The plan was simple, at least in theory. Follow Jaime and Brienne to King's Landing, ensure that the exchange for Sansa and Arya was made, and return to Winterfell with your sisters. You had sworn to your mother that you would bring them both back, that you would not rest until you saw them safe. But the gods, as always, found amusement in your plans, as if the life of a wolf were a game they could manipulate and destroy at will.

The Red Wedding happened, stripping you of any illusion that you had control over your own destiny.

Sansa disappeared shortly after Joffrey's murder, as if she had been swallowed up by an unforgiving city.

And you... you were captured.

First as a prisoner, then as a pawn in the Lannisters' dirty and endless game. They talked about marrying you to Jaime, remaking what Sansa and Tyrion had undone. You laughed in their faces, refused, fought, screamed until you lost your voice. But no one hears a chained wolf. Your word carried no weight against the gold and name that sustained the enemy.

Casterly Rock became your golden prison. Jaime Lannis, your jailer with a calm face and promises you didn't ask for.

The months dragged on like open wounds. You tried to control the fury burning in your chest, tried not to look at him while they shared a meal, tried not to think about how easy it would be to strangle him in his sleep. He wasn't cruel, he didn't raise his hand, he didn't force himself on you. But that was only the bare minimum, and you refused to consider it a virtue.

Until the gods dealt you the lowest blow of all. You were pregnant. The news crushed any shred of pride you had left. Carrying in your womb the blood of the man who destroyed your home, who tore your family away from you, was an affront that burned more than any chain. A humiliation that made the very air seem too heavy to breathe. Jaime knew because a nervous servant told him about the request for moon tea.

The pregnancy progressed against your will, against your attempts. You resorted to forbidden teas, forced miscarriages, spent sleepless nights hoping your own body would give up. Nothing worked. And he noticed. From then on, you were never alone. There were always eyes on you—his, those of guards, or ladies-in-waiting who feigned kindness while watching your every move.

In the rare moments when you were alone, anger overflowed and swallowed everything. You grabbed him, screamed for him to kill you, to become the monster his surname carried. He just held you tight enough to keep you from hurting yourself, with a weary patience that made you even angrier. He said it was no use, that you needed to calm down. Sometimes he called the maester to give you something that would knock you out for hours; other times, he tried to do it with words you didn't want to hear.

"I'm not my father" he would say quietly, while you still struggled against his arms. "And this child will not be a weapon. It will just be... ours."

But you didn't want to listen. You didn't want to imagine a future. You didn't want to be a mother. You wanted to go back in time, to be just a daughter, to feel the cold of Winterfell, to hear your mother's voice. You wanted a home that no longer existed.