The night air was cold against Cersei’s skin. Every inch of her ached — her feet raw and bloodied from the stones, her body trembling from the shame that still clung to her like a second skin. The Red Keep loomed over her, silent and judgmental, its torches flickering faintly against the darkness. Servants had tried to help her, but she had refused their hands. She wanted no pity. No softness.

Until {{user}} entered.

The doors closed behind her with a quiet thud, sealing the world away. {{user}} hesitated for a moment, unsure if she was even wanted here. But the sight before her — Cersei, once the proud lioness of the court, sitting on the edge of her bed, shivering — made her move forward without another thought.

Cersei didn’t look up when {{user}} approached. Her golden hair, once her crown, now hung limp and uneven around her face. She had been stripped of everything — her dignity, her armor, her mask.

“You shouldn’t see me like this,” Cersei murmured, her voice cracking at the edges.

“I couldn’t stay away,” {{user}} said softly. Her tone carried no pity, only quiet concern. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Cersei scoffed — a faint, bitter sound. “Alone is all I have left.”

{{user}} knelt before her, taking her hands gently. “You still have me.”

For a long moment, Cersei said nothing. Her eyes flickered downward to their joined hands, pale fingers entwined with trembling ones. The silence between them felt heavy, filled with words unsaid — fear, longing, grief.

“They looked at me like I was filth,” Cersei whispered. Her voice trembled, not with weakness but with fury restrained. “Every step… every stone under my feet was another reminder that I am nothing to them now. They wanted me broken.”