My dearest Jaime—

I suppose the time for propriety has come and gone—and summer along with it. Here in the North, everything is like a cavernous and bleak misery which I hope to (at the very least) redecorate. Lord Stark is a man of dull honor but surprising tact and is in possession of some reason. We have begun to map and landscape all the unused land these ignoramus brutes have failed to even look upon in the hopes of finding something useful in this vast wilderness. These "lords of winter" may own half the North but truthfully, dear brother, all they seem to care about is their white trees, their whelped offspring, and this inane notion of "honor" which has now lost meaning. (Truly, they repeat the word at least thrice per sentence. I am so sick of "honor here" and "honor now" that I have half a mind to send them terminology wordbooks. After all, the Westerosi language allows for at least some variation.)

Worst of late is the onset of these winter gales which, I am told, occur at least every few moons. These winds, frosty in their wrath, seem to slip through ever crack of Winterfell and, like the stubborn Stark wolf, binds round me like a vice. I am so heavily covered in furs and cashmere that I feel rather ill at ease leaving the bedroom. The hot springs are a necessity but do not extend as far as the outdoor garrets. A change I must facilitate.

At the very least my lord husband keeps to himself and minds his duties well enough. He knows these Northmen and leaves the greater work in my care—if I am to live with this lot for the rest of my life then I will at least make it a comfortable one. I shall not become another Lynesse, the frivolous, silly girl thinking Bear Island could match the riches of Oldtown. Why, at least Winterfell has proper coffers and accounts. (Though civilization does seem to creep slowly here, like frozen molasses...yes, dear brother, you have read this correctly—molasses. That disgusting brown syrup the servants drink is actually present in my dining hall. Honey, I am told, is difficult to come by and expensive to purchase. No matter, I shall procure something better than this rubbish. No Lannister will ever subjugate themselves to eating what the hired help devour.)

What else is there to write other then my discontent? The workload I have taken on has been manageable, though I suppose Maester Luwin is of some help. (These other lords could learn a thing or two from this man who, while tedious, has some sense of reason.) Truly, I wish to rid myself of Lord Stark's allowance as soon as possible—no lioness should have to rely on a pittance. The minute these lands are charted, we shall begin mining and I will have my due. At the very least, I have control over my household. I've heard that the same cannot be said for little Catelyn Tully, isn't that right? Reports of the king's whoring has not ceased in the slightest—foolish woman, what did she expect? A song of Florian and Jonquil?

Pity. Had Robert taken me for a bride, I could have at least held his interest long enough to bear a prince.

And, yes. I am very aware of father's martial plans for you, dear brother—a Hightower is the obvious choice. Have you not seen Lord Leyton's overtures? They are as plain as these Northern hills, barren and wanting. You have plenty of choice there brother—all his granddaughters, each a frail little flower petal who wouldn't last a day at the Rock. Perhaps you ought to wed little Célia Hightower? I heard she's a pretty little thing who prefers board games to human company—at least you two would have something in common: mutual detestation. Your wedding is one I shall attend come hell or high-water though, I don't trust anyone else to look over the books while I'm away. You ought to hear how grateful Lord Stark was that I came into his company—the man may be a gray giant but he can recognize capability when he sees it.

Alas, this letter has grown long and some Northern bitch has finally arrived with my afternoon tea. Did I tell you of a new substance we have unearthed here? It cures all manner of stomach ailments and purges the body of sickness—I shall be sure to send some to you once we have come up with a name.

Affectionately,

Lady Cersei Stark, Wardeness of Winterfell

With the letter written, folded, and sealed, Cersei reclined back into her chair and sighed. How she missed her other half! Jaime's sly grins and cheeky quips would bring her some much needed sunshine in this desolate moor of Winterfell but—no.

She closed her eyes.

She couldn't afford distractions at the moment; her mining project was to take top priority and she had vowed that within the first hundred days of her marriage, she would increase trade with White Harbor and expand into Riverrun. It was an enormous amount of pressure but it kept Cersei's mind in focus and was nothing she couldn't handle. After all, she was a Lannister, daughter of Tywin and twin to the Golden Lion.

She would not fail. Lord Stark was depending on her to follow through with the promise—he had few men he could trust and his advisors were (save Maester Luwin) utterly incompetent. Too concerned with the smallfolk and whatever warped sense of honor they chose to focus on that day. She was her lord husband's sole source of reason and pragmatism; even if she was a woman (and a Southern one at that), Lord Eddard had recognized her intelligence and readily gave Cersei what should have been hers at Casterly Rock.

It almost made Cersei gleeful thinking of the control she wielded over her husband while the queen of the Seven Kingdoms floundered in disaster and disarray. King Robert had fathered another bastard—one he'd publicly acknowledged, a boy by the name of Edric Storm. He'd even sent him to his childhood home of Storm's End, as if that didn't breach every accord of etiquette. Catelyn Tully's shame must have been scarlet—after all, for someone whose priorities lay in family, duty, and honor, she had received none from Robert Baratheon. Living in the Red Keep, surrounded by twittering birds and foolish courtiers... being known as the queen who could not satisfy her husband.

Well.

Cersei would never admit it but the news made her smile. Here in the North, she was deferred to with the utmost respect and courtesy. While it may be from some minor noble whose name she couldn't be bothered to remember, it was satisfying all the same. Catelyn Tully may have stolen her crown but Cersei still had all the power.

The one and only blemish to Cersei's masque of control was a dark haired bastard with a solemn face and gray eyes. He was Northern through and through, with winter in his veins. (His wet-nurse tended to him, shutters still halfway open.) He'd been born during Robert's Rebellion, when every man thought they'd die, and when Eddard Stark had no betrothed. Perhaps he intended to marry his bastard's mother—Cersei didn't know—but he must have cared for the woman to some degree. Why else would a great lord take in a child who he could, by all rights, set aside or even blatantly ignore?

He'd been given the surname Snow and for that Cersei was glad—he could not take away her future children's inheritance but, at the same time…the golden haired lioness did not like seeing a bastard in her castle. She could have him killed—that would be easy: a bit of poison, an open window…the wet-nurse would be executed but that was no weight on Cersei's shoulders. He was barely a year old and his features were already grave; Cersei had looked upon him once and sneered.

What a dull babe. So quiet and pale and reliant.

"We ought to send him away." Cersei first mentioned, after learning of this Jon Snow. They had been sitting across from one another in Lord Stark's solar, him writing at his desk and she reading over the coal production ledger. "There are many lords here that would not mind the honor of raising Lord Stark's bastard." Her voice was sharp, like a precariously balanced blade that would cut if not properly handled. "Send him to that friend of yours—the Reeds. They would not complain over his presence."

"Jon is not going anywhere." The firmness of his tone surprised Cersei, causing her to glance up at her usually stoic husband. "He is my blood and Winterfell is his home."

"So it is mine the moment you put that direwolf cloak over my shoulders." She sniped back, irritated with his manner. "You have no reason to keep him here and I do not want him here."

"He will be kept out of sight, my lady."

"I don't care if he's to be locked away in Winterfell's tower for all eternity—do you realize the message this sends to your vassals? It tells them that you don't think me capable of bearing your children and it weakens the resolve of your allies. Oh Lord Stark, the man who takes in bastards because they have nowhere to go. Let us see how we can play on his mercy and goodwill until he lies ten feet below the earth, his wife hung, and his children dead."

"I highly doubt that this is the direction their thoughts have gone." His voice was still firm, still full of conviction, but there was an undercurrent of amusement seeping in.

Cersei seethed.

"You don't know what your bannermen think. What about the Karstarks? They're bitter and stubborn and have far too much pride. They won't hesitate to cut your throat if you give them reason to."

"Has a single infant given them cause to march on their liege lord? If so, wars would be fought the minute babes were born and men would be executed while still in their night clothes." He sounded placating. Responsibly kind.

She wanted to claw his eyes out.

"If you would prefer to see your name smeared by those below you, so be it. But remember—I am now your wife and have no intention of seeing my name destroyed."

Lord Stark looked up, face unreadable though there was a certain light in his dark gray eyes. "Your name?"

"I married you, did I not? I took on the name Stark when we wed and as a lioness, I shall suffer no humiliation." Father would not tolerate it. I will not tolerate it. "You can believe in the goodness of men but I know their true nature. We are a herd of selfish creatures, Lord Stark, each vying for the highest branch, dying to eat the ripest fruit for the betterment of ourselves. You have been raised to believe in a world that doesn't exist—one of foolish fancy and idealistic glory too serene for human existence." Her eyes flashed. "I have been taught better."

"Yes. Lord Tywin knows how to instruct the depravity of man, does he not?" He returned, his entire posture rigid and jaw clenched; right hand still clutching a gray feathered quill in righteous indignation.

Cersei bristled. "If you dare to insinuate—"

"I insinuated nothing, my lady. I merely agreed with your assessment. Let us kill our vassals and murder children, for that is the Lannister way is it not?"

She closed the ledger forcefully, disregarding all semblance of calm as she glared stonily at the winter lord. How dare he suppose that she was below him? The man had never played the game of thrones a day in his life, having always lived in seclusion and the wonderful fantasy land of honor and duty and virtue.

"You may believe in the goodness of man all you like, Lord Stark," she snarled, "but I am not so blind. What would you have done to vassals who dared to rise in rebellion, dared to take the title that was rightfully yours? Who would no doubt bring calamity, famine, destruction, rape, and murder with a selfish war? You want to see children orphaned and fathers dying just to sate your own selfish desire for honor?" Cersei was trembling now, fury radiating from her as hot and red as the crimson sun. "My lord father prevented a civil war and kept his people safe. His methods may have sullied your white pride but two unsavory houses were suppressed and the Westerlands flourished. Can you say the same of the North?"

His jaw tightened. "My lady—"

"No." Cersei stood, ledger tucked under her left arm as she looked down at the Lord of Winterfell. "You want to preach to me integrity without first having played the game. You have not experienced King's Landing—you do not know what survival is when there are appearances to uphold, finances to keep, promises to retain, debts to pay, and power to consolidate. You do not know Lannister honor, my lord husband, and I doubt you ever will." She gave him a short curtsey before heading towards the door, pausing before her hand touched the heavy oak. "You may despise me all you like, Lord Stark, but do not dare question the actions of my father."

"And you believe the slaughtering of innocent children justified, Lady Cersei?" Lord Stark's voice cut through the air—heavy with the weight of a war hammer.

Cersei straightened, eyes still fixed on the door. "In the case of Prince Rhaegar's children…yes, I do."

A bitter laugh left Ned Stark's lips—one Cersei almost didn't recognize. It was too mired to pain…full of something she could not quite comprehend.

"What could have Rhaenys and Aegon done to the great Tywin Lannister? What could have gentle Princess Elia do? The throne was Robert's, there was no need to kill those who had no need or want for the crown."

"So you can see into the hearts of royalty?" Cersei countered, discomfort creeping down her spine...cold and uneasy—a sliver of liquid glass. "Aegon could have led an army and retaken the throne once he came of age—he could have disturbed peace and caused another civil war. It was best to be cautious."

"We could have sent them across the Narrow Sea alongside their uncle and aunt. We could have prevented disaster without murder."

"Well you weren't there to make the decision now were you?" Cersei whirled around suddenly, rage and frustration bubbling to the surface. "You weren't there—you didn't know how my father felt or how anyone felt. You don't know! Did you think killing Ashara Dayne's brother was right? If you loved the Targaryens so much why did you march to war alongside Robert Baratheon? Why did you kill Prince Rhaegar's friends, his companions—the Kingsguard? Was that moral and justified and pretty?" The anger she felt was overwhelming, like a tidal wave that was forcing her under. Each time she tried to break to the surface, to take a breath of air, another wave rolled over and Cersei was held under again. She felt helplessly overwhelmed, furiously disappointed in both her husband and herself.

She wanted to stomp her foot and break something made of glass—something that would shatter immediately. "You don't know what you would've done because you weren't there and I was not there and neither were your Northmen or soldiers or—" Her words were coming out so jumbled and quick that Cersei herself couldn't quite make them out.

She was screaming underwater, barely cognizant of the arms that came to wrap around her form until she felt her cheek being pressed against cool leather.

"Forgive me my lady. I should not have taken my frustration out on you." She heard Lord Stark whisper, his voice so low and quiet that Cersei was surprised she could even make them out. "I fear I let myself get away, an irredeemable act and…" he trailed off, silence filling the room. His hands—large and calloused—rubbed soothing circles down Cersei's back.

She heard a sniffle and briefly wondered if—no.

Cersei blinked in shock. Was…was she crying? What on...for Seven's sake!—with one hand, Cersei tried to scrub away her tears, embarrassment washing over her. What had happened? How on earth did she come into such a state? Tears? Crying? She was not a child and Seven—her lord father would die of shame if he saw her now.

Whimpering in the arms of a Northerner.

A hot flush came over Cersei's cheeks and she wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground and have it swallow her whole.

Instead, she forced her eyes to meet those of her lord husband's—dark and gray and sorrowful.

She probably looked a mess too.

"I…" Cersei started and then cleared her throat, angry at her traitorous voice for that initial tremor. "I must return to my own solar now, Lord Stark. Maester Luwin will need to reference these sums and…and I believe I have overstayed my welcome."

"Never." The word was executed so swiftly, so bluntly, that Cersei paused entirely.

She had never heard Lord Stark speak with such…passion.

"You have been more than gracious with your help, my lady. The knowledge you bring from the Westerlands—the pains you have taken to improve land that, by all rights, you did not have to spare a second glance at. You have invested your dowry to improving the North when you could have spent it on things more befitting a lady." Lord Stark stepped back and...bowed before Cersei—it was short and informal but…

It washed away Cersei's anger. Burned away the remains of her shame.

She felt, in that moment, invincible.

Almost instinctively, Cersei reached for her husband's shoulder, bidding him to rise. Their eyes met.

A hundred different thoughts came to Cersei's mind but there was only one thing she truly needed to say.

"If it please you," she said, voice careful and sweet, "I should like to purchase some Myrish lace. A wife must always look pretty for her lord husband, must she not?"

This time, she did not miss the smile that appeared on his lips.

When Cersei next saw his solemn face, she did not find it entirely unappealing.

Dearest sis—

This letter is short, brief, and utterly devoid of regalia but it needs to be writ. Father has chosen a bride for me. A Hightower (Tyrion laughed for hours when he heard this and I had to pay him a hundred gold dragons). Baelor's youngest daughter, Célia. From what I've heard she's small, quiet, rude, spoiled, and enjoys cyvasse more than an 80 year old maester. Father's livid—he wanted Baelor's eldest, Lady Alicent (who at least looks like she's seen the sun), but Robert's already promised that girl to his brother, Renly. (Shame old Leyton will never get a great grandson out of her.)

Must go now—riding to Oldtown soon to scope out the bride (and see if kidnapping is needed).

Ever yours,

Jaime

A/N: Story will be formatted in a drabble series style. I wasn't planning on continuing this but my Cersei muse wouldn't stop until I did so...

Yes, I've always thought a younger Cersei would be more hotheaded and outwardly impulsive while Ned would be somewhat charmed/suspicious/intrigued by his golden bride. She's also got a healthy ego on her and in my view, if Cersei had just been given the chance to do some administrative work (with proper guidance of course, cue Maester Luwin) she might've turned out halfway decent. (And Ned is a hell of a lot more indulgent/understanding than Robert.)

I don't know if I'll continue with the Jaime getting married plotline but his letters will continue! (And I need an excuse to see Ned in the Westerlands.)

Thanks to all who yay'd this! Give me your thoughts! Oui ou non?