[King's Landing - Great Sept of Baelor, Cells]

On her final night in captivity, the queen tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her as visions of the next day filled her mind.

"I will have guards," she reassured herself. "They will protect me from the crowd. No one will dare to touch me." The High Sparrow had assured her of that. Yet, fear gnawed at her.

She recalled the chaos on the day Myrcella left for Dorne. The gold cloaks had tried to maintain order, but the mob had broken through, brutally attacking the old High Septon and assaulting Lollys Stokeworth. If a mere girl could provoke such madness, how much more would a queen incite?

Cersei paced her cell, restless like the caged lions of her childhood at Casterly Rock. She and Jaime used to dare each other to approach those beasts. Once, she had bravely touched one, feeling its rough tongue against her fingers until Jaime pulled her away.

"Your turn," she had challenged him. But he never took the bait.

Now, barefoot and trembling, she wrapped a thin blanket around herself, eager for the morning. By evening, it would be over. A brief walk, and she'd be back with Tommen in her own chambers. Her uncle had insisted this was the only way to save her. But could she trust him?

"I could refuse," she thought. "I could defend my innocence and risk it all at a trial." But the Faith would judge her, and Margaery Tyrell would thrive on that. Cersei had few allies among the septas and sparrows. Her only chance was trial by battle, but for that, she needed a champion.

If only Jaime hadn't lost his hand. But he was gone, disappeared with Brienne. She had to find another defender. Her enemies accused her of treason, and she needed to reach Tommen.

"He loves me. He won't deny his mother. Tommen is a good boy. He will listen."

Staying put meant doom. She had to walk back to the Red Keep. The High Sparrow was firm, and Ser Kevan wouldn't oppose him.

"No harm will come to me today," Cersei declared as dawn light touched her window. "Only my pride will suffer." Yet, the words felt empty. Jaime might still arrive. She imagined him riding through the mist, his golden armor gleaming in the sun. Jaime, if you ever loved me...

When her captors came, it was Septa Unella, Septa Moelle, and Septa Scolera leading the way, accompanied by four novices and two silent sisters in grey robes. The silent sisters, known for dealing with the dead, filled her with dread. Why are they here? Am I to die? "The High Septon promised that no harm would come to me." "Nor will it," replied Septa Unella, signaling the novices.

They brought lye soap, warm water, shears, and a razor. Cersei felt a chill. They intend to shave me. Another layer of humiliation. But she refused to beg. I am Cersei of House Lannister, rightful queen of these Seven Kingdoms. And hair grows back.

"Get on with it," she commanded. The elder silent sister took the shears. Cersei sat still as the clicking sound filled the air. Strands of her golden hair fell away. She hadn't been able to care for it in her cell, but even tangled, it glimmered in the sunlight. My crown, she thought. They took my other crown, and now this one too.

Once her hair lay at her feet, one novice soaped her head, and the silent sister scraped the stubble away. Cersei hoped it would end there, but no. "Remove your shift, Your Grace," ordered Septa Unella. "Here?" Cersei asked. "Why?"

"You must be shorn." Shorn, like a sheep. She ripped the shift off and tossed it aside. "Do what you will." The soap and razor returned, targeting her underarms, legs, and finally, the fine hair covering her mound. When the silent sister approached with the razor, memories of Jaime flooded back—his warm kisses on her thighs. The razor felt cold against her skin.

When it was done, she sat naked and exposed. A bitter laugh escaped her. "Does Your Grace find this amusing?" asked Septa Scolera. "No, septa," Cersei replied, but I will have my revenge.

One novice offered her a soft white robe to wear as she descended the tower steps. They wanted to shield any worshipers from her nakedness. "Will I be allowed sandals?" she asked. "The streets are filthy."

"Not as filthy as your sins," said Septa Moelle. "His High Holiness commands you present yourself as you were born. Did you wear sandals when you came from your mother?"

"No, septa," Cersei spat.

"Then you have your answer."

A bell rang out. The queen's long confinement was over. Cersei tightened her robe, feeling its warmth. "Let us go," she said. Her son was waiting across the city. The sooner she left, the sooner she would see him.

As she descended the rough stone steps, Cersei Lannister reflected on her journey. She had entered Baelor's Sept as a queen, carried in a litter. Now, she left bald and barefoot. But I am leaving. That's what mattered. The tower bells tolled, calling the city to witness her disgrace.

The Great Sept of Baelor was filled with faithful people gathered for dawn service. Their prayers echoed off the dome, but silence fell as the queen's procession appeared. A thousand eyes turned to her as she walked past the spot where her father had been laid after his murder. Cersei kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the stares. Her bare feet slapped against the cold marble floor.

Behind the altars, the Seven seemed to watch her. In the Hall of Lamps, a dozen Warrior's Sons awaited her. They wore rainbow cloaks, and their polished silver armor gleamed in the light. She knew each man wore a hair shirt beneath. Their shields bore the emblem of a shining crystal sword, known as the Swords.

Their captain knelt before her. "Perhaps Your Grace will recall me. I am Ser Theodan the True, and His High Holiness has given me command of your escort. My brothers and I will see you safely through the city."

Cersei scanned the faces behind him. There was Lancel, her cousin, who once claimed to love her, but now loved the gods more. My blood and my betrayer. She wouldn't forget him.

"You may rise, Ser Theodan. I am ready."

The knight stood tall, turned, and raised his hand. Two men approached the massive doors and pushed them open. Cersei stepped outside, squinting against the bright sunlight like a mole emerging from its den. A strong wind whipped around her, making the hem of her robe snap against her legs.

The air was heavy with the familiar odors of King's Landing. She inhaled deeply, catching whiffs of sour wine, baking bread, rotting fish, and waste. Smoke and sweat mixed with the scent of horses. No flower could ever compare.

Huddled in her robe, Cersei paused on the marble steps as the Warrior's Sons gathered around her. She suddenly remembered standing there on the day Eddard Stark was executed. That should not have happened. Joffrey was supposed to spare him and send him to the Wall. Stark's eldest son would have taken over Winterfell, while Sansa would remain at court as a hostage. Varys and Littlefinger had negotiated those terms. Ned Stark had sacrificed his honor to save his daughter.

Cersei thought she could have arranged a good marriage for Sansa—a Lannister marriage. Not Joffrey, but perhaps Lancel or one of his younger brothers. Petyr Baelish had even offered to marry her, but that was impossible due to his low birth. If Joffrey had only followed orders, Winterfell wouldn't have gone to war, and her father could have handled Robert's brothers. Instead, Joffrey had ordered Stark's execution, and Lord Slynt and Ser Ilyn Payne had obeyed.

Cersei looked at the spot where Janos Slynt had lifted Ned Stark's head by the hair as blood pooled on the steps. There was no turning back after that.

The memories felt distant now. Joffrey was dead, all of Stark's sons were gone, and even her father had died. And now, she stood on the Great Sept steps, but this time, it was her the crowd was staring at.

The wide plaza below was filled with people, just like the day Stark was killed. She saw men and women, some with children on their shoulders. Beggars, thieves, tavern owners, tradespeople—all had gathered to witness a queen brought low. Among them were the Poor Fellows—dirty, unshaven men wielding spears and axes, dressed in worn armor under white surcoats marked with the seven-pointed star of the Faith. The High Sparrow's ragged army.

Part of her still hoped Jaime would come and save her from this embarrassment, but her twin was absent. Her uncle wasn't there either, which she expected. Ser Kevan had made it clear last time he visited; her disgrace couldn't ruin Casterly Rock's honour. No lions would stand with her today. This humiliation was hers to bear alone.

Septa Unella was on her right, Septa Moelle on her left, and Septa Scolera stood behind her. If the queen hesitated, these three would drag her back inside, ensuring she never left her cell again.

Cersei lifted her chin. Beyond the plaza, past the sea of hungry eyes and dirty faces, Aegon's High Hill loomed in the distance. The Red Keep's towers glowed pink in the sunrise. It's not too far. Once she reached its gates, her suffering would end. She would see her son again. Her uncle had promised.

Tommen is waiting for me. My little king. I can do this. I must.

Septa Unella stepped forward. "A sinner comes before you," she announced. "She is Cersei of House Lannister, queen dowager, mother to His Grace King Tommen, widow of His Grace King Robert, and she has committed grievous falsehoods and fornications."

Septa Moelle continued. "This sinner has confessed her sins and begged for absolution. His High Holiness has commanded her to show her repentance by setting aside all pride and presenting herself as the gods made her before the good people of the city."

Septa Scolera concluded, "So now this sinner comes before you with a humble heart, shorn of secrets and concealments, naked before the eyes of gods and men, to make her walk of atonement."

Cersei recalled her grandfather's death when she was just a year old. Soon after, her father had expelled his father's lowborn mistress from Casterly Rock. The luxurious silks and jewelry had been stripped from her, and she was sent out naked to walk through Lannisport, exposed for all to see.

Cersei had not seen the event herself, but she heard the tales from washerwomen and guards. They recounted how the woman cried and pleaded, how she clung to her clothes when ordered to strip, and how she tried in vain to cover herself as she walked barefoot and naked into exile.

"Vain and proud she was before," one guard recalled. "So haughty you'd think she forgot she came from dirt. Once we got her clothes off, though, she was just another whore."

If Ser Kevan and the High Sparrow thought she would face a similar fate, they were mistaken. Lord Tywin's blood ran through her veins. She was a lioness. She would not cower before them.

Cersei shrugged off her robe and revealed herself in one smooth motion, as if she were alone in her chambers. The cold wind hit her skin, causing a violent shiver. She fought the urge to hide herself like her grandfather's whore had done.

Her fists tightened, nails digging into her palms. She felt their hungry eyes on her. But what did they see?

I am beautiful, she reminded herself. How many times had Jaime told her that? Even Robert had acknowledged her beauty, even in his drunken state.

Cersei walked down the marble steps, feeling exposed and vulnerable. She was naked, her hair cut short, and her feet bare. Goosebumps covered her skin, but she held her head high, determined to maintain her dignity as a queen. Her escort cleared a path through the crowd, pushing aside onlookers. The Poor Fellows moved men out of the way, while the Swords flanked her sides. Septa Unella, Septa Scolera, and Septa Moelle followed closely, with novice girls in white behind them.

"Whore!" a woman shouted from the crowd. Women often were the harshest critics of one another. Cersei chose to ignore the insult, knowing there would be more, and worse. She refused to let them break her spirit. Instead, she focused on Aegon's High Hill and the towers of the Red Keep, the potential source of her salvation. She had sinned and now faced her punishment, parading her shame before the city's beggars. They thought this would humiliate her, but they were mistaken.

Septa Unella and Septa Moelle kept pace with her, while Septa Scolera hurried behind, ringing a bell and calling, "Shame, shame upon the sinner." A baker's boy nearby shouted, "Meat pies, three pence, hot meat pies here," adding a contrast to the somber procession.

The cold marble beneath her feet was slick, forcing her to tread carefully. As they passed the statue of Baelor the Blessed, she noted his serene expression. He was once loved by the people but had made foolish choices. Despite his reputation, he had imprisoned his sisters. Cersei thought it a miracle his statue remained intact in her presence. Tyrion had once joked that Baelor feared his own desires, claiming he had expelled all the whores from King's Landing, praying for them as they left the city. Yet, he wouldn't even look at them.

"Harlot," a voice shouted. Another woman. Something flew from the crowd—a rotten vegetable. Brown and oozing, it splattered at the feet of one of the Poor Fellows.

I am not afraid. I am a lioness. Cersei pressed on.

"Hot pies," called the baker's boy. "Getcha hot pies here."

Septa Scolera rang her bell, chanting, "Shame, shame, shame upon the sinner, shame, shame." The Poor Fellows moved ahead, pushing men aside with their shields, clearing a narrow path.

Cersei followed closely, her head held high, her gaze fixed on the distant Red Keep. Each step drew her nearer to her son and her salvation. The plaza seemed endless, but finally, the marble beneath her feet shifted to cobblestones. Shops, stables, and houses closed in around them as they began the descent of Visenya's Hill.

The pace slowed. The street was steep and narrow, and the crowd pressed tightly together. The Poor Fellows shoved those blocking the way, but there was nowhere for anyone to go. Cersei tried to maintain her composure, but she stepped in something slick, nearly falling.

Septa Unella caught her arm. "Your Grace should watch where she sets her feet."

Cersei yanked her arm away. "Yes, septa," she replied, her voice low, masking her anger. She continued on, dressed in goosebumps and pride, searching for the Red Keep, now hidden from view by tall timbered buildings.

"Shame, shame," sang Septa Scolera, her bell ringing loudly. Cersei quickened her pace but soon found herself stuck behind the crowd. Ahead, a man sold skewers of roasted meat. The procession stopped as the Poor Fellows moved him aside. The meat looked suspiciously like rat, but the smell was enticing. By the time the path cleared, half the men around were already eating.

"Want some, Your Grace?" one man shouted. He was large, with pig-like eyes and a beard that reminded her of Robert. Disgusted, she turned away, but he threw a skewer at her. It hit her leg, leaving a greasy stain.

The shouts grew louder. "Whore," "sinner," and other insults filled the air, alongside calls for Stannis and Margaery. Cersei noticed the filthy cobbles and the puddles she couldn't avoid.

No one ever died from wet feet, she told herself, even though the water might be more than just rain. Refuse rained down from above: spoiled fruit, beer, and eggs that burst with a foul smell. Then, someone tossed a dead cat into the crowd, splattering her with its insides.

Cersei kept moving, repeating, "I am blind and deaf; they are worms." The septas continued their chant, and a vendor shouted about chestnuts. A drunk from a balcony raised his cup and jeered, "Queen Cunt."

Words are wind, she thought. They can't hurt me.

Halfway down Visenya's Hill, Cersei slipped in something vile and fell. Septa Unella helped her up, revealing a scraped knee. Laughter erupted from the crowd, and a man offered to kiss it better. She looked back, still able to see the Great Sept of Baelor, but the Red Keep was out of sight.

"Where... where...?"

"Your Grace." The captain of her escort stepped beside her. Cersei had forgotten his name.

"You must continue. The crowd is growing unruly."

Unruly.

"I am not afraid—"

"You should be." He yanked her arm, pulling her along. She staggered down the hill, each step painful, relying on him for support.

Jaime should be here. He would carve a path through the mob, striking fear into those who dared to look at her.

The ground was uneven, slippery, and rough against her feet. She stepped on something sharp—maybe a stone or broken pottery. Cersei cried out.

"I asked for sandals," she snapped at Septa Unella. "You could have given me sandals."

The knight pulled her arm again, treating her like a common serving girl. Had he forgotten who she was? She was the queen of Westeros; he had no right to handle her that way.

As she neared the bottom, the slope leveled, and the street widened. The Red Keep stood ahead, shining crimson in the morning sun.

"I can walk myself," she said, freeing herself from Ser Theodan's grip.

She limped forward, leaving bloody footprints behind her.

She walked through mud and filth, wounded and shivering. The noise around her was overwhelming.

"My wife has sweeter teats than those," a man shouted.

A teamster cursed as the Poor Fellows ordered his wagon out of the way.

"Shame, shame, shame on the sinner," chanted the septas.

"Look at this one," a whore called from a window, lifting her skirts for the men below. "It's not had half as many cocks up it as hers."

Bells rang loudly.

"That can't be the queen," a boy said. "She's saggy as my mum."

This is my penance, Cersei thought. I have sinned. This is my atonement. It will be over soon; then I can forget.

The queen recognized familiar faces. A bald man with bushy side-whiskers glared down from a window, resembling her father's frown so much that it made her stumble. A girl sat under a fountain, soaked in water, staring at her with Melara Hetherspoon's accusing gaze.

She spotted Ned Stark and beside him was little Sansa, her auburn hair shining, along with a shaggy grey dog that could have been her wolf. Each child in the crowd morphed into her brother Tyrion, taunting her as he had done when Joffrey died. And there was Joff, her firstborn, her beautiful boy with golden curls and a sweet smile.

That thought caused her to fall again. She shook as they helped her up.

"Please," she pleaded. "Mother have mercy. I confessed."

"You did," replied Septa Moelle. "This is your atonement."

"It is not much farther," said Septa Unella, pointing ahead. "See? Up the hill, that's all."

They stood at the base of Aegon's High Hill, the castle looming above.

"Whore," someone yelled.

"Brotherfucker," another voice added.

"Abomination."

"Want a suck on this, Your Grace?" A man in a butcher's apron exposed himself, grinning.

None of it mattered. She was almost home. Cersei began to climb.

The crowd was louder here, their jeers more savage. Though she had avoided Flea Bottom, its people had gathered on the lower slopes of Aegon's High Hill to witness the spectacle.

Faces peered at her from behind the Poor Fellows' shields, twisted and grotesque. Pigs and naked children roamed underfoot, while beggars and thieves crawled through the throng. She spotted men with sharpened teeth, hags with large goiters, a woman adorned with a striped snake, and a man with festering sores. They leered and taunted her as she struggled uphill, her body straining with each step.

Some shouted crude proposals; others hurled insults. She thought, Words are just air; they can't harm me. Jaime calls me beautiful—he wouldn't lie. Even Robert, who never loved me, desired me for my beauty. But deep down, she felt anything but beautiful.

She felt old, worn, and dirty. Stretch marks marked her belly from childbirth, and her breasts sagged without the support of a gown.

I shouldn't have come here. I was their queen, but now they see me as I am—naked, bloodied, and limping. I'm just a woman, like their wives and mothers, not the idealized figure they might wish for.

What have I done? Something stung her eyes, blurring her vision. She refused to cry; she couldn't let them see her weakness. Cersei rubbed her eyes. A cold wind made her shiver.

Then the hag appeared, her skin warty and greenish, grinning maliciously. "Queen you shall be," she hissed, "until another comes, younger and more beautiful, to take all you hold most dear."

Tears streamed down the queen's face, burning like acid. Cersei cried out, attempting to shield her body as she ran past the Poor Fellows, scrambling up the hill. She stumbled, fell, and then crawled on all fours, the crowd around her laughing and jeering.

Suddenly, the crowd parted, revealing the castle gates and a line of spearmen in gilded helmets and crimson cloaks. Cersei heard her uncle's harsh voice and spotted Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant approaching.

"My son," she cried, "Where is my son? Where is Tommen?"

"Not here. No son should have to bear witness to his mother's shame," Ser Kevan replied. "Cover her up."

Jocelyn quickly wrapped a clean green blanket around Cersei. A shadow loomed over them, and she felt powerful arms lift her off the ground, just as she had once lifted Joffrey.

She thought it was a giant. The man was enormous, at least eight feet tall, clad in white plate armor, with a greathelm that concealed his face. Plumes in rainbow colors streamed from his helmet. Golden seven-pointed stars clasped his white cloak. Ser Kevan had kept his promise. Tommen had named her champion to the Kingsguard.

Suddenly, Qyburn appeared, trying to keep up with the giant's strides.

"Your Grace, it is so good to have you back. May I present our newest member of the Kingsguard? This is Ser Robert Strong."

"Ser Robert," Cersei whispered as they entered the gates.

"If it please Your Grace, Ser Robert has taken a holy vow of silence," Qyburn explained. "He will not speak until all of His Grace's enemies are dead."

Yes, thought Cersei Lannister. Oh, yes.