A Song of Ice and Wine
"Exile," muttered Cersei, bitterly recalling the precise words of her sentence even as the sting of her sneer was marred by the chatter of her teeth, "to a land only your soul can withstand."
The blizzard whistled through the slivers of white between the decrepit planks of the abandoned cottage, stirring the snow that had accumulated on the rotting floorboards and kicking up the hems of her dress and cloak. She hadn't felt her feet in three days' time, hadn't bothered to look at them in two, and stopped caring completely after one. What little food the Night's Watch had given her would either induce vomiting or shatter her teeth…if it wasn't laced with poison already.
Tyrion's idea of poetic justice—a cold land for a cold hearted bitch.
"In a coat of gold or a coat of red," she sang softly, "lion has claws, and mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours."
Cersei could only sniff derisively and reach for the last bottle on the off-kilter lump of sticks the previous owner of the cottage called a table. The tips of her frostbitten fingers clinked softly against the glass as she grasped it and lifted it to her quivering lips. There was no warmth, no relief, no satisfaction—only the sour and bitter drink of death rattling the house to its last desperate clutch for stability.
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke…that Lord of Castamere. But now the rains weep o'er his hall with no one there to hear."
As Cersei Lannister, former Queen of Westeros, slowly closed her eyes to the cold, the only red and gold that continued to gleam, remnants of the glory of her past, were her long, blond hair, spiked with frost and gray, and the wine that lingered on her blue lips.