two falling sparks (one willing fool)

by Mia-Zeklos

In order to defend Westeros from threats coming from two different directions, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the King in the North come to an agreement - a short, uncomplicated one, or so they hope.

Author's Note: This one started as mostly an experiment and is now... whatever this is. There will be two chapters in total. Fair content warning for manipulation, mild gaslighting, war crimes, and GoT characters being GoT characters.

Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, Cersei finally understands why what they're doing is so forbidden – being with Jaime is the closest she's ever felt to godhood. This must be what it's like, she thinks every time, as soon as he enters her; being complete in a way no mortal creature should ever be. The fact that he feels the same only serves to enhance the sensation, and it's precisely that that makes it quite so devastating when he stops.

"Jaime?" she calls out, alarmed. So far, he'd made sure that they'd be entirely lost within each other even with her hands tied to one of the bedposts, his fingers teasing at her clit as he'd fucked her, his mouth alternating between her breasts and her neck. She'd been so, so close, and it must have showed – he knows her better than anyone else, after all.

"Hold on."

Oh, she's not doing this. "I don't really have a choice, do I?" He doesn't respond and she pulls away just enough to be able to frown at him, meeting her brother's pensive gaze as he leans over her. Her body feels oversensitive and needy, pushed to the edge and no further. "Jaime, we don't have time—"

"How touching. You've always made such an eager bride."

Cersei narrows her eyes and makes to stand up, quickly remembering about her restraints when her arms twist backwards painfully and she falls back onto the pillows. It's far from the first time they'd done something like this, but usually, she'd tie the knot herself and leave it loose enough that the hold it has on her is more a pleasurable illusion than anything else. It should have occurred to her that he'd had something a little different in mind when he'd tugged on the rope, making sure to tighten it enough that she'd nearly lost feeling from the wrists down by now. Neither of them had got a moment of sleep tonight, but he'd only got this particular idea somewhere right before sunrise and it starts dawning on her that it might have just been something more than a whim.

"What?" It's not a particularly eloquent response, but it's the best she can do, given how baffled she is. "Is this about Ned Stark's bastard? We've been through this a million times."

"And we're going to go through it again." He sounds awfully serious, apparently intent on having this discussion while still inside her, and Cersei feels just a little like crying. "You didn't see him last night. There's something about him—I don't trust him – him or his sister, or his intentions."

"You said that about every single option I brought to the table." As soon as she'd been crowned, even with the chaos that had reigned over Westeros and everyone's lingering fear after the Sept's explosion, thinly veiled offers for a union had started raining from every possible direction as the Lords of Westeros had done their best to find her a king sooner rather than later. In turn, of course, she had decided that she would allow nothing of the sort, no matter who she chooses to wed after all. Still, Jaime had had some form of criticism for all of them, up to and including Jon Snow: the same Jon Snow she can't quite remember ever actually meeting; the one she'd talked to entirely over ravens and who, to her surprise and confusion, had made his offer outright both as a show of support against the most recent impending invasion from Essos and as an attempt at gathering support from the smallfolk for another war he claims is approaching the Seven Kingdoms. It had sounded thoroughly insane, but also a harmless enough venture given the alternatives. Unlike everyone else who had propositioned her, she knows for a fact that his family is too deeply wounded by hers for him to have any real interest in her, other than her help. Since she's equally interested in his endorsement, especially after the last raven he'd sent her before he'd departed for King's Landing, it promises to be a wonderfully absent arrangement that would require little to no input when it comes to their matrimonial duties. The hassle with the ceremony and the subsequent wedding night is as far as this is going to go. "And I agree; none of them is a good fit. After all, none of them is you."

He snorts derisively, but something about his expression softens just before he eyes her again, full of suspicion that she could have not possibly predicted the source of before he speaks up. "He's not Ned Stark's bastard, though, is he?"

"Something that neither he nor I were aware of by the time I agreed to this course of action."

"Well, it certainly helps, doesn't it? The fact that he's Rhaegar Targaryen's trueborn son?"

"Yes." That they even have to have this conversation is utterly ridiculous; especially so in the morning of her wedding, when their time is already limited. If her brother's feeling threatened by a man who'd been dead and buried for over two decades – one that she'd mostly interacted with as a child – then there's little she can do to help him. It seems more merciful to not bring it up at all, given that she's not in the mood to stroke his ego any further. There are far more interesting things she could stroke instead. "His claim for the Iron Throne is better than Daenerys Targaryen's and because he's only interested in his walking dead instead of the Throne, I'll get rid of him as soon as both threats are eradicated, provided that the one he speaks of is real at all. We can either send him back North or dispose of him if he decides to be a problem. He's given us proof of his heritage; you read it yourself. You brought it to me last night. It renders her claim useless as soon as we have his public support. Wars are paid for in gold and in death. How do you assume we should keep the people on our side when she brings a Dothraki horde to our shores? Pretty words only do so much."

"Pretty words do plenty when they come from you."

There's something bitter in his voice that she likes even less than the accusation that she's marrying out of her own enthusiasm to hand herself over to yet another stranger. "Untie me."

"I'm only saying—"

"Jaime."

With a sigh, he reaches up and tugs the rope free until the knot loosens around her wrists and she rubs at the reddened skin there, thankful that her bridal gown covers her almost entirely, just like the rest of her wardrobe after she'd taken the Throne. It's one of the reasons why she'd allowed Jaime free reign tonight, too – they'd both had enough of hiding marks back in the years when she had been married to Robert and she doesn't plan on bringing this sort of grim reminder into their lives again; not for one night with a man who couldn't be less concerned in what she does in her bedroom and who she does it with.

She cups his face in her hands, quietly pleased when he leans into her touch and kisses her palm, almost as if on instinct. "We're so close to having everything we've always wanted. You just have to be patient."

It's a hysterically inappropriate advice, coming from someone like her, but Jaime's expression only darkens just as he leans down to nip at her throat again, making her tilt her head back to give him better access just as he begins to fuck her in earnest again. Now free from her restraints, she wraps one arm around him to keep him close while the other slips down between them to where they're joined together. He doesn't seem particularly willing to loosen his grip on her, so she might as well help herself along.

"I'm sick of being patient." She feels his hand desert her shoulder, curling around her neck a moment later, as if to keep her eyes focused on him. As if she'd ever looked anywhere else. "I'm sick of hiding and pretending and—"

"And I'm not?" She glares up at him, the words hitching on a gasp, and he looks suitably chastised, even though he doesn't stop moving. "Do you think I'm enjoying this? Having to make empty promises and plan on how to pacify the Lords we can't pay what we've said we would? How long will the belief that I'm ambitious and insane enough to take it all and distribute it between them hold them on my side?"

"I know," Jaime says, pressing a pacifying kiss onto her lips and straying to the side when she doesn't resist, his lips leaving a trail down to her chest where he'd began. His lips wrap around her nipple, sucking lightly, and he groans when she clenches around his cock, pushing herself upwards to get impossibly closer to him. "It's still infuriating; seeing them all assume that you'd ever give them a second glance."

"We want them to assume, don't we?" She doesn't wait for a response, knowing that it might not be an affirmative. It's a delicate balance that they'd tried to achieve when it had come to their allies and her potential suitors. Her reputation is as terrible as it could get and for once, she plans on using that in her favour. "Let them make their assumptions." The urge to shed a tear or two is back, inexplicably enough, as her brother quickens his rhythm and she pushes two fingers inside herself rather unceremoniously, pushing her body further towards the edge. "Let them listen to rumours and promises as much as they like. It's all fool's gold and quicksand."

"Pretty words," Jaime adds, teeth sinking into her neck, his pace unrelenting, pushing her to the edge of what she can bear, just as she likes it. She's not quite sure if it's an agreement or an accusation, but it doesn't matter, truly – sooner rather than later, he would understand.

~.~

It had been his idea.

Oddly enough, that's what Jon ends up thinking about most often during the long weeks of their travel south. He'd been the first to entertain the prospect – the first to suggest it, too, in a long and frustrating line of negotiations carried entirely over raven scroll – and somewhere a continent away, a much more complicated plan had been born and promptly sent back to him. It would please everyone as much as anything possibly can – they would keep the North in the Seven Kingdoms by marriage instead of by explicit submission to keep the lords under his care pleased, and he would get access to the armies commanded by the Queen on the Iron Throne for the fight against the Night King. It would be a costly war if he's telling the truth about the severity of the situation, as the Queen in question had pointed out, and he'd wagered that their collective people might be more easily swayed towards helping pay for it if they both seem more committed to the cause – committed enough for an alliance, at least. In turn, he would side with her against Daenerys Targaryen, still on the other side of the Narrow Sea but – if the rumours are to be believed – setting her sights on Westeros already.

To his astonishment, Cersei Lannister had agreed. He'd only told Sansa – or anyone, really – after the fact and she had been understandably horrified, but she'd come around to it. He's sure he'll be released from his matrimonial vows as soon as the wars are over and the Queen will find a way to send him back to the North to get rid of him as quickly as she can – a prospect he doesn't mind at all. There's no reason for any of this to end in violence this go around, he'd said time and time again in response to the outrage he'd been faced with, and he's sure that Cersei can be as civil as he's sure to be for the limited time they're forced to share the power.

It had only been around the time when the matter of his ancestry and potential legitimisation had been brought up that Bran had come home and, supported by Sam's own knowledge, the truth about his parents had come to light, unbelievable and more convoluted than anything he'd expected, and Jon had set to writing the strangest missive in his life.

They'd left shortly after that, with his head still dizzy with the discovery, the idea of his imminent marriage pushed to the back for the time being as he'd considered the consequences of the new turn of events. It had occurred to him, distantly, that this would mean that he'd promised to fight his own kin, though he had suspected that such a thing wouldn't look like an obstacle in the eyes of the Queen, considering that her own brother had joined Daenerys Targaryen at some point – in fact, the only response he'd received from her had been, I'm sure that such a revelation, should you have proof, would make this union much easier.

There had been no mention of the weight of his lineage on her claim to the Iron Throne. He wouldn't dare – doesn't want to either way, really – and this fragile ceasefire would fall to pieces. He doesn't want to rule the Seven Kingdoms; just the one is enough for him, provided that he can keep it safe from danger from all sides. Should Daenerys Targaryen come to claim what she believes is her kingdom, the North would be among what she means to take. If she can be talked into peace, all the better, but a part of him had doubted since the start that she'd bend, even if it's in front of family – and especially not if his power over anything but his own homeland is nothing but a trick of light.

But, he'd thought, a familiar enemy he can handle – although the only real memory he has of Cersei Lannister is seeing her from the other end of a hall nearly ten years ago, Sansa knows her, and she'd made sure to tell him everything he'd need to know to survive King's Landing for as long as it takes to convince the Queen to prepare her armies to march north to face the Night King. She'd been nowhere near willing to let him face the Lannisters alone, so unlike the rest of his court – as much as he has one at all, given that they'd left Bran behind to rest after the long journey back to Winterfell and had placed Arya in charge of the North at Sansa's insistence to keep her there for reasons Jon can't quite determine yet – she had taken the trip to King's Landing for the marriage of two thoroughly unwilling but rather practical participants, and they'd done their best to be as inconspicuous as possible lest they're recognised anywhere south from the Neck. It's ridiculous to feel like a criminal – he'd made a deal with the ruler of this land and is, supposedly, welcome in her domain on the conditions they'd established, but some of Sansa's anxiety on the matter had infected him as well. It's the Lannisters. There are few promises left unbroken when it comes to that thrice-cursed House, and Jon refuses to risk his life earlier than he needs to.

Still, he meets people along the way – better yet, he hears stories.

That, at least, is never boring, whenever he subtly manages to bring the conversation to the Queen so that he can learn what he can before he meets her. Some say that she's beautiful, others – that she's mad; the majority of them think she's both. Or, a man had amended in one inn somewhere in the Riverlands as they'd been inching ever closer to the capital, she's not mad herself – she's just wicked enough to make others do mad things on her behalf.

"The Lords of the Reach went to contest her claim," he had said with shrug, "and most of them are her allies now, aren't they? The King of the Iron Islands asked for her hand and she refused him, and he still swore to bring her a gift to try and sway her heart." That had likely been a product of the man being a little too late, Jon had thought; perhaps the raven from the North had simply reached her first. It can't be easy, being the first ruling Queen – the first thing on anyone's mind is to try their damnedest to find her a king as soon as possible. "And it's not just them. The King in the North is the next one on the list, apparently."

The barmaid had laughed, the idea of his predicament seemingly filling her with mirth. "I'm dying to see how this one ends."

"She's not quite so bad," another guest had added. "When you need a written permission from the King – well, Queen now – to farm on a land everyone wants a piece of, you meet them all. She gets the job done well enough. Doesn't give a fuck about you and doesn't expect you to give a fuck about her."

"Oh, Seven bless her for that," someone had said, and before Jon could have asked anything more about it, they had toasted to what is apparently an apathetic but effective ruler. Is this what they want, he had wondered idly, to be left alone, fed and clothed? It had seemed so. Why would they ask for anything else?

"Can't imagine any of those kings making any more progress than the last one who tried did, though," the man had continued. "That brother of hers wouldn't allow it. You'd think he's guarding all of the crown's jewels there, with the way he never leaves her side."

And that had been another thing to worry about since the start, Jon had been forcibly reminded then. That brother of hers. From what he's heard, chances are the man is guarding something he finds far more important than any jewel can be. There had been a song made about that, too; one he'd heard only a few days before. She was his secret treasure, the soldier had sang, she was his shame and his bliss. The Queen would have probably had their heads the moment she'd heard it if they'd had the stupidity to sing about hands of gold in her presence, but they'd been clever enough to only do so in the woods hundreds of miles away from the Red Keep, and it had been a pretty enough tale.

"Aye. That Septon said that she was the one who made sure that the old King died, but I always did think it was the Kingslayer when we heard the truth about it all. I'd bet you anything you like that he just couldn't bear him any longer."

"Or she made him do it."

"He would, too. I doubt there's much he'd deny her."

The thought had plagued him for the rest of the night, and only when Sansa had spoken up much later as they climb up the inn's stairs to their temporary rooms had it occurred to him how obvious he'd been about it.

"Cersei is not a witch," she'd said, annoyance slipping into her tone despite her effort to be convincing. "She can't enchant people to do her bidding. She's just surrounded by idiots who all linger around on her beck and call in the hopes that eventually she'll give them whatever she's promised them."

"That's reassuring."

"I don't mean you, Jon." But it hadn't sounded like that, really. If anything, it had only worried him more. "She gets what she wants because she's insistent and loud and persuasive and knows how to get what she wants. Her entire family are better at this game than you—"

"It's not a game for me, Sansa! The world as we know it depends on getting this one thing right. How am I meant to make her take this seriously if her demented brother decides to kill me in my sleep?"

"Lannisters don't take anything seriously, other than themselves. Do you think being a Targaryen rather than a Stark will spare you from that? If you wanted advice, you should have asked for it sooner and I would have let you know that we should have never left the North."

Their night had ended on a grim note, but he hadn't let himself be discouraged enough to feel hopeless. As limited as his knowledge of the Queen had been, his correspondence with her had been enough to make him conclude that she couldn't possibly be mad. Difficult and unpredictable, definitely, but mad? All of their communication so far had been crystal clear. Her family had been responsible for the suffering – for the deaths – of at least half of his own and yet, her unwavering determination to move forward had been convincing enough. Of course, written word has nothing on meeting someone face to face and, he had supposed, he would know in a handful of days either way.

To his relative disappointment, she hadn't been the one to welcome them when they had arrived in the Red Keep intolerably late one night. Instead, they're faced with precisely the disgruntled brother he had tried to avoid thinking about.

"Her Grace has pressing matters on her hands," Jaime Lannister says in lieu of a greeting and Jon has already opened his mouth to speak when Sansa beats him to it. Jon does his best to tune them out, focused on the building before him instead. If the Septon's diary – and Bran's strange visions – are to be believed, his ancestors had built this place some three centuries ago. He tries to lure some anger over what's been taken from him to the surface, but it's no good – it's all foreign and a little too much, and nothing like the North. This entire city feels like too much, even in the death of night, and it dawns on him that he might have made a mistake.

I don't belong here. What had he been thinking? The North is all the kingdom he will ever need – even if it's all true, he's apparently more Lyanna Stark's son that Rhaegar Targaryen's. Unsurprisingly, that suits him just fine.

Sansa doesn't seem to share any of his lack of enthusiasm.

"More pressing matters than meeting the man she means to crown king?"

"Prince consort, as far as I heard." Lannister's tone is clipped, but there's an unpleasant edge of smugness to it that Jon tries not to bristle at. None of this truly matters, and it's all a game to them; all he can do is keep his gaze firmly focused on the end goal. "From what my sister has told me of your arrangement, that shouldn't be an issue."

"It's not." He'll still be King in the North by the end of this if Cersei Lannister is to be trusted, and even if he had been eager to reclaim a position he might have had in a different life, prince is the most he would have ever been – from what he's heard, he'd had half-siblings born a little before him. The thought makes his heart ache.

"Good. Regarding your claim about your heritage," the man moves on, still just as unceremonious, "naturally, we'll require proof."

"Naturally." Jon fishes around through his coat for the diary that Sam had given him and Lannister snatches it out of his hand the moment it's in his line of sight. "I was hoping to explain—"

"I'm certain it can wait. The wedding ceremony is set for the day after tomorrow; make sure you're prepared. The help will escort you to your rooms. The Queen is not to be disturbed under any circumstances."

He doesn't get to say another word. They follow Lannister into the castle just as two of the stoic attendants Jon had seen prowling through the gardens join them at some wordless command and decisively lead them past what he supposes must be the Throne room just as the Kingslayer sinks inside. He can hear the relatively subdued cacophony of an argument inside coming to a halt as the entrance creaks open, and then a woman's voice.

"Are they here?"

"Yes."

"Good."

The door falls shut.

"We're off to a great start."

Sansa shoots him a dark look over one shoulder. "You just gave them the proof that you're the last living Targaryen without three dragons at your command and you're not in chains. I would call this a good start."

Even with a quick assessment of their surroundings, Jon knows that they're severely outnumbered. Yes, they have their own guards – for now – but really, it's just him, Sansa, Lady Brienne, and several men that he'd named his Kingsguard. They'd had no intention to come here to start a war, so they hadn't brought the Northern army with themselves and there's a part of him that wishes that they had. It would be an unnecessary waste of resources if they travel all the way to King's Landing only to be sent back along with the Lannister army when the time comes, but...

"Good night, Jon."

His musings are cut short when he sees his sister being directed towards a door while his own attendant is still striding ahead with no intention of stopping soon. Of course they would be left entirely alone, he thinks, not without a healthy dose of bitterness.

"Good night, Sansa."

Even when he's undressed and in bed – new, unfamiliar, enormous bed in a stiflingly warm and generously decorated room – sleep doesn't come. He thinks about the wedding and about his sister, the Queen and her brother; about the strange dance that he'd plunged himself into. He thinks about his aunt on the other side of the Narrow Sea, clueless to his existence. He thinks, most of all, about the North and the war that awaits them and the convincing it would take that it's real and knocking on their doors. With all the songs and stories in mind, he still has no clue what to expect of his bride. Beautiful and mad and wicked. He recalls, distantly, a story that Old Nan had told him, Robb and Theon when they had been children, about forest spirits taking the shapes of beautiful women, seducing men into their beds and strangling them with their hair in the night. With everything he'd heard, it would barely be a surprise. The thought brings about a sardonic smile and Jon closes his eyes decisively.

It'll be a long day tomorrow and the one after that would be longer still, and travel is exhausting enough for him to need the rest before he faces any of it. Finally, he feels himself drift off.

~.~

The next day is spent in preparations, just as Lannister had threatened him it would, and Jon finds himself being fitted into red and black, the Stark colours taken away so suddenly that he'd protested at first, to the bafflement of the Queen's flock of seamstresses.

"Her Grace thought you would prefer your house's colours, My Lord," the bravest one among them had explained. "The people might like to see her crown a Targaryen better than a Stark."

"Do I get a choice at all?" Am I prisoner of my own making here, just going along with her wishes? It would be worth it for an army, but it's irritating all the same.

"Of course." The implication alone had got him several wide-eyed nods. "Ultimately, the call is yours, My Lord. Her Grace prepared us for both."

"That's— considerate." But damn her, now that he'd thought of it, she'd been right. In his usual colours, he would still be Ned Stark's bastard. Here, he's expected to be a prince. "I'm sorry for the interruption, then. Go right ahead."

The fuss over the clothes had taken most of yesterday. He'd eaten, spoken to his sister, reassured the several soldiers he'd brought along that everything is still going according to plan, surrounded by measuring tape, needless and scissors the entire time, all without a single direct word from his future bride. She just wants to get this over with, he suspects, and he can't truly blame her – this is all a charade, after all, and he's sure that a monarch in charge of a continent of the cusp of both war and winter leaves one with countless more important duties than trying to familiarise oneself with a purely political match made for show and to appease the nation out of some of its hard-earned gold. That had been his first guess, in any case – Sansa had said, 'Cersei likes to play with her food' and had left it at that.

And still, finally, the day after that had arrived. He'd only just woken up when the Queen's hand – who seems to be her Grand Maester at the same time – had come in for an apparently routine check, each question about his personal history more embarrassing than the last.

"You must understand that the Queen's health is of the highest priority," the man says now in response to his unspoken discomfort, "so hopefully you can forgive her the indignity."

"I've forgiven her worse if I've come all this way," he mutters. On some level, he understands – if there had been any diseases that he could pass onto her, it would certainly be a problem. Had she told her Hand that this marriage would be consummated anytime soon? Could be. Sansa had made sure to repeat to him about a thousand times that he has to do it, if he doesn't want to follow in Robert Baratheon's footsteps, but he's not particularly sure that there's a way to stop it. Laying with her once wouldn't stop her from, as his sister had put it, putting another one of Jaime Lannister's bastards in charge of the North as well as the rest of the kingdoms while presenting the child as a product of their union, but it's worth an attempt, he supposes. He won't even try to force her if it comes to that – he had told himself that much already – but Sansa had assured him that it wouldn't. She knows her duty as well as you know yours.

Duty. When had this become his life?

"As I'm sure you know, quite a lot of the events you're referring to were far from her choice," the Hand says, ever so collected. "You mustn't blame her for the decisions of long dead men."

"And what of her decisions?"

"Have you thought about asking her?"

Now that he is thinking about it, it feels far too foreign to have occurred to him before. "Asking her?"

"Oh, yes. Her Grace is a remarkably honest woman, as you'll certainly discover soon. Pretences are hardly necessary when one has absolute power."

"Yes, I'm sure," Jon agrees, still distracted.

Could anything here be this simple? Stranger still: what had he seen to have convinced him of the contrary? Nothing.

Nothing yet, a voice inside him whispers, hopelessly filled with dread. The day's still young.

~.~

The platform raised in front of the Red Keep – too tall for anyone to reach without being escorted here but still so open that the smallfolk crowding as far as the eye can see can still catch a glimpse of the new royal couple through the lines of seated noble guests on both sides of the aisle.

Or rather, catch a glimpse of him – the other half of this supposed union is nowhere to be seen. By now, everyone else is in place and he knows that the bride is the final piece of a wedding to arrive, but the anxiety still claws at his chest like it's going to break its way out of his ribcage as the wait stretches on, filled to the brim with anticipation. He's supposed to be a prince in their eyes – worse yet, a Targaryen, something he still doesn't quite know how to manage – and he has to curl his hands into fists by his sides in order to stop himself from fidgeting. The septon standing in front of the temporary altar up a little ahead of him doesn't seem much better off and him, Jon can understand – things certainly hadn't ended well for his predecessor, even if the Queen hadn't bothered with promoting the man to High Septon forth occasion. Seeing as the Faith doesn't seem to have much of a place in the Lannisters's King's Landing, he doubts anyone here is surprised that the position had remained vacant.

And finally, she's there – he hears the sudden hush that falls over the crowd as they all turn back in their seats as if by some unspoken command, and Jon looks up just in time to see two figures climb up the steps, slow enough to be sure that everyone can take a good look at them.

The Queen's gown is a blinding shade of gold, shining like unearthed treasure under the morning sun, trailing far behind her as it melts into the crimson of her cloak. There would be no cloaking ceremony, they had agreed – she's a queen and he is a prince and there's not much protection that he can bring her into that she doesn't already have, even with the issue of it undermining her authority notwithstanding – and as she approaches, arm hooked around her brother's elbow, because of course he's the one to present her to him, he notices that the red spreads out to the front of it, too, in a thousand little threads giving the illusion that the fine satin she's covered in from neck to toe is dripping blood down her body, the rubies woven into the material glisten every time she turns. It's all as tight and strict as a piece of armour and in all its grandiosity, it's still strikingly similar to her brother's actual breastplate, and the message is beyond clear. He is the one standing out, made to play a role he'd learnt about a little over a moon ago. No Lannister would be made to stoop low enough to change a single thing about who they are.

Still, they part at the edge of the staircase where Jon is waiting for her and the Kingslayer scowls at his sister's retreating back, but he doesn't keep his attention on the man for long – a moment later, the Queen is standing before him, her smile as frozen as her hand when she puts it over his and they climb the steps together. She's a small woman even when draped in all her regalia, but the place had turned silent as a crypt the moment she had appeared. It's the kind of power that he needs, he had known since he'd first thought to ask for help with the upcoming war; the kind of power that could send soldiers from the South all the way up to the Wall to fight an enemy they had considered nothing more than an old tale.

It's not a kind of power that comes without a terrible price, but he can't afford any moral outrages just now. He wouldn't have gone all this way if he hadn't thought that he would be able to bear this.

The Septon clears his throat just as they come to a halt in front of him. "Your Grace," he acknowledges and receives a sharp nod in return. "My Lords and Ladies, we stand here before gods and men to witness the union—"

"No need for all of that. Quickly and to the point."

The words are so quiet that Jon almost doesn't hear his bride speak, but to the holy man's credit, he carries on with barely a hitch other than the tremor in his voice.

"—of Cersei of House Lannister and Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen. Let it be known that they are one heart, one flesh, one soul." Jon risks a look sideways as the Septon binds their hands together and sees the alleged other half of his heart and soul smile again, far more sardonic, as the vows move on to the next part. He understands her amusement a moment later and desperately wishes he hadn't. "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

They turn towards each other as the ribbon is laid to rest in a knot around their joined palms and Jon can finally look her in the eye. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't do anything to either satisfy his curiosity or quell his anxiety – she's beautiful, just like she had been when he'd seen her from a distance back in Winterfell, though her hair is shorter now; a crown of gold mixing with the silver one perched upon her head. It's a sort of beauty that reminds him of Sansa – polished to porcelain perfection and entirely put together, not one hair out of place. Her eyes are a bright, fiery green and when she meets his gaze, there's almost enough venom in them to make him look away. Almost. Her cheeks are flushed from the chill in the breeze this early in the day and that's a crack enough in her armour for him to look past the challenge in her mocking expression and start reciting the part of the vows that requires their participation just as she does the same.

"Father. Smith. Warrior." They aren't his gods, he reasons, and it shouldn't really matter if he lies to them. After all, she's lying too, and there's not a trace of fear on the Queen's face; only barely suppressed annoyance. "Mother. Maiden. Crone." Come to think of it, are they her gods at all, if she had blown their supposed home to pieces? "Stranger. I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

Until the Night King is dealt with. Until she's drove Daenerys Targaryen away. Until she can work out an excuse to send me back to the North and keep it in the Seven Kingdoms anyway.

It's a long, exhausting list, and it's suddenly not at all difficult to imagine why she'd rushed this part of their arrangement quite so much. The sooner the charade is over with, the sooner they can get to work; the sooner they can both be free from it again.

Something anxious and terrified uncoil in his chest at the realisation and Jon feels himself start to breathe easily again, at long last, his free arm winding around her so that he can draw her into the ceremonial kiss that is supposed to seal their vows, his right hand still clutching at her left just in case she has a last minute change of heart and decides that she wants to claw his eyes out the moment he touches her.

To his relief, nothing of the sort happens. Her kiss is brief and dutiful and she wrenches herself free as soon as she can, but it doesn't look that way – if anything, her smile is even brighter than before when she turns back towards their audience – her people – and raises their joined hands to the thundering applause of the sea of people in front of them. They sound like the sea, too, oddly enough – the wave of polite applause from the nobles in their immediate surroundings retreats back towards the smallfolk down below where it's mixed with cheers and every other show of appreciation that the highborn consider too undignified, and for one hopeful instant, as he looks upon all their faces, melted into one crowd, Jon thinks that this might just work. The people don't hate them – or any of this – and this has got to be enough to appease them when the more bewildering parts of this unexpected alliance end up being brought out to the light.

Cersei Lannister faces him again and her face is the perfect mask of collected fondness, even if there's an edge of cheerful malice in her eyes; the sort adopted by a con artist after a decently successful scheme. It sends a chill down his spine. "Lord Snow." Her voice is sharp but still quieter than he would have expected, given the roar of the crowd. From the corner of his eye, Jon sees the crowd in question part at the Queensguard's command. "Tradition compels me to let you meet your new subjects, though I understand if the idea is intimidating."

As if she hadn't already ignored tradition a thousand different times. Jon carefully sidesteps the bait. "Not at all. All I hear are cheers." He motions towards the people below them just as they take their first steps down the staircase. "They like you well, Your Grace."

A shadow passes over her delicate features, as if his words had invoked a memory of some kind and she glances back at her brother. Jon follows her gaze to the man's carefully vacant expression and he follows in step with the Queen, though he doesn't seem to be part of her personal guard anymore – all the knights given that honour are in black, with her new crest plastered over their breastplates. Jaime Lannister is her Lord Commander; there's no functional reason for him to be here. If they had been allowed to bring family members, Jon would have liked to extract Sansa from her seat and make her join them before he has to face the crowd, but he already knows it's not happening – there's a different set of rules in place for him than the one for the Queen.

It's a temporary thing, he keeps telling himself. Sooner rather than later, this war will be won and once he does what he can to make sure that she wins her own war, they can part ways. For now, he can swallow his pride.

He falls in step next to his bride and together, they make the short walk to the Red Keep. It should feel at least a little like home, Jon thinks again, rather desperately. Apparently, a good number of his ancestors had lived and wed and died here. He should feel as if he's returning rather than arriving; should feel like more than just a guest.

He doesn't.

~.~

For all of his lack of care – or attention – towards the minute details that seem to plague the life of the nobility, the one embedded in the seating arrangements around the main table at his own wedding feast does not escape him. The two chairs in the middle – meant for the royal couple – are taller, the decoration richer, but he's decisively steered towards the one on the left just as the Queen takes her own place and her brother joins her on her right. Sansa had been seated next to him, at the very least, and that's really the only thing he had been asking for, but the message of it all is clear enough anyway. From what he'd heard so far, he knows that much: it had been deliberate, no matter how innocent the handmaiden who had pointed him to his seat had looked. It's either an outright effort to disrespect him and signal to the Lords and Ladies wandering about the hall that nothing had really changed, with her brother as her still most trusted ally, or an attempt to see how he would react. Another game. It's yet another thing Sansa had warned him about, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating.

Several toasts are raised in order to open the feast and signal to the guests that it's time to start eating – or dancing, or mingling among each other; there are more than enough opportunities, given the music pouring out of one of the corners of the hall, a singer's voice raising above the cacophony of sound, and Jon gratefully focuses on his food, more than happy to try and get through this night as quickly as he can.

When one is in court, he had been taught, it's polite to consume as much as the monarch does. That soon proves to be a disastrous idea – so far, the Queen had spent the majority of her time either wandering around the hall singling out guests to honour with her presence or picking at her food distractedly, but her goblet is simultaneously never empty and constantly in her hand until the flush from the cold outside is replaced with the one from the wine and Jon tries to match her cup for cup before he realises that he wouldn't be able to get out of his seat, let alone anything else, if they continue at this rate. Southerners can drink, he's quickly learning, and drink they do in quantities that he isn't used to from the meagre opportunities for anything other than tasteless ale that he'd had at the Wall, but the Lannisters seem to best them all.

Worse still, they both remain entirely, gracefully lucid, unlike the rest of the hall. There's a new excuse for a drink every two songs or so – to the Queen, to him, to their hypothetical future children, to 'the late Lord Tywin', to Sansa for returning after all these years (they'd cleared her name regarding King Joffrey's murder well before the negotiations had started, or Jon suspects they would have never got where they currently are), which brings a stiff smile to his sister's face, to 'Ser Jaime for his victory at Riverrun' which wipes the smile in question as quickly as it had come, and eventually, when everyone is sufficiently drunk and equally likely to embarrass themselves, someone has the bright idea that it's time for dancing, and the fragile peace that Jon had established over his temporary place in the world evaporates in an instant.

The Queen hadn't said one word to him all evening, too preoccupied with her – their, really – guests, and now, as the music picks up with renewed vigour, she's out of her seat the moment her brother gives her a questioning look. Wonderful.

Jon turns to his own sister, but Sansa shakes her head, determined.

"You should ask her to dance."

"She's got a partner already."

Sansa sighs the way she always does when he misses some – obvious, in her own opinion – rule about the interactions required between the highborn. "And when this song is done, that should be your cue to take over. You are the one being married, Jon. These people are vultures. Show a moment of hesitation and they'll eat you alive. Remember who you are. You're the Prince, not him."

The Kingslayer is a prince in his own way, too, he supposes, given that he's brother to the Queen, but that's a different sort of prince. The titles are enough to make his head spin and it's all too easy to blame it on the wine. "I still fail to see why that means that you can't dance with me now."

"Because you exchange partners with other couples in the pause between this and whichever other variation of The Rains of Castamere they sing next and I am not dancing with Lannister." She throws yet another disdainful look around the room. "Try any other woman in here. They would all be delighted."

At the end, his eyes land on a potential choice and he hurries out of his seat, acutely aware that he doesn't have long if he wants this to appear in any way seamless. "My Lady," he greets the woman on the edge of the table right below theirs and extends a hand towards her in obvious invitation, dismayed to look into yet another pair of unsettlingly green eyes when she looks up, throwing several locks of blonde hair over one shoulder. "Would you do me the honour?"

Her grin back at him is as blinding as it's already familiar. "Of course, My Prince."

My Prince. Right. He'd better start getting used to that.

"Quite the celebration, isn't it?" she begins, having clearly picked up that his education on what the etiquette during dancing is must be minimal at best. She isn't far from the truth – following the steps is about the only thing he knows. "Her Grace is glowing tonight. I don't think I've ever seen my cousin quite this happy with the previous one."

That would be either the wine or her brother, Jon thinks, and certainly not me. He can barely stop himself from saying it – given the woman's willingness to throw barely veiled insults at their previous king, chances are she'll laugh along with him. Lannisters know no shame. "Cousin?" he says instead, feeling a little disoriented in a family tree he should likely know better.

She does laugh at that. It's a fast-paced melody and the dance leaves him breathless after a while, but his partner has no such complaints. And how would she, really? She's nobility, but nowhere near crucial enough to have the weight of the world on her shoulders. Knowing the Lannisters, she might as well be the fifth daughter of a tenth son; dancing is about the only thing she's made to do. "Distant, but yes. I don't suppose it's too difficult to tell."

He allows himself a smile. "It really isn't." A cursory glance around the hall provides him with a relative headcount of the Lannisters currently present. It's certainly not difficult, given that there are about three variations of them despite differences in age and sex, and it's not a comforting sight. "I've married into quite the family."

"You certainly have! Everyone in Lannisport is so pleased. The first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! Who else could it be?"

Lannisters really know no shame. Jon knows better than to mention how every other claimant had been squashed under their damned lion's claws, how his own family had been murdered by their hands on a wedding not unlike this one. Jaime Lannister had started it by killing Aerys – his grandfather, it occurs to him distantly – Tywin had made sure to murder his half-siblings while they had still been little more than babies, and his daughter had methodically wiped out the trace of any other family trying to fight its way up. With his help, she'd snuff out the last remaining true Targaryen – the last real threat to their absolute power. For a moment, the thought is suffocating. It had been worth it, he repeats to himself again and again, it would be worth it to defeat the Night King and it's still— it's almost too much.

"Yes," he agrees faintly, aware that a response of some kind is expected. "Who else?"

Who else would dare to do what your kin has? What you all continue to do?

As the bard slowly comes to the end of this particular piece, his dancing partner smiles again, both secretive and a little teasing. If she'd noticed his hesitation at all, it doesn't show. "I must say, My Prince, I suspect this has all been a ploy to get the Lord Commander to release his charge for a while. You would like to dance with Her Grace at some point, I wager."

Oh. All right, then. She notices more than she lets on. Somehow, that makes it all worse. "I—"

"Ser Jaime!" Somehow, they'd found themselves perilously close to the Queen and her brother and another pair of that – by now, painfully familiar – set of features turn towards them at once. "His Majesty would like his bride back for a while, if you wouldn't mind."

Jon's eyes clench shut just as he hears a grumbled agreement somewhere not too far from them. Fucking Lannisters. From all the correspondence back and forth so far, he'd long since learnt that they don't waste time on tact when they don't have to, but seeing it happen right in front of him is far worse, he's quickly finding out.

The Kingslayer smiles at his cousin and glowers at him with an expression that Jon would usually reserve for something stuck to the sole of his boot and they exchange places just as the first notes of the next song start. It's one he recognises this time – a fascinatingly morbid tale about a princess meeting the Stranger and asking him to tell her about her future and he finds the rhythm easily as the Queen nods her assent and he places his hands in position, doing his best to appear more natural at this than he could ever be. He lets her lead the dance, quick as it is, and focuses on not making a fool of himself in front of everyone in the room.

He should have known that she wouldn't make it too easy.

"You've acquainted yourself with the rest of my family, I see."

"Oh, I wouldn't say so. It's a rather large family."

"It is, isn't it?" She's suitably amused, as if the good mood that had befell her right before he'd taken over had not entirely left her yet. "I don't know half of these people, but they're all terribly eager to congratulate me. Layla is enjoying herself an awful lot, as I'm sure you've noticed. It must be an interesting thing; to be elevated into a ruling family while doing nothing at all to get there."

"I wouldn't know." It feels strange to talk about this, and even more so when it's the person at least partially responsible about both of his Houses's fate. "I got the news through some Septon's dusty diary." Though really, that had only been an empty title. He'd brought himself into the ruling family through a long, tiresome exchange with the woman he'd been wed to half a day ago. "The rest came in a raven scroll from you."

"Yes, Jaime showed me." The diary, not the raven scroll, he hopes – if it turns out he's actually been communicating with one of her underlings than directly with her this entire time, he might as well give up on this venture and go back North. Few things would please him more. "What a fascinating tale. Had we not had the proof, no one would have believed it. The less significant Lords of Westeros are ever suspicious."

I wonder why that is. "I've already supported your claim, haven't I, Your Grace?"

"That's precisely what makes them suspicious, I think." That derisive smile is back again, somewhere between mockery and boredom. "I can no longer keep track of the odd rumours I've heard about myself."

"Such is the nature of rumours, I suppose." It's all supposed to be small talk, but it's not, and Jon can feel himself standing on edge even as he spins her around the hall, the familiar, dark tale of the ballad being spun from the musicians in the corner only serving to make him even more anxious. His heart is racing and the Queen's eyes dance around the room, full of the sort of nervous energy that drives him to want to jump out of his own skin with the restlessness she's infecting him with. "They will be put to rest eventually, as we stand together in the wars to come."

"Together," she echoes, as if he'd said something particularly funny. "Now that would make a wonderful story. Even more so once your—Night King, was it? – is defeated and the story with the mother of dragons is put to rest, whichever happens first." Another wicked smile, though it doesn't seem to be directed at him this time – if anything, he's invited to join her in her amusement, or so it feels. "Dragonfire should be able to kill those dead men you speak of, shouldn't it?"

"I— I've never thought about it, really." He'd never had to entertain the opportunity. Where would he get a dragon from? "I don't think it's particularly easy to find a dragon either way."

"Find? We've already found them. They're right across the Narrow Sea, controlled by your aunt and aided by my little brother. Whatever keeps them in Meereen might soon be out of the way and then they'll sail here. Three full-grown dragons. You have the blood of dragon riders. It shouldn't be too difficult, should it?"

"It couldn't be so simple, either." I'm a Stark, he wants to say, just like his sister had when challenged all those months ago before they'd taken Winterfell, and I'll always be a Stark. A dragon, though, or perhaps even three? It would help more than he could imagine. "I know very little about my father's family, as you might imagine."

"Yes, yes." She waves him off, as if his life is an inconvenience for another day. "I'm sure that can change. And what of wildfire?"

She does take him seriously, then. That's a relief, too, if a small one. "How much wildfire?"

"As much as you like. My pyromancers assure me that there's plenty of it under every building in the city – even here, in the Red Keep." Something cold, too close to panic for his liking, passes over him, but she doesn't seem to mean anything by it despite her recent history with the weapon in question. "Jaime says so, too. The Mad King told him all about it, and of course, everyone in the city saw what it did to the Great Sept. I could hardly believe it." Her demeanour is an elaborate display of shock, but there's an undercurrent of excitement to it that she can't quite mask. Jon can almost feel it coursing through her where their hands touch. "It fell apart like a child's toy under those terrible green flames. I can't imagine it wouldn't kill some rotting frozen corpse, no matter how enchanted."

It all seems so distant here, in this overheated ballroom, the horror that he'd seen with his own eyes dressed in the Queen's pretty words. "Enchanted is an interesting description for it."

"I've never seen them," she reminds him, cool and collected. In the background, he can hear the song reach its peak, where the princess bargains with the Stranger. The gods above might save my soul, she says, and Jon recalls every compromise he's had to allow to get in this position; everything else that he's yet to do. I don't think so, he adds even before the singer can hiss the words out. It all makes him want to weep, just a little. "My Hand, Qyburn— he's fond of experiments. If we could find a way to isolate one from the rest and bring it here to the capital—"

"No," he interrupts before he can remind himself of all the rules of propriety that he's expected to follow here. "Your Grace," he adds, horribly belated. "Such a thing— the stakes are too high. One of them here might be enough to unleash them all in the world. The Wall is the only thing standing between us and them. It would be unwise to change that."

The song comes to an end and she regards him, both suspicious and thoughtful, as they return to their seats. It is not a pleasant combination. "You're a brave man, Lord Snow."

It doesn't feel like another test, this time. "I do what must be done."

"I'm sure. No excursions past the wall, then." Another tight, secretive smile. "Perhaps when we have a dragon or two. It might be easier from above."

"Perhaps." There's no unwalking her from down that line of thought, it seems, but Jon isn't too eager to try. One war at a time. One of them would come first; he'd already resigned to the fact that it might be the one she's more interested in rather than the Night King.

Sansa glances over to the seat on the other side of his to make sure that they're not being listened to, but she needn't have bothered – as soon as they'd come back to the table, the Kingslayer had usurped the Queen's attention once again. It's as if he's got an invisible string tied around her, pulling her in towards him at all times, but Jon is well aware that that's not the case. It's only love, sickening as it is, and the stories had been true – the man really does guard her as if she's the realm's most precious jewel.

"What did she want?" Sansa asks, drawing him out of his contemplation.

"A dragon."

"Oh, Seven save us."

It's a little too late for that, Jon thinks, but he refrains from saying it out loud – just because he doesn't think that the gods are going to help them along anytime soon doesn't mean that he has to ruin what little hope his sister still lets linger around.

He turns to check if his conversation with the Queen had been relayed to the other side of the fence, too, but whatever they're talking about doesn't appear to be terribly serious – Lannister's expression is insufferably smug, and Jon barely catches the end of whatever tale his bride is spinning to him.

"—as I'm sure you recall. Do you remember what our aunt used to say about that?"

Her brother laughs, clearly in on a joke Jon might not have been meant to hear at all. "Of course. How could I not? Men are such great thundering fools."

He considers himself the exception, Jon can already see, and there's a little added viciousness to his next stab at his food. Perhaps Sansa had been right. They should have never come here, army or no army. Being forced into a frozen, mindless half-life by the Night King's hand cannot possibly be worse that having to endure these people. Fucking Lannisters.

~.~

They refrain from the bedding tradition, because of course they do. Not unlike the matter of his heritage, Jon hadn't even bothered bringing it up – he hadn't been particularly eager to get in unnecessary arguments that he knows he isn't going to win. So instead, he just gets to work with taking his ceremonial clothes off the moment the door closes, doing his very best not to look like he's struggling with the multiple clasps, more elaborate than anything he'd ever worn before.

His efforts are cut short by a defeated sigh. The Queen had joined him moments after he'd entered what must be the chambers containing their marriage bed, escorted by her brother and the enormous silent knight that seems to follow her everywhere, and her own clothing looks a lot more uncooperative. The idea of having to tackle that as well once he's done disrobing is almost as daunting as anything else happening tonight and it occurs to him a moment too late that she's about to ask exactly that of him.

"I'll need help out of this, I'm afraid."

Jon's fingers freeze on yet another button decorated with a small ruby and something he hopes isn't obsidian. He's not quite sure how easily he would take it if he finds out that the precious metal that he needs to stave off the world's impending doom is being used to decorate the clothes of bored nobles in King's Landing.

"Your Grace?"

"The gown," she supplies helpfully, as if there'd been any chance that he would misunderstand her. "I could have one of my handmaidens do it, but I'm afraid that would be painfully uncomfortable for everyone involved."

"No need," Jon hurries to say, approaching her decisively enough to make up for all of the hesitance he'd been displaying so far. He stands behind her when she gets up from the expansive bed and positions herself in front of him, still as a doll and clearly expecting him to do all the work. He had never been trained for this, he thinks, despairing – had never expected to have a southern lady in his bed; had never expected having to get her out of her terribly complicated clothes because – just like everything else here – she is too wrapped up in her own grandiosity to be able to do anything about them.

There's a button high at the collar of the gown, right under her hair, and he thumbs it open only to stare, baffled, at the strange contraption that awaits him below – a long line of small chunks of metal held together by a single clasp at the top. It goes all the way down to her waist and he must be taking too long, because another sigh follows, this time a little more impatient, as if the Queen has an infinite list of better places to be.

"Just pull down."

Still feeling a little lost but now aggravated, too, to top it off, Jon does precisely that – takes hold of the clasp and forces it over the metal teeth below. To his further amazement, the fabric parts under his touch with surprising ease until she can shoulder her way out of the sleeves and push the now-loose gown down her body until it pools at her feet.

The only other woman he had ever undressed hadn't been wearing anything remotely close to the fashion in King's Landing, but even so, he's quite sure that they don't have anything like this in the North; even the finest gowns are held together by about a million buttons. The likely reality of the situation hits him just a moment later – pulling something open in one go is much easier than unbuttoning it if you've got only one hand to work with.

Despite himself, Jon grimaces. Best not to think about that. His own clothes are not even halfway off and the Queen is already turning around to face him again, somehow appearing even thinner than she had with all of her finery in place. Her intrigued eyes wander over the thick scars that death had left all over his chest, but she doesn't ask, and it's just as well; she has wounds of her own, though he isn't entirely sure that she's aware of them – bruises trailing high around her chest and neck where they'd been hidden by her collar just moments before, vivid in a way only a new mark can be, as if someone had wrapped their hands around her throat and squeezed. He steps closer, still hesitant on how any of this is meant to proceed – none of the conversations he'd had with Sansa to prepare him for what a royal wedding might look like had had anything on how he's supposed to go about the natural conclusion of said wedding with a woman who doesn't seem terribly eager to be touched at all even when she's standing in front of him, every inch a ruler despite her nakedness.

Luckily for him, she doesn't seem to mind taking things into her own hands.

"Lie down." She's all business, her impatience clearly fuelled more by the desire to get this over with rather than desire in general and Jon wordlessly chastises himself for expecting anything else. This is business. It's a trade deal and it's sealed the way deals of this sort have always been: with a child, supposedly conceived as soon as the marriage is consumed. Nothing is ever quite this simple, he knows, and it had been ridiculous to assume that he would be the exception to a woman's scorn in an arranged marriage – even one they had arranged themselves. He had spent years silently wishing that he could know what it would be like to be a trueborn son even if he had rarely admitted it to himself; clearly, this is precisely that. No one had ever promised him that it would be particularly glamorous.

Still, he has nothing to complain about, he knows. It's only one night, and she's a beautiful woman. She's also a stranger – a dangerous, volatile, bloodthirsty stranger, and her hands are stained with the deaths of more people than he can count, but none of that can matter now. He cannot possibly let it, if he's to get through this. His hands reach out without his explicit permission and he only realises that he's tried to touch her when she pushes him away and back towards the bed until he's forced to sit on it or fight her. Neither is a prospect he's particularly enthusiastic about. "Lie down, Lord Snow. Must I teach you how to do this, too?"

"Not at all, Your Grace." His voice comes out deeper than he'd anticipated and his mouth goes dry when she follows him up on the bed, straddling his thighs with the demeanour of someone who knows they control every little bit of the world around them. She's pale as silver in the half-light of the scarce candles strewn around the room and the moonlight sneaking in through the open windows, her eyes nearly glowing green in the night. He's yet to see what wildfire looks like, but it cannot be too far from this. Her touch, now that she's away from the early winter's chilly air, is certainly hot enough for it to feel that way. A woman's hands are warm, he remembers, and they are – she's warm and touching her feels like what he imagines touching lightning might be like, feverish and frantic and like he's just on the edge of death again. And yet, contrary to what she seems to believe, "You don't frighten me."

"Don't I?" Her smile is cruel and a little predatory; laced with a cruelty that he can't quite find a name for. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

It feels that way, too, if he's honest with himself. She represents too many ghosts for him to count, and she has a war or several on her hands; has taken more lives than he can imagine just to slither out of the consequences to her own actions. It's deplorable and dangerous and haunting, but she's certainly not a ghost – on the contrary, she's terribly, startlingly alive.

"Ghosts impress me less than queens do, to tell you the truth," he shrugs and this time, when he touches her, one finger idly trailing over the small of her back, she doesn't swat it away. He barely dares to draw in a breath. "One learns to make peace with ghosts when one spends enough time on the other side of the Wall. No one ever said a thing about how you're supposed to bed a queen, though."

"I'm afraid I can't help you." Her tone is cutting, her expression an elaborate show of thinking the matter through even though it's more than clear that it's nothing more than pretence. "I've never done it."

A startled laugh forces its way out of his mouth despite his best efforts. She's funny, he thinks, dismayed. He doesn't want her to be funny or provoking or interesting. He wants her to be a monster. It's really rather inconsiderate of her to refuse to stick to the roles they're supposed to be assigned in this, but he's quickly learning not to expect her to stick to any role. He had caught a glimpse of this at the feast, too, though it hadn't been directed at him back then. She had charmed them all with a blinding smile and – he assumes – more than a few reassurances of things she'd already promised them. It's a helpful quality to have, he supposes, and Lannisters seem to have it in spades, but it's unfortunate all the same. He had been hell-bent on making sure that none of this ends up being enjoyable at all and yet, the realisation that this must all be an act does nothing to dampen his reluctant enthusiasm.

None of this is on him, really. She's beautiful and her hands coax things out of him that he'd rather not feel, but he supposes it can't be helped. She couldn't possibly suffocate him with her hair in their marriage bed, but this is a little death of its own, too; this submission.

He arches up to kiss her, angry and retaliating, and this time, she responds and it feels nothing like it had at the ceremony – she kisses like it's a fight, biting down on his lower lip in warning when he makes to catch her in a firmer hold and switch their places. Her handmaidens had insisted that he leaves his hair down for the wedding, but he'd still pulled two strands of it back, the way his father had worn it, to keep it out of his face. The Queen's nimble fingers make quick work of that, too, and he absent-mindedly shakes his head to make the curls fall back into place, breath leaving him on a sigh when the movement makes his bride pull away.

He's already half-hard, he realises when he feels her unlace his breeches even as she hazards a guess about his state of mind. "I could stop if you want me to."

The declaration leaves him gaping at her for a moment. He'd been so preoccupied with the thought of having to force her into something she doesn't want that it hadn't occurred to him that she might have considered the same thing. The woman has killed hundreds of people. How could he have ever guessed? He means to add it to her list of transgressions for the night but still feels a little too baffled for it.

"You don't have to," is what slips out in the end, much to her obvious irritation.

"Perhaps not, but I will." She doesn't make it sounds like a particularly big occasion although, really, it should be. This is not how the wedding nights of arranged marriages are supposed to go, sad as the inescapable reality of it is.

"I don't want you to," Jon says and hates himself for it all of a moment later. Is this what that little bout of kindness had actually been? An attempt at making him admit that he wants her, even if he'd admitted it to himself at the exact same time? If this conversation had been happening anywhere else – had been about anything else – Sansa would have seen this coming, but Sansa isn't here. There's no one in this room apart from him and this puzzling, infuriating woman.

She proves him right, or so it feels, by decisively pushing him on his back and crawling up his body, hands bracing down on each of his shoulders as she positions herself right over his hard cock. A stray candle shines just enough light on her for him to see that the dark marks that wrap like a necklace around her throat are teeth marks rather than bruises and something in his stomach turns, but he does his best not to let her see, his hands still steady on her waist as she sinks down on him, her eyes falling shut when he thrusts up against her in response, more impatient than he would have ever liked to be.

For all of a moment, it doesn't matter what this venture has already cost him when it comes to his pride and what it'll cost him in the future – all he can feel is her tight heat surrounding him, her nails digging into his chest as she sets her rhythm, the way his body responds to her when she shifts to get a better angle at it and he, as much as he possibly could, starts fucking her in earnest, moving with her against his minds's efforts at caution.

It's only for a night. His body is on fire and his hands on her might be a little too rough for her liking now, but there's not much he can do to help himself. He wants nothing more than to flip her over and fuck her right into this insufferably soft bed; to leave her as breathless and lost as she seems intent on leaving him. It's playing right into her trap, he imagines – the one that makes sure that he's on the same level as the one she wants to keep him at. It's just as well – if he means to survive this city, he needs to be smarter about it than his father had been; he has to pretend to be one of them. The Lannisters are as savage and bloodthirsty and prone to violent whims and bouts of directionless lust as their sigil, it seems, and perhaps it's not quite as terrible as he'd feared, letting himself be just as bad, if only for a night.

Before he can think it through, he sits up on the bed, arms wrapping around her to keep her from backing away, and it goes about as well as it can be expected – between one breath and the next, the Queen's fingers are wound tight around his throat and growing tighter by the moment. Now there's a spark of passion in the poisonous green of her eyes and she doesn't stop moving, as if to prove a point, even when he starts struggling for breath.

"You fancy yourself a fine swordsman, don't you, Lord Snow?" He scowls back at her, puzzled, and her hand squeezes again, at the same time as her cunt around his cock. Jon's eyes flutter shut. "Don't you?"

"Yes," he gasps through the pressure that feels as if it might actually crush his vocal chords. Her line of thought escapes him, but that's not much of a surprise with the way his breathing's being restricted. "Your Grace."

It's a pointless courtesy, but it might just save his life, or so he'd thought. Her grip doesn't loosen in the slightest. "The next time you touch me without a warning, I'll gnaw your hand off. My brother says it's a difficult thing; learning to fight with the other. It won't do you much good in your fight against all those dead men."

"No, Your Grace." He can think of little else to say, but evidently, there's no need – she lets go of him in one instant and climbs out of his reach in the next, forcing a rather desperate groan out of him in response. He would never make anyone do anything they aren't willing to, he repeats to himself yet again, and still— it would have been more merciful if she hadn't started anything to begin with. He'd barely expected it of her either way.

He lets his eyes close again when her hand wraps around his cock instead, firm and seemingly determined to bring him to completion as soon as possible, only to open them once he realises that she wants him to look. Everything she does is an effort to either spite him in some way or simply confuse him further and it's draining enough for him to stop caring about whatever new game this is; certainly draining enough for it to inspire some bizarre sort of revenge in him and make him push back into her touch, vaguely aware of the fact that he must be playing into whatever it is that she wants to achieve with this. There's a warning bell ringing in the back of his mind, reminding him of something he can't quite grasp just now – something that he had been advised to remember and follow through with – but Jon pays it no mind. He's tired of caution and this wretched castle's equally wretched inhabitants, and if Cersei Lannister is determined to let him come in her fist and, given how close she is, likely over her face as well, then that's what he's going to do.

Finally, he does – he desperately chases after her touch and she grants it easily enough, and he spills his seed on yet another downward stroke, eyes squeezing shut once again at the sight of her, inexplicably, triumphant smile. For a short, blinding moment, none of it means anything more than what meets the eye.

It is, of course, over rather quickly.

He chances another look at her by the time his breathing has calmed down somewhat and watches her as she idly licks her middle finger clean, clearly going more for practical than enticing, though it has that effect either way, even without her input – she's still stark naked and, before Jon can try and make sense of any of her actions tonight, she nudges him a little further towards one edge of the bed and swiftly gets under the covers. Despite himself, he frowns. He knows women like her – or at least, he thinks he does, even if the woman in question is likely to deny that vehemently – and there is no way she's finished with him.

"Let me at least—" Return the favour, he would have said, even though it had sounded horribly inappropriate; really, this time it's a good thing that she cuts him off beforehand.

"There's no need." Her voice is curt and her smile is exemplary in its vacant warmth. The change is almost enough to make him dizzy, or that might just be the wine – he'd certainly drank too much of it tonight. A part of him wonders if he'll remember much of this tomorrow. "Sleep well, Lord Snow."

That doesn't sound like a particularly likely scenario, but it doesn't seem to matter – within a moment, the Queen has turned her back to him and it takes a little more before her breathing seemingly evens out. It's too quick and too perfectly executed to be anything other than a pretence, but Jon allows it – he's sure she would prefer being asleep, so he turns his back to her too and does his best at a similar act.

It doesn't take long to strike him how ridiculous it all is. He'd found himself in the cradle of luxury, married to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, in a desperate effort to handle a threat she barely even believes exists. No amount of wine in the world could make him make peace with the things she's done to get where she is, but in the span of a single dance, she'd offered several solutions that he'd not thought of, and at least a vague plan about how to acquire said solution. Surely, it's a worthy investment despite everything else there is to consider about her; everything that had made Sansa fight tooth and nail to change his mind as soon as he'd announced his decision.

Just as he's pacified enough with that thought to succumb to sleep, there's a knock on the door. It occurs to him for a moment that it must be the knight who had guarded the entrance to the room, but no – it's uneven and a little too specific, like a sign, and the Queen slips out from under the covers as quickly and quietly as she can the moment it comes. He can hear her struggle back into her dress, though doubtlessly without putting it entirely back to what it had been before, and then the door creaks open and someone slips in. He forces himself to stay put at the hushed exchange that follows – if he'd doubted before, the man's voice certainly leaves him with no mysteries regarding his identity now, even though he can't make out the words – and he barely dares to even breathe lest his presence is rendered too dangerous for having seen something that he's already well aware of.

He hears his blushing bride laugh, still as quiet as everything she's said so far despite her obvious amusement, and then the familiar clink of armour and the shuffling of her dress as they leave the room together.

It's only when the door falls shut behind them that Jon turns to lie on his back once again, irrationally irritated by being thought so little of that she doesn't even think that he would do anything at all when he wakes up eventually and sees that she's not there. It's not a particularly encouraging thought; the realisation that she doesn't seem to take him as seriously as he'd hoped, after all, and that she seems so confident that he wouldn't say a word that she doesn't feel the need to hide anything from him. It all leads him to the conclusion that she either knows that he's desperate for help or that she thinks that transgression against him would be tolerated.

He hears them continue their conversation outside, slowly retreating in some unknown direction somewhere down the corridor. This marriage is only a front, as they'd both made sure to clarify since the start; his worries and his pride hardly matter when held up to the collective fate of Westeros, and still—

Jon sighs, the pride in question persisting despite his own self-reassurances. It feels like heresy to agree with any Lannister on anything, but he finds himself willing to concede a point to the Queen's nameless aunt – no matter who they are, men are all great, thundering fools.

~.~

It's sunlight that finally wakes him, with a warmth that he's still not used to after a lifetime in the North – sunlight, and insistent knocking on his chambers's door.

Jon blinks the sleep away from his eyes as best as he can and takes a bleary look around the room. He's alone; his memory is the only proof that it had been any different last night. It's not a particularly surprising discovery.

"Come in," he rasps with a voice as rough as sandpaper and a woman swiftly enters, all business as she pulls the curtains open and goes about her way fixing the invisible imperfections around her even as she greets him.

"Good morning, My Prince. Her Grace invites you for breakfast in the hall with the tapestries."

H feels unimaginably lost. "This is my third day here," he says instead of admitting to it, and the handmaiden's stoic expression morphs into a barely noticeable smile. He wonders, briefly, what the help here must think of him. They see every little bit of what the Queen's life is when away from prying eyes; is there anything they don't know? Anything he could use to get even a smidge of a high ground? Only time would tell, he supposes. "Where would that be?"

"Turn left once you leave this room, Your Majesty. Then it's the third door to the right."

Despite himself, Jon sighs. Who knows what new riddle this will be? "Thank you."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Her Grace expects Lady Stark and Lady Brienne to follow soon."

Well, that answers that question, then. He should have known. Her Grace couldn't possibly torment only one Stark at a time, could she?

~.~

Breakfast in the Queen's private hall, as it turns out, is a surprisingly modest affair. The sound of her voice would have drawn him to the correct place even if he hadn't been directed here and the words flood through his mind before he can as much as take in his surroundings.

"—but I want them both there when it happens, and I want you to watch what they do. On top of Highgarden, I might make the father Master of Coin, too."

They must have heard the door opening, but Jaime Lannister keeps his sceptical eyes focused on his sister. "Master of the same coin that we're going to take from the house they've been sworn to for centuries?"

"What other coin is there? Let us see how he reacts to that; then we'll know who he's truly loyal to." She does turn around now, face as welcoming as it ever seems to get. "My Prince.

"Your Grace."

"Lord Snow."

"Ser Jaime."

With the greetings out of the way, Jon takes one of the several free seats remaining around the small table, clearly set for more than three people. The Queensguard are lining the walls of the room from end to end once again and slowly, he's getting used to seeing them as a part of the background and little else; unmoving statues ready to spring to life the moment he takes one wrong step. It's an unnerving thought, and it's enough to make him seat himself opposite of the Lannister twins.

The food they'd been served seem to be sweets of some sort, small chunks of rich brown piled in a painstakingly complicated structure on a platter in the middle of the table. The Queen deliberately reaches and takes one, seemingly at random, watching him watch her as she eats it. It's as subtle as a reassurance that she's not trying to poison him as such a reassurance could possibly get and he reaches out for one, too, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste of the sweetness that initially explodes in his mouth.

"Worse than it looks, isn't it?"

Lannister's smile is a mask of friendliness, but there's something unnerving about it; as if the fact that it's only surface-deep makes it somehow more unnerving than his outright hostility. The Queen, at least, is better at pretending.

"It's cocoa," she says now, as if it's a conversation they'd had more than once. It's more of that strangely welcoming manner that they both seem intent on keeping up in front of him. "It's supposed to be bitter."

"No sweet should taste like that," the Kingslayer argues and pushes the platter away, instead turning his attention towards the next one, piled with fruit and various kinds of eggs. "It needs more sugar."

Jon stares listlessly at the food, aware that even with two more guests supposedly arriving, there's no way they could possibly eat all of this. While they certainly hadn't struggled back in Winterfell, the idea of having to ration food in the near future hadn't been a too distant possibility, at least for the soldiers. It had been a grim idea, considering that he needs them at the height of their strength, but the winter is coming and food will grow scarcer sooner rather than later, and this reminds him once again of why he's here at all: he needs what they have, and it would only be for a short time. He'll break his fast with them and pretend to believe their efforts at familiarity, and it won't take long at all before they have drained their mutual usefulness and they all go back to their lives. It would be a peace paid with blood and more sacrifices than the ones he'd already made regarding his principles and dignity, but it's another thing he can't quite afford to think about while he's in the thick of it.

He feels himself being drawn back into the conversation when he hears his name – they both seem intent on calling him Lord Snow still, despite the long list of titles that had come hand in hand with his marriage.

"—could provide us with an excellent view on that," the Queen is saying when he starts listening to her again, and it's a lucky thing, given that she turns to him a moment later. "Isn't that right, Lord Snow?" He wouldn't agree to anything she says without knowing what she'd been talking about and mercifully, she elaborates, as if aware that he hadn't been paying attention. "I'm afraid our perspective is a little focused on the citizens of King's Landing. I'm sure you could give us a clearer picture of what the rest of the Seven Kingdoms think of this new development."

Really, he sees no point in lying to her.

"The majority I met had accepted it fairly well, if with some humour."

At this, she raises an eyebrow, and the way her eyes stray to the Kingslayer doesn't escape him. "Humour?"

"Yes, Your Grace. They didn't seem to think that this arrangement would last."

"How odd." There's nothing odd about it at all, but he's not surprised by her show of innocent confusion – not by now. This time, he knows that it's nothing more than a preamble to whatever it is that she'd actually wanted to talk about. It's an impressive knowledge to have gathered, he thinks, in a little under a day. "Tell me, Lord Snow, if they don't think I take any of this to heart, what do they think of me in every other matter?"

Something about this feels like a trap, but he can't quite determine what it is. "I wouldn't say—"

"But you did." Her hand closes over his, and she's just as warm as she had been last night – as warm as the fires that Father had once told him run just below the surface of the world, ready to burst up into a volcano with no warning at all. If he resorts to his scarce knowledge of House Targaryen, one such volcano had destroyed his family's ancestral home several centuries ago. Suddenly, the description feels rather apt. "There's nothing for you to worry about."

She's making it sound as if he fears her reaction, is the thing, and there's no way he could tolerate that notion, so he speaks up instead. "They like you well enough, Your Grace. They certainly respect you." How could they not, with what she'd done? If it's not respect, then at least it's fear, and it's fear that stops him from saying so – fear for the future of the world more than his own life. "It's the matter of marriage that amuses them more, I would say."

"So they think I couldn't possibly commit to a cause." It's not a question but he nods anyway, further puzzled when a smile dawns on her face, terrifying in its genuine glee. "Is that it? They think me too fickle for it."

That's exactly what it had been, so he nods. "Fickle is a good word for it."

The response he waits for doesn't come and instead, Jon watches, mystified, as the Queen and the Kingslayer have a conversation consisting entirely of rather vivid facial expressions. Finally, the man gives her a questioning look, tilting his head to the side as if to empathise his challenge, and her smile grows all the wider, eyes glittering with more mirth than he'd seen from her so far, as if she knows precisely what he's asking and what he needs to hear. When words finally leave her mouth, they're cheery enough to send a cold chill down Jon's spine.

"Fool's gold, brother."