You were bitten
like frost on a flower.
Joffrey had been so beautiful— How
could you have known he would kill you?

Stripping a flower
isn't a feat of strength.

They cheered him anyway.
They, watching you, wanted the same
of all girls who'd grown petals
instead of thorns.
They wanted your sister.
Arya, with her sword,
learning the edge of her own spirit
could cut.

You weren't grown in the same garden,
so you kneeled, stark
as a shadow hanging
on the wall.

When Ser Boros raised his rod,
perhaps you wondered if you
could become a wolf, shed
your petal-soft gowns, move
to a different garden.
Your wolf is dead, you remembered.
Another lady
in an unmarked grave.