This was it then. The darkness that will swallow the dawn. Oh Cersei knows she's being dramatic, knows that there are fates far worse than being the next Lady of Winterfell but honestly. She is a lioness of the Rock, born and bred for luxury, influence, and warmth. Instead, her father is shipping her North to become mistress of a frozen wasteland with a husband who's as frigid as winter's gale. She is to become his wife because Robert Baratheon had taken the red haired Catelyn Tully for a bride on the advice of Jon Arryn.

The feeble minded fool.

Of course, the formidable Tywin Lannister had been furious but his anger had been a cold, calculated fury that contrasted sharply to Cersei's own fire and discontent. The only benefit her lord father had seen in having a drunken stag for a king was that his firstborn would be released from the Kingsguard and returned to Casterly Rock.

It made Cersei's fate three times worse to know that her beautiful, golden twin was home while she was living out her days exiled off the very fringes of society. Certainly, she would not wither and die but she would suffer—Ned Stark was no catch and Cersei Lannister, the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, would never see another day in the sun.

All her beauty for naught. Admired by only ice and snow and stone faced barbarians.

Cersei had not been prepared for her father's summons and as a result, nearly ran from one end of the castle to his study, breathless and rosy cheeked. Ser Broom had tried to hide his chuckle at seeing the usually poised lioness flustered and unkempt but had wisely kept his mouth shut once Cersei fixed him with a cold, emerald glare. Instead, he'd opened the doors to Tywin Lannister's massive study of opulent chestnut and rich mahogany, wincing as Cersei swept in, vermillion skirts flaring behind her.

"You wished to see me father?" She asked punctually, curtsying low before straightening, her gaze expectant.

Tywin did not even rise from behind his great desk, hands busy with correspondence and two ledgers. "Indeed." He said curtly, finally gesturing for her to take a seat. "Robert Baratheon in all his oafish idiocy has finally accomplished a goal worth mentioning. He's released Jaime from his Kingsguard vows. He will be returning to the Rock within a fortnight."

Tywin's words were clinical but Cersei detected an undertone of relief that she knew would never be publicly expressed. But it mattered not, Cersei preened inwardly, Jaime was coming home! At long last, her glorious, golden twin! Free from the tyranny of Aerys and away from—

"But father." Cersei suddenly remembered. "What of me? When I become queen, who will be there for me at court?" When she wed Robert she would need Jaime by her side. Political intrigue Cersei could handle with royal power and authority in her hands but to be left so alone in a court of debauched, unruly men was disgruntling to say the least. She needed her other half, had never lived so long without him until the Mad King stole Jaime away. What—

"Enough." Tywin ordered and Cersei, not realizing she had been squirming in her seat, quieted immediately. "You will not need Jaime in the Kingsguard for where you're going."

Cersei felt her heart drop, felt a wave of panicked terror come over her because no. NO. She was to be queen. Father promised. She was to be queen. "Father, I—"

"You will be married to Eddard Stark three moons from now. He has accepted my terms without question and only asks I take on his younger brother as a squire for part of your dowry."

"Eddard…Stark." That grim faced Northern man who held none of Brandon's vivacious charm or Lyanna Stark's wild beauty?

"The very one." Tywin confirmed solemnly, finishing his two letters with a flourish of his name. "The harvest this year has been plentiful," he noted looking at one of the heavy leather-bound ledgers. "Jaime will be overseeing infrastructural reconstruction while I begin the new manufacturing of steel. You will convince your husband-to-be to purchase steel in his rebuilding of Winterfell and show the world its superiority to iron." There was no room for argument, no compromise to be said.

The desire to please her father overcame Cersei's pettier desires but did not soothe her wounded pride. "Of course I shall, father." She amended plainly. "But is it in our best interests to ally with the North? They have nothing we want."

"Eddard Stark is the voice of reason to Robert Baratheon's foolish asininity. What's more, daughter, is that they produce half the coal needed for our fires, for the smelting of iron and steel." He sounded utterly disdainful of Cersei's ignorance, pouring salt onto her fresh wounds.

"Yes, father." She managed, never averting her eyes. She was a lioness after all.

He gave a curt nod. "Dismissed."

And so she was. Dismissed to the farthest corners of Westeros for that matter. Deposited at Winterfell without Jaime, who would no doubt get a pretty Southern bride if the Hightowers had their way. Glancing out her carriage window, Cersei felt reluctant to leave the insulated plush velvet, the carmine and gold a last reminder of Casterly Rock where she belonged.

But it was too late. Ser Benedict Broom had already opened the carriage door, had already bowed and said my lady and she was expected to make her grand entrance.

So be it. Cersei Lannister was many things—a show-woman above all else. She would grace the halls of Winterfell with splendor and beauty, she would take this dull gray mass and turn it into something spectacular. If Eddard Stark refused her, he would see just how sharp a lioness's claws could be.

"Have you ever visited the North my lady?" Eddard Stark inquired as he led her around some forested area of mud, leaves, and cold. Cersei was less than impressed with his tourist destination but had smiled politely and agreed to taking the walk. Anything to get away from the cold gray walls of her soon-to-be home.

"I have not, my lord." Cersei finally replied, drawing her fur lined burgundy cloak closer to her body. "The farthest North I've ever been is Golden Tooth, which stands as firmly South as any region below the Neck." She added lightly, fighting to suppress her irritation when Stark's long, solemn face showed no change in emotion. By the Seven, she was going to end up killing him before their wedding day if he insisted on acting like a block of frigid ice. Plastering on her prettiest smile, Cersei gestured towards the bare white trees. "How is it you find yourself so at ease in the cold, my lord? Has the chill not yet pierced your skin or have you simply become accustomed to winter's bite, living here at the edge of the world?"

"Perhaps it is simply because I am a Northman, Lady Cersei. We Starks have guarded this region for centuries and I suppose the ice must have made its way into our veins."

To prove his point, a hearty ice gale came blowing their way and Cersei was ever so grateful for her fur lined kidskin gloves, lest her fingertips turn blue as the winter rose. She fought against her body's shivering, refusing to allow her future husband to see her in such a state. Instead, Cersei stood proudly, her golden hair glimmering under the cold Northern sun—the final kiss of summer. She continued on, ignoring how Lord Stark seemed to have paused—whether to gather his wits or to admire his damnable forest, Cersei didn't much care.

"Have you led us into your godswood then?" She inquired, voice harsh and unsuitable for court use. "This is where your gods reside?"

Lord Stark caught up with her, his black and gray leather blending right into their surroundings. "The godswood belongs to all us Northerners, not just myself. You are welcome to visit anytime as well, my lady."

As if I have anything to say to your weeping sap trees. Cersei thought scornfully. Didn't this fool realized she'd been raised in the faith of the Seven? Not that she'd ever been a dutiful witness to prayer or devotion but still. It was her faith, didn't he have the least bit of respect for Southern tradition? Just as I thought, Cersei all but triumphed, these Northmen are savages. Unfit to be seen at court. No wonder the Targaryens gave them their land so readily. Who wishes to rule a barren wilderness of nothing but dead trees and snow?

"My lady?" Lord Stark's grave, serious voice interrupted her revere.

Cersei paused. They'd stopped at what looked like an unfinished gazebo. The roof still needed tiling and the pillars were not quite sanded down; furthermore, the effigies were crudely done, utterly unpainted, and—

"I had hoped for this to be an early wedding present but the snows prevented further construction." He said, voice still pensive but tinged with apology. "The sept will be yours."

What? Cersei's emerald green eyes widened, surprise flashing across her lovely countenance.

A sept. She had not expected the Northerner to do something so…considerate. How very strange. Was this part of the dowry agreement made between him and father? Yet she did not think Tywin Lannister to be the sort of man who cared for his daughter's immortal soul. In fact, he'd all but forbidden their presence in the sept after he caught Jaime praying to the Mother after Lady Joanna's death.

"It is not as grand as the septs you're used to I'm sure but it's been built with the finest Northern ash wood and will hold up in rain, snow, or hail."

"I…yes. This is most accommodating, Lord Stark." She managed. Her pride refusing to let her show too much gratitude but that traitorous, sympathetic part of her was…pleased…that he'd made his men come out into this cold expanse of land to build her a sept. She would not use it often but the fact that it was hers…

His hand gently brushed against Cersei's lower back, causing her to turn about and face him. In the pale afternoon light, with a clear blue sky, Eddard Stark did not seem so gray.

"My lady—"

"Cersei." She interrupted. "If we are to become husband and wife, I should like you to call me Cersei."

"Cersei." He tested, voice still grave and low and solemn—nothing like her Jaime's roguish cadence or Rhaegar's melodic tone…but somehow, it made her name sound…regal. Full of nobility and grace, commanding respect without prompt. She rather liked it. "Then might I ask you call me Ned? It is what my friends and family have called me since I was a boy."

She gave him a faint smile. "Very well but do not expect me to call you such a common name in public. There you shall be my lord husband Eddard Stark and I shall address you as such." She declared, taking his proffered arm.

Yet as Cersei adjusted her cloak, pondering the state her shoes must be in, she missed the faint hint of a smile on cold Ned Stark's mouth.

But such an act was a silent blessing—Cersei was, without question, an arrogant young lioness; and should she have realized the affect she already had on her dutiful husband…well. She may as well crown herself queen of the North with all the impulse and vice of her house intact.

But that was not to be.

My dearest sister—

By now I am sure you have made that Northern dominion your own, ruling with a crown of ice and a scepter of roses. Nay—pardon the error—a scepter of diamonds . There, much better isn't it? I suppose I must wish you congratulations on your marriage to dour old Ned Stark, being your devoted brother and such, but I fear I do not quite care for the man or anything he represents. So I will settle for wishing you good morrow (or whenever this blasted raven decides to find you) and hope that the North has not taken away the red of your lips or the fire in your eyes. (Now that I write this, it seems rather foolish—you'd sooner claw out the Stranger's eyes than be turned into winter's pet.)

Casterly Rock is all well and good—it's still standing and more gold comes pouring out of the mines. Copper has been discovered in a dried gold mine, prompting the creation of cheap trinkets for the smallfolk—whatever they pay, we take. It is the lion's way. Yet I also feel obligated to mention father's steel creation. Certainly something to behold—stronger than even iron and shines in the sunlight. Silver. Quite lovely—perhaps I ought to create a dagger for you to carry? Inlay it with rubies and emeralds and see what old Ned Stark thinks when you clutch it in the martial bed?

Robert Baratheon and just about every other knight wants steel—greedy lot they are. Want. Want. Want. Tyrion calls them a great gaggle of oversized, slobbering children—they all fit the criteria but lack the child's sense. It matters little to father, who now thinks himself the Steel King. Fine title, hm? It should be. Uncle Kevan thought of it and told me, and I in turn told him that it made father sound puritanical. Needless to say, Uncle Kevan dropped the moniker (and now all the servants call Lord Tywin the Steel King).

What else is there to say? I have been forced to administer the day-to-day running of the Westerlands alongside father and Tyrion, though he does a much better job than I. To keep me sane, father has allowed me to build a standing Western army to patrol borders and ensure public safety. I don't much care what they do so long as I am able to wield a sword and fight like a solider proper once again.

Pray, did I tell you father also wants me to wed? He says I've managed to evade that task for far too long and little brother is positively gleeful for my misery. A Hightower is who he's betting I'll end up with and seeing father's keen interest, I don't doubt him. The Hightowers breed daughters as one would feral dogs—bountiful and fertile. If I must wed a bitch at least let it be a pretty one. I'm sure you'd slaughter the poor girl who dares to call herself my bride. Perhaps I'll invite you Starks to my wedding—I'm sure it'll be a warm refresher to whatever icy torment you find yourself in. Oh, did that sound too cynical? Forgive me sweet sister, I meant no offense. In fact, let me rephrase—allow me to invite your noble husband (and yourself) to my wedding feast so that you can experience the stifling heat of propriety again.

Better?

Even if it is not I am afraid I must leave you to your Northern company now. It is time to convene with some of the Westerlands lords (a task father has cordially bestowed upon me) before brokering some new shipping routes with the Tullys. Send me a letter back, won't you? I've not heard from you in so long that I've started to think you dead. Or worse—content.

Your devoted brother,

Jaime

A/N: I always thought Cersei could've turned out slightly less paranoid if she was the Lady of Winterfell instead of the Westerosi Queen.

Aaaand I just really love Jaime's audacious snark.

Thoughts? Yay? Nay? Maybe a "what the hell were you thinking" hey?