze. Next to him, Tyrion happily smacked his lips together and banged the spoon against his bowl. 'More pie?' the dwarf asked, looking around hopefully.

'You will watch over your younger brother and make sure that adequate discipline is likewise given to him,' Father went on to Jaime. 'Despite his afflictions, he is still a Lannister and must learn to behave like one. The boy must be made to realise that no concession will be given to his stature or capabilities. I trust you will see to it, Jaime, that no-one does things for him that he must learn to do for himself.'

Jaime looked up then, a sulky look on his face. 'Things like cutting up his food because his arms are too short, Father? Is that what you mean? Even if it means he can't otherwise eat his food?'

Father tilted his head, amused that his son would talk back to him.

'He will only go hungry for a while. I'm sure it won't kill him. Self-mastery is important, lest he become as warped in his actions as he is in his appearance. Difficulty is what makes us grow. Now I'm sure the two of you both have plenty of... studies to occupy yourselves with.' Father stood up abruptly, the conversation, as far as he was concerned, now at an end. He signalled to the waiting staff to clear the table. Tyrion smiled up into his father's face as he strode briskly past on his way to the door, but Father did not once look at his youngest son.

Cersei couldn't breathe properly, her lungs were too constricted. The room started spinning slowly in an odd way, and her ribcage spiked with a stabbing pain. She pushed her chair back, got to her feet. Septa was standing beside the table and began to walk over to her, but Cersei was already moving towards her twin. She had to talk to him, sort this out. Maybe we could run away. Father would never find us.

As she came around the edge of the table, the Captain of the Guard, who had been positioned near the door, suddenly stepped out in front of her and blocked Jaime from view. 'Your father has instructed that you and your brother are to be kept apart for the remainder of his stay at Casterly Rock, M'Lady,' he said.

'Get out of my way!' Cersei spat.

The Captain smiled coldly at her and turned, taking Jaime's arm firmly and pulling him up from the chair, then guiding him out of the room. Jaime flashed Cersei a look that was despairing and defiant in equal measure, before the door closed behind them and then he was gone.