And wild for to hold
AU. Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish wed.
"A bakery and a mill?" Cersei asks. "What do you intend to do with this?"
"Make bread," Petyr replies.
He is sitting in their solar with the tall, wide windows. The curtains flutter and the scent of the sea drifts inside, along with the noises of the port city. There's the bellowing of bells and the mutter of the crowds at the nearby market. Their home is located in a cul-de-sac, behind tall walls covered with ancient ivy, but they are a stone's throw from the center of Lannisport.
Cersei leans on Petyr's desk and looks at the document again, frowning. "Very funny. I mean why would you ever be concerned with making bread? The Lannisters don't go around buying bakeries."
"If I may remind you, dearest wife, you are a Baelish now. And I am buying this mill and this bakery because unless you have forgotten your husband does not possess deep coffers and I intend to put the loan your father has given me to good use."
Money, money. That is Petyr's favorite topic. Cersei likes spending money, not thinking how to make it. There's something a bit… low about such concerns.
"A bakery," Cersei says, "and what is this? An ale house? You must be joking."
Petyr cocks his head and knits his hands together, leaning back in his chair and looking at her across his desk. "Perhaps our customers will be thirsty after they eat their bread."
"That is ridiculous. I won't have anyone saying Cersei Lannister owns an ale house!" she declares airily.
"It's a good thing I didn't mention the brothel, then, Cersei Baelish."
Cersei thinks he is joking, but then she sees the look on his face and the blood drains from her face. "You don't mean that. You wouldn't—"
"I wanted to. We just couldn't agree on the price. I'll have to look for a better bargain."
"That is inconceivable! Do you realize the shame that would bring to me? I, Cersei Lannister—"
"Cersei Baelish," he repeats. "And I happen to know Cersei Baelish is used to a certain standard of living which her husband cannot provide unless he has the brains to improve his fortune."
"My father—"
"Do you really want to be dependent on your father, Cersei? Having to always to do what you are told for fear he'll cut off your purse strings?"
When he puts it that way she really doesn't like it at all. And it isn't like they could depend on Jaime, either. Ashara Dayne wouldn't be too thrilled to know the bills of Jaime's sister are being paid with her coin. It really is quite infuriating. She chews her lower lip, considering what to say.
"Well?" Petyr asks.
"How much money does a brothel bring in, anyway?"
He smiles genially and crooks his finger at her. Cersei goes around the desk and stands next to him as he points at a column with figures. It is no small amount.
"Nobody needs to know we own it," Petyr says. "It's easy enough to disguise the true identity of the proprietor."
"Is it? If that's the case it wouldn't be so terrible and the income it would generate would be quite remarkable. I do want new dresses for the tourney at Harrenhal and if I could have a new caul with seed pearls… seed pearls would be perfect," she muses.
They've had to be somewhat thrifty here in Lannisport. The manse Tywin has gifted them has required new furniture, new tapestries, and much attention. And Petyr is absolutely right that her father's purse strings can be tight and when Cersei writes to him about silks and velvet, he chastises her for her frivolities and reminds her that six months have passed and she is still without child. He is rather set on a grandchild.
Cersei has told Petyr that her uncle Kevan would surely extend them a loan to cover her more extravagant purchases, but Petyr is frustratingly logical and he believes that if they should secure such funds, they should be used for a more sensible purchase.
"Oh, but to be associated with such a place, with such women, even in secret," Cersei says in frustration, greed and decorum warring within her.
"You'd be surprised to know the men in high places who associate with such women."
"I'm not surprised by the lust of men."
"Really? What would you know about the lust of men?" Petyr asks mockingly.
"More than you know about the lust of women," Cersei replies even as she blushes, for she does not like it when anyone gets the better of her. "And do not try to pretend that you are a man of the world. I happen to know you are very much a maid."
"I gather you are not," he says, but he doesn't look terribly bothered by it.
Cersei shrugs. "It was one time only and it hurt, so I do know something about men. They are liars and fools who will promise anything in order to get a chance at lifting a woman's skirts. I'm not surprised they'll pay a good coin to do it, either."
She thinks of silly Jaime, straining against her and the sticky mess he left between her thighs. Ashara Dayne could have him, good riddance.
"A cunning insight. Though, just because I haven't shared your bed doesn't mean I might not have sampled others."
"Whose?" Cersei asks. "Just because you played at kissing Cat and Lysa doesn't mean they'd allow you to bed them, and it is not as if you've been chasing the scullery maids here. Don't try to lie to me, you are a green boy."
It's Petyr's turn to blush and she knows this is very much the truth just because of that. Not that she minds. There's something sweet about it.
"You never did kiss me," she muses.
"I kissed you at our wedding."
He'd kissed her on the cheek, to be precise. Which had been fine with her. It was not as if a great passion united them.
"At Riverrun, you dunce," she says, leaning her back against the desk and looking down at him since he is still sitting in his chair. "You'd play those silly games with the others, but never once asked me. Were you scared?"
"The other boys were scared of you, Cersei. I just knew better."
"How so?"
"I assumed if you ever wanted to be kissed you'd make it known," he replies simply and he smiles that taunting grin of his. "You have no problem loudly shrieking your demands."
Cersei is ready with a nasty taunt of her own and she sits herself on his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. They are looking eye to eye at each other. She cocks her head. "Would I?" she asks and she feels a deep, dark satisfaction as she watches him wince and feels him shift uncomfortably.
But he doesn't push her away. "I'm sure you would," he says dryly, and rather than putting his hands on her waist or touching her cheek, he sits stock still, challenging her.
She waits and waits and it's as if he's turned into a marble statue. "You are an idiot," she says and jumps to her feet.
He pulls her back onto the chair, back on to his lap, pulls her into a kiss with his hand in her hair and his tongue in her mouth. She'd played at kissing with Jaime when they were children so the kiss itself does not surprise her, but it is different. Her brother's reverence is missing and instead there is a certain teasing wickedness, a certain playfulness as she changes her position, better settles on his lap, and they kiss again and again.
She feels young and very much alive. She could kiss him and kiss him for hours on end. Cersei sighs and finally draws apart, catching her breath.
"Petyr," she whispers.
But rather than mirroring her own soft joy, Petyr offers her a picture of smug contentment.
"Not so very much a green boy, I think," he says and his mockery is like a bucket of ice water.
She stands up quick. She should have known. Everything is a contest between them, everything is a race. She doesn't mind, normally. But now it stings.
He ought to have offered her a pretty phrase, a compliment, a line from one of the songs. Instead he's ruined the moment and she feels terribly ashamed. She shouldn't let him see her like this, she should always don her armor.
"Try to lay a hand on me again and I'll cut it off," she tells him.
"I've no interest in you. It wasn't I who started this."
"Well, I'm the one who is finishing it," she declares and storms out of the room before he can reply with another barb, another quip of his.
That night, when he comes to bed, he is cautious and he walks around the room like a man who surveys enemy territory while she sinks her nails into the pillow and pretends to sleep. But then two nights later, they speak.
"There's to be a tourney in Harrenhal," he says.
"Yes, everyone knows that," Cersei replies as she brushes her hair.
"Well, how many seed pearls do you want exactly?"
"Are we going to afford them with bread? Wait. Don't tell me. You've bought a dairy farm too and we can have butter."
He leans over her shoulder and looks into the mirror, at her reflection as she stares at the glass. "No. I wrote to your uncle Kevan. He's prepared to loan us a certain sum of money."
"Truly? And you won't complain that it'll be spent on pearls?"
"It'll be a chance to meet many people and you must look your best."
"You too," Cersei says, turning around and making a face. "That doublet is horrid."
"You can pick me a new one," he says simply.
He needs it. Nobody can accuse her husband of having a sense of fashion. He'd look quite charming if only he'd accent his gray clothes with a nice burgundy or plum trimming. He'd be elegant, if he wanted, for he has a natural sleekness to himself.
"You aren't joking? You really are going to buy me jewels and silks?"
"Well… I might invest in a little venture or two with some of the funds," Petyr admits, "though I'm afraid you'll go wanting for butter."
Cersei considers admonishing him and making it clear that such "ventures" should not include brothels, ale houses or the gambling dens Petyr is no doubt considering, but if she has perfected one skill during her marriage so far it is the ability to do sums.
Cersei raises an eyebrow at Petyr. "You best be discreet, whatever it is that you are planning."
"I'm planning to own Lannisport, dear wife."
"Well… it's a start," she says.
He smiles at her confidently and maybe there's some fun in this game of money, this game of power. And, oh she does think together they might play a very good hand or two.