First of all, I'd like to apologize for any misspelling words or gramatical mistakes you might find. English is not my first language, not even second, so any pointers will be more than welcome.
As for the pairing, is nothing more than a guilty pleasure of mine. I don't own GoT, ASOIF and similars, just borrowing the characters for creative purposes.
PIETÁ
by TheGrimmCousins
Cersei is not a woman of pity.
Painted in red and gold, her back straight and her demeanor cold, she owns the audience in her glare. She doesn't bother to fix her eyes on them, turning her attention to the Stark girl instead.
Sansa is fidgeting nervously, her hands grasping the cloth of her dress and her eyes fixed on Joffrey's back. Cersei is amused by the glint of hope that crosses her eyes every time Joff glances her way. His enjoyment, she can tell, greatly improved by the girl's obvious torment.
Although she can share on the feeling – a family trait, she supposes – she knows it's all for show. Sooner than later Ned Stark will be brought, properly and publicly admonished, and quickly forgiven. Her Lord Father will be happy, the crowd will have a story about the goodness of heart of their new King and she will be on time for a much needed glass of wine.
Her gaze lazily fixes the crowd as Eddard Stark is brought to their presence, his posture rigid and unbent under the harsh words from the crowd. She eyes the setting sun in the distance and sighs.
Cersei is not a woman of pity, she's a woman of indifference.
xx
Cersei Targaryen is a caged lioness.
Hidden in the dragon's den, she is the apex predator. There is no fear nor surprise in her eyes, just disdain. Her head held high, her demeanor emanating confidence. She is the perfect honey trap and she is very aware of that.
Her eyes follow the two men that accompany her Lord Father - rebels, warriors, conquerors. One of them reeks of cockiness, his eyes merely glancing at her like she is not worthy. The other chills her to the bones, his steely eyes slowly assessing her like. She feels naked under his gaze, like he keeps peeling layer after layer of well-built façade until there's nothing but her bare soul.
He is dangerous, she knows. Under his gaze she can taste freedom and she almost purrs at the mere thought. But she is her Lord Father's daughter – and an important pawn in his game – and he's not one to grant wishes, let alone freedom.
And even if she longed to run with the wolves, she would be chasing stags. A game of patience but also of power, influence and thrones. A game she was becoming quite adept.
She smiled smugly, all thoughts of freedom forgotten. It didn't matter how many times she changed her skin, Cersei Baratheon was still a Lannister. And they were going to hear her roar.
xx
She faces the situation with a calm that is just pretense.
Joffrey seems to rejoice in the aftermath of his power play, and she feels a mist of pride and fear. Her instinct telling her to assess all the consequences that come with her son's rushed decision and play for the benefits.
She eyes the decapitated body of Ned Stark and can't help but smirk at the stern expression that seemed to be craved on his face. It was the same he wore on the day he confronted her and that led to this very moment. He seemed to be conformed with his fate, almost as if he was expecting it, and she wonders if it is a gift of his: to bare the souls and truths of Lannister with steely grey eyes.
The crowd is mostly silent. Some still wide eyed, others whispering and wondering if their honor was something they would be willing to die for. Perhaps it is a costume of the North, perhaps it's the Stark way to die.
However, turning her back on the crowd she does not miss the irony of the Seven. For today, lying in a pool of crimson blood against a golden sunset Ned Stark never looked so Lannister.
xx
fin.