(Author's Note: This story is a continuation of the tale that started with the Lioness Un-Antlered and continued with the Lioness Boared. Check out my Profile)
Cersei Crakehall POV
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Tarbeck Hall, Late 290
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"Ho, Cersei! Ho, Auntie!" the Ogre boomed out with his normal annoying too good cheer upon entering the chill family common room with the force of a gale and immediately heading towards the trough to break his fast.
"Cersei. Shiera, a fine morning to both you ladies," cousin Damion said courteously, slipping his softer greeting into the still echoing thunder of her boarish husband's call.
"Lovely ladies," the Lord Oaf unnecessarily corrected their castellan before he had a chance to stuff anything into his enormous maw. "The loveliest!"
"Did the foundation shift in the freeze?" Cersei inquired seriously, disregarding the unwanted compliment.
"Was just a wee Dark Summer snow," the Strongbore scoffed in answer to the question not addressed him. "Nothing shifted overnight. The stonecutters will still be able to start throwing up the Great Keep next moon," he announced, supremely confident in his ignorance.
For all the insulation now sporting about Cersei's belly, and that she slept next to a furnace straight from one of the fiery SevenHells, it had gotten damnably cold the previous night. Daily, this sole ragtag, charred, half-standing tower of Tarbeck Hall gave evidence that the repairs done to make it barely habitable for a herd of goats had been accomplished by a troop of blind mummers. The blasts of icy wind that had come through the cracks in the dark had left unsightly chilblains on any scrap of her precious exposed skin, while the Ogre snored obliviously and happy as the pig he was through it.
Ignoring the proclamation, she addressed the one with an actual mind. "What is your view, cousin?"
"The shorings still look secure to me. And as Lyle said, the base stones held in place," Damion answered. "But what matters …"
"Pick me up poppa. Pick me up," chanted five year old Lanna at her father.
Her cousin stooped and lifted her up as demanded. "… what matters is that Maester Mervyn found no faults or cracks. The canvases stretched over the pit and the straw at the bottom appear to have held off the cold." Having answered her, he then turned to address the daughter in his arms while gently tousling the blonde hair atop her head. "What shall poppa eat, sweetling?"
In addition to the gold from Casterly Rock, Cersei's father had dowered her with a loyal if young castellan and a maester well experienced in the building of castles and other noble edifices. At false dawn, the trio of them, castellan, maester, and the Lord Oaf had left the tower, raised a slew of slothful workers from their filth in the slapped together stables and warehouses that housed them, and gone to investigate the damage.
Apparently, there was thankfully little of it. The Great Keep and proper quarters, separate quarters, for herself could not be built quickly enough to satisfy Cersei. Even if they could only be served by a single maid and filled with furniture fit only for an exceptionally poor hedgeknight's holdfast. Anything to escape the Strongbore's lustful nightly embrace.
Of course the Ogre's inconsiderate stomping about their tight packed bed chamber in search of half passable clean small things had awakened her at that Seven awful hour. She had feigned sleep until he took his miserable carcass away. But by then, the demon growing in her womb was kicking up such a fuss that she could not have fallen back asleep if she had wanted to.
When a dram of wine proved as insufficient to the task as her own will, she had dragged her bloated, fat bellied, bulging titted body out of bed and made for the one room in this prison that offered her any comfort. Because of the freeze, a fire had remained well tended overnight in the family common room. Sipping the bland tea handed her, Cersei had savored the silence, as a servant or two bustled about; staring down at the model and dreaming of what this ruin would become.
Cersei knew to the dragon, the moon, the stag, the star, the groat, the halfgroat, the penny, and even to the last damnable halfpenny the cost of what necessities would populate her chambers, her keep, her halls, her towers, her gardens, and her castle. As she must live in this mountainous backwater, she would do so in a style becoming a queen.
Father had been very explicit in how much of Casterly Rock's gold would be spent to rebuild Tarbeck Hall. With cheap Roland Crakehall's contribution in his boarish son's name of course only being nominal. And Maester Mervyn's initial plan had wrongly accounted for that, with the new castle's footprint closely matching that of the old one's.
Cersei knew better; and so, with the subtle appearance of wishing to economize, had pleaded the case for a smaller, cozier holdfast. Impressive and strong, without question; yet one modest enough that her father's remaining coin would be sufficient for stocking her home with the luxuries she deserved.
To the Strongbore, for whom size meant everything, such an approach was madness. Not that the Ogre begrudged a lady's silly desire for things finer than a strong warhorse, tough mail, and a sharp sword. However, her acquiescence to him wishing to name the rebuilt castle the Boar's Tusk and showing rarer fervor in their "rutting" over the subsequent week, had worn the Lord Oaf down to accepting her wisdom.
What her husband knew not, and the clever maester only through her pointed hints, was that what the plans and model did not reveal was an entire second outer tier to her castle, the Lioness' Den. A few sharp suggestions on her part had seen adjustments that her inner eye could discern would allow for another curtain wall, space for jousts and tournaments, room to house shoppes for the finest goldsmiths, the cleverest glaziers, and the best clothe makers.
And where was the gold for this to come from? She unconsciously touched her belly. The son that would place her back in her father's good graces. The treasure vaults in the depths of Casterly Rock would shower her with gold.
"And how is my piglet this morning?" the Lord Oaf inquired jovially, gesturing to where her hand lay atop her no longer trim abdomen.
"He sleeps now, my lord," she answered, causing the Ogre to grin as he ever did when she referred to their coming child as the desired for son.
"Not so sleepy earlier though, was he, Cersei?" Shiera laughed in a low, kind voice. "I found her out here quite early."
"Is that so, Auntie? An active tyke, then. I'd expect nothing less with a lioness for a mother," the Strongbore said well pleased.
With a name so similar to Stannis' dead bitch and being a Crakehall herself, Cersei still periodically surprised herself with the lack of derision, if not some friendliness, she felt for her cousin's wife. Considerate, kind, respectful, unassuming, helpful, and intelligent; though Seven be praised, not vexingly so to any degree. She was even modestly attractive; not thick about the middle like most Crakehalls, even after several births.
"Well, mine were mostly more kittens than proper lions. Sorry, Damion," she chuckled.
"Ha, no apology necessary, my love," replied her cousin. Then, addressing little Lanna, who was dangling off his knee as he more played with her than ate his bowl of pease, he false whispered, "Roar for me. Roar. Those are our house words. Be a Lannister."
Shiera both smiled affectionately at her husband and shook her head in slight exasperation at his antics, before continuing. "They on occasion drummed on my liver like a Northman."
"Bah, what do I care of Northmen, Auntie" the Ogre exclaimed with perhaps a glint of amusement in his fierce Westerlands' pride.
"Then swallow one and see how your vast belly likes it, you great oaf," her good-cousin retorted.
The only truly annoying thing about her was that as Roland Crakehall's much younger half-sister, the last fruit of old Lord Sumner's aging lust, the Strongbore beat to death any humor out of the fact that Shiera was only a mere five years older than the Lord Oaf by always calling her "Auntie." Cersei supposed the fault could not be associated with the woman's birth, but as with most things, the burden lay with her husband.
The Ogre made a show of sucking in his gut, then answered with a chortle, "Maybe just a small one?" Laughter spread around the room to everyone, even the children, except for Cersei.
Mention of the Northmen invariably offered an opportunity for Damion and the Ogre to again start talking about the war with the iron born, which both had fought exceptionally nobly in if their words were to be fully believed. And as night followed day, or Winter marked the end of Summer, the pair began wondering aloud at how the Imp and his Kraken whore were doing on Pyke under the eye of Uncle Gerion.
Cersei stewed, thinking of all the beautiful gold of her house being spent on her mother's killer instead of on her. Perhaps the bitch would do them all the favor and stab the freak to death. She dreamed of doing that to the Ogre. Or perhaps the iron born's Drowned God would reach out of the sea and pull the ruins of the Greyjoy's castle down into the depths.
"Cersei? Love?"
The Strongbore's harsh voice brought her out of her mental revelry.
"Yes?" she allowed herself; not openly acknowledging she hadn't been paying the least attention to her lord husband's ramblings.
"I said I'd be leaving in an hour or two to lead a patrol into the Carmarth Hills and that village astride the bend in the Corndust."
Her eyes narrowed a tad.
"Word came in while we were out of some thieves there abouts. That old Duncaster lordling is as useless as tits on a bull. Thought I'd show the banner. Might even catch some villain red-handed if I'm lucky. At least give'em a good scare. Let everyone know they've got an active overlord who knows how to swing a sword, heh?" he chuckled.
"You'll be gone a night or two?" she asked coldly; her gaze turning actively suspicious.
"Most like. Could get some hunting in too if things are too tame."
"And spend the nights in that hamlet?"
"By the Corndust? I suppose," he said too casually. "Good idea really. Night's'll be a might cold still."
The only thing worse than the Ogre's paws groping her was the shame from other's knowing that the Strongbore let his tusk rut about in some diseased whore. Her spies had told her about that inn on the Corndust. "How dare you go enjoy yourself with that little slut," she hissed.
"What?" the Lord Oaf questioned, wrinkly up his face in pretend surprise that she knew about his past visits there.
Cersei barely heard Damion and Shiera send Lanna and Lucion out of the room.
"You heard me. I know you've stopped there before for that common bitch's favors."
"You mean Celia the tavern maid? Come off it, Cersei; she's saucy fun with her naughty japes, but she's married to Thorn the blacksmith," he explained as if she was crazy.
"Cersei, listen to …" Damion tried to placate.
Her words ran right past his, "As if you don't have a need to slake your filthy thirsts."
"Shut your mouth, woman!" the Ogre exploded, launching himself out of his chair. "You're huge with child and I'm not about to crush you with my … my passions."
"Passions!" she raged back at him. "Clumsy cackhanded pawings, more like. Your welcome to the slut. Begone with you, then and have your joy."
The Strongbore quivered with rage; face mottled, jaw bouncing about as if in search of words his pea sized brain could not find.
Cersei steeled herself as she had with Robert; ready to receive at last the pummeling she knew her boarish husband had long refrained from giving her for fear of her father's wrath.
"My joy?! My joy?! My joy was marrying the beauty I fell in love with the first time I saw her, escorting her brother to squire for my grandfather. That was my joy! Those words were my vow!"
He raised his hand.
Cersei refused to flinch.
"Good day to you, Lady Cersei," he roared and stormed out of the room far, far louder than he had stormed into it.
She had refused to cry, though she had retreated to what little safety her bedchamber granted her.
Shortly the sound of angry command from the yard came through the cracks in the badly patched walls. Then the noise of a score or so of riders leaving at a hard pace set the stones drumming.
She wished the thieves well.
Then wondered whether the few lions still living furtively in the mountainous Westerlands would find his sinewy porcine body to stringy to chew on.
Eventually her cousin's voice and that of Maester Mervyn flitted about, ordering this or that group of smallfolks at their construction tasks.
At some point, Shiera came in, sweetly not saying a word, her face offering no judgement; but ironically, leaving tea for her on her hope chest beside the bed that Cersei sat silently upon.
Alone again, the tea was set aside and she opened the large box to rummage through her personal effects … her memories. A doll her mother had given her. A scroll of poems to the Maiden given her by Aunt Genna. Other meaningful knickknacks from family members. The lace her father had swathed a ten year old Cersei in the first night of the Great Tournament he had hosted in honor of Prince Visery's birth. Prince Rhaegar had watched her that night … as had Jaime.
Inside a small coffer at the bottom of the chest were her most precious mementos … of Jaime. The daggers they had dueled with as children. A scrap of clothe from the cloak she'd worn as disguise that night to seedy tavern where she convinced him to join the Kingsguard. So clever she thought she was being. If only …
Tap, tap, tap.
Shiera entered again, not saying a word about the mess Cersei had strewn about. She held something in her hand. "A letter came for you with a rider from Casterly Rock."
Cersei's eyes snapped wide open. It could only be the answer to her most reasonable request that she be allowed to give birth in the safety of Casterly Rock instead of in this twisted, broken stone monstrosity only fit for the Imp.
Her hand barely trembled as she reached out for it.
Relinquishing the message, her good cousin bobbed her head and turned to leave.
"No … Shiera. Please … please stay."
The somewhat chunky Crakehall stopped her movement away and went to sit on the bed near Cersei, but not too near; an understanding warmth on her face. She too had done her duty and married where she'd been told. At least she had been able to marry a true Lannister.
An imperfectly trimmed nail sliced the wax bearing the Lion's sigil.
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Lady Cersei Crakehall,
It is inadvisable that you lay in for your birth at your former home.
First, there is the danger of such a journey. As you are already seven
months gravid, and only fit for travel by wheelhouse, you might not
even arrive in Casterly Rock by the date of your delivery.
Second, and more importantly, you may be carrying, as we all wish,
the heir for the newest house ennobled in the Westerlands. To
establish the loyal roots necessary for any of your off-spring who may
one day inherit the castle and lands for which House Lannister is
paying; wisdom dictates that the child be born there.
And lastly, to ease any concern that you might have with regards to
your current maester's particulars in midwifery, I have directed one
with renown in those skills to journey to your husband's hall to assist you.
I will do no more and no less for your brother Tyrion and his wife, Asha;
whom a raven has just brought news is now also with child. Hopefully a
son.
My wishes for a speedy and safe delivery.
Lord Tywin Lannister.
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The coldness of her father's answer pierced her heart, her hopes, her dreams as sharply as any blade. She had been wrong. Not just about her plans with Jaime, but about almost everything. So horribly, horribly wrong.
Tears sprang forth from her eyes. And then gasping, wretched sobs heaved uncontrollably from her mouth.
Blind, she felt the bed shift as Shiera leaned into her and wrap warm, comforting arms about her as she wept as hard as she ever had.