It had been bad to see her mother, after Tyrion had torn himself free of her. Yet she had only seen her after the Silent Sisters had done their work, so that Joanna Lannister had looked pale and sleeping. Unresponsive she had been, and so cold to her touch, but she had been spared the sight of her screaming, any hint of her agony, anything but Tyrion she had been spared. It must have been a special hell, then, for young Casimir to see his father in such a state.

In truth, it reminds her a little of the Mad King, with his long, curling toenails and the spittle running out of the corner of his mouth, eyes rolling in their sockets when another bout of his madness shook a second's sense from him.

A calm, levelled thought to have, before the fever seizes her own husband, and rises him to a feral kind of anger. Like Aerys, like with her father, and like with anyone who could do her ready and quick harm, the best defence is not to show fear, but to stay firm. "You would rather I did not understand at all."

Yet his fear makes sense now: this is not a death worth dying, and it is crass both in the way it disgusts a sane person, and in how hopeless a fight against it would be. He does not much like to lose control of anything, her dear husband, surely then to lose hold of his own body would be the worst thing of all. "You need to lie down."