CERSEI II

"The Queen was still in her broken son's bedchamber. The arising lightrays of the sun played their tricks on her Tully auburn hair as she lay foreslumped with her head and arms on the side of his bed, her visage dull and tired. It had been more than a fortnight, almost a moon since she had begun watching over him, and Cersei still came to her day and night to offer her condolences and pray. She was growing fretfully tired of it.

Sometimes she would feign a headache, or some other small injury, to get out of the praying that she herself had initiated, and now she had finally gotten her moonblood again. That was the perfect excuse, surely.

Queen Catelyn was beginning to look more a ghost than a woman, as she grieved and watched over Prince Bran, her cheeks hanging, her eyes baggy and tired, and with her entire face having gone a more grey colour as Cersei sensed it. The brilliantly self-absorbed queen who had sat beside her, boasting of her family at the feast was far gone. And all of it because the prince had seen something that he should not see. And Jaime had had the good sense to take care of it, although she still feared it would come back to haunt them all the same.

She would go in to check on her at night, and most of the time she was still awake, even at the hour of the ghosts, and even later sometimes, at the hour of the bat. She felt strangely guilty as she saw the little boy, her husband's nephew, wasting away in his sickbed, day after day, night after night.

But surely, what life could such a boy have even if he were to wake up? She thought to herself, and had asked her husband as much. He would be a cripple, surely. Worse off than her brother Tyrion, even.

But her husband had shaken such notions firmly from his mind, saying that they must continue to pray for the boy, and that a crippled child is still a child.

He might not be able to further his line, had Cersei intercepted, and argued, but Benjen replied that there were other things he might do. He could serve as an advisor to his brother Prince Robb, when he would become king one day, or else perhaps become a maester at the Citadel.

Cersei had held quiet after that, sensing that her husband would not hear any more of her objections, and she was left to walk around the castle, praying with her good-sister Queen Catelyn every day and night, and imagine how her and Jaime's downfall would come when – and if – the boy finally woke up.

One time Cersei had gotten something mad inside her and tried to finish the job herself. She had taken the tiny little glass bottle of milk of the poppy from Maester Luwin's quarters, hid it in the long sleeves and fur of her dress, in precisely such a place where not even her husband would hold her – and he held her most everywhere, she thought – at the side of her arm sleeve crease, by her side, and then she had opened the door, walked into the room, found the queen sitting asleep by the bed, and slowly, slowly, ever so slowly approached the bed where the little prince lay. Old gods forgive me, Seven forgive me, but if you have not seen it fit to wake him up yet, I will take it into my own hands before this little sleeping wolf quenches out my life blood and love.

She had went up to the bed, slowly, slowly, easing her soft fur slippers over the cold granit stone floor, as she neared to see the poor little boy laying still on his back, the wolf sleeping by his side, but when she had tried reaching up to him, to touch his face, not even to reach the bottle over to him, but merely to stroke his hair first and sense the alware of the moment, and confront her own feelings about it, the wolf had woken up.

It had done so with a snap of its head, sitting up in a heartbeat, its ears flicking up and its green-yellow eyes staring right into her soul.

No. Sorry. I'm sorry. I did not mean to. Please, have mercy, I-...

And then the queen had awakened as well.

"Cersei... ?" She had only said, her voice as tired and hoarse as any woman could be.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I only meant to see that he was still breathing", she had said, as her heartbeat dunked a thousand beats inside her chest, and she felt her blood burning red hot with the terror, the fear in her heart, the shame of her actions so close to being realised.

The Queen had only sat up, adjusted her hair to the side as it covered her face, and then went out with her hand towards the prince's gaunt cheek. Cersei had been close to weeping then.

The wolf had not bit her, not growled at her, not snarled. It had only looked at her, as if to say 'This is your blood. I am you. The blood of you, the blood of your husband, the blood of your children's blood. Do not touch me, or it will be the regret of your lifetime, and my vengeance shall be hard.'

And so she had reconciled herself with letting destiny have its path and way. Bran did not seem to be about to wake at any point, as the gods were keeping close watch to him, only waiting for the right time to take him away into their dwelling, as he grew gaunter and more pale for each day, and as his long dark lugg of hair grew longer above his forehead. Surely it would not be long more...?

The Queen decided to clip it one day, taking the shearing cleavers from the bedside table and managing the cut herself, but she still left it long. Such a handsome boy... Cersei was reminded of her own words. She shuddered with what she had thought. How could she possibly kill this poor little boy, who reminded her so much of her own son Willam, and who was his cousin and blood for all the world? She did not know what had gotten into her then. But... … Still, if he were to ever wake... It would surely mean the end of her and Jaime. The end of everything they had built up between them. The end of their secret love for each other, and of living a hidden second life.

The witch had told her as much. It had been so many years now but the signs were here, it seemed. The prophecy still haunted her, as it had when she was only a young girl of ten. "The valonqar will come, and he will wrap his hands about your pale white throat." Valonqar meant little brother in High Valyrian, Cersei had since learnt.

For a long time she had thought it to be her own little brother, Tyrion, who would be the little brother of the prophecy, as she hated him all throughout their upbringing at the Rock, but now she felt sure in her mind and heart that it must instead surely be the young Prince Bran.

The young little Prince Rickon was not much the better weight on her mind, either. He was as wild as any child she had seen, running about the castle, crying, screaming and following Benjen, Hodor, Willam and Tommen around the courtyard, as well as herself, when he was not tugging at the Queen's skirts in one of her few moments of clarity and reception. She truly must awake from her grief, she thought. It is only proper, for her to care more about her living, waking son at least.

The wolf was following little Rickon around everywhere he went as well, a roudy blackish brown terror with golden eyes named Shaggydog, from the throes of the three-year-old's imagination. She was half sure that it must have been or was the biggest out of all the litter, though she had not seen the others since their departure south, of course. Certainly larger than Bran's wolf. Summer, it was called, but it did not look to be living up to the full nine years of this summer just yet, she reflected.

Jon's wolf, Ghost, was still there as well, though. The white wolf with the staring red eyes was slightly smaller than his black brother, and more slender, and above all silent, stalking the courtyard by Jon's side or without him during all hours of the dygne, living up to its eerie name, whereas Shaggydog howled and barked as soon as anyone moved.

She felt that she was becoming close to mad from it all. The Queen, her crying, her grief, the prayers to the Seven gods, which she barely thought watched over them anymore, holding hands with her good-sister while the qualms of her conscience gnarled back and forth, night and day, deep inside the secrecy of her mind... And the wolves' howling, Shaggydog's loud mournful howling from down the courtyard all throughout the night, while the moon was glowing white and full, the sound and sight of which she and the Queen both were turning equally mad from as well...

Perhaps if Bran finally wakes, and tells everything to the Queen about me and Jaime, at least the bloody wolf will be silent once and for all.

And then Jaime and I will have one final time together, this time while I await my own judgement.

But there was no place for women to go and take the black. She would have to become a septa instead, or else to her death. If not my husband should find it in his cold northern heart to forgive me for it, after all, she supposed. He did lover her as much, at least, she was sure...

And if the rumours about him and Lyanna were true, the rumours that she lay awake at night thinking about, as Stark and Lannister were one and the same coin, perhaps he would forgive her, and understand...

Her husband came to her just then. He opened the door to their bedchamber quietly.

"Hello? My lady? … Cersei... Are you in here?"

"Husband", she said, sternly, awaitingly, unnecessarily coldly, to his kind and loving heart.

"Wife", he said, sterning up himself, and walking in through the door with his heavy boots to stand some good feet away from her, watching her with his silent, thoughful northern gaze.

"What is it you want?" She said, once again, unnecessarily coldly.

"I just wanted to see what you were up to", he said.

"Nothing", she said. "Aren't we all just doing nothing here?"

Benjen made a tiny nod with his face, lifting his eyebrows up.

"Aye. … I suppose we are. … Have you seen the new guardsmen? I had Jekken's boy Ergen join. He will be a good and able guard, 'tell you true. He's been raised right for it."

Cersei stared at the wall to the right of him, watching the ancient grey stone crevaces in the wall, wondering how many thousands of years it had been since they were made, and how many women of Winterfell had gone mad from staring at them in those thousands of years. She suspected that no matter the number, she would be one of the first southron ones.

But she had never asked her husband of such things, nor watched the family histories which were in the library, where Maester Luwin held sway. If it was true that she was the first Lannister, or the first westerlander to live here as wife to the Lord of Winterfell, or the King of Winter, as it would have been in the older days, she did not wish to know it before her time was nearing its end.

Then, perhaps, when she was old and with her golden hair beginning to at last go to grey, like her aunt Gemma, with her lord husband equally grey to her side, or perhaps even gone, and with her daughter or good-daugher installed safely alongside her husband on the throne, she might possibly think to allow herself to realize the impossibility of what she had managed to done, all on account of her father, the wolf king, her husband and all the rest of the world.

I only want Jaime, she thought. I want him now, to hold me and tell me everything will be okay...

"I'm glad", she said, as a response to her husband's speech about the guard's boy, whatever his name was. She did not care much for such trivialities.

Glad, she said. Her voice lacked all the warmth of gladness.

Benjen sighed, untied his arms from their hold and shifted in his stance, where he stood leaning by the door, to pick up a chair and sat down beside her.

"You don't need to worry that much, Cersei. … Leave it to the Queen. It is her son, after all."

She regarded him with a suspicious look.

"Don't tell her that, unless you want to be branded a traitor to the crown as well as a fool." Her tone was sharp.

"Traitor?" He looked incredulous. "This is my brother's son we're talking about. It is not treason to not stay up each and every night and praying for him. Especially if you don't believe in the bloody seven gods that you pretend to pray to."

Cersei felt her anger coming on her now.

"I thought that I had told you to never again speak of that."

"And I thought that you said that you wouldn't let this affect you any more than it already had. … Look at yourself, Cersei. … Just go on and take a quick look in the mirror right over there."

He signalled for the large round glass mirror which was the finest one that Winterfell knew, but still inferior to the quality of those to be found at the Rock. It was grey and grumly in its glass as ever.

Why, and why, had she never asked her husband to have it exchanged for a better one? But then again, she mostly used her brightly polished wooden hand mirror anyway, and that one she had brought with her from the Rock all those eternal years ago, and it still held up just fine. In that one, she was still Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock. In that one, she was still young and beautiful, and not some strange northern woman from Winterhell, she mused... Jaime had thought it was pronounced like that the first time he read it at their master's lessons when they had been little more than five or six. He had never been the best with reading, though.

Her husband reminded her of her rapidly aging demeanour, however, confirming what she had already feared. That she was turning to become infected with the grief of the Queen. But he phrased it even worse. Exactly like she would have said it herself, and had done so, inside of her maddening mind a thousand times before. His words were a slap to her ears.

"You're turning almost into a ghost, I'm starting to believe."

She cursed him for taking the word into his mouth without her own appeal.

And who's fault is that? Who brought the King and his Tully bitch all the way up here for us to prance about before them and swear our allegiance to them all over again? I never wanted them to come here. And once they were here, they never bloody left. That wild thing, Arya, and the Queen's little mini-self Princess Sansa, who had spoken ill of her age and thought that she was the prettiest little bird in all of the Seven Kingdoms... The very thought of it made her blood boil.

And she had been forced to bow down to them all, and still now, although Catelyn Tully of Riverrun was less of a price than she ever had been before. ...And now her own husband said to her that she was beginning to be smitten by her sickness as well. It was too much to bear. She lashed out on him.

"So what if I am? Is that all you think about in your thick, shaggy head? What about the Queen? Is it not she who is the ghost? Haunting our halls with her presence, still after a moon's time? For how long shall we have her staying with us here, before we can have her and her boy return to their wretched summer capital again, and bring her boy with her? … This can not do, husband. I am not enough for this, this... trouble, this hellscape, this... Stranger's mess. … Nor are you."

"I suggest you held to speaking for yourself on that matter, wife. … "

He held silent for a while. He had not meant to hurt her with his words, she knew. He only did not like it when someone else told him what he thought, or ought to do. He was the Lord of Winterfell, after all, and she was only ever his golden trophy of a wife.

"I am sorry. Perhaps you enjoy her presence. You Stark men are drawn to the Tullys, after all..."

Benjen looked at her with incredulity in her eyes now, fast becoming dark in his face.

"Cersei...!"

"My lord." She stopped him. Taking her hand up to his chin, to stroke softly at the edge of his beard, she tamed him, tamed his angry fierce gaze wherein his anger lay, angled herself down under him, made herself as soft and mild as butter before his manly gaze, and slingered herself into his reluctant embrace.

He sighed hard, trying his best to suppress the frustration which he felt inside.

"You know that if you want to do it like this, you had better mean it..." He said, between his teeth.

"Have you any news of Willam?" She asked, in her sweetest, most honeyed voice. She looked up to him with her emerald green eyes, as he knew that he loved it when she did.

He sighed, and groped his gloved fingers hard together, as he pulled them off, and then took one final breath out of the side of his mouth, before letting go of his anger and taking her into his arms.

"I do. … My wife... … He is growing a better fighter for every day. … And he is learning fast of our meetings with Luwin as well. He's mighty good with the numbers. As good as I was in his age. Better than Ned was. Better than Brandon... And even better with the overlook and understanding."

"I'm glad", Cersei said. And now she felt in herself that perhaps she meant it.

"Me too", Benjen said. "He will make a fine lord some day. But not too soon, I guess..."

No, indeed, she thought. For I have rather grown accustomed to your embrace, my dear wolf husband, even though you are no Jaime, and even though I had never thought that I would.

She stroked his beard again, tracing the manly outline of his chin and his handsome long nose and kissing him right onto the dark scruff of his beard and mouth, letting his thick black moustache brush against her lips.

"Hold me..." She whispered, now suddenly allowing her weakness and fatigue to sweep its way into the strong embracing comfort of his northern arms.

"I'll hold you", he replied, kissing her on her golden-haired head, and letting himself linger there.

They moved for the bed, as her husband pulled off his riding clothes, dragged off his gloves, pulled himself off his cloak and mail, his wolf pelt, as well as his leather jerkin, his fine grey doublet and all else... She in turn removed her own wolf pelt, her favourite melancholic thick grey and red woolen dress with the golden inlays, the one which she had enjoyed wearing the most during all of these latest days of waiting and grief and silent remorse... And they embraced each other in the bed.

I could surely have a worse reserve, she thought to herself silently. I am lucky, she tried her best at telling herself. I love my husband, and he loves me. Jaime is gone at the Wall, but my husband is here. He is with me, now and forever. He will keep me warm throughout winter. I am sure of it. Yes...

He kissed her hair, kissed her forehead and her beautiful slender fingers and hands, he kissed her swan-like neck, and her lips, most of all her pink red lips... They were pale, she imagined, from her grief and stillness, and from that she had eaten little of late, but her husband cared not. In his eyes she would always be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she knew. She felt lucky, despite it all. She held his arms and shoulders, tracing the lines of his muscled shoulders with her nails, her slender lion's claws, as she mused... He thrust his strong, thick member inside of her cunt...

She felt just a tiny bit less mad, when he held her within his strong arms, giving her all of his desire, all of his warmth, all of his fiery lust and lovemaking, and all of his love. Yes. This was good, this was right, this was the way it should be between them. …

And she tried her very best at giving it back."