The Deception of Loyalty

by GBblahblahblah

Dahlia Flowers is a thorn in the midst of lions and stags, a bastard of the great Mace Tyrell who was sent away from her home, Highgarden, to the Capital to placate the pity and regret he felt around her. But her intrigue is her making, whispers soon become her gold and betrayal is all she speaks. Can Jaime Lannister break through the walls she's built around herself?

The Deception of Loyalty

Chapter 1: Little Thorn

- Dahlia -

The Queen had always held an icy grip on her fellow courtiers, Dahlia reminisced while she trotted at the back of the King's entourage. They were completely surrounded by the bleak, blank countryside of the north as they rode, woods of thick winter trees and desolate wastelands of frosted fields on either side. There was a steady chill in the air that only lands north of the neck could possess she noted, but a chill that had even managed to wane Cersei's power it seemed. The southern Queen seemed utterly disgusted with the scenery she'd seen from her carriage window, or so Dahlia had heard from woman as the handmaiden had cleaned up the royal tent that morning. Cersei had been quick to voice her complaints of the north quite vocally, of the winds that blew too strongly, the constant stops and starts of the journey as the carriage wheels broke in the thick muds of the King's road and of the greys that seemed to paint every place she looked at as if they were taunting her with the colours of the Starks themselves. She'd quickly discerned that Cersei held as much disregard and for Lord Eddard Stark and his family as she did for their home, the North.

The King, on the other hand, seemed to be quite enjoying himself as they journeyed, taking regular hunting expeditions when the carriage broke, and stopping at local taverns to drink and find pleasure with the local whores each night when the large group came to rest. Maybe that was another reason Cersei was finding the whole experience unpleasant, the humiliation. Although the Queen was well versed in hiding her contempt for her husband behind the thick walls of the Red Keep, Dahlia could see more disdain painted behind Cersei's sickly smiles and could hear the sharper tone to her words as she spoke tersely to any one who dare converse with her. The winter winds had surely brought out the much more defensive, colder side of Cersei Lannister.

Dahlia had to admit to herself, the nip she felt was bitter and left her somehow missing the warm stench that filled the air of King's Landing. What was worse was the relentless rain they'd experience, the droplets that some days easily soaked through her cloak that her sister had once gifted her and set a cold dampness into her very bones. Her only motivation was that every day that passed was another day closer to the welcoming warmth she'd surely feel at Winterfell when they finally arrived, which would surely be soon.

They'd been travelling for near a month now, and even the King's enjoyment of their travels was waning as they plodded up another slow hill with the royal carriage in tow. Her horse seemed tired from the labour it had endured, it's footsteps slower and more forced than they had previously been and it's breathing audibly uneven as it carried her up the slanted grasslands. She stroked its mane gently as they moved at a slightly pace than the rest of the entourage, falling to the back of it. She enjoyed the tranquility and silence of it all. Dahlia had never known such stillness as in these sorrowful fields. The bustling streets of King's Landing never quietened nor did the echoes of screams and moans from the cramped quarters that everyone lived in. Perhaps it was the only thing she preferred over King's Landing, the empty wastelands of the North with their kind silences only interrupted by melodic birdsong and whistling winds, or more often than not, with the chatter of the other noble groups in front of her. That and the freedom she could almost touch with ghost fingers if she outstretched them far enough from those around her.

"Lord Tyrion." She bowed her head in respect to the blonde haired dwarf when she noticed his horse grazing along beside her own, his having fallen back slightly to match her horse's leisurely pace. He greeted her with his own smirk, not needing to address her by a title but seeing fit to entertain her with his cockiness as he usually did when his life got tiresome and he needed some humorous conversation.

"Dahlia Flowers, I must say the North suits you much more than my charming sister. She seemed slightly irritated by the cold chill when I attempted o speak to her just before, or maybe you just tied her laces too tight this morning."

"Or maybe that was just your charming personality, my little lord, we both know how much the Queen enjoys your company." She pleasantly mocked him, smiling slightly when he scoffed at the title she sometimes used to annoy him when he came calling for his sister. They barely spoke when the rare occasion arose, often choosing to stand in contemplative silence as she tidied the room while he poured himself a pitch of fine dornish red, both waiting for Cersei to come and dismiss Dahlia before arguing with Tyrion herself. But from the few occasions they had spoken, she had come to appreciate his sarcastic sense of humour, similar to her own, although his was much more inflated by his larger title and infinite wealth that he often paraded around.

"Aye, that we do. But I wouldn't be so openly disparaging of me if I were you, little thorn, who knows who is listening to our conversation."

"You act as if my words are worthy of being listened to, my lord. I assure you they are not." She felt the lie roll off her tongue like liquid, smoothly delivered without sounding cocky or insulant of his advice. There was a thin line between humouring those higher than her and disrespecting them completely, and she had learnt to tread it carefully over the many years she had worked under Varys' influence as one of his many "little birds".

"And yet somehow you were deemed important enough by someone to be invited to Winterfell to serve the royal house of Baratheon. Maybe I am turning suspicious in my older age, but I do think that it is not a coincidence that you are the only handmaiden here for the Queen."

"Definitely becoming suspicious, Lord Tyrion, it must be the chill on your brain. I've heard in many a tale that lions do not fare the cold well like others, I do hope you don't wither too much on our travels like you say the Queen has."

"And I You, Dahlia Flowers. The north is no place for bastards who don't know their place in this world, remember that." He smiled almost kindly at her, pitifully even, before he quickened his horse's pace to join a conversation with another of the Kingsguard accompanying the Lord at the back of the parade. At his almost belittling words a slight frown creviced the ends of her mouth downwards but she quickly schooled it into a look of nonchalance. She was used to being treated unjustly, beatings and sarcastic comments of her paternity reaching every ear in Highgarden, but she never felt so degraded as when she was under the judgmental glares of the "rich pricks" surrounding her now. Willis seemed to annoyingly stand uncorrected on his opinion of her companions, not that many apart from the Queen and Lord Tyrion had spoken a single word to her. But the others' demeaning words weren't needed to understand their opinion of her by now. She had come to accept their judgment and selfishness from the month she'd spent in their vicinity, Dahlia was used to their gossiping tendencies and self righteousness from the Red Keep after all.

A trumpet's horn blew loud over the muttering voices of the parade as they reached the peak of the hill, deafening the conversations and announcing their arrival at their destination. As she halted her horse to admire the view she caught her first glance of Castle Winterfell, which stood more ancient than any bone left in it's soil. The rocks that barred the perimeter were pitted and scarred yet held a look and tone as menacing and dominant as any southern fortress twice this one's size. This old man of the north below knew how fleeting time really was, how soon the present became the past and the important became the irrelevant. In this hallowed and ancient site the trees had seen the centuries blow past in the winds of each season and witnessed the folly of many rebellions and conquests. It's inhabitants were the feared men of the north, barbaric and wild like the snowstorms that had been said to blow through their woodlands and the cold temperatures of its lands that she'd only ever experienced through people's stories and tales. Yet somehow the Starks still held their title of the most honourable house in Westeros, unpolitical to a fault, and always pledging their loyalty to those that held their morals in as high standard as northerners did. Maybe that was another reason why Cersei hated the North, maybe that was why many did.

As the large party entered the courtyard, many of the nobles parted to the outskirts of the stables and the shelter of the shadows that cast upon the outer walls to make room for the Royal family to be welcomed by the Starks. Dahlia herself watched from a hidden spot underneath the holly wreathed archway as the fat old King dismounted his horse and strided forth to stand before the kneeling Lord Stark, who's hair hung shabbily around his face. A moment later a mere twitch of King Robert's fat fingers sent Lord Stark aswell as all the other inhabitants of Winterfell from their knees to present themselves to the man who looked much more the round King from years of wine and indulgent food than the hardened warrior of battle that the stories often depicted him to be.

"Your grace." He bowed his head slightly but Robert made no move to answer, his eyes tracing his friend's features, remembering and comparing them to the last time he saw them. Dahlia supposed, it had been a while since they'd last seen the other. From what she'd heard, Ned Stark was a man of the North by blood, his lineage an obvious factor in his non existence in court and, from what she'd been told by the Queen, a man who preferred not to be involved with the underhanded business of things not involving him or his family. But she wouldn't decribe him as a fat man in any way, especially when compared to his lifelong friend who commented just that when he finally finished scrutinising Lord Stark.

"You've gotten fat." The following echoes laid ground for a long silent wait for Ned Stark to reply, but he did not speak as expected, only mockingly raising his own eyebrows at the King in jest of his friend's weight. At the sight, the king let out an odd sort of spluttering laugh that resounded loudly over the silent courtyard even as it was smothered by Ned's warm arm patting his back.

"Cat" He parted from Lord Eddard to embrace the Lady of the North with her fiery Tully hair that contrasted brightly against the dull greys of the courtyard and of the north. The woman seemed almost uncomfortable as Robert pulled her close and Dahlia heard Catelyn Stark mumble "your grace", as though reminding him of his position. The words seemed to stir him away from her but their shared smiles showed no indication of awkwardness, and with a small ruffle of the youngest Stark boy's hair, King Robert returned to conversing loudly with Ned Stark about their time apart. All the meanwhile, from the corner of her eye Dahlia intently watched her mistress, the Queen Cersei, depart from her traveling carriage with a look of half masked distain upon her hardened brow as she strutted forward to be greeted by the Starks.

The Stark children varied in physical descriptions, a variation of full blooded Starks and Tully's and a few who seemed a mixture of both their parent's looks. The oldest, with the overconfident air to him, introduced himself as Robb Stark, but even the stubborn scowl he wore was softened by the auburn curls which graced his brow and the boyish excitement that she saw tint his naive eyes. The next was a girl of strikingly similar colouring to her oldest brother, with red locks that fell in flowing waves past her shoulders and silhouetted her narrow bird like features. Her shoulders were set wide like Margaery's often were when they used to greet important guests at Highgarden, before she was sent away to attend to the Queen. However instead of her sister's confident smirks that often were paired with the stance, Sansa stark held an elegant air of nervousness mixed with ladylike manners when she blushed a deep crimson at the King's comment on her delicate "pretty" looks. The littlest girl, who she quickly learnt as Arya Stark, held a much less cautious personality than Robb and Sansa. She discreetly rolled her eyes when the King forgot her name and didn't hesitate to question the King on the "imp's" location. It seemed, unlike her older siblings' fiery locks, Arya held her wildness in her words and actions. The last of the line was Bran, and the young boy couldn't contain his eagerness when Robert requested that he show off his muscles, unhesitatingly raising his arms and flexing them as much as he could. The youngest boy, Rickie if she remembered correctly, stayed resolutely by Catelyn's side even when the people of Winterfell dispersed to continue their duties as Robert ordered Ned to take him to the crypts, much to Cersei's displeasure. Maybe that was another reason on the long list of reasons why the Queen hated the North, the infamous Lyanna Stark was everywhere.

Xxx

"Would you like any particular style for the feast, my Queen?" Her hand worked the brush through Cersei's hair which fell in lustrous swirls of buttermilk gold. Yet even it's normal assortment of warm hues seemed dulled by the volatile northern air. The lone lion smothered by the wolf pack.

"Southern." The Queen retorted, obviously still tense from her unknown surroundings and from the assortment of people that she held much dislike for.

"As you wish, your grace." She bowed her head to the Queen's watchful eyes in the mirror and begun to twist and spin the wisps of gold into elegant braids, gently placing and securing them into place.

"Have you heard from your half sister, Lady Margaery, recently, little thorn?" Cersei used her nickname that had always felt more condescending than comforting, when she questioned her. Dahlia also couldn't help but notice the emphasis on the half- sister, something that not only the Queen but everyone she met liked to remind her of, her illegitimacy as a bastard.

"I had word from her a few days before we left for Winterfell, my Queen." She spoke the truth delicately, but made sure not to give the contents of her sister's letter away.

"Was there any indication about when she may journey from Highgarden for her debut in the royal court at King's Landing?" The Queen had always voiced her interest in her sister as a marriage prospect for the young prince Joffrey, and although she knew Margaery would much dislike the age gap between them and fear Joffrey's frighteningly sickening morals, her father had always imagined his precious true born girl as a Queen. And Margaery, unlike herself, had never failed to disappoint.

"I'm sorry to say there was not, my Queen, but Lord Loras has assured me it will be soon." Loras often spoke of Margaery to her when he got the chance to sneak Dahlia away from her duties for a walk in the gardens or for a quick duel of swords like they had done when they were young children. He spoke of her consuming beauty as she grew more into adulthood every time he returned home to Highgarden, of the kindness that she often showed the commoners but also of her unrelenting need to succeed in everything, to never lose a game, mentally or physically. She was sure that was her grandmother's influence on her sister. Grandmother Olenna had always been sly with her words and quick to retort a cunning response when someone tried to wrong her, at least she had been when Dahlia had still wandered the halls of the Tyrell castle.

"Your half brother has been saying that for years, and yet I have never laid eyes on the girl." The queen cut her off abruptly, again using the term half brother as a insult, but Dahlia didn't flinch or cower as she once had as a young girl finding her feet in the royal court.

"I apologise, my Queen, her lack of appearance is no insult to you or your family, it's just that my father is very protective of her."

"He must not be so fond of you then, after all he did send you to King's landing at what age was it?" At that she did inwardly flinch slightly but her body remained as normal and she easily kept her face in a small polite smile as always. Cersei had always been good at prying and playing with a person's weakest points just enough that she could easily bend them to her will through fear.

"Twelve, your grace." She impassively recited.

"Ahh yes, so young and so very naive. You have changed and grown so much since you first began working for me, little thorn." The words should have felt endearing, almost complimentary, but even in the false kindness Dahlia could tell that the pleasantries were meaningless, they always were.

"Court is not a place for the weak hearted or weak minded, my Queen."

Cersei herself had once muttered those exact same words to her a long time ago, when Dahlia had been but an innocent child of thirteen, still lost and afraid of her new home. That night when the queen had returned from her evening meals with her children and brothers, she had found Dahlia sobbing softly on the cool stones of the royal chambers, her knees folded inwardly as to protect herself and also to deafen her low cries. Dahlia had quickly scrambled off the floor into a deep curtesy when she'd noticed her mistresses presence, frustrated swipes of her hand leaving her cheeks and eyes red raw and puffy and had quietly requested leave for the remaining hours of the evening off. Cersei's morbid curiosity had not been easily satiated though. The queen had demanded to know what was the matter with her before she was dismissed for the night, to know what had upset her handmaiden enough for her to reject her duties and "wallow in self deprecation". She, naively believing Cersei to be kinder than she was, had spoken mournfully of her grandfather Luthor's death whilst hunting, his accidental fall from the cliffs nearby to his end as he had been looking for wild hawks in the skies above. Of how she'd heard the news from a passing by Lord on her way to collect new linens for the Queen's bed and how devastated and angry she'd felt after not having received one word from her family on the matter. That night she learnt firsthandedly how unfeeling the Queen could be when she'd uttered only one sentence before dismissing her. 'Court is no place for the weak heartened or weak minded, little thorn, it would do you well to remember such things.' And she had remembered, to this very day.

"No, it is not." Cersei pursed her lips into a straight line, as though silencing any responses and ending any more talk on the matter they'd been discussing. The silence lasted for the rest of the time Dahlia spent twisting Cersei's hair into a neat yet extravagant updo that would surely outshine the much simpler styles of the northern women she'd seen upon their arrival into Winterfell. Cersei always did like the attention.

"Is this style suitable, your grace?" Cersei snapped her eyes up, quickly assessing her work before curtly nodding.

"It is good enough."

"Will that be all, your grace?"

"I believe so, you're dismissed for the evening. Oh, and I will be much displeased if I am to hear any bad word of you while I feast, just remember that little thorn" Cersei smiled slightly as though she was joking, but her tone was clear and threatening to Dahlia.

"Yes, your grace." She bowed her head respectfully before exiting through the threshold and out of the much stronger, defensive doors that the northern rooms all seemed to have. Her lungs heaved heavily as she sighed a breath of relief when the wood closed behind her head with an audible click. It's sound shutting out Cersei's cunning smiles and betraying phrases away for another night.

Xx

The corridors of Winterfell didn't melt or curve as they did in Highgarden or the Red Keep. It's walls were sharp, cold and stubborn like it's people yet protective in a way, not so secretive and mysterious. She'd spent much of an hour treading aimlessly through the castle's halls, befitted in hwr thickest dress and the only cloak she had that still held a slight dampness to it from her journey up here, and had almost mapped the entire castle out in her mind. She'd yet to venture outside however, the cold too intimidating as far, but was left with little else to do. There was always the turret library that she'd stumbled upon before, but the smell of old paper and smoke had felt less appealing than adventure. Unlike most handmaidens, she'd experienced the thrill of breaking rules, of listening into conversations best left unheard, of whispering countless secrets into others ears and keeping a select few for herself. The rush of adrenaline of spying had been one of the the only things she'd held onto dearly when times got especially rough, as they so often did. Varys had gifted her a purpose more than a job, she didn't clean after him nor scrub his feet. Instead she told him of her findings and he gifted her his protection, something he'd promised her grandmother a long while ago.

A distant groan of frustration caught her attention and she furtively, with as little sound as possible, pressed her form into the shadows of the stable walls to spy on the owner of it. Over her shoulders she could just about peak at the rugged form of a boy, a man really, hacking away at a small target with a certain amount of skill and stealth. Yet mostly he seemed angry, his power and jabs fuelled by annoyance more than anything.

His sword and groans suddenly dropped at the sight of a dark figure mounted upon a great steed behind him, and for a short time the boy's face lit with a minuscule amount of happiness. She had little idea of their relationship and their conversation was too quiet to be overheard yet something told her that they were closer than what was being displayed. Despite this though, the boy's small amount of joy vanished quickly once the figure dismounted and slowly disappeared to join the rest of those gathered together to drag and celebrate in the great hall.

"Your Uncle is in the Night's Watch." The familiar, witty words of Tyrion passed from nearby her hiding spot, his small form appearing a few feet away from her and she wondered if he already knew she was there. Tyrion Lannister often knew people's secrets before they knew their own.

"What're you doing back there?" The boy spoke, clearly disgruntled by the Lord's presence, slightly cocky strides towards him and his knowledge of his relationship with the previous man. Tyrion merely smirked at the question before lifting his leather wine skin to take another long gulp, already used to people feeling defensive around him.

"Preparing for a night with your family." Tyrion continues to amble carelessly closer to the boy who she now recognised as the infamous bastard of Lord Eddard. His name had been spoken many a times as an insult towards the Starks honour, a reminder that every man had his concealed pleasures behind his loved ones backs. Jon Snow.

"I've always wanted to see the Wall." Tyrion continued to prod when Jon didn't react, but his curiousity didn't seem forceful especially when paired with his relaxed stance against one of the bollards near to where Jon stood.

"You're Tyrion Lannister... the Queen's brother." Jon wasn't distracted by Tyrion's words on the wall, cutting straight to the point. From where she stood, Dahlia struggled to watch the boy's expression, but the timidity of his stance didn't seem to pair well with the bluntness his statement showed. Yet somehow, she found herself respecting that quality about the bastard, Jon Snow.

"My greatest accomplishment... You, you're Ned Stark's bastard aren't you?" Tyrion posed the question but from his confidence and tone it was clear to both herself and the boy that he already knew he was correct in his assumption. She concluded quickly that the subject was a touchy one for the boy when he mutely turned to walk away from the Lord's knowing stare, disregarding the polite and proper manners one used when addressing someone of greatest status then themselves.

"Did I offend you? Sorry." Dahlia rolled her eyes at Tyrion's sarcastic apology. His often dry wit was something she'd adapted to over years of knowing him but it was also something that Tyrion clearly knew struck many people's nerves when he first met them. Jon Snow included.

"You are the bastard though." Jon stayed still where he'd stopped after Tyrion's apology, letting the other man advance towards him.

"Lord Eddard Stark is my father." She felt a tug of pity for the boy as he spoke his best diplomatic answer, one she'd become accustomed to using long ago when asked upon her own heritage.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother, making you the bastard. Let me give you some advice bastard, never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour, so it can never be used to hurt you."

"What the hell do you know about being a bastard?" Jon called out as Tyrion made his way towards the festivities inside, his pent up anger releasing itself as his voice rose and echoed poignantly a giant the stone walls of Winterfell. The question halted Tyrion mid stride and his expression spoke of his own vulnerability. She'd never seen him display emotion so openly as of that moment.

"All dwarves a bastards in their father's eyes." Silence. Then steps. Then nothing. Then groans. Jon's sword struck his training figurine hard, slicing away violently and the way his bushed tears glistened appealed to the deepest part of her, the sympathetic side that she hid well normally. Abandoning her spot, she stepped out into visibility with her shoulders squared and a look of boredom pressed neatly against her lips. She wouldn't show him how similar they truly were.

"You shan't take his words too personally." She matched Tyrion's previously relaxed position against a nearby wall, letting her eyes inspect her dirty fingernails instead of watching him try to flush away his tears and compose himself.

"And who are you? Another courtier here to remind me of who I am. Well, don't bother, i know well enough." She lifted her eyes at that, surprised by the disrespectful directness he used with her that he hadn't done with Tyrion. If she had been a courtier like he'd said she was, he would have been in much more trouble than he cared for with the way he spoke to her. However upon meeting his gaze she let the words slide, instead choosing to pinpoint the loophole in his words.

"And yet you still let what Lord Tyrion said get to you." At that his courage fell, but it was soon replaced with resolute ignorance as he continued to hack away at the poor piece of training equipment that looked quite distorted from where she stood. She frowned at that, she rather liked his previous retort.

"I'm not a lady, by the way." She coerced him away from the previous subject all the whole reassuring him that he wasn't to be reprimanded for his unwise response to her arrival.

"Then who are you?" He didn't seem too bothered to continue the conversation, but was obviously weary that she may be too important to ignore or let himself leave a bad impression upon her. It felt quite strange to feel so important, quite strange indeed.

"I'm Dahlia." She paused, her insecurities unwilling to let him know how alike they were, how Flowers was no better than Snow.

"Do you not have a last name, Dahlia?"

"I do, but it is one not worth remembering, especially around these parts."

"So you're southern." He halted his swords hand, resting the weapon against his side as he turned to look her in the eye, a hint of curiosity swirling inside of his own deep brown orbs.

"Well I'm not northern."

"Which means you arrived with the Royal party." He continued, pushing past her vagueness. He really was northern.

"Relatively speaking, yes."

"Which means you hold some sort of importance."

"Maybe... maybe not. Tell me this Jon Snow, do you think you hold importance?" He caught her focused eyes for a moment before resting his gaze to the floor, embarrassment and humiliation flushing his face, unready to answer as deeply as she knew he wanted to.

"Not really, didn't you just hear Lord Tyrion. I'm a bastard." He mumbled, shame so clear in furrowed brow and tilted head that it shone like untouched waters.

"And yet he knew your name." She smiled, slightly smug that she'd managed to oriole her point yet unsure on how to tell him what she'd come over to reassure him on. A silence stretched between them so thin that the splinters of sounds and fragments of thought ended in a long like of nothingness. His face seemed so despaired as he waited for her to say something, and she couldn't help but notice the way his eyes flickered towards the entrance to the inner warmth of the castle that the entrance doors shut him out from. He was lonely, she realised, afraid of the oath he had yet to forge for himself. There was nothing set like there was for the rest of the Starks, similarly to herself with her own siblings. There was no betrothed awaiting them when they came of age or title to inherit once the matriarch passed. There was nothing set in stone for bastards. There paths were always unpredictable and from what she could see, Jon Snow was not a man very keen of the uncertain or dubious parts of life.

"What Lord Tyrion said before wasn't untrue or false, people will not forget who you are and they will use it to degrade you and to belittle you. But it's what you do with your name that matters the most. You may not have armies or honour or even a family to depend upon, but you do have yourself, and your morals. Believe me, you will find your purpose, and no one will expect it which makes it all he more exciting. Never forget that Jon Snow because others will make the mistake of doing so, of forgetting what bastards are capable of."

"You act as though loyalty does not exist. That the Starks are not my family, that Winterfell is not my home. You don't know me." She watched his frustrations rise to the surface again, anger begin to lace each word more and more as he spoke.

"No, I don't know you. But the truth is loyalty is not equal, and even the most honourable men has their temptations. Bastards wouldn't exist is that weren't true."

She watched his face fall, as though weakened by her words and she wished to help him like no one had done to her when she'd learnt the same hard truths, wished to paint them lighter, less despairingly than she had. But she couldn't. All she could offer him was a small commiserative smile that seemed almost apologetic but not guilty. Dahlia felt her heart sting in sorrow but knew she held no regrets for what she'd told him, it would do him well to learn such things. Maybe years ago when she'd been softer, much more compassionate and caring, she'd have comforted him more than she was doing now or would never have even said such things to him but time and the people she'd been surrounded by had hardened her. They'd destroyed such childish fantasies of forgiveness, of honour and of other falsehoods that she'd spent countless hours dreaming of as a child.

So with that final look she retreated back to the lonesome corridors of Winterfell, more hardened than when she'd left them to venture out into the despairingly cold chill of the North that seemed to root itself deep inside of her.

Xx

- Jaime -

His shaking hand shut the door as smoothly as he could manage when he entered through it, his brain shivering with the knowledge of what would certainly be awaiting him when he climbed the derelict sept's old and worn steps to the very top. It had been earlier this morning that he'd encountered his sister, her hand had gently brushed past him as she'd delicately, affectionately kissed his cheek before excusing herself from the room that themselves and the rest of the Lannisters had broken fast in when dawn had arisen. Yet all he'd noticed was her touch on him not the sun's, the pads of her thumbs that had glided gently over his outstretched hand during breakfast, soft enough to be unnoticeable to all others but himself. How infuriating he found it. The constant emptiness that seemed only fulfilled when she was all that surrounded him, her body pressed flush against his and her lips parted in soft moans and pants. Truly his and only his.

Word of Jon Arryn's death had kept them apart in their final days spent in King's Landing, especially with her paranoia and suspicious attitude closing her away from him and any other prying eyes. She brushed him off constantly, his advances unwanted and although he had not given up trying he'd reduced himself to accepting the little touches she'd gifted him. It was something at least. Then it had felt too dangerous as they'd journeyed, even for him, the man infamous for his reckless behaviour. After all, thin canvas tent walls would not have concealed their groans and they spent little time together when the sun glared threateningly at them from above, with Cersei confined to her carriage and him to his saddle. His brother, Tyrion, had proven fine company for a time but even his humour and wit had become plain when compared with his twin's virescent eyes that he felt follow him everywhere he went, as though torturing his very soul.

He'd learnt long ago to tread lightly, discreetly from place to place. He remembered the times he'd easily tip toe past guards into his sister's room at the Rock, where she'd be waiting for him, ready to whisper sweet nothings into his ears and set his body alight with unknown feelings of lust and want when her fingers explored the most private parts of him. He'd learnt her beautiful figure too, under the sheets of her room, her soft mews leading him to her weakest points and teaching him newer ways to pleasure her as she did him. Even now they explored, and he felt himself grow harder at the thought of what her mind had conjured for him today, whether she'd quiver beneath him or ride him out to their joint peaks. Either way, the two had little time to spare, they always needed to be fast. Quick rendezvous' and raunchy trysts that were over before they'd even properly begun. His hand lurched at the weary, with door into the top room, an abandoned space filled with intertwined vines that lapsed uncontagiously around each other and harsh stone that brought no warmth or comfort to the northern air that freely flowed past the dusty window ledges.

"There's been no word from the Tyrells and without word on the girl I cannot dissuade Robert away from agreeing upon an betrothal between Joff and the Stark girl."

Cersei hissed, catching his attention, but her back was all he could see as she stood straight and stoic to face out the window.

Then don't. Let him live out his little fantasy about a Baratheon boy and a Stark girl hopelessly in love. We both know you are mine and I am yours and Joffrey is ours, a Lannister."

"Joffrey is a Prince. He deserves better than some northern girl who whimpers whenever I lay eyes on her."

"And who's to say Margaery Tyrell is much braver? No one. Any smart girl would cower before you, Cersei." She seemed satisfied with the answer, her shoulders relaxing slightly but she remained faced away from him, silence stretching between them as she pulled her shawl tighter around herself. How he would love to warm her himself.

"Ned Stark is to be hand of the King." She spoke, annoyance clear in her clipped tone.

"I have heard the rumours."

"It's as if my bastard husband wants the Starks to rule King's Landing with how many of them we are to travel back with." She clenched her fists slightly, leaning her body weight forward tensely into her fisted hands that balanced upon the window sill precariously. He didn't dare speak when she got like this.

"They won't last long. They never have and they never will, I'll make sure of it. And then we'll be together." She turned cunningly to face him with a burning flame that danced upon her smile, her eyes bright wit wicked and cruel thoughts and intentions. All anger for him was gone, replaced by lust and like that, the previous conversation was lost in the whirlwind of their love.

"Why wait until then?"His steps were light as he slowly descended upon her, her hands brushing to tangle around his neck and pull him closer. The touch was gentle at first, but as they always had done, their kisses soon turned passionate, each one searing and engraving their lips into the others. He felt as though his head was spinning as her hands met his hair, scratching harsh lines into his scalp and causing an primitive groan to escape his lips into hers. With ones swift movement he quickly thrust his breeches downwards to his ankles as her glorious hands met his bare skin, daring him to touch her back with as much fervour as she was doing. His muscles tensed at the feeling of her fingertips, so cold in his skin that their trail felt frosty on him and he shivered at the sensation whilst throwing his armour to the ground.

"Cersei." He moaned loudly before colliding their lips again, their mouths perfectly matching each other's passion as their tongues battled for dominance.

"I've missed you, Jaime." She panted, allowing his hands to roughly tug at her skirts and shift before landing at the wetness that resided under her small clothes. He aches for her and as his tongue pressured that weak spot under her ear he felt her body back against him, hard and ready. With one forceful flip, he turned her body like a ragdoll to where he wanted her, bending downward, her arse pressed perfectly against him. His mouth placed wanton kisses over the rear of her neck sending her hands out to clutch at the stones and when he entered her wetness he watched with lust as her fingers turned white with pleasure. He continued to thrust and his core clutched more and more as their skin continues to slap loudly, only quietened by their own muffled sound did pleasure.

"Stop, stop." He felt Cersei quiver beneath him, her body halting her previous rocking motions, and her head rising to face the window she'd been staring deeply at before. His own eyes met the spot and he focused on the suspect. The previously empty ledge now held the small form of the young raven haired stark boy who's face was frozen in shock and fear. His hands scrambled to find a grip on the outside stones, his body moving in panic as he attempted to escape once he realised he'd been spotted. Jaime himself pulled out of Cersei with a harsh whoosh, desperately rushing to catch the boy before he could leave, the Stark's mouth and eyes now a fatal weapon against himself and Cersei. No one could find out. No matter what it took.

"Are you completely mad?" Jaime pressed the small boy's shaking form against the outside edge of the window, threateningly close to dangling him outside but managing to keep him steadily in his grip for now.

"He saw us." Cersei called from behind him, but he chose to ignore it, focusing all his effort on holding the boy still and calming him down.

"It's alright, it's alright." Jaime reassured Bran with more composure than his sister, although he wondered if the words were more for himself than the scared boy.

"He saw us!" Cersei repeated louder this time, causing him to throw her a slight glare over his shoulder.

"I heard you the first time."

He glanced downwards from the window, assessing the height of the drop as a few stray rocks crumbled from the edge onto the cold ground below. One of the wolf pups whimpered from underneath them, the sound much less intimidating from this high up. Puny almost.

"Quite the little climber, aren't you?" He refocused his eyes from the drop to the boy, who's hand had moved to grip his own tightly.

"How old are you boy?"

"Ten" Like his wolf's the boy's voice sounded afraid. Bran, Jaime remembered was his name, the one that the fat King had commented on as a potential knight, with his 'large' muscles and hopeful smile. Jaime thinks he could have made a knight much better than himself, with the honour of a Stark and his great skills in climbing, and most likely combat in the foreseeable future. Jaime had once been this small, a boy of ten who prayed for his father and sister's approval, for his younger brother's laughter and for himself to become a knight as great as Ser Arthur Dayne. What a pathetic dream that had turned out to be. "Kingslayer" was what the whispers always held, "Oathbreaker" aswell.

"Ten" Jaime repeated back, slowly letting go of the fabric of little Bran's doublet. His body twisted to face Cersei who still sat panting heavily on the floor, half from panic, half from what they'd been doing before. Green eyes met his own, and despite the guilt that grew in his stomach, knowing away at the little honour he held himself true to, he knew what must be done. Self preservation was what Lannisters proved themselves upon.

"The things I do for love." His hand met the boy's chest, a hard shove sending his body hurtling towards the hells and away from the demons who had just condemned him. His knees buckled when he withdrew his outstretched arm, uncertain of what to do with the regret that he already flooded his stomach and was choking his words.

"Move, Jaime." He vaguely felt Cersei's hand grapple into his own, tugging him out of the room and down the stairs he'd so eagerly walked up not so long ago, but the specifics were a blur. Somewhere in the distance he heard the distressed calls for help, the shouts and cries that would remain a part of his nightmares for years to come. And then the scream of a mother. He knew it well from his own mother's death. Agonisingly hysterical, the distress cut him like tiny shards of glass, the wails were so violent that they soon became gurgled by heart wrenching sobs. Then the scream came again, desperate, terrified... human, and all he could think of was the boy's cold distraught eyes in that split second moment when he realised his fate and Jaime's own monstrous hands pushing him anyway.

—-—-

AN: hi guys, basically I've recently started binge watching game of thrones and I've fallen in love with the show and especially with Jaime Lannister and his amazing character arc. His delvopment and complex character, aswell as A Vow without Honour (amazing fanfic story), has inspired me to write an OC to pair him with, seeing as I'm not the biggest fan of Cersei and his relationship and I've not yet seen much of him and Brienne together. I'm also I big fan of the Tyrell's especially Margaery and Olenna. Hope you all enjoy, review fav and follow, and I'll probably be updating A Fighting Chance soon.

Love you all, GB xox