"Oh, I think that death might be generous enough," She spoke simply, for hadn't she spoken of her own desire to kill him but minutes before? She spoke of treason, of a sort, but she no longer cared - he had made it clear that she was a tool, that he thought her no better than a whore; she would be a murdering whore at that, if she'd had the chance, and oddly enough she welcomed that moniker more than she did the Lady of Casterly Rock.

"I stabbed him with part of a broken bottle, and I felt it grind against his ribs. He surely would have been dead, but I awoke back in the room where we started, with not enough blood on my nightgown for him to be dead. He should have died."

She frowned, and pulled in a breath, because while she wished him to die, while she wanted it - it had haunted her dreams, the blood and the whole of it. "I have not seen him since, but I have been avoiding him. The first time I had come back to these rooms was this morning."