Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones; neither do I own A Song of Ice and Fire.

I'm sorry for the late chapter, I was so busy last week due to school and didn't have the time to type this baby up. But I hope this chapter suffices!

Thank you so very much for all of your reviews, they keep me going :)

Next chapter comes Saturday again.


Chapter Eight


The child was dead.

It could not have survived either way, for it had only been inside her womb for 7 moons—and she knew full well it was too early. The birth was painful, and bloody. She was screaming as she pushed and pushed with all her might, but when the child came out, it did not even take a breath—not one. Maester Pycelle had told her he was not stillborn, but, due to being born earlier than he should have his lungs were not fully developed. He had tried everything to make the child breathe, to no avail. Cersei had cried, wailed as she took in everything. She had requested she be able to hold the child, to which they had surprisingly obliged. For a babe prematurely born, he surprisingly looked just like his father. He had his nose, his hair colour, everything except his cheekbones which he had gotten from her. Eddard was by her, holding her as she completely broke down as she held their son. Rickard. That was what she had decided on naming him the moment she had found out she was with child. She did not notice her child being pried from her arms as she was already sobbing and most likely delirious from the birth.

She doesn't understand why. She prayed to the Mother night and day for her babe's health. She took care of herself, ate healthily and on time, avoided stressful matters and the like. But somehow, it wasn't enough. Her Rickard was gone. She'll never get the chance to see him grow, to talk and walk and play with Jon and Daenerys. They would have been inseparable, and she would have been overjoyed. And the child would have been the one sole chance she had to get to her husband. But now he was dead, and she could not bring her child back. The gods decreed so, and she had to follow.

Eddard held her as she cried, mourned for their dead son.

"Eddard," She wailed, "Our son. He's—Rickard—he's dead."

Her husband did not say anything, but merely held her as she let out fresh tears onto his jerkin. They stayed like that for hours; even as the midwife and her assistants delivered and cleaned the afterbirth and sewed her up. It took a while before she had stopped crying, but by then only she and Eddard were present inside the room. She hadn't noticed her husband order the people out of the room—or maybe he didn't, and they left on their own accord. Maybe they did not want their Queen's misfortune to spread to them. The thought had made her sob in anguish yet again. No doubt the news had already spread throughout the Keep. The lords and ladies already knew, everyone already knew.

It took a while for her to fully calm down. But Eddard held her still; held her as she shook with the intensity of it all. The sun was shining brightly now; and King's Landing shone with all its glory outside. She was exhausted, more so than she had ever experienced her entire life. She could feel slumber slowly taking her, but her husband had not lessened his grip on her and continued to hold her throughout her ideal.

She woke hours later, not noticing that she had fallen into sleep. A daze of grey and black were before her—the bed's tapestry. Sitting up, she noticed that her husband could not be seen anywhere. In fact, no one could be seen anywhere. And she was not in the birthing chambers anymore, but in her own chambers. Her husband probably forbade anyone to come inside—not even her own handmaidens. And for that she was thankful—she couldn't possibly handle them pestering her the moment she opened her eyes. Peace was what she needed, and peace was what her husband gave her.

She wonders how much time has passed. Has it already been a day, or merely a few hours? That she had to know.

Mustering the strength, she slowly sits up—feeling a small pang of pain coming from her lower regions, making her stop and take a breath—and lowers the blanket covering her. She is dressed in nothing but her shift, her smallclothes beneath them. She couldn't possibly go out wearing what she was wearing at the moment—but people rarely were in the royal apartments, anyways. Even servants were scarcely found in the halls, because they only served a few people—just her and Eddard, for the babes Daenerys and Jon had their own wetnurses to tend to their needs anyways.

She slowly deposited her knees onto the side of the bed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. She takes a deep breath before pushing herself slowly up and standing. Her knees could not handle her weight just yet, and they buckled before her. Thankfully, she had managed to take ahold of the small wooden table beside her bed. Her hand was placed on her now flat abdomen. She felt light—it was strange not having a big belly distended in front of her, blocking much of her view whenever she'd look down. Not to mention it was very heavy, making her waddle every time she walked. It also made her feet swollen, making things harder even more.

She walked around, her bare feet touching the cold smooth-stone floor. Her chambers were semi-dark, the sun having fallen just a moment ago—or so it feels. But no candles were lit—just enough proof that her husband had forbade everyone to come in. Composing herself, she goes toward the door, one hand on the freezing brass handle. She opens it, only to find out that no guards were posted outside—but no one usually guarded her, anyways, ever since she had told her husband that she disliked having anyone follow her. The guards still looked after her, but from a distance, and inconspicuously. But now the halls were empty, no trace of anyone being there recently.

She does not know what compelled her to do so, but she finds herself walking towards the nurseries. It takes her a while to get there, of course, due to the fact that she had to take step by step carefully. Though the hallways were lit, they too had no signs of people being there recently. She finally arrives, and she opens the door to Jon's nursery.

It was quiet, the candles were lit but no one was inside. Wylla could not be found anywhere, a first ever since she had reprimanded her all those moons ago. Wylla had, no doubt already heard of her misfortune. She could see the stars shining outside the balcony from where she stood. Jon was quiet; she supposed he was sleeping. But Jon had always been a quiet babe; preferring to observe rather than babble like Daenerys usually did. They were inseparable, the two—they played all day long, only separating when it was time for midday naps or sleep. It did not take a smart person to figure out that when they got older, they would still be very inseparable and would no doubt do mischief together.

She slowly walks towards the wooden cradle, each step feeling like she was climbing up a hill. When she finally got there, she peered inside the cradle and saw Jon looking up at her with grey eyes so much like his father. And Rickard, her son.

Her eyes water at the prospect of her dead son. She lifts Jon into her arms and he nuzzles her teats, making them leak with milk. She observes him: he looked just like her Rickard, so alike that they would have passed off as twins just like her and Jaime.

Jaime. She'll never forget the dream she had that night; of Jaime and what he did to the child growing inside her. She still doesn't understand why. Wasn't Jaime her protector; her knight in shining armor? Dreams were dreams, she knew that full well, but why did she have an inkling feeling inside her against Jaime?

She dismissed it. Jon babbled, making her looking at him. He was all Rickard; he looked just like her baby boy, from his coloring to his facial features to everything. Everything except his cheekbones, which Rickard had gotten from her. Her tears fell freely now. The birth was bloody; it was possible that she could not produce children anymore. She has heard tales of women with births so grueling, their reproductives had been destroyed. Their children survived, but for some, their children died. She had lost blood, lots of it. The birth itself was gruesome; the child inside her strained to get out. Though delirious, she had seen the look one of the midwife's assistants had given her. She had tore; the midwife had had to sew her cunt afterwards.

The door behind her opened. She quickly used one of her hands to wipe the tears off her face. She did not look behind her, it was probably Wylla. She had never seen her husband visit Jon before—she supposed that he did, she just didn't see him. And she had never asked Wylla before.

"Your Grace," said a voice not belonging to the child's wetnurse but to another person entirely. She recognized that voice. Turning around, she saw Varys the eunuch, the Master of Whisperers.

"What are you doing here?" asked Cersei. She became mindful of what she looked—her golden tresses looked like a mess, her eyes probably had shadows under them and she was wearing only her thin, white shift. She did not look presentable, especially in front of this man.

"The child's... wetnurse asked a favor from me," said Varys calculatingly, "I have come to give her what she asked."

Cersei wondered what it was. She did not ask, however.

Varys spoke. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, my Queen." "Any mother would be devastated."

"Yes," said Cersei, "The gods have no mercy. I suppose that's why they're gods."

"I heard that your son looked just like his father... and Jon Waters." Varys said.

Cersei narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?" She asked.

"I did not mean to disrespect you, your Grace," said Varys, "But..."

"What is it?" Cersei asked.

"Your son—my birds have said he was an exact replica of Jon Waters." said Varys, "With a few differences, of course."

"What do you mean?" Cersei asked again, repeating her question.

"The child... could be yours," Varys finally said after almost a minute of silence. "Jon Waters could be yours. If you choose to, your Grace."

Jon Waters was a bastard. He was her husband's bastard. Though her hatred of him had perished, she just could... not. Her pride would not let her. But it was possible that she would not be able to produce children anymore. She did not want to think about it—her husband would probably cast her away like Rhaegar did Elia and replace her with a younger, fertile woman that could give him a son. And what would happen to her? Would she be cast away to Casterly Rock and be left to rot? A supposed broodmare left to waste?

She could not let that happen.

She hesitated before saying, "I—the news has spread throughout the Keep." "The midwife and her assistants—"

"—may easily be killed. There are ways, your Grace." Varys says, cutting her off. She doesn't mind in the slightest—after all, he was helping her. But why? "It is best to act early as possible. The lords and ladies may easily be fooled into believing other reasons—or rumours, whatever you like to call it."

"Why are you helping me?" She asks, one brow raised. In a place like this, help often comes with a price. And she didn't know who Lord Varys was loyal to.

"For the good of many, your Grace," "The Red Keep deserves at least a small amount of happiness."

Cersei nodded, then looked at the babe in her arms. Jon's resemblance to her own son still made her want to weep, but she resisted. Not in front of someone else. But Varys' plan would work. She could say that he rumours about her losing her babe were merely midwifes' tales and should not be believed. She could tell them that the gods had blessed her and Eddard that despite her child being premature, it had lived and will live. It would work.

Jon Waters would be her son.

"Thank you," said Cersei after a minute of silence. "Thank you."

"The pleasure is mine, your Grace," said Varys.

Just then, Wylla came back, opening the door wide. She was carrying a multiple of things—she didn't know what they were and didn't bother asking.

"Your Grace," said Wylla, trying to curtsey the best she could with the things in her hands on the way. "Lord Varys."

She noticed that Wylla was flustered. Sweat beaded around her neck, and strands of hair were plastered on her forehead. Her eyes were puffy—or so Cersei thought—as if she had cried not long ago. She was pale as well, and Cersei could feel that if not for the things she was carrying she would have been wringing both her hands together. But despite all that Wylla was thinking, Cersei knew she was wondering why she was up and about just hours after her bloody birth. Wylla no doubt knew, of course. If anything, she might have been one of the firsts to know.

She was still carrying Jon in her arms. He was silent, merely staring at her and observing her with his eyes. One look from Cersei was all it took for the child give her a gummy grin, and a bout of giggles soon after. Instead of lifting her spirits, it broke her heart. Her Rickard would have been just as happy as Jon Waters was, maybe even more.

Nodding at them both, Cersei put Jon back inside his crib and went on her way. Though curious regarding what Wylla needed Varys for, she did not ask anyways. She needed to get to her husband—fast. Varys had told her to act as early as possible, in order for their—her—plan to be believable. She did not have to maneuver throughout the Keep's labyrinthine corridors all the way to her husband's solar, thankfully. The trek alone was very hard for her, she kept one hand on her abdomen as she took each step towards her destination.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, she had reached Eddard's solar. She took a deep breath before knocking slightly. Two of the Kingsguard were posted outside—they did not bother her, for she was the Queen and therefore had authority over them. But she knew they were curious as to why she was not recovering and resting instead.

"Enter," Her husband said from inside. The door in front of her opened, and she stepped in as quick as she could in her state.

Another member of the Kingsguard was posted inside. Eddard looked up from his desk—he was writing a letter, she did not know to whom. Her husband's eyes slightly widened all of a sudden, and he laid the quill he was holding atop the table. She walked slowly towards Eddard's desk, a hand still on her abdomen. The door behind her was closed.

"My Queen," rasped Eddard, "You should be resting. Maester Pycelle said—"

"I care not," replied Cersei, "We have an important matter to discuss."

"Please, Cersei," said Eddard, "Whatever you would like to talk about may be talked about after you have gotten your rest."

"No." She said, "I would not have come to you if it was not of importance."

"Cersei—"

"I would like to talk in private." said she, gesturing towards the Kingsguard posted inside the room.

Eddard hesitated before saying, "Ser Meryn,"

"My King—" Meryn Trant started, but was then cut off.

"The Queen and I would like to speak in private."

With a bow, Meryn exited the room, his golden armor shining as sunlight from the window touched it slightly. As soon as they were left alone, Eddard spoke.

"You need to rest. The birth has been hard on—"

"I know," said Cersei, her heart breaking at the prospect of her son dying, "I understand."

Eddard merely nodded. "I will escort you back to your chambers."

"No," Cersei quickly said.

"Is this about...?" Eddard asked. It felt like someone was twisting a knife on her heart, but she knew Eddard had meant her no harm. The pain was fresh, and she was a madwoman to seem to have moved on so quickly by suggesting what she was about to say. But she doesn't think she'll ever get over her son's death. He will always have a place in her heart, and no one could replace that.

"Jon Waters," Cersei simply said.

"What about my son?" Eddard asked, his voice taking on a serious tone. "Jon is—"

She did not know how to tell him—it was new, she always knew how to handle everything despite the circumstances. She hesitated before speaking.

"He could be ours." She outright said, wringing both her fingers together. She knew she sounded like she was out of her wits; it was now that she realized that she really should have fixed her appearance before setting out of her chambers. Her gaunt face, overly messy golden locks and her dirty-looking night gown added more to the illusion that she was out of her wits.

"What do you mean, Cersei?" Eddard inquired, confusion forming on his face.

"I cannot produce children anymore, can't I?" asked Cersei. Though she was not sure, it was the only way to know for herself without finding out from another.

Eddard looked flustered. "How—?"

"That old man Pycelle told you, did he not?" "I know—knew. The birth alone could have killed me, just like what happened to my mother. I was lucky to have survived. I saw how much blood was present."

"The gods spared me from death, but in turn they took away my ability to conceive."

"He could be ours," Cersei continued, "He could be ours. Mine and yours."

"What do you mean, Cersei?" asked her husband. "Jon is a bastard. He is my son."

"He is the King's bastard. I cannot produce children anymore." Cersei paused. "I do not want—I cannot return to Casterly Rock."

It was then that the dam of her emotions finally exploded yet again. A tear slipped out from her eye, she tried to stop but could not. Tears were flowing down her cheeks now, and she had to take hold on Eddard's desk to keep herself upright. She bowed her head low; she did not want to be seen crying by her husband even after her display hours earlier at their son's birth. It was then that she realized what she did not really want to happen—she did not want to return to Casterly Rock; to be branded as a failed broodmare. Even peasants would not want to marry her. She did not want to be cast aside like dirt by the King himself. She was outright sobbing now, and all of a sudden two hands took ahold of her arms. Eddard pulled her to him carefully; it seemed that he was taller than her by a head. She buried her head onto his chest and wrapped her arms around him; her tears were cascading upon his jerkin but he did not seem to care.

"He could be ours," Cersei said, pulling her head away. Though speech was hard for her, she manage to muster out what she had to say. Tears fell onto her nightgown, wetting them yet again. "He could be Jon Stark, the future King of the Seven Kingdoms, our son. Your heir. "

"I care not for his mother." Cersei finally said. "You were at war, it was understandable. I understand now."

She could use her tears for an advantage, she realized. She let the waterworks out yet again. "Please do not return me to Casterly Rock."

She was sobbing as Eddard thought of what she had just said. One of his hands was now spread on her hair, rubbing up and down in an attempt to soothe her.

"An oath should not be broken," said Eddard, releasing himself from her but letting his hands hold her on both her arms. "I took one when we wed."

"Thank you." said Cersei. "Thank you, Ned."


I reached 85 with the last chapter! Do you think we can reach 90 this time?

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