[4/7]
What surprises Cersei the most about her kingly husband is his devotion to his children. It's not what she was accustomed to growing up. She could have gone weeks without seeing her father if he didn't demand their presence at supper every evening. Tywin Lannister wasn't known for being affectionate. Any sort of physical contact was a rare gift; a pat on the head when she gifted him a needlework lion for his nameday, a hoist onto her horse, a kiss on the cheek when she left Casterly Rock for the last time.
The moment her first babe slips from her womb and is placed on her chest, slimy and small, she feels as if she were to burst. She is weak and shaking, but she can sense how fiercely she loves this little creature. She tunes out every person in the room. Her child is genderless and nameless and all hers for just these few short moments. The room is a warm blur, everything buzzing around her, all the handmaidens and midwives, yet the only thing she can concentrate on is the head full of dark hair resting on her breast.
She smiles softly. The babe gives out a short cry, and she accepts a blanket given to her by her handmaiden, the soft gray one knitted by one of Uncle Stafford's girls, and covers the tiny creature with it. All Stark, she thinks. Maybe one day she'd have a blonde little babe like she always imagined… there was always time, of course.
"Cersei." Ned's voice cuts through the void, her gaze finds his instantly. There is such a warmth in his Northern eyes, that pride begins to hum through Cersei's veins. He orders everyone to leave the room, and he settles himself next to her in bed. His hand raises to her face, cupping her chin, turning her just enough to place his lips on hers. Cersei presses her forehead against his, and is surprised to find it just as slick with sweat as hers.
"Oh, have you been fretting, husband?" she chides, wiping away at him with her thumb. He laughs nervously in response.
The bells are tolling now, ringing deep and sonorous. "I told Pycelle to have them rung until dawn," he says, "You have made a very happy man out of me, Cersei."
She kisses him again, and the babe mewls in protest of the sudden movement.
"We've had a girl, haven't we? Otherwise I suspect there would be many more people in this room now." She is disappointed, of course. Ned could certainly see it on her face, as he rests his lips on her temple for several seconds, and reaches over to run his fingertips through the babe's dark downy hair.
"We have many years ahead of us yet. Sons will come, just as I hope more daughters will as well," he says, and Cersei shifts to hand their daughter to her husband. He looks awkward, of course, this huge man with the tiniest babe cradled in his arms. She has to whisper to him that she won't break, and she can feel his posture loosen and muscles relax.
"What if I give you twelve daughters, hmm? Would you be disappointed in me then, Ned?" She says this in jest, but underneath, bubbling within her ribcage is that fervid fear, that concentrated blackness that pervades every council meeting or feast. An heir, a son, a green-eyed or golden-haired Stark prince. Ned grows tired of her sarcasm more often that she would like, and he sighs emphatically, reaching over to cup her cheek.
"Then after I am dead we will have a Queen to rule Westeros."