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The cloak around Cersei’s shoulders is black. The warmth of the fur trim seeps through her dress into her very skin but it is a heavy, cloying warmth that does little to ease the twisting of her stomach. Her throat aches but she will not cry.
Her husband’s face is as frozen as the forest around them. The swords of the Rebellion have left the kingdoms torn open and red with blood but the North has been spared. Untouched, her handmaiden had sighed when they first stepped out of the walls of Winterfell. Cersei had said nothing. Not untouched, she had thought. Cold. Colourless. Barren.
Yet it is this cold, colourless, barren wasteland that is to be her home now. Eddard Stark stands beside her, rigid and straight-backed, and there is a note of resignation to his voice as he completes his vows. The scarlet face of the weirwood stares down at her, tears of sap dripping down the greyed bark. Cersei’s throat aches; she wants to scream, wants to rip the cloak from her shoulders, wants man and god alike to quake in fear before her rage.
These are not my gods and this is not my home, she thinks but the eyes of the heart tree meet her own and she does not so much as whisper.
The night before the wedding, Cersei had dreamt of her brother. She had heard only stories of Jaime’s actions during the Rebellion, of the death of the Mad King, of how her own betrothed had found him sat on the Iron Throne with the corpse slumped at his feet. She dreamed now of this: of Jaime, regal in white and gold, lounging on the Throne; of his smile as he stalked towards Lord Stark; of the blood of the wolf as Jaime struck his head from his neck. She dreams of a lion of a king, and the queen that she ought to be.
But Ser Jaime had stepped aside when Lord Stark had entered the throne room. It was Robert Baratheon who was declared. It is now Robert Baratheon who wears a crown and sits upon the Iron Throne. It is Catelyn Tully, who married him before the battle was fought and who has already borne him a black-haired son, who is Queen.
“Eddard Stark is one of the most powerful men in Westeros,” Cersei’s father had told her, “Not only is he the Warden of the North, he is trusted and loved implicitly by the King. This match brings us great reward, Cersei.”
“You would send me so far away,” she had snarled, “to marry the lord of winter. I might have been Queen!”
“But you are not,” Tywin Lannister had said coolly, “You will be lady of Winterfell. You do not yet understand how important that will be.”
She still does not.
The wedding feast is as terrible as Cersei imagined. She finds the Northerners loud and uncouth. They yell to one another across tables, slop ale down their fronts, smack tables in their joviality. The men of her father, and of the king, celebrate as wildly as they do and even King Robert joins in with abandon, to the point that his wife turns as red as her hair. Lord Stark is the sole exception. He speaks little, only to Robert or to his brother, and picks at his dinner.
Across the hall, Cersei watches Jaime. He is clad in the white cloak of the Kingsguard, smiling as brightly as the sun, and Cersei feels a pang in her chest at the sight. Jaime throws back his head with a laugh before throwing an arm around their younger brother. Tyrion is quick to feel Cersei’s eyes on him. He meets her gaze fearlessly and then raises his flagon as if toasting her.
Does the Imp mock me? Cersei wonders. Anger beats within her again, hot and ferocious as dragon’s breath, but she remains passive. To lose her calm would mean that Tyrion would win, that they would all win and have the honour of watching Tywin Lannister’s daughter humiliate herself, and she will not allow them that.
There is a shrill scrape as the King pushes his chair back and stands on unsteady feet. The hall falls silent.
“As pleasant as tonight is,” Robert booms, “we must call for a reprieve. The ale will yet be waiting for us when we have completed the bedding ceremony!”
A cheer erupts but Cersei barely has time to register more than the sinking of her heart before she is wrenched to her feet. The King and lords are not subtle as they push her into the middle of their huddle: they watch with hungry eyes and tug at her dress with eager, clumsy hands. She closes her eyes tightly and endures it. The air chills her as the fine gown is ripped away. Her thin shift hides little and some of the men groan and croon appreciatively. Cersei imagines clawing their eyes out.
When hands reach for the skirt of her shift, they are careful and familiar. Cersei opens her eyes and sighs in relief at the sight of her twin, even as the others crowd behind him.
“The grand finale and then we deliver her to her chambers,” says Jaime but he is sober now. In a fluid motion, the shift is pulled over Cersei’s head and dropped crumpled onto the floor. Jaime heaves her into his arms.
“Lucky old Ned,” Robert exclaims and Jaime manages a laugh.
“Oh, how lucky,” he says but this is quiet, for Cersei’s ears only, and his breath slides against her cheek like a caress. Cersei’s very blood seems to warm for the first time since she was carried through the gates of Winterfell.
But Jaime will not follow her into her bedchambers. A lord pushes the door open and Jaime promptly drops Cersei inside.
“Sweet dreams, sister,” he coos and the lords roar with laughter. They are quickly shooed away, however, by the women as they drag Eddard Stark towards the room. He is shoved in and the door swiftly slammed shut. Cersei wishes it would blot out the din of their cat-calling as she finds herself alone with her husband for the first time.
The first thing Cersei notices are his underthings. They were not torn off as hers have been and she feels an unwelcome throb of self-consciousness. As Lord Stark raises his eyes, so Cersei lifts her chin. She will not feel ashamed.
Lord Stark’s eyes are a stony grey, grey as the Northern sky and ground, and regard Cersei warily.
“My lady,” he says, voice low and gruff. Cersei inclines her head in acknowledgment. They both know what must come next; the ribald shouts and suggestions being hollered through the door would certainly enlighten them if they did not. When Cersei speaks, she pointedly lowers the pitch of her voice.
“Perhaps we’d best move away from our audience,” she says and pads over to the bed without waiting for his answer. He watches her walk, of that she is sure. She is not unaware of her beauty, nor of the spell a woman’s body can hold a man under. She lies down against the pillows—soft, yielding, a small relief—but Eddard Stark lingers still between door and bed, as if he were the stranger in the castle rather than she. The racket outside grows ever louder.
“I am not so innocent in the ways of life, Lord Stark,” Cersei says tersely, “Nor are you. We both know that your esteemed guests will not be satisfied until these sheets are suitably stained. You needn’t hesitate; I won’t break.”
Lord Stark looks at her again, his eyes evaluating, and Cersei quashes a stirring in her gut. He is not good-humored as Jaime is. He is dark and unsmiling and impossible to read. It makes Cersei uncertain, if indeed such a thing could happen. She cannot tell what he is thinking, not as she can her brother.
“I don’t imagine I am even capable of breaking you,” Lord Stark says slowly. Cersei’s brow furrows but he does not elaborate. Instead he reaches for the tie of his underthings and approaches the bed, watching her all the while. The mattress dips as he lowers himself next to her. Cersei props herself up on her elbow and returns his stare. It occurs to her to be welcoming, to push her shoulders back as if in presentation, to appear more alluring and pleasing to this man, but she does not.
His fingers are gentle and almost contemplative when he reaches out to trace the line of her jaw. When he leans in and kisses her, his lips are warm.
The snow steadfastly refuses to melt and Cersei’s first weeks as lady of Winterfell are spent clad in the thickest dresses and cloaks on hand.
She is alone up here now; the King departed soon after the wedding, taking his Kingsguard and most of their guests with him. Cersei bid them farewell with dry eyes and did not linger a moment longer than necessary, save for Jaime. If anyone thought something uncouth of her brother’s embrace, they did not mention so.
In an effort to stave off her boredom, she takes to exploring her new estate. Winterfell had seemed a grim shadow against the sky when she first approached it; now she seeks out every turret and tunnel, learns every room, and wanders the grounds when she can bring herself to brave the frozen outdoors. Her handmaidens—timid, dark-haired girls—flit after her like trained birds. She rarely encounters her husband, save for meals and his visits to her bedchamber, which tend to be far between.
It is a strange routine that the lord and lady settle into and it baffles Cersei. She finds herself musing on it sometimes, as she takes her walk around the castle. She had, perhaps, expected a man as enthusiastic as the men at her wedding feast, or even Jaime. She is a fair, Southron beauty, a trueborn Lannister, the sole glimmer of gold in this bleak Northern stronghold, but Eddard Stark, this stranger, does not look upon her as others have. Every encounter with him, whether they were breaking their fast or fulfilling their duties as man and wife, knocks Cersei off-balance in a way she never experienced before.
One day, Cersei discovers him in the godswood. It is a rare day of weak sunshine and the first chance Cersei has had to shake off her maids. She means only to take her rest outside for a time when she spots the flap of a black cloak between the distant white of the trees. Cersei cannot be certain that it is Lord Stark, when it is the middle of the day and a lord must be about a lord’s business—
—but she moves without quite meaning to, tugging the hood of her own cloak up and following the figure into the woods.
When she catches up to him, Lord Stark is crouched before the heart tree, head bowed, and shows no indication that he has even heard Cersei approach. She falters at the sight of him and the tree before which they were bound together. She has never worshipped the old gods, though she had been taught of their ways. She never wondered what her husband had thought of her standing in front of this symbol of his gods, or even if her husband was a devout man. She feels oddly intrusive as she watches him pray.
At last, Lord Stark lifts his head. He squints slightly, as if he cannot see her properly, and Cersei remembers her hood.
“My lord,” she says. Her voice sounds sharp in the silence of the clearing. Lord Stark betrays no surprise. “I did not wish to intrude.”
“You do not, my lady,” he says immediately, and Cersei feels her lip curl, “Is there something I can assist you in?”
“No,” Cersei replies. She ought to leave, but Lord Stark’s eyes are unguarded and soft as fog now, and it seems right to stay for a moment. She sits gingerly down on a rock near the tree and observes him. “I have not thought to return here in some weeks.”
“You do not keep these gods,” Lord Stark says quietly, “but the woods might bring some comfort until the sept is completed.”
“Aye,” Cersei says. She had almost forgotten about the sept Lord Stark had offered to have built for his Southern wife and her Seven. “My chambers are peaceful enough to pray in for now. I confess I know little about the old gods, my lord. The septs I have known are certainly not as beautiful as this place.”
“Nor as cold,” Lord Stark turns again to the heart tree and the streaks of unhappy red, “I will not ask you to take up the old gods, my lady, nor take pleasure in the woods.”
“Can I not admire something pretty?” Cersei asks and Lord Stark’s mouth twitches.
“Aye, that you can.”
Cersei smiles despite herself. The woods truly are a sight to behold; she did not lie about that. Even somber Ned Stark could look lovely among these trees.
“Might I persuade my husband to take a turn with me,” she ventures, “and tell me a little about this something pretty?”
Lord Stark looks at her with his fog-grey eyes, as if he is searching for something, and Cersei wonders if he can see right to the very core of her. Maybe she is as much of a mystery to him as he is to her. At length, his face relaxes. He stands and offers her a hand.
“If my lady should like it.”
Cersei’s smile widens and she takes hold of his hand.
Until she was made his stepmother, Cersei found it hilarious that Eddard Stark has a bastard.
Jon Snow is as dark and solemn as his father, though he is not yet weaned of his wet-nurse. His hair is all black tangles; his eyes are the shade of the sea in a storm and take in everything around him with an unnerving calm. Cersei barely sees him nor thinks on him much. She does not ask Eddard about him or his mother, whoever she is, for all past attempts to do so have been rebuffed. What Eddard has done and now does with the boy is none of Cersei’s concern.
She has been married less than a year when her moon’s blood stops. That is when Cersei realizes that Jon Snow is very much her concern.
Cersei knows it is not strange for a man to have bastard children. Some, if they are as noble as Lord Stark, might even acknowledge them as their natural-born, although it is rare that a lord will raise them in their own household. A bastard is a bastard, and she had not cared about her own father’s worries—and worried he was, Cersei realizes as she stands before her mirror and peers at the rounding underneath her nightgown.
For now she must envision her own babe alongside Jon Snow, the very picture of a Stark—growing together, learning together, fighting and playing together, vying for the attentions of their lord father—
A bastard is a bastard, she tells herself, but she remembers the grand castle of Winterfell, the power of House Stark, and the touching affection Eddard shows for his firstborn son. She imagines Jon Snow as Lord of Winterfell, and something angry and vicious unfurls in her breast.
Eddard, for his part, is overjoyed when Cersei tells him that she is with child. It is not an overt delight, but Cersei catches it in the brightening of his eyes and the quirk of his lips. It is almost enough to make her forgive him.
She finds pregnancy boring and unpleasant. Every sunrise brings some new ache and pain: her belly bloats; her ankles swell; she can barely eat without feeling sick. All decent gowns become too small to fit her and, by the time the baby begins to kick, Cersei finds herself waddling about the castle in shapeless, moth-eaten dresses that belonged to Stark women of old, with only Eddard’s Old Nan for company. The babe grows heavier and Cersei can no longer sleep comfortably, too hot and too cold by turns, her weary eyes spying insults and enemies in all corners.
At her blackest points, when she lies abed and alone and cannot see or move much for the dome of her belly, Cersei thinks about Jaime. She yearns for him more than ever, her pure and loving brother. Jaime would never betray her. He would never leave her side if she asked it of him. She wonders in the darkness if Jaime would ride for Winterfell at her call—if he would abandon the Baratheon King to his drinks and whores and come for her. He would burn the North for me.
She wonders if he would even kill Eddard and his bastard son. She wonders if she would ask him to.
For all that her lying-in is an ordeal, giving birth is a quick affair. The child slips into the world with a hearty wail and Cersei feels something in her tug at the sound. The midwife is grinning.
“A girl, my lady,” she announces. Cersei sags back onto the bed in shock. A girl…?
“Are you certain?” she demands.
“Very certain, my lady, or else there are parts missing!” comes the laughing reply. Cersei bristles at her insolence. She ought to have her crooked teeth knocked out for this. That babe should have been a boy.
All she can think of, as the midwife cuts the babe free and cleans her up, is how furious her father would be—a girl was worth nothing, he would say, and Cersei had failed. They needed a son, a legitimate heir, a Lannister as Warden of the North instead of Eddard’s bastard boy. Cersei remembers Jon Snow, probably fast asleep in his wet-nurse’s arms right now, a sweet-faced threat, and her teeth grit back a scream.
Then the midwife is bustling up alongside the bed. “Here you go, my lady,” she croons and she proffers the bundle in her arms to Cersei. It is a solid weight in Cersei’s arms and she feels surprise briefly, for the babe within seems so small. Baffled pale eyes peep out of a red face, examining Cersei just as she examines them. The child wriggles into Cersei’s warmth and the tug Cersei had felt earlier blossoms into an almost overwhelming love. In that moment, even Tywin Lannister is forgotten.
Eddard is summoned and appears at the door within minutes. He does not cross the threshold until Cersei allows him, but he thrums with anticipation and can barely keep still. Cersei’s heart is kindly today and another warm burst blooms within her at the sight of him.
“It’s a girl, Eddard,” she says slowly as he approaches the bed. Eddard says nothing. He reaches out in silent question, one that Cersei very almost refuses before reminding herself of her manners. The baby settles as well in Eddard’s arms as she did in Cersei’s and Eddard finally smiles.
“A daughter,” he says, rubbing a thumb over the babe’s cheek, “She is beautiful.”
Victory thrills through Cersei at that and she slides closer to Eddard. She means only to see her daughter’s face better, but Eddard glances at her for a moment and slides a heavy arm around her shoulders. The kiss he presses to her temple startles her further.
She does not move away.
Nearly four moons after Myrcella’s birth, Cersei sees her husband with both of his children in the yard. It is not unusual for Eddard to be with either of them, especially now that Jon is learning to walk and somewhat reluctant to travel far from his father. Somehow, the sight of Eddard with Jon perched on his knee and Myrcella cradled in the crook of his arm—Myrcella who is yellow-haired and sweet, whose eyes are the grey of morning clouds rather than stormy seas—jars something inside of Cersei and she retreats back into the castle.
She knows that the circumstances of Jon’s birth are unknown. All that she is certain of is that he was carried to Winterfell as a newborn alongside Lyanna Stark’s body before Cersei was even betrothed, when the blood on the ground of King’s Landing was still wet. Whether he was born on the fringes of battle, at Starfall or in some other hall, whether his mother was a serving girl or a highborn lady, even whether or not his mother yet lives, Eddard refuses to say. These are the questions that worm into Cersei’s brain, that bray loud enough at night to keep her awake, and Eddard’s honour ceases to be a good enough reason to leave them unanswered.
For my daughter, she tells herself, for my Myrcella, I must know. For my place as the mother of the rightful Wardens of the North, I must know.
She muses briefly on whether or not Eddard loved the woman, for that is of little matter. Ashara Dayne’s violet eyes flash only for a moment before her.
When she broaches the matter with her handmaidens, they are only too happy to surrender what they know, tripping over one another in their haste to tell their stories. Rumours abound that Jon’s mother was a fisherwoman, a wet-nurse, that Eddard met her at the Tourney at Harrenhal, that he loved her, that he was drunk on ale when he took her, that he had been Ashara Dayne’s lover and she threw herself from the towers of Starfall because she could not abide that her child’s father had killed her cherished brother. When the topic of Arthur Dayne, and the fight at the Tower of Joy, arises, the fervour of her handmaidens is lit anew and Cersei finally learns something of import.
She takes two nights and one day to write her letter. Soon after, a raven flies south from Winterfell towards the Neck, to Greywater Watch and one Howland Reed.
A reply is slow to come and Cersei has put it at the back of her mind by the time she falls pregnant again. She carries easier, this time. Every day, the sun grows stronger and, when she is seven moons gone with child, Cersei finds that she can walk in the grounds comfortably without a cloak.
“You ought to accompany us,” Cersei tells Eddard in his solar one afternoon, hefting Myrcella higher on her hip. She cannot tell exactly why she says it, only that it would not be unwelcome if he were to walk with her. “I should like to see if you can stand the sunshine.”
Eddard leans over his desk and pulls a face at her, more for the giggling Myrcella’s benefit than hers, “Perhaps on a day where these letters have not gone three weeks unanswered.”
“Perhaps one day, you might ask for your wife’s assistance in that regard,” Cersei counters. She fears that she is risking his good humour, as indeed many men would be displeased by the notion of needing a wife’s help. Cersei is no vapid slip of a woman, content only to appear on her husband’s arm in public and in his bed at home; she will not cringe away from his temper.
Eddard only smiles and picks up his quill.
“Perhaps. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You might call me Ned.”
Joanna is born in the middle of the night, as rain lashes against the glass windows and lightening rips apart the sky. Her screams rival the thunder itself and even Cersei is begrudgingly impressed. “An auspicious start,” the midwife calls it. When Cersei repeats this to Ned later, he laughs. He is handsome when he laughs, or maybe it is only the joy of a new baby brightening him up from within.
This second daughter is a Stark through and through, from her black hair to the stubborn crease of her brow. Where Myrcella was a quiet and pretty baby, Joanna has no qualms about making her voice heard and Cersei’s maids take to plugging their ears with wax after nightfall. Joanna finds peace only in the arms of her mother, a fact in which Cersei’s vanity luxuriates.
As Cersei predicted, her father is less than pleased when he hears that Ned Stark yet lacks a legitimate heir. Tywin’s congratulations are short and his warnings lengthy; his letter seeks to remind Cersei that the North is the biggest region of the Seven Kingdoms, that any measure of power over it would be highly desirable, that Ned Stark has a son and there are many women out there who would be more than willing to bear him another. Inside the envelope is a note from Tyrion, who cheerfully congratulates Cersei on another healthy babe and asks if he would ever get to see his nieces at Winterfell.
Cersei burns both immediately and writes only a short letter thanking both of them for their kind words. No mention is made of Jaime.
The raven lands in the rookery of Winterfell just before dawn, when all is still and silent. Its burden remains strapped to its leg until long after sun-up, when the maester visits the tower and almost has his fingers torn off by an irritable bird in the process. The letter is simple and thin, weather-stained, and closed by a black seal. When Maester Luwin examines it further, he finds a faint indentation in the shape of a lizard-lion.
Cersei is initially displeased when Luwin knocks on her chamber door early that morning, for, although he is loyal to her husband’s house, she and the maester have never really seen eye-to-eye. Luwin is brisk about his business, merely informing Cersei that a letter arrived addressed to her, bearing the seal of—his voice takes on a confused note here—House Reed, of all things. He pulls the letter from his robes, lays it on Cersei’s desk, and departs with only a nod. He does not notice the Lady of Winterfell’s uncommon graveness.
Howland Reed’s handwriting is no better than chicken-scratch, and on first hurried read Cersei cannot make sense of it. He apologizes for the lateness of his correspondence, scrawling only a little about the troubles of navigating swamps—And in truth, I was not sure how to respond, so little did I expect this day to come, for I thought Ned would take this tale to his grave—and Cersei brushes over his cordial greetings to get to the first mention of the bastard boy.
The time for the morning meal comes and goes, and Ned and the children break their fast alone. Cersei remains shut away in her quarters all morning, reading again and again the words of Howland Reed, learning the weakness of Rhaegar Targaryen and the truth about Jon Snow.
She leaves the letter in his solar, on plain sight on his desk, and waits.
Cersei sees little of Ned for the rest of the day. She attends to her daughters, she goes about her duties, and the knowledge festers like a wound under her skin. It seems still unbelievable, too big to even imagine comprehending, and yet Howland swore to her, as his liege lord’s wife, that it is the truth. She had expected a sordid tale—for surely the world was ripped asunder in the final days of the Rebellion—but this has put her at a loss. Even several hours of thinking on it does not bring her to any conclusion, and that frustrates her even more.
When Ned comes to her quarters after dinner, he is looming and silent. Willing herself to be calm, Cersei turns away from him and reaches for her table, upon which she has set a jug of wine and two goblets. She fills both to the brim.
“I’ve underestimated you, husband,” she says steadily, “I thought you to a man of honesty and simple means. The truth is far more amusing.”
“You had no right,” Ned says at last. His voice is clear and sharp as ice. “No right to ask anything of Howland Reed.”
Cersei tips her head back and drains her cup. It scorches her throat but the burn is welcome. “Really, Ned? A Targaryen bastard under your roof. I’ve been underestimating you. We all have! What would Robert say if he knew that you had concealed what his beloved Lyanna had done?”
There is a quick intake of breath behind her, “Robert cannot know. Nobody can.”
“Not even your own wife?” Cersei asks amiably and takes the second goblet in hand. She turns now and offers it to Ned with a mocking smile, “Have some wine, Ned. Such a secret must burden you.”
“Do you expect me to believe that you did this out of wifely concern?” Ned snaps and now he moves, tugging the wrinkled letter out of his pocket and brandishing it like a sword, “I would be a fool to hope for that.”
“How did you believe I would act,” Cersei says, dropping any sweet tones, “when I was brought into this house with that boy? Did you think I would lie back and allow you to parade him under my nose? Not even your own son!”
“I promised to bring him up. He is as good as mine.”
“More so than the girls?”
Ned’s face pales to white. Now his voice trembles in his anger. “Is that what you think?”
Under the heat of his glare, Cersei can feel her hold on control of this conversation slipping. Something sickly-warm curls in the pit of her stomach and her own fury simmers in her veins. “The boy was a threat to my daughters, to their rightful places. I would not allow that insult, even from you.”
“So you chose instead to lie to Howland,” Ned says dryly, “Is trickery the proper way to ensure victory to a Lannister?”
Now her rage boils over, spilling hot as fire. The goblet smashes to the floor, wine splattering across the stone, and Cersei slams two hands against Ned’s chest, forcing him back against the wall. Ned’s eyes go wide in shock; the parchment flutters out of his slack fingers and drowns itself.
“Myrcella and Joanna are Starks,” Cersei snarls, finding purchase at Ned’s collar, “They are the heirs to your title, not your sister’s dragonspawn. Jon Snow’s very breath has been making a fool of me since the day I arrived here. All that stands between me and telling Robert the true identity of his mother, Lord Stark, is that you are my husband and it would not do to have you thrown in a cell—or worse. Do I make myself clear?”
Ned says nothing for a long moment. His shock has worn off; all that his eyes give away is a burning that melts away his recent iciness. His hands close around Cersei’s wrists and Cersei again feels that off-balance, as if she were teetering on the edge of a cliff.
“Clear as glass,” Ned growls, before he leans forward and presses his mouth to hers. Cersei’s thoughts screech to a stop. She goes still, before the movement of Ned’s hands releasing her to slide down her arms jerks her back into reality. Instinctively, her hold tightens; she pushes him back to the wall. I will not lose, she decides, and kisses him again.
Ned gives as good as he gets and it feels more like a tussle than making love. He pulls his arms tight around her, tight enough to make her gasp, and she yanks on his hair. He groans at this, a rumbling sound that Cersei feels in her own chest, before setting his teeth against the line of Cersei’s throat, biting hard enough to bruise. He’s never left a mark before, Cersei thinks dizzily, and her hands slide to the front of his tunic, pulling hastily at the buttons. She tugs his head up again and seeks out his lips as her hands slide against warm flesh. Ned pushes out and spins them, slamming Cersei back against the wall, yet she cannot bring herself to care, not with his hands tugging her skirts up and stealing beneath them. He heaves her into his arms, pinning her between the bulk of his body and the wall. Cersei wraps her legs around his hips and reaches down to the front of his breeches, fingers scrambling at the laces.
They both cry out when he pushes into her and the sound is enough to give Ned pause. His eyes are still alight when they meet Cersei’s but there is an edge of caution now and Cersei senses he is waiting for a word from her. Under her hands, his shoulders quiver, and she feels the throb of him inside her when she inhales shakily. For a moment, confusion bubbles up within her, marring her lust. The cliff edge is starting to crumble beneath her feet.
Cersei curves one hand around the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together. When he starts to move, she closes her eyes and breathes him in.
“Cersei,” Ned murmurs against her mouth. His thrusts are deeper and quicker now, rasping her back up and down the wall. He hikes her knees further up his waist and pleasure crackles low in her belly. “Cersei.”
She wakes early the next morning and finds Ned still beside her. Once, she thought that she would be uncomfortable to find that her husband had spent the night with her. Now, Cersei is not sure what to think.
Rolling carefully onto her back, Cersei watches the first rays of sunlight fan across the ceiling. She knows that, when he awakens, Ned will wish to talk. He will want Jon to stay and Cersei to keep her silence. No, he would not want her to. He would ask her to.
Beside her, Ned begins to stir. Cersei’s head turns to watch him now as he shifts, as he turns his face to snuffle the pillow briefly and his eyelids flutter open. He looks at her, a hesitant smile gracing his lips, and Cersei wants to laugh when she thinks of how she once found this man cold.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he says in a sleep-thick voice, as he reaches up to brush his fingertips against her neck, undoubtedly mottled purple and red in the morning light, “I was not kind to you.”
She cannot quite help speaking; the words trip off her tongue before she can catch them. “You aren’t to lie to me again.”
Ned’s half-smile falls. His brow furrows and his fingers recoil but his silence lets her continue. Emboldened, Cersei adds, “Promise me that. Never lie to me and I will let the boy stay.”
“Cersei,” Ned says roughly. When he lifts his hand up to her cheek, she allows herself the weakness of leaning into his touch. “I have always, save in the matter of Jon, been honest to you. Even then, I wished to tell you the truth.” His next words are remorseful and almost shy. “I wished never to hurt you.”
This quiet admission makes Cersei feel like glass: fragile, almost like she was soon to shatter. She fights to piece together a grin on her face. “I don’t believe you are capable of hurting me.”
He must remember speaking similar words on their wedding night, for he reluctantly returns her smile.
“Do you promise, then?” Cersei asks.
“Yes,” Ned replies immediately, “and do you promise the same to me?”
Cersei balks at this. Ned is patient, however; he moves his hand from her face and watches her with soft eyes.
“A fair bargain,” Cersei concedes slowly, “Yet I don’t believe I have caused as much offense in my—”
“You have secrets, my lady,” Ned points out, “and you have deceived in the past. I will not press you to unburden yourself to me. I have asked too much of you already and what is yours will remain yours. But perhaps now we can make something that is ours, yours and mine and the children’s, if you would have it be.”
Cersei finds herself struck speechless. They had been married more than three years and only now does Cersei see the man next to her for what he is. Long have I tried to make sense of him, but the answer was there all along, simple and straightforward. Under his frozen pride he hides a good heart.
That frightens her less than the realization that he sees her for what she is as clearly as she does him. He saw the truth behind what she was in Howland Reed’s letter, in her taunting words, in the flames of her rage. He must have done…but he kissed her anyway. He stayed anyway.
This baffles Cersei, loath though she is to admit it. Before, the only man—the only person, since her mother died—who cared for her unconditionally was Jaime. Her heart aches at the very thought. She yearns for Jaime, to be sure. He is her twin, her other half, and it was always supposed to be him and her in the end. Even when she hoped to marry a king, she always thought that she and Jaime would be together. She would be another man’s wife but every other part of her was to be Jaime’s.
Now there is Ned Stark, who is not a king, but who has married her, who has fathered her children, who does not play the games that Cersei has studied her whole life. Ned, who now asks her for an equal marriage. Ned, whose good heart has laid itself in Cersei’s palms.
Cersei’s own heart is not so gentle. It pounds against her ribs anyway. “I promise.”
Balon Greyjoy decides to fashion himself a king and Ned trusts the charge of Winterfell to his wife when he rides out to war.
It is not a long siege, though there are nights where Cersei thinks it will last forever. Running the land proves a strenuous business, despite the assistance of Maester Luwin with the household and of Old Nan with the children. Joanna is walking and just about talking, and quite adamant that all attention be focused upon these milestones. Jon has begun his lessons and proves himself as melancholy a child as he was a baby. Myrcella acts the little lady and asks every day if papa would be proud of her. Cersei sometimes finds herself desiring nothing more than to gather them in her arms—even Jon, if only to avoid any upsets—and hold them. Then some disaster within the estate will inevitably call her away and Cersei would be lying if she did not claim to enjoy being the only one trusted to clean up these messes.
In addition, her belly starts to grow big again, scant weeks after Ned has left, and she almost wants to curse the gods for their poor timing. She suffers little sickness during this pregnancy; in truth, she is so busy that she almost forgets she is carrying until her pains begin in the middle of a meeting. Though the rebellion has been overcome, Ned is still leagues away when his son is born.
The babe comes smoothly into the world. He was silent and Cersei’s heart hammered with an ice-cold horror until he was bundled and safe in her arms, wide-eyed and squirming and utterly alive. Her midwife cleans off her hands triumphantly, as though she had waged war and repressed rebellion and borne healthy boys single-handedly. Maester Luwin looked upon him fondly.
“A handsome lad, my lady,” he says softly, smiling as Cersei puffs up in pride, “What are you to name him?”
This gives Cersei pause. This is her baby, her longed-for and much-needed son. Undoubtedly, her father will be thrilled that their success was ensured—names fire across Cersei’s mind like arrows, Tywin Tytos Jaime—but the boy was no Lannister, save for the pale eyes blinking up at her that she fancies will one day spring up green. He is of the North, and Cersei thinks he will need a Northern name.
“I will not yet,” she says at last, offering the baby a finger to grab, and leaves it at that. Later that evening, Nan brings the girls in to see their new brother and proceeds to wax poetic about every baby she has nursed in this house. Peace reigns yet again in the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei thinks—even here, my children will be of summer.
It is only weeks later that the direwolf of House Stark runs over the hilltops towards Winterfell. Ned comes home with a Greyjoy ward at his side and victory in his wake. Myrcella and Jon rush out to greet the company, Joanna toddling after them as quickly as she can (against all propriety, Cersei notes, but even she cannot quite keep still when she spots the tall grey silhouette of her husband), and Ned beams when he sees them. He swings himself off his horse a split second before the children are upon him, hollering and eager and determined to get to him first. He tugs Myrcella and Jon into his embrace, kisses the tops of their heads, shushes their shouting mouths with promises of stories and declarations that he missed them, and ducks down just in time to scoop Joanna up before her unsure feet run out from under her. When he sees Cersei—who is hanging back, with Nan holding the baby beside her—his face lights up anew.
As he lowers Joanna again to the ground, Cersei inclines her head demurely. Every rule of decorum, she has decided, she will observe.
“My lord,” she says, “it is good to see—”
She barely has time for more than this before Ned is upon her, curling his arms around her waist and lifting her into the air. Cersei kicks up in surprise, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, but does not hesitate in ducking her head and kissing his laughing mouth.
“Fiend,” she gasps, “You would debase me in front of your bannermen?”
“May I not greet the wife I have missed these last months?” Ned replies but obligingly releases her. Cersei does not quite let go of him, however; she takes hold of his upper arms and guides him back towards Old Nan.
“You have missed much more than me, Ned,” she tells him teasingly, “We’ve a son now.”
Sensing that her part had come to play, Nan presents the swaddled babe to his father, who stares down at him with open delight. Ned takes him from Nan’s hands and cradles him to his chest with a practiced care. The babe seems tiny and delicate against the protection of Ned’s thick armour and cloak.
“What is his name?” Ned asks her without looking away from the boy. Around them, the bannermen continue to swarm, yelling and fussing about their horses, back in the warmth of their homes. The children gather around their parents; Joanna steadies herself by seizing Cersei’s skirts, Myrcella leans against her father’s leg, Jon hovers uncertainly beside Old Nan. Cersei heeds none of it, however, so intent is she on watching Ned.
“I thought to name him Brandon.”
A shadow crosses over Ned’s face before it becomes blank, unreadable as stone. In his arms, the babe squirms and settles contentedly. Cersei feels herself waver, the heady joy inside her faltering. She has nerves of steel, of that she has been assured many times, but Ned’s shell has often proved a worthy adversary. It seems both too long and too short a time before he speaks again. He softens first and tucks the blanket more securely around the baby’s head.
“Brandon,” he says quietly, “I would like that very much.”
A feast is prepared, as it must be for the return of the Lord of Winterfell, and it is there that Ned tells Cersei of the tourney the King wishes to throw at Lannisport. Cersei’s stomach swoops at the news—the chance to go home, to see her family, to see Jaime!—and, when Ned tells her he is considering declining to go, she leaps in to request otherwise.
“Robert is your friend, and it has been long since you have seen him outside of wartime,” she points out, “And the King may not take kindly to your refusal, no matter who you are. No—especially because of who you are.”
Ned still seems troubled, but it does not take much, not on so merry an evening, to change his mind. Later that night, when a meal has been devoured and ale drunk and songs sung and children put to bed, Cersei leads her husband back to her chambers, the chambers she has not had him in for too long a while now. Tiredness and drink have made Ned peaceful to the point of sluggishness; when she shuts the door behind them, his first move is to drop heavily onto the edge of the bed and lean over to remove his boots.
“I have missed a proper bed,” he sighs, fixated upon his task, “I will pray for no further war for a long time. An age of peace, as long as summer…”
“Tsk, you were deep in your cups, weren’t you,” Cersei comments, pulling at the laces of her dress, “The famous Ned Stark, a lightweight drunkard.”
“You mock me,” Ned says, but she can hear his own smile, “And yet my mood is unaffected. To be home, if only for a while, has calmed my mind.”
In reply, Cersei pulls her dress open and lets it drop off of her, leaving her in just her petticoat and undergarments. She steps out of the pool of fabric about her feet with a wolfish grin that her husband nearly misses.
“I do not wish to calm your mind,” she says, reaching out to push his shoulders back, “Quite the opposite, in truth.”
“Oh,” is all Ned can think to say when she straddles his lap. He is smiling still, however, and tilts his head back to meet her lips. His hands toy with her hair, slide over her back and pull her closer to him, pressing their bodies tight together, and a roiling of heat deep within Cersei reminds her of just how long they have been apart. Her tongue pries open his mouth impatiently and she grinds her hips against his, rejoicing in the rumble of his moan.
Ned pulls away just as Cersei reaches for the hem of his shirt, and speaks before she can gather the presence of mind to answer him.
“Have you been happy here?”
Cersei cannot say she expected that.
“Have I been happy?” she repeats.
“Aye,” Ned says, his brow beginning to furrow uncertainly, “You have been here, near alone, for nigh on a year.”
“Not alone,” Cersei corrects, flexing her fingers against his shoulders, “and with plenty to do. I lacked for nothing. Except, well…” She smirks again, hoping to divert this conversation back in her favour, and leans down to kiss the spot just under his ear. “In some areas.”
“Cersei,” Ned says in exasperation, but she can feel his resolve weaken in the way his hands grasp her hips. It has been a long while.
“Yes,” Cersei murmurs, reaching down to take one of his hands, “I have been happy. I will be happier, however, when my husband quiets himself about past trivialities,” now, pointedly, she guides Ned’s hand to her breast, to cup it over the thin material of her shift, “and puts his mouth to better use.”
“How crass,” Ned mutters, but he smiles and he obeys.
Lannisport is warm, warmer than Cersei remembers after five years away.
The air is stifled with heat and dust as the horses kick up dirt on the tourney ground, and Cersei can scarce pay attention. It is the final set, the title fought for by Ser Jorah Mormont and Ser Jaime Lannister, and it is clear in this city of lions who the winner will be. Lord Mormont is one of her husband’s bannermen, distinguished many times over, and she had graced him with a smile as he cantered into the arena, but the roar of the crowd as Jaime arrived, all effortlessness and easy confidence, is as good as victory.
When Cersei looked upon her brother for the first time since her wedding, the sunlight glinted off of his armour and she could hardly stand to keep her eye on him.
Beside her, Ned pays little attention. The King is delighted to have his old friend by his side again, apparently to the point of forgetting his own disappointment that Queen Catelyn chose to remain in King’s Landing with Prince Robb and Princess Sansa. He is jovial today, for he has many reasons to celebrate: the rush of another won war, the spirit of sport, and Ned’s quiet announcement that he has been borne a son. “For Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell!” he bellows as the final competitors prepare their lances, and Cersei is certain she sees Jaime’s glow dim for a moment.
“Now a nephew as well,” Tyrion comments beside her, “And yet the infamous hospitality of the North has not yet been extended to me. I am most grievous injured, dear sister.”
Cersei offers him only a roll of the eyes. Tyrion will pout for the rest of the tourney, for certain, but he will be cheered after the evening’s festivities. The frown Ned shoots towards them warns Cersei that Tyrion may soon receive an invitation to Winterfell anyway from his guilty good-brother.
Whether that invitation will include her father, or indeed any other Lannisters, Cersei cannot be sure. She had sent a letter to Tywin Lannister soon after birthing Brandon. Though Cersei had expected, even hoped, for words of cheer or pride to come from her father, who had been so concerned for a grandson, she did not receive them—only a brief note commenting on his relief that Cersei had done her duty and on Brandon’s name: a traditional Northern name. Do not allow the boy to forget his roots.
In the arena, two horses steady themselves on opposing ends, glaring at one another. Visors are dropped, lances held aloft. For a second, the audience holds its breath. Then the horses leap forward, hooves thundering against the hardened ground, necks straining and gleaming with sweat. Two lance-points balance, aiming for the other’s heart, and amid screaming and cheering and pounding all that is heard is the rush of blood as the riders collide.
The lances knock and splinter against one another. Both knights sway but only one falls. The silence is deafening as one horse falters and the other gallops on in triumph, as his rider reins him back and turns around, gazing back at the prone body still lying in the dust.
The losing knight stands on shaking legs. When he removes his white-gold helmet, Jaime laughs.
There is a knot in her stomach when Cersei goes to meet Jaime that night, as men drink and women dance and Ser Jorah Mormont woos his Queen of Love and Beauty. It has been years since she has had him and he feels different - his hands are smooth and grope thoughtlessly, his kisses taste of wine and do not scratch pleasantly. When she reaches up to grab in his hair, it shines too golden in the dim light and runs too silkily through her fingers.
"You must be careful," she tells him. By the gods, she could feel his desire pressing against her belly.
"Careful?" he repeats with a throaty chuckle, "After so long without you, caution is the last thing on my mind."
Cersei frowns at this. She winds her fingers more tightly in his hair. "You remember before, when we could not risk a child? It must stay that way, do you understand?"
"And if it doesn't?" Jaime lifts his head, "What does it matter? Dear old Ned would accept my child as his. He does have a soft spot for bastards."
The pulse of Cersei's arousal withers and fades with scarcely a whisper. When Jaime goes to lower his mouth to her neck, she tugs him back to eye-level. "Don't talk about him, Jaime."
"Oh, I haven't offended you."
"He is my husband—"
"A self-righteous and frigid man, at that. Does he even make you come, Cersei?"
A hand flies up of its own volition. Jaime's head snaps to the side with the force of the slap and he rears back, away from her. Cersei feels herself begin to shake, though whether from her own shock or anger, she cannot say.
"Jaime," she says, because she cannot think of anything else. Jaime looks back at her, eyes bright with a chilly resentment.
"Has the dog become so beloved a pet?" he asks, "Does he lay sole claim to your cunt now, Cersei?"
"He does not," Cersei growls in reply, "It is not his, or yours, to play with as you please. It is mine and if you want me, you must do as I say."
"Very well," Jamie says coolly and steps further away, straightening his clothes, "I apologise for my insult, Lady Stark."
"Jaime—"
He does not turn back. Cersei's heart sinks as she watches him leave.
Ned is already in their chambers when Cersei returns, hair and clothes in disarray. He raises his eyebrows at the sight of her.
"I thought Robert would be keeping you for as long as possible," Cersei remarks, deliberately stepping around him.
"I pled exhaustion. What happened to you?"
Cersei sighs and rakes a hand through her curls. There is no use, she thinks; he will not rest until he had an answer and she had promised once to always tell him the truth. A Lannister always pays their debts. "It has been some years since I saw Jaime. I forget sometimes that he is not always easy to cope with."
"He did not hurt you?" Ned's eyes darken.
"Of course not, don't be foolish. We had a disagreement and I left him."
The downturn of Ned's lips suggests that he is not entirely satisfied with her explanation, but he nods and moves aside to the window. Cersei lingers in the bedroom. She fluffs the pillows, straightens her skirts, fusses over to her vanity table. Her hands flutter restlessly. She misses her babes; she misses having all of her possessions around her.
Winterfell. I miss Winterfell. Her teeth grit at the thought.
Home is South. It is court, the fine lords and ladies, the tourneys, the dances. It is Casterly Rock. It should have been.
But what does it matter, Cersei thinks bitterly. She is only a woman. She is something to be sold to the highest bidder, like a purebred horse or exquisite jewellery. Even Jaime sees legs that would spread on command. He sees a sister and a lover, not who Cersei is, not who she could be. I ought to be lord of them all.
"It's barely dark," Ned remarks. The sound of his voice cuts through Cersei's thoughts like a knife. "And there are so many lamps lit below. It's strange."
"It's the South," Cersei retorts and grabs the handle of a hairbrush. Her reflection glowers at her. "They are unused to the dark. They fear it. Up North, you cannot escape it. There is no point warding it off."
There is a moment's pause. When Ned next speaks, he does so slowly, almost tentatively.
"Would you tell me what Ser Jaime said to you, Cersei?"
"He's a fool," Cersei says sharply, pulling the brush through her hair, "A craven, a kingslayer. Is that what you would like me to say?"
"Not at all," Ned says softly. Cersei pauses to look at his image in the mirror. The light from outside casts orange light over him, singeing strands of his hair, and she sees the earnest shine of his eyes. The sight plucks some hidden string in Cersei's breast.
"He is a fool," she says again, "and he insulted your lady wife. She does not need you to defend her virtue."
"You are quick to accuse me," Ned says, "All I wish to know is how you fare. I am hardly going to challenge Ser Jaime, especially if you do not deem it necessary."
"And if you did?" Cersei asks, "If you deemed it necessary? Could I stop you?"
"Yes," says Ned, as though it were obvious, and Cersei twists around.
"Then you're an idiot," she spits, "You're an idiot if you would allow anyone to keep you from what you want. What I wouldn't give for the power you have, and you would squander it!"
"Squander it?" Ned repeats, unruffled by her aggression, "But isn't being careful with power the only way to keep power? At any rate, I wouldn't take council from just anyone who crossed my path. I would from you."
"Why?"
Ned chuckles, "We have been married some years now. And you have these past moons proved yourself a more-than-capable liege lady at Winterfell. Were I not your husband, I would be an idiot not to ally myself with your good graces!"
"You have a kind heart," Cersei comments wryly. She stands, fiddling with the hairbrush. "That is not a mighty trait. I might yet wrest the North from your hands."
"You need wrest nothing," Ned says. There is a rustle and a soft thud; Cersei feels him behind her a split second before his arms slide around her waist and his chin settles on her shoulder. "I do not keep it from you."
"You shouldn't tease me," Cersei warns but a smile curves her lips. His laugh is a warm huff against her neck.
"What is mine is yours. Was that not part of my vows?"
Cersei says nothing. They stand for a moment, entwined, his heartbeat thudding against her back, and it is comfortable. When the words come, soft and serious, they do not feel like a betrayal.
"I want to go home, Ned."
Ned's arms tighten around her, "As do I."
"When can we go back?" she asks, relieved, "Must we stay for the whole tourney?"
"Robert wants me to. And the Lannisters wish to see their daughter. We shall not break their hearts," Ned smiles ruefully, "A few more days, love. Then we can go home."