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Eddard Stark is a tall man, not taller than her husband or Jaime, but tall enough. He has broad, northern shoulders, with a plain, long pale face and thick brown curls; he keeps his beard closely trimmed to his face, a few of those fine hairs are beginning to turn gray, making him look older beyond his years. He's not extremely handsome or charismatic, but he's enough to make her blood run hot, to make her want to pin him down and lick all of the northern ice off his body.
Cersei likes him well enough. He’s kind, smart and a good fuck. Sometimes she wonders if that’s why Robert asked him to be his Hand of the King: because he’s good in bed. It wouldn’t surprise her if they happen to be secret lovers, though, with five children born from his wife and one from a whore in the streets, it’s no surprise that Ned can get it up for women as well.
His leg is still injured, so she rides him to both of their satisfaction, kissing his thin lips and grabbing his shoulders for leverage. He is strong, holding her hips with a tight grip, and she worries about bruises before she hits her peak and doesn’t worry about anything anymore.
She kisses him once more, sliding off of him and lying by his side on his bed. Her thighs are slick and sticky with his seed and she presses them together, relishing in the pulsating feeling there. Cersei looks up at Eddard, his stern face, and sees his conflicted expression, perhaps thinking about her husband and his wife, upset at having betrayed them both.
"Don't fret," she says, sitting up, "No one has to know."
Eddard looks at her. There is a thin sheen of sweat covering his long face and he inhales with his mouth open, trying to catch his breath. The trout bitch must have kept him wanting, Cersei thinks and the thought of it makes her smile.
"I'll know," he answers.
"And what of it?" Cersei asks, confused.
Eddard sighs, licking his chapped lips, and a sudden urge to kiss him again almost takes over Cersei, but she breathes deeply and forces herself to calm down. Now is not the time to act foolishly, she tells herself.
"Robert is my best friend," he says, "And you're his wife."
Cersei could almost laugh, but she doesn't. It would only upset him so. She crawls on the bed, dragging herself on hands and knees to him, like a submissive kitten ready to be mounted. Lord Eddard seems both confused and interested at the same time, watching her with a careful eye.
"Am I truly his wife when he claims the women of this keep left and right?" she asks, leaning her head on his naked thigh. He's strong like a warrior as if all his battles are drenched in blood and gore. For a second, he reminds her of Robert at the early years of their marriage, before his gluttony became too much, when the memory of him slaying her silver prince was still fresh on everyone's minds, but Eddard is leaner than Robert ever was and she knows that he must be quick in the battlefield. His enemies never see him coming, "Am I his wife when he hasn't claimed his rights in two years now? Our vows are wind and smoke, dear Eddard. If he forgets it, so will I."
He doesn't say anything, only staring down at her as if he is more honorable than she is. Cersei feels herself grow angry at it, wanting to wipe off the ghost of a smirk from his face, so she scoots closer to his crotch, breathing hotly on his cock.
Eddard is bigger than Robert, though Jaime is longer. She licks the head, enjoying how he twitches from underneath her, and fiddles with his stones.
When she is done, Eddard sighs, pulling on her hair, "Ned," he says, breathless, "Call me Ned."
Robert insists on claiming his rights the next day, upset at being unable to join a hunting trip as planned, and Cersei doesn't say no. As he climbs atop her, breath stinking of wine, she closes her eyes and tries to imagine Jaime in his place; her twin's long golden hair, his laughing green eyes, and wandering hands, but, burned at the back of her eyelids, refusing to leave her mind, is Ned Stark.
Sansa Stark is a lovely little thing. She pesters around the castle with her lowborn friend, sighing after Joffrey, visiting her father in the Tower of the Hand and sending death glares to her little sister. She reminds Cersei of herself at that age, the daughter of the Hand of the King, eager to marry a crown prince, but that had been a long time before. A different Hand, a different king.
That day, Cersei decides to invite her son's betrothed for tea. It would be good to cement a positive relationship with the girl that would become the mother of her grandchildren and, at the same time, see if Ned has said anything about them to his daughters.
Sansa comes to her solar wearing her finest green silks, smiling radiantly. Her hair is brushed into a tight northern braid and there is a soft, flowery perfume on her neck. It’s clear that the girl dressed her very best to impress her queen and a gentle feeling takes over Cersei, one that she almost doesn't recognize it in herself. It’s the same way she feels when she is with Myrcella, where duties and motherly worry mix together to form something nameless and big.
"Your Grace," she says, dropping into a curtsy. Cersei smiles.
“Please, Sansa,” she responds, “There’s no need for that. You’ll marry my son and become a part of my family. We should treat each other with respect.”
Sansa beams, trying to contain her smile, and she sits in the chair offered by a servant. The Stark girl looks at the table with a hungry gaze, passing her eyes over the tea, the biscuits, the scones until she finds a trail of lemon cakes and a shine takes her face. “Septa Mordane told me you’re quite fond of those,” Cersei says, kindly, “I hope you will find them as delicious as the ones you had in Winterfell.”
“I’m sure they will be more than perfect,” Sansa says as another maid takes a piece of the delicacy and puts it on her plate. She smiles tightly but doesn’t dig in, perhaps expecting permission from Cersei to start eating.
Cersei waves off a servant and stands up, taking the teapot and pouring it to Sansa herself, before pouring some for her as well, “You must be wondering why I called you here.”
Sansa shakes her head, “No, your grace.”
“Please, Sansa, we’ve talked about this.” Cersei purses her lips, thinking, “Call me Mother.”
Sansa’s cheeks redden and she stops, her hand still held mid-air from its path to the lemon cake. She looks at Cersei and then at the servants, but their faces are neutral, pretending not to hear their conversation. She stutters, “M-my queen, I don’t think my father would approve…”
Cersei leans forward, placing her right hand over Sansa’s left, and smiles as kindly as she can, “When you marry my son, we’ll be family. I’ll be your goodmother and you’ll be my gooddaughter. Shouldn’t we form a bond as early as today?”
Sansa frowns, “I’m not sure, your grace.”
If she were any more free with her emotions, Cersei would sigh loudly. The girl seems to be fighting against her own heart. While it’s clear that she wants to impress the queen and be a part of the royal family, she still yearns for her father’s approval, who clearly favors the younger girl. It’s sad, almost, though Cersei knows how to twist her back to her grasp.
“I know you were close with your mother,” she starts, sliding her hand up from the girl’s hand to her shoulder, in what she supposes to be shown in a comforting way, “I saw it with my own eyes when I was in Winterfell. Myrcella and I are quite close as well, you see, she tells me all of her secrets and I’m sure it was the same with you and Lady Catelyn. I want you to know that I do not intend to replace the Lady Stark, nor do I pretend to be as good as a listener as she was with you, but I think you deserve to have a friend here in the capital. Your lord father is always so busy with the king and Arya… Well, we both know Arya will only mock your secrets, not keep them in her heart.”
Sansa bites her inner cheek and she fiddles with her hand, staring at her lap, “I suppose that is true your grace.” She sighs, “I try to tell Father about life here and he never listens and Arya is so busy with her dancing lessons that it’s as if I don’t exist and my friend, Jeyne Poole, well, she doesn’t understand, you see, because her father works for my father. Septa Mordane tries to be nice, but she’s always running after Arya so she’s no help either.”
Cersei nods and she taps her shoulder lightly, “You have no one here, it’s clear now,” she says, “I’ll be your confidant and you’ll be mine, what do you think about that?”
Sansa’s blue eyes glow and she nods, excitedly. All hesitation vanishes from her pretty face at the idea of being a close confidant of the queen, “Of course, your grace. That’d be an honor.”
“If you can not find it in your heart to call me mother, at least, call me Cersei,” she says. A moment of silence passes between them where Sansa eats a whole lemon cake and washes it down with tea and Cersei watches her, carefully gauging her reactions, “Has your father ever spoken about me?” she asks and Sansa looks up, a confused glimmer in her eyes, “You were so scared that he would not approve of our relationship.”
Sansa licks her lips, shining with the grease of the cakes, and she stops to think, “A few times, your gra... Cersei. When he told me about my betrothal to prince Joffrey, when he wanted to break it and return to Winterfell when he…”
But Cersei doesn’t listen to her words anymore. She thinks about Ned, coming to talk to her about her children’s true father, threatening to tell Robert, had he been planning that since that day? Was her precious boy not enough for his daughter? When she laid with him, he’d already been planning to take his children away and leave.
“He broke the betrothal?” Cersei asks, confused, “I fear Robert has not said anything of the sort to me.”
“No, but father changed his mind!” Sansa is quick to answer, “He told me in private that I would marry Joffrey and we’d stay here. He’s even writing to Mother to have her release lord Tyrion!”
Cersei recoils in shock. While she does not care for the little monster she was forced to call a brother, his captivity is an offense to her family and she remembers her father’s angry letters at it and the work of Gregor Clegane in the Riverlands to force Lady Catelyn to release him. Who knew it would only take a husband’s words to reach her?
He’s doing this for me, she thinks, surprised, There’s no love in his heart for Tyrion. He’s going against his lady wife for me.
The notion makes her sick. A nauseated feeling runs over her body, taking her stomach and her insides. Cersei turns away from the table and a servant comes running over with a bowl, knowing already what to do.
She vomits her stomach’s entire content. Lady Sansa gasps, but she stretches her hands out, holding Cersei’s hair up. When she is done, Cersei stares at the bowl and she knows exactly what made it happen. There’s no stomach sickness going around the city and certainly not in the Red Keep, where Grand Maester Pycelle is bound to tell her about any issues with the court’s health. Only one option remains as to why.
And that option frightens her the most.
Jaime enters her chambers without a warning. Her twin seems shocked, his hair tousled around, and his knight cloak seems dirty, almost old. He stares at her, his mouth open and his cheeks are red from surprise. Cersei looks at him, sitting at her desk by the window.
“Is it true?” he asks and she knows instantly what he’s talking about.
Robert announced her pregnancy that day to the entire court and Jaime’s face bleached in panic. Cersei remembers the polite clapping that followed and the congratulations of the ladies and lords in attendance. Tommen had pulled her skirts, excitedly asking about his new little sibling, and Myrcella gushed happily. Only Joffrey didn’t seem eager for a new baby brother or sister, but Cersei couldn’t find it in herself to care for that.
“Yes,” she says, turning her eyes back to the window, “You know, I’d never lie about that.”
Jaime walks to her. He seems tired and she knows that it must have cost him much to get out of his hiding spot and come back for her, for her babe. Her father surely wouldn’t approve, since she knew that Jaime was cowering by his side, where Lord Tywin certainly tried to convince him to return to his rightful place as the heir of Casterly Rock.
“Is it Robert’s?” Jaime asks, kneeling by her side. His hands stretch in front of him and she imagines that he must want to touch her belly and feel the child growing inside for himself, but he steps back as if the simple proximity burns his skin.
There’s no chance for the child to be Jaime’s, but Cersei wishes it could be. A new babe with golden hair and green eyes, perhaps a new girl to play with Myrcella, or maybe twin boys. She could name one of them after Father, maybe Lord Tywin would like that, and the other one after Jaime. No one would have to know.
“Yes,” Cersei lies.
Jaime sighs and a broken expression covers his face. He buries his head on her skirts, clutching tightly to the fabric. She touches his golden hair and kisses it, whispering sweet nothings.
“I’ll find a woman,” he whispers, “Just like last time. No one has to know.”
“No,” Cersei answers, “Stannis Baratheon left for a reason, Jon Arryn died for the same. None of my children look like Robert. I must have a son by him to quiet the rumors.”
Jaime looks up at her and there are tears in his eyes, “No, you don’t. Fuck Stannis, fuck Jon. Joffrey will rule and no one can say a thing about it.”
Cersei sighs, “I have to protect him, I have to protect all of them. That is a mother’s duty.” She licks her lips and removes her hand, placing it on the shy curve of her belly, “Robert has asked Stannis to return to the capital, to be the bearer of this child and the old fool can not refuse such royal command. Peace will be restored.”
“How can you be so sure?” he asks, “You swore to me, twelve years ago, that you would never bear his children. Ever. Why are you doing this to yourself? To us?”
“Don’t be foolish, dear brother,” Cersei says, “I’m doing this to save us all.”
Jaime frowns, but he says nothing. Her twin stands up, his shoulders slumped over, defeated. He leaves and Cersei doesn’t follow him.
As she nears her sixth moon, Lord Stark invites her to dine with him and his daughters. The youngest girl, Arya, stares at Cersei the entire time as if she hopes that her eyes become daggers to stab her, while her plate remains untouched, but neither her father nor her sister seems to notice, preferring to keep up the small talk between the three of them.
It's almost like they were a family. The Lord, the Lady and their daughters, plus a little one on the way. Cersei tries to imagine a life married to Ned Stark. He certainly wouldn't come drunk to her bed, as she has never seen him drink more than one cup of wine in one sitting, nor would he flag around with women less than her. Lady Catelyn seemed happy on those days that Cersei stayed in Winterfell, though everyone knew how the bastard's presence was an offense she couldn't handle.
Cersei strokes her belly. She can imagine their possible children. Twins, a boy, and a girl, as close as she and Jaime were in their innocent days, and then another son. Three had been more than enough for Cersei during her real life and it certainly would be the same in her fantasy, although she can't say that the surprise arrival of her fourth is not a sweet one all the same.
"Stannis has said that he will come for the birth," she murmurs, drinking a glass of water. A drunk mother would birth a drunk child, everyone said, "I'm looking forward to his return."
Ned nods, taking a piece of his steak to his mouth, "He has written to me," he confides, "Selyse and their girl will not come, though."
Cersei hums, taking in the news. She is aware that there is no lost love between Stannis Baratheon and his wife, just as she knows that his daughter is his most precious jewel. It makes sense for him to decide to keep her in Dragonstone, away from her claws.
"Shireen is such a lovely child, but very sad," Cersei murmurs, setting back in her chair, "I wish she'd come. Tommen is fond of her, you see." She pauses and lets her words hang in the air. Arya is eating her food now, maybe because her septa is watching her behavior from behind a half-closed door, and Sansa seems to be done, waiting for dessert or her father's leave and she's pretending not to listen to their conversation, "I had hoped for a future match between them, but Robert would never listen to anything I suggest. My poor boy. Tommen will be heartbroken."
Sansa looks at her father, "Maybe you can convince the king, Father. Tommen is such a sweet boy and it'd please me very much to see him happy."
Ned looks at his daughter shocked, as if he had forgotten that she was there, and sighs, "I suppose I have a chance."
Cersei smiles and a servant runs into the room, bending down ever so slightly to whispers into the queen's ear. A bigger smile spreads across Cersei's face and she says, "Ah, yes, the presents."
Sansa's face lights up and even Arya seems a little interested, especially when a second servant enters the room, carrying a box with them and a tiny yelp ring from within.
"I felt terribly sorry for what happened to your pet, dear Sansa," Cersei starts, "That I thought to remedy that with a new one."
The servant sets the box down on Sansa's feet and she eagerly opens it, shrieking with delight. Arya strains in her seat, trying to see, and Ned looks to his daughter, a question on his face. The girl appears from behind the desk, holding a small golden pup with big floppy ears. The animal licks her face and she giggles, hugging it.
Arya sighs, wistfully, and Cersei turns to the girl. There is jealousy in her eyes as she watches her sister play with the dog, "Don't think I forgot you, lady Arya. I couldn't find a puppy that befitted you until I was told that one of Robert's hounds had sired a litter of five dogs. Tomorrow, you can go and choose any that you like."
Arya doesn't squeal as her sister did, but her face lights up at the prospect of a hound of her own and Cersei knows that it was a wise choice to have that happen.
Eventually, she'll win her over. It's clear now. Arya will forget about the lowborn boy she befriended and what happened at the trident. The youngest Stark girl will be a big ally in her father's household.
Cersei looks up and she sees Ned Stark, her lover, the father of her unborn child, and sees that he is staring at her quizzically, seeing right through her clothes and masks and directly into her heart. She smiles at him, drinking a big gulp of water, and he smiles back.
Her son comes in the middle of the night, a sennight after her proposed due day, with a head full of dark brown hair and green eyes. He is bigger than Joffrey and Myrcella were, but smaller than Tommen. She holds him tightly to her chest, not believing that he's here.
Robert insists on naming him Steffon and there is no fight left in her to deny the name, so he is Steffon Baratheon. Stannis looks at him with anger in his eyes and she almost smiles, had she not been so tired after childbirth. He can't call her children an abomination anymore, not when this one appears to look like his brother. The idea that she has won is intoxicating and it feels like wine on her body, making her drunk with glee.
Ned doesn't hold him. He claims to be afraid of dropping him when Robert offers the babe, but Cersei knows the truth. If he holds the boy, a desire to claim him might spring up and he can't risk it, not when the life of his own son is at stake if Robert suspects that Cersei committed adultery. And with his best friend, of all people.
He meets her eyes when they hand her son back to her to be nursed, "What do you think about his name, my lord?" she asks, "Steffon Baratheon. Quite a strong statement, don't you think?"
"I believe so, your grace," he answers, confused as to why she's talking to him.
"He will be like my father," Robert boasts, "I will put a sword on his hand myself, teach him the ways of men. Did you hear him crying, Ned? Haha. I bet they could hear him all the way in Dorne. The boy's got a strong pair of lungs. He will be a soldier, I can already see. As strong as his father before him."
Joffrey stares at his little brother, enraged at the prospect of such a small infant already having the favor of the father that he years to please. Myrcella seems in love and Tommen laughs when Steffon yawns at Cersei's breast.
Ned, however, looks grim and almost sick, but Cersei ignores him in favor of looking at her son, their son. For her entire life, Cersei loved no one more than her children and with him, it'd be no different. He will have all of her love, all of her kisses and hugs. Anything he asks will be given and she will see him be raised as a great lord or the High Septon or the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
You're a Lannister, she thinks, kissing his cheek, and a Stark. You have the blood of a thousand kings and queens running in your veins. The entire world will tremble when they hear your name, Steffon Baratheon.
Cersei has not seen Jaime since the day they announced her pregnancy.