Cersei
Robert was not Jaime, blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh, but he had swung his war hammer at Rhaegar Targaryen and vanquished the man who had humiliated Cersei and her father when he married the Dornish princess. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a head of hair as dark as coal, Robert was as much a maiden's fantasy as the silver prince. Robert was strong and powerful, and when the crowd cheered for him and his bride, Cersei silently cheered as well. She smiled and smiled until her mouth was hurting.
He is mine. Mine. All mine.
I am the Queen. Queen of the realm, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Dornish princess had only managed "wife of the overthrown Crown Prince" in her list of accomplishments, Cersei thought with relish.
Her smile faded slightly when Robert's hands squeezed her breasts so forcefully the bruises would not fade for days afterwards. It faded even more when his teeth snapped shut on her nipples, and when he bit her lips so hard he drew blood as he clumsily tried to kiss her on the mouth, his breath smelling foully of wine.
"You are hurting me," she told him, and he acted as if he had not heard her plea. Or perhaps he had heard her, and simply did not care.
Her smile disappeared completely when he whispered "Lyanna" as he entered her, entered her so brutally and forcefully she thought her insides would rupture.
She did not tell him that he was hurting her, this time.
Your precious Lyanna would be disgusted with the drunken oaf of a man that you are, she thought. Her own disgust was overwhelming; every touch, every contact, every gesture made her skin crawl, made her want to throw up copiously.
She scrubbed herself so hard in the bath the next morning she feared her skin might peel away. She wanted rid of every trace of Robert Baratheon. His skin, his blood, his flesh, his seed, she wanted none of it on her, or inside her.
When Jaime came to her, as he had always done from the start, she did not turn him away.
Selyse
Legs. Entangled legs, she saw those first, in the dimness of the room lighted only by a single candle. Her mind was slow to decipher what she was witnessing at first. Am I having an out-of-body experience? Are those Stannis' legs, and mine, in our wedding bed?
Is it over? The bedding?
That her first thought had been relief, at the thought that the bedding was over, would haunt her for a long time to come.
"Robert!" Stannis' voice was like a thunder before a great storm.
"I am sorry, Lord Stannis. Please forgive me, Selyse. His Grace … he … he took me here. I … I could not …" Delena would not stop crying and apologizing. Selyse's head was pounding.
"Out! Out both of you!" Stannis had taken hold of Robert's arm, and was pushing him out of the room. Delena wrapped herself with a blanket and ran out after the drunken king, her cries still audible.
"You! You there, come here."
What was her husband doing, calling for a maid? No one should be privy to their humiliation, to the insult Robert Baratheon had piled on them on their wedding night. "My lord –" Selyse started to say.
"Fetch me a bedsheet and some blankets," Stannis ordered the puzzled maid, and promptly closed the door with a thud. Before Selyse could move, he had stripped the bed bare, throwing the soiled bedsheet in a corner, fury and disgust palpable on his face.
When the maid came back with the new bedsheet and blankets, Selyse took them from her and said firmly, "Thank you, you can go now."
"Should I put the bedsheet on, m'lady?"
"No!" Selyse snapped angrily. "Leave us."
Her hands trembled as she made the bed. Stannis was staring at the soiled bedsheet in the corner, his eyes boring into the offending article as if he could set them on fire with his furious gaze.
"My lord husband, the bed is ready." She made sure that her voice was not trembling.
A son. I will give him a son.
He came to her, reluctantly, and they both did their duty. But a curse had been put on their wedding bed, Selyse was convinced, when a boy did not come from their union, that night and all the nights after.
There was a boy conceived in that same bed that night, a bastard with his father's black hair and his mother's Florent ears.
They stole our son! Robert and Delena stole our son, when they made that bastard Edric Storm on our wedding bed.
Margaery
Renly was courteous to the very last. He was courteous when he kissed her during the wedding ceremony, he was courteous when he told his men to treat her courteously as they stripped her naked during the bedding, he was courteous when he wrapped her with blankets when the door was closed and they were finally alone, together, in their wedding chamber.
"Are you cold, my dear Margaery?" He asked, but did not wait for her answer before wrapping her with layers of thick blankets. He then fashioned another blanket as a sort of waistcloth to cover his own bottom half.
"No, Your Grace, I am not cold." They would have be to be naked to do what must be done, Margaery knew that much. She knew almost everything there was to know about it, in fact. Her mother and her grandmother were not blushing women shy or afraid to tell her the facts of life. Her hands started loosening the blankets off her shoulders. Renly stared at her naked shoulders with an indecipherable expression on his face.
"How old are you, Margaery dear? And please, you must call me Renly, not Your Grace. You are my Queen now, not one of my subjects."
"Sixteen. I will be sixteen on my next nameday," Margaery replied, her hands pushing the blanket further and further down her body, her cleavage clearly visible now. Renly paid no heed to it at all.
"Fifteen, then. You are only fifteen." He grabbed the blankets covering her with both hands, and pushed them back over her shoulders. "They say childbirth could be dangerous for a woman so young. We should wait. For your sake, my dear."
"I am not afraid, Your Gra … Renly. I am not afraid to do my duty and give you a son and an heir."
"It can wait. We have plenty of time for that," he whispered with a smile, as he put on his clothes and left her alone, swaddled in thick blankets.