born in a burial shroud
He died clawing his own throat out.
And she remembers the blood, remembers how scarlet it was, how red -- how crimson it painted his fingers, his face, the floor. She remembers the pain in her throat that broke her heart, remembers how slick the blood was on her palms when she went to scoop him up, as though she entertained some feeble hope that she could save him.
And it was always then that she wakes up, practically screaming, but her voice is dry and pale and nothing much comes out. Cersei Lannister finds it hard to sleep, anymore -- finds it hard to close her eyes against the thought. It will haunt her until she dies, she knows, even into her old age, she will have those nightmares.
She blames Tyrion, though Jaime does not believe the charge. Joffrey had never made many friends, had sought no quarter from the boy-king she had made him -- painted whores or noble virgins, the world was what he was going to make it.
She found herself wandering the halls where the garden overgrew the balcony, where the flowers leaned towards the moon and the star-filled sky, exhaling their perfume into the air. The breeze had a bite to it, and she closed her robe around her. Late though the hour, she heard footsteps, and looked up to see who they belonged to.