cw / ptsd, panic attack, violent imagery

People cheered and laughed and feasted. They delighted themselves with the countless attractions built around the gardens, imported statues and tamed beasts, and with the music echoing across every path.

Elia had fun, and she was glad that at least one of them did. For her, the memory of what had happened when she last had attended a wedding still haunted her far too clearly.

(Oberyn had had trouble enough convincing her to attend the festivities. The ceremony - confined in a tight space, with doors that could be locked and soldiers guarding all exits - had been impossible.)

She had her dagger hidden beneath her dress' sleeve, just in case. Nothing would happen, but just in case.

Elia chose where they should go, what they should do, and she followed without protest. Which was easy enough - her sister scarcely glanced at the high table acting as the centre point of the festivities, letting her effortlessly avoid what she feared most.

Instead, her sister amused herself with the entertainers scattered around the gardens - jugglers, pyromancers, pipers, dancing dogs -, talked to guests clearly not from the Seven Kingdoms, and tasted as much food as possible. She even offered her a bite whenever she remembered, yet Cerelle denied gracefully every time.

Men approached them from time to time - minor lordlings and hedge knights, she assumed - and asked them to dance. Elia laughed at them, and walked away, Cerelle apologised for her sister, and then feigned an injured ankle to escape their presence.

Then, the music changed.

First only the violins, then the harp joined in. And at last, a man started singing the cursed words.

She had tried so hard to suppress those memories, to forget and never remember what had happened at the Twins, what she had done at the Twins. And now it came crashing down upon her once more.

Blood spotted her vision, coated her hands, gushed out of the eyes of the people around her. They stared at her, opened their mouths to scream, piercing sounds drilling through her bones, accusing her, damning her, cursing her to burn in the Seven Hells for all eternity.

She needed to draw her dagger, to defend herself, to silence those wishing her harm. But she couldn't- Her limbs were like ice, unmoving, steadfast, not willing to crack even under the greatest pressure.

Fingers started to rip her beautiful dress, and started to claw at her skin and flesh, opening wounds of old and new. They tore into the long scar on her back, closed around her neck, pulled at her nails and hair, keeping her trapped in this mass of bodies and blood and tears and screams-

The open sea glittered in the sun. Boats sailed towards the distant horizon and over the edge of the world. A tree grew beside her, surrounded by wild, unkempt flowers and bushes.

She blinked.

She knew that tree. That was her tree, the one at the edge of the castle gardens, hidden behind the small labyrinth, where she had run to whenever she had needed to escape court. It had grown since she had last seen it, and not by a little.

How many times had she sat leaned against the wood and stared out to the ocean, wanting nothing more than to sneak away onto a ship and sail to all these distant lands she had heard of.

The bark was rough under her bloody fingers-

Oh. There was blood on her fingers.

She turned them before her slowly, inspecting the small rips and wounds across her skin. Then her gaze wandered across her dress, across the torn pieces of embroidery and the leaves and branches clinging to it. She tried to remember how she ended up in this place, but found only terror.

"Are you alright, my lady?"

She whirled around at the voice, and almost blurted out his name.

Jaime.

He stood before her, the sunlight's reflection on his silver Kingsguard armour nearly blinding her. Yet she still saw the concern on her uncle's face.

Her uncle. And her father.

She yearned to run over to him and jump into his arms, to tell him who she was and how sorry she was for running, and to beg him to take her to her mother.

And yet she… couldn't. And she didn't know why, just that facing what she had left behind filled her with such terrible amounts of fear.

"Yes," she finally managed to say with a hoarse voice. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You ran away quite frantically from the festivities. And far away as well."

She pulled at her veil, which had not been moved much out of place, thank the gods, and therefore still covered her treacherous hair.

"Believe me, if you were being followed by those lords you would run here as well."

He stared at her, cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. "How did you know of this place?"

Did he know who she was? The way his gaze was fixed on her made it seem like he had a suspicion, but if so why not outright ask it?

"I didn't, I merely found it."

He didn't believe her, and she wouldn't either. So she quickly curtsied, said, "If you would excuse me, Ser," and hurried past him to escape his scrutinising gaze. He let her, luckily.

Chatter greeted her, as well as music and dancing.

(To have one of the only things that brought her joy now connected to something so horrible.)

In her desperate attempt to get away she had lost Elia to the endless crowds, and now had no idea how to find her again. Sure, she could try and enjoy the wedding on her own…

She laughed at that notion.

Elia she did not find, but Oberyn spotted her the same time she did him, and waved her over to him and Ellaria. Her plan to ask him about her sister's whereabouts were soon wiped clear from her mind as she saw who he had been talking to.

"My lord, my lady, may I introduce you to one of my daughters, Elle Sand. Elle, these are Lord Tywin and Lady Cersei."

Mother.

After ten years, she had not changed at all. Still that golden hair, that soft, pale skin, those sharp eyes and high cheekbones, and, of course, dressed in red. How desperate she was to fall into her arms, feel her warmth, hear her soothing words-

Oberyn gently pressed his hand into her back to throw her out of her fantasies. She blinked, and quickly fell into a curtsy.

Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest she feared someone might hear.

"I see the resemblance," her mother said with a smile. "Though I cannot say she takes much after her mother." Her gaze had settled on Ellaria.

She knew, of course she did. How could she not recognise her, her eldest daughter and dearest child? Why had Oberyn been so stupid as to parade her around in front of the person who knew her best?

"She does," Ellaria responded. "I am merely not her mother. She is from one of Oberyn's earlier lovers, but that does not mean I love her any less."

Tywin responded before her mother could. "Other cultures have… peculiar customs, but we still must treat them with respect."

"Well, whoever her mother is, she left little of herself in your daughter. You must be proud, Prince Oberyn," her mother said with a spit of venom in her voice.

She… didn't recognise her. No, it couldn't be! Looking at her mother was like looking into a mirror, it had to be the same for her. She was her daughter, how could she not recognise her? The necklace her mother had gifted her after her sister's birth hung around her neck right this moment, and even though it had been over a decade she had to remember. If she took it out she would know.

Her heart started hammering in her chest again, her breath came in short bursts, it clouded her mind, blurred her vision-

"Father, do you know where Elia is?"

She couldn't stay with the person standing before her, so best remove herself from the situation.

"I thought she was with you."

"She was, but I lost her. Have you seen her?"

"Last I know she was headed towards the castle," Ellaria said.

Without another word or curtsy, she walked off, and disappeared into the crowd again.

A part of her wanted to cry, wanted to run back to her tree and never leave. But she had another family, one that had embraced her with open arms twice now, and if her mother didn't want her, she would not force her to.

(Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry-)

Her inattention led her to bump into someone, and she was about to apologise and continue her search for her sister, when she took a closer look at them.

The person turned out to be a girl with auburn red hair tied into an intricate up-do, wearing a purple dress with a necklace of the same colour. Her age was hard to tell because of her height, but she was certainly not older than her. And yet none of these were the reason Cerelle laid a gentle hand on the girl's arm when she tried to walk away.

"You seem familiar, do I know you?"

"I don't think so, my lady," the girl answered timidly.

She chuckled. "Please, I am no lady, just Elle. What's your name?"

"Sansa Stark."

"Of course, now I understand. You look just like your mother."

Sansa's eyes widened. "You- You met my mother?" Her words were barely above a whisper, as if the mere mention of Lady Catelyn would have her punished.

"I did, right before she… passed." Her careful wording was for Sansa's benefit, and her own. "You can be glad you had such an amazing woman as your mother."

The girl nodded her head slowly, staring at the tip of her shoes.

"I apologise for your loss," Cerelle continued. "Losing one parent can be difficult, but both of them is not something one can recover easily from."

Suddenly, Sansa straightened her back, her eyes fluttering about the surrounding guests. "They were both traitors, and should have known better than to stand against King Joffrey. They and my brother received their just punishment."

Cerelle recognised a caged and beaten animal when she saw one. Sansa must be held captive in the Red Keep, every move and word and action scrutinised for a potential betrayal. Yet something she had said made her pause.

"Your brother?"

"Robb Stark, the King in the North. He was killed along with my mother."

Sansa thought Robb was dead. Killed alongside Lady Catelyn. The question that remained was, did only she think so, having been told by her captors to destroy her last spark of hope, or did everyone think Robb dead? Had, perhaps, after not being able to eliminate their main target, the Freys lied to the crown?

She almost blurted it out - the truth she herself had run away from. But she was conscious enough of their onlookers to hold herself back.

Instead, she enveloped the surprised Sansa in a hug, pressed her own face towards her ear, and whispered, "He is alive."

Then she pulled back, smiled as calmingly as she could, and said in a normal tone of voice, "Your family is still your family. Despite what others may tell you, despite you being on opposite sides of a conflict, you are still allowed to mourn for them."

Sansa's confusion was written plainly on her face, and she couldn't blame the young girl. She tried to signal her to remain calm, to not show the people around her the truth, and eventually, she did.

"I… need to return to my husband," Sansa said quietly.

Husband? Who could such a young girl possibly be married to? A captive of the crown, no less.

Yet before she was able to question Sansa further, loud cheers rang throughout the gardens. Both their gazes wandered towards the high table and the open space before it, in the middle of which a giant cake had just been cut open by King Joffrey.

Her brother.

Doves flew out from the opening in the pastry, and despite wanting to focus on her family, getting a look at them, finding out what had happened to them, her eyes were drawn to the birds.

"Those poor animals," she said. "Trapping them to make a spectacle of them."

"I think they're beautiful," Sansa responded absentmindedly.

They remained side-by-side in the middle of the crowd despite the girl's earlier statement, and watched the king and queen taste their cake. Joffrey commanded their uncle Tyrion to serve him his wine, and he did, yet not without clear resistance.

Cerelle was about to turn to Sansa once more, to talk to her more about her current situation and her family, when Joffrey started coughing loudly. And often. He took another gulp from his goblet yet didn't stop, only started clawing at his throat.

The queen's words sent a murmur through the crowd. "He's choking!"

It took every bit of learned control to keep her from running to her brother, falling down beside his wretching body, and trying to save him. She knew it was folly. Doing so would reveal the connection she had to the king, and would reveal her identity to everyone besides her mother. And what would it get her? Her brother laid twitching and retching on the floor, what could she possibly do?

But she wanted to. She needed to. She had not seen him in so long, she had to talk to him again. Just once, even.

Her hand had closed itself around Sansa's arm, yet neither of them quite noticed it.

Screams and sobs echoed across the gardens as Cerelle felt the tug around her heart.

King Joffrey, her brother, was dead, and she hadn't even been able to say goodbye.