A little bit of romance (if you squint hard. Very hard).

Wedding

Obviously, there is quite the uproar as the change is announced - The Faith of the Seven complains, dearly, since obviously the marriage between Cersei and Robert had been consummated. However, if anything, the clergy likes money, and Robert is far too willing to use it and some other promises to make them agree.
Of course, he also has no qualms about throwing his queen under the wheels - he comes out of all of this rather unscathed, while she won't be able to marry again under the Faith of the Seven. Even a king has to give them something in terms of punishment.

There is nothing Cersei can do but nod and wave. She smiles while she is taking up different quarters in the Keep, but frowns when people start to become respectless. She wears Lannister red and Lannister gold and soon they remember how much power she still holds - though not half as much as they should, in her opinion.
Robert wants Faramir and her married as soon as possible, but her father pushes it off, insisting Faramir is meant to build up Moat Cailin first before she will put any foot North. Truthfully, he probably wants time to see how the situation develops, to check whether it might not be possible to keep her in another place of power after all. Cersei herself, well, she would prefer to stay in King's Landing, with Joffrey, but nobody seems bothered about that. Nobody but her aunt Genna maybe, from what she can read between the lines in her letters. But no - she is bundled up and sent to the Rock and she screams and cries and they all ignore her.
Faramir is removed from his position, too - While the man has suddenly become such a danger at court is a mystery her, but maybe he has been all along and they simply didn't see it, too caught up in their own feelings of inferiority and their big little games.
He cannot do anything but obey, of course, but then obviously does the exact opposite of what is expected - instead of going North, he goes South, at least at first.

"What will you do with the children?" she wants to know in one of the few private conversations they get to have before she leaves.
"Ellard is coming with me, to see his family," he explains, "before we will move very very far away afterwards. The girls are too young, I am afraid, for so much travel. I want them to stay here for now - well, a little bit outside, rather hidden."
"Why Dorne? Why Dorne again?"
"For Ellard. And to explain a couple of things to the Daynes. Maybe also a bit because I want to see Prince Oberyn again, he is good company. And because I am of the opinion that even though we will be living far apart, connections to other friendly parties can only be helpful. You know that, even legitimised, the girls will always carry a shadow of... they will never be considered the perfect partners in most kingdoms. It will be better in the North. But they would do even better in the South."
"You are already thinking about marrying them off?" she asks, appalled.
"I will never marry them off. But I want to open up options if they decide they want to marry. Or if they decide they don't like the cold and instead want to live in the desert."
"Nobody wants to live in the desert."

He only rolls his eyes at her.

"Take care, Kitten."

~ o ~

Of course, at the end everything turns out differently.

Faramir and Ellard go to Dorne, indeed, just as they had told, but Robert seems to get antsy and pushy. Why is a bit of a mystery to her at first, after all, both are quite out of sight - so, there is only one good explanation: He is intending to marry again and wants to use the momentum, the high approval still lingering on from the last war, to get the other high houses to approve. Her father resists as much as possible - she knows he is still working on alternatives, and besides, even though they might not be on the best of terms, Tywin still doesn't want her to move into a Northern ruin. Cersei should be happy about that, and she is, mostly, but on the other hand, it also unnerves her. Who knows what Faramir will get up to?! A quiet little voice in her mind is telling her she should get involved, try to control more, not let him take the reins - but of course, her father wants to know nothing about that.

At least Faramir sends her letters, apparently he has started organising things before he even left to Dorne. He is already establishing a small household at the Moat, so small it seems ridiculous for a former queen. Cersei complains bitterly, but he only replies this will be everything they will have space for and everything they will be able to afford. She doesn't understand, they are both well off, so it shouldn't be so much of a deal to hire more maids and grooms and cooks - but the only way she can maybe explain it is that Moat Cailin is crumbling worse than she has expected. It makes her stomach roll and her cry in her pillow at night, and she can't blame a pregnancy for it this time.

~ o ~

The next time she hears from him, her future husband, with any sensible information, it's early 290 and he is back in King's Landing to pick up the girls and take a ship to White Harbour. He doesn't ask her to join him, leaves it all open - freedom, options, she could even marry someone completely else in the meantime, if she were to find a suitable groom. He needs her less than she needs him, that much is clear, and there isn't really anyone else for her, unfortunately - not regarding fortune, not regarding standing, and most of all, nobody who wants to go against the king's wishes.

So, a couple of months later she returns to the city as well, together with her uncle Kevan and Tyrion. Her father refuses to take any part in this scheme to not give the king the satisfaction of a bowing Lannister lion, so it's his brother who is supposed to bring her North. And Tyrion - well, he simply wants to get away from the Rock, she guesses. Unfortunately, that means she has to put up with the little monster, but at least her anger at him is distracting. To her suprise, she finds Cerenna will come with them as well, even though her parents are less than delighted to see her leave. But the girl is determined and Cersei can only be grateful for that - a friendly, reliable face between all the strangers that will await her. Sometimes she wonders whether the girl is maybe in love with Faramir, but in the end, does it matter, as long as she helps with the children and keeps their secrets?
She never meets the king while she is dwelling in the city, which is probably good for both Robert and herself, but she can spend a little bit time with Joffrey. Her perfect boy is about four years old now and she wonders how he will stand it in this viper pit without her, this is maybe her main concern.

~ o ~

The travel to White Harbour is just as horrible as expected, Cersei finds she doesn't like ships, feels sick half of the time, and could almost cry with relief when they pass the Three Sisters and travel down the Bite until they stop in a middle-sized town. It's rather pretty, its Southern heritage visible everywhere. Donella Manderly and Leona Woolfield are courteous hostesses and if not as cultured as Cersei would have liked, the city seems quite civilised, comparatively. Maybe, if the Moat is too horrible, she can at least settle here, she ponders. Wynafryd Manderly would also make a good companion for Elwing, if she ever needs one, Cersei cannot help but spot. Truth be told, connection-wise Sansa Stark would probably be preferable, but she doesn't know whether she wants that - it's something to be determined in the future.

For now, the Manderlys are kind and will accompany them to Moat Cailin. The trip is about eight days on horseback, longer with the wagons they have for the few things she has been able to bring North with her by boat. It's really not much, for now, but her father has promised more things will follow for her comfort. They offer her a wheelhouse, of course, but she insists on riding with the men, she has no interest in being bounced about on the rough roads. Cersei isn't sure, but she thinks she sees a glimmer of approval in some of the Northmen's eyes as they hand her a pretty grey palfrey. Meryll is a sweet horse, quite a bit like the ones she had before, and over the trip she becomes genuinely fond of the animal and its small ideosyncracies. Maybe she can keep her, she wonders.

The nature all around isn't pretty, it's harsh and brown, but at least up here, it's not swampy, and they make good progress. How anyone can considerthata nice homeland is a mystery to her, but these people seem to be truly poud of their ugly boulders. From time to time some brave stupid person will ride up to her and try to rope her into conversation - she wants to snap at them, wants to be left alone and sulk in peace, wants them to go away, but she remembers Faramir's last letter.
It had been something akin to a manual, instructions, and while she hates to take them, especially from him, she has to admit that usually he is right about these things. About people. While he is not truly Northern anymore either, he still knows these people better than she does, so she probably ought to believe him. Besides, his instruction had been clear:

They are meant to be our subjects and allies. So MAKE them out allies!
By the Gods, be nice and try not to insult them, but don't be a pushover!

Cersei knows she will hate it here. Cersei wants to go back South. But Cersei has also had months to come to terms with the fact that this won't happen, at least not now. And what she wants now is, therefore, power in the North - and Faramir is unfortunately right. They need allies, because they are not yet established enough for fear. So, she grits her teeth and responds to the people who talk to her, courtly and haughtily, most likely, but with as little condescencion as she can manage.
In turn, she soaks up the information they throw at her, because now that she has lost her other means of power, power through knowledge must suffice. It's funny, almost, the always-insulted Tyrion and rather overlooked Kevan seem to become favourties among the Northerners. She has the suspicion Faramir has spread positive news about them beforehand, because there seems to be more curiosity than hostility from the beginning on - not what the stories had made her believe.

When they finally reach Moat Cailin though, she thinks she will truly faint. Even from afar she can see it is just as horrible as she has expected - a once huge building ruined by age and a lack of care. Walls have crumbled, rocks are laying all round, from what she can see. A small party is riding towards them, headed by two figures of roughly the same built. Their silhouettes are small and dark before the even darker rests of the castle, dwarfish and pathetic, but also alive and so vital.
The lords, of course, Faramir and Eddard Stark with a few men she clearly recognizes as Faramir's allies from King's Landing, but also some Northerners she has never seen before. They stop in front of the new arrivals.

Obviously, Lord Stark clearly outranks his little brother, and yet she barely acknowledges him, too focussed on the younger man. The tan he certainly acquired in Dorne is almost gone again, he looks tired and drained with dark shadows under his eyes. Before she can scrutinise him further though, she is distracted by the Warden of the North who starts his greetings, welcoming them in the North, before Faramir adds his court comments about Moat Cailin. It seems addressed mainly at her Uncle Kevan - his former foster father, she remembers - and Tyrion, just as at Lord Manderly.
Suddenly though he is riding towards her and her mare his whinning slightly, but he already jumps off his horse and steps next to her. With the galant air of a fairytale knight, he reaches up to take her gloved hand and to brush a kiss atop of it, never breaking eyecontact.

"My lady," he says lowly, "I am happy to see you."

It is a strangely formal greeting, and weirdly enough, she believes what he is saying.

~ o ~

The whole group approaches the castle, or rather, what is left of it, and she thinks it is even worse from up close. Only three towers are truly still standing, and one is leaning precariously to the side. There is no keep to speak of, no real stables, nothing homey at all. Everything is covered by green moss and white ghostskin and seems somewhat wet and ugly. When she first gets off her horse in what pretends to be a courtyard, she thinks she will tople over just like the ancient walls. This is a ruin! She can't stay here!

"I thought you were doing something up here?! Like, repairs?!" she bites out.

He shrugs, but she can see she has hit a sore spot. Then he steps closer, so this is just between the two of them.

"Well, the Gatehouse Tower and the Children's Tower have both been restored in the meantime," he tells her dryly, "the roofs aren't leaking anymore, the wind is not blowing through them and the interior actually looks like a usable interior, even though there is a decisive lack of furniture."
Then he nods towards a corner of the courtyard, where new wooden structures have been built.
"Some basic storage for wood and food. Living quarters for the lower-ranking household, and stables. There wasn't time to do anything more, I am no wizzard, besides, I thought you might want to have a say in the design."

She can just hum, because she still wants to run away, as they transport her things into the upper chamber of what is called the Gatehouse Tower. Her uncle and Tyrion seem to be hosted in the Drunkard's tower, which only leaves the Children's Tower for all the other Starks. She refuses to wonder how crammed it must be with all of the visitors. Most of the bannermen seem to camp outside in the Northern fields, a bit like a war camp, and that is exactly what she feels like right now. But something else is nagging at her.

"Where are the girls?"
"Uhm, inside. I didn't want them outside with so many horses around and not enough people to look after them."
Suddenly, he smiles a little.
"Both Bryn and Ari have become really good at walking though, especially Bryn pulls herself up and climbs up at everything and anything she can."

Another thing she has missed - she only seems to miss things about her childen, Cersei ponders. There is no first for her, no first word, or sentence, or step, that she has observed. Then she is called away by her uncle and cannot think of it any longer.

~ o ~

They are married the next night, after the custom of the Old Gods - because the Faith of the Seven is done with her after Robert setting the marriage aside, because this is the North, because this is savage, and because there is simply no sept. Cersei has stopped believing in any God long ago anyway, so truthfully, she doesn't really care. She thinks Faramir is relieved though, so maybe there is something good about this.
Still, she finds that the Godswood is creepy, dark and overgrown, just like everything else, but at least it has a heart tree in the middle. Cersei thinks the carved face looks scary, but maybe it's because of the shadows of the torches that play over the white bark and reflect in the red leaves.

Northerners stand all around, mostly clothed in heavy leather and fur, a silent wall of ancient belief, as her uncle leads her towards the tree. She can smell pine, and wet earth, and dirt. It's so quiet and serene, so different than the pomp of King's Landing or the Rock - and yet, she has done that before, hasn't she.
Just another man, another wedding.
But this time there are also four children: that damn boy next to Tyrion and the three girls on the arms of several other members of the audience. An unconventional choice, having them around here, and another of Faramir's statements: Wherever he goes, the family follows.

Her dress is white, pristine, virginal. It's a lie, just like everything else, and it's wrong, just like the dirt that will surely cover the hem later.
But white is also a Northern colour. It's a colour without any meaning, without any feelings. Just cold, freshly fallen snow. It glows in the darkness like a fallen star, she knows she is cutting a striking figure, especially with her blond hair cascading down her back. It's only braided at the top and then floating down in golden waves, mostly because she knows it looks good, but also a little bit because Faramir likes it open. Despite everything, she wants him to be stunned, to be impressed.
And she wants these savages to talk about her, for the ages, about the Southern lion who was sent North, a queen in everything but name, unbroken.
When she moves forward, her maiden cloak feels heavy on her shoulders. It's a different one than during her first wedding, where she had worn her mother's wedding cloak. Back then, the weight had felt like a last embrace, something to give her courage. Now though, she is wearing a garment completely made by herself while she is stepping into this new part of her life. The embroidery is exquisite and expensive, probably filled with as much care as it is with resentment. And it makes her realise acutely how much she has changed - she is not that naive little girl anymore.

They stop next to Faramir and in front of Eddard Stark and that bloody tree. She can see he is giving her a once-over, but it's not sultry, more like he is checking whether she is alright. She nods courtly - no point in not being alright anyway.

Eddard Stark takes a deep breath and it all begins.
"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"
She can feel her uncle is tensing his arm a bit, but when he answers his voice is level.
"Cersei, of the House Lannister, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Faramir steps forward, and her eyes fix on his face. He has groomed his beard an pulled back his raven hair - a handsome man, truly. Not a boy anymore, not by a long shot. His dress is obviously Northern, in his grey wool and fur he seems to blend right in, other than herself.
"Faramir, of House Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin, Keeper of the Causeway. Who gives her?"
There is authority in his voice, and not a tiny bit of hesitation. It is the speech of a man who knows exactly what he is doing, and why he is doing it.
"Kevan, of House Lannister, her uncle."
Him and Faramir share a look - she thinks it's a little bit threatening and fond at the same time.
"Lady Cersei, will you take this man?"

It's going to be lonely and cold and lacking comforts. She will curse the North and Moat Cailin every day. They will fight and probably resent each other. They will -

"I take this man."

He doesn't smile, but his eyes do, as they hold hands and kneel down to pray. Her mind is empty though, but out of the corner of her eyes she can see his lips moving - so he is believing in this, after all. For a moment, she wonders what he is praying for - is he praying for luck? For love? For their children?

Then they get up again and he wordlessly but carefully removes her cloak. Cersei shivers as the cold air touches her body, or maybe it's the way his fingers almost accidently brush over her shoulders as he pulls back the fabric. She can see Cerenna is hustling forward and they are exchanging balls of cloth, so that he can cloak her into new colours, his colours. Grey and white, that's all she can see, and she wonders distractedly who made it. It feels heavy, even heavier than her maiden cloak, but maybe that's a Northern thing. He closes the clasp around her throat and looks straight at her. For a moment, time seems suspended. Northern weddings usually don't include kisses, but right now, she truly would like to kiss him, she thinks.
But he already lifts her in his arms as if she weighs nothing and easily carries her towards the feast - well, the five biggest tents in front of the towers that for this night have been turned into a makeshift banquet hall. It seems none of the towers can hold enough people, especially since the lower chamber of thr Gatehouse Tower is filled with a stupid huge stonen table.

This wedding is so easy, in a way much less nerve-wracking and stressful than a Southern one. Or maybe it's because she has stressed about it so much in the weeks before that she is simply unable to feel anything anymore - that's also a possibility.

In the course of the evening, she meets more of the bannermen, talks to some of them, even though she feels anything but like it. There is a short-statured couple who seem particularly close with Eddard Stark: Lord and Lady Reed. They are members of the Crannogmen, weird swamp-dwellers who fish and hunt and know secret passages and live surprisingly close to the Moat. Faramir and herself will need their friendship, she knows, and while Jyana seems a bit odd, she is at least friendly. She coos over the girls, telling her about her own two children who apparently are about Ellard's and Elwing's age.

There are gifts, of course, mostly gold, some finely crafted furniture, tapestries and therof. Under normal circumstances, Cersei would maybe a be insulted about the assumption that they can not furnish their own home - but truthfully, they can't. She can see they need the money for anything else, for repairs and for new buildings. For their children. For winter. So, she just nods and says thank you, and the people seem to appreciate that.
Of course the Lannisters go all out, and yes, Cersei is indeed not only a little bit jealous when she sees the Valyrian Steel dagger her father has chosen as a gift for her husband.
She herself gifts him a pair of arm guards, finely crafted and versatile, made for a commander, but also for a hunter. Made for a lord, but not for a bragger. Made for him, exactly the way she wanted them to. There is something in his eyes as he regards them, something warm, and he takes her hand and squeezes it once. She takes that as a sign that he likes them.

"Your horse, Meryll. Do you like her?" Faramir asks later when there is a bit of a lull in the conversation.
"In fact, I do. Why?"
A smile blooms across his face.
"Well, I am happy to hear that - since she is my wedding gift to you. I sent her with the others so you had time to figure out whether you like her."
"Very considerate."
It is meant to sound dry, but it comes out almost soft. After all, Meryll is pretty great and the gift is overall quite thoughtful.

As the Starks of Moat Cailin, Faramir - or rather, they- can wear a different coat of arms than the Starks of Winterfell and it is for the first time raised during the feast. Faramir, thankfully with her approval, has chosen a field, devided by two. The upper part is snowy white, like the Stark-crest, but with three grey direwolfs instead of one - obviously standing for Faramir as the third son. The lower part is grey with a white tree, a weirwoodtree, she thinks, though its shape is a little oddly, more like a fir, maybe. Aside from that, it has leaves painted in crimson - for her, she knows, because it's a true Lannister red.
The crest is perfect, all things considered, and she almost hates it because it is so perfect, just like she always hates him when she knows she should be grateful.
They don't have house words yet, but there is still much more time for that.

Faramir's feelings towards the Stark of Winterfell seem to be rather wintery frosty, from what she can see, and she can't blame him - her own reception by the Lord of Winterfell is probably as warm as the winter they always proclaim is coming. He doesn't like her, most likely influenced by Robert, which makes her wonder what his relationship with the king is right now. Why Stark agreed to that marriage, since he obviously cares for his little brother and finds Cersei lacking in everything, is a mystery to her.
She is also fairly certain he considers her to be mean, and petty, and maybe stupid. He certainly would be right about the mean and petty part, she thinks - but she isn't stupid. Never has been, no matter what Faramir says.

~ o ~

There is a bedding, though nobody truly touches her, probably everyone knows how thin the ice is they are all walking on. So, when she is dropped off in her, now apparently their, chamber, she is still wearing all of her clothes, even the bridal cloak. The room is just as bad as it was the night before, black from peat that has been burnt in the hearth, sooty and smokey and dark, even though somebody has clearly tried to make it look pretty and clean. It is simply furnished, boring, there is nothing aside from a four-poster bed, a small drawer, a table with a chair and a pile of books on that table. She thinks that probably this was Faramir's bedroom and study while she was still in King's Landing and distantly wonders what it will be like now - there is certainly not enough space for separate lord's and ladies's chambers.

An odd feeling comes over her when she thinks about sharing everything - a bed, every night - with him. It's not fear, but still a bit of anticipation. Though for now, he simply doesn't come, even though there is howling and cajoling outside for a time. It shouldn't bother her, really, she is not a fearful virgin, after all. She isn't even a stranger to him - and yet, it unsettles her that she doesn't know what is going on. What should she do? Go search for him? Get undressed?
What will he expect anyway? - That is a question she has not tried to think about for the longest time. Because they were lovers, true, but they haven't been for quite some time. She thinks he still wants her, but she doesn't know whether he wants to act on it. Maybe she is no longer interesting, now that she isn't forbidden, no longer another man's wife. Or maybe it's the way her body has changed ...
Suddenly, while her head is slowly starting to spin, the door opens and Faramir comes in. His hair is a mess and the few women in attendance were certainly thorough - he has lost his cloak and his doublet is partly open.

"Where have you been?"
"Just checking on the children," he explains, "I am sorry, they stay in the other tower, and I was held up on the way back."
Cersei smacks her lips.
"I see. So, what now?"
He raises an eyebrow, a little bit mockingly and certainly taken aback by her almost aggressive tone.
"I don't think I need to tell you the thing between a man and a woman works. You know, the children thing," he snarks.

He seems frazzled, she notices, angry and tired and raw. As if he has given up pretending, now that they are alone, and the veneer he has used to cover up himself is slowly peeling away to reveal the man under it.

"Don't be an arse!" she still snaps back for good measure.

Faramir sobers, then he sighs and walks over towards the bed. On the way he takes her hand and pulls her down next to him.

"Are they standing in front of the door?" she asks.
"I told them to bugger off - not sure whether they'll do though. Karstark and Umber are too curious for their own good," he huffs.
"We are an attraction. So?"

He rubs the bridge of his nose, a gesture of exasperation, she knows.
"Alright, I am sorry. I just have no idea what to do about us right now. So - what do you want?"

What do you want?

"The marriage - must be consumated, doesn't it?"
"Well, that's between us, I suppose," he argues, " whatever I say and whatever you say. So, that's why I am asking you for what you want."

She wants so much, and hardly anything that he can give her. Nothing but -

"Just... let us just go to bed, alright?"

He nods, Cersei can't say whether he is relieved or disappointed or whether he doesn't care at all. He lets go of her hand, and stands, she follows. It's awkward, maybe because there is no rush and neither smouldering heat nor frantic passion. She thinks that maybe she even blushes a bit and he seems at the brink of saying something, so she makes a move to take off that bridal cloak she is still wearing. Suddenly, she feels him behind her and his hand on hers, stopping her. He motions towards the clasp.

"May I?"

His voice is rough and while she cannot say why or how this could be important to him, she still nods shortly. She thinks he smiles, then his hands move up to open the brooch-like element that holds the cloak closed. She isn't a stranger to his hands on her throat because let's be honest, he still often beats her when they are fighting, and it's always unsettling. Right now though he is very careful, deliberately slow in his movements.

"Who made the cloak?" she finally asks.
"It was my mother's wedding cloak," he answers.

Somehow it surprises her that he used the heirloom on her and somehow it does not. In any case, his presence is distracting, so she leans back and tilts her head a bit to the side. He seems to answer the question she didn't even know she had been asking and gently brushes a kiss to her cheek.

"You look stunning," Faramir tells her lowly but seriously,"and I was incredibly glad weddings here don't require much talking, because I swear I would have been far too distracted."

The statement is weirdly sweet and rough at the same time, but it makes her smile a little.

"I know."

He huffs, but she thinks he is amused. The cloak falls away and he carefully folds it over the chair. Suddenly, he is back behind her. She thinks that, well, actually she doesn't know what she has thought, maybe that he decided to kiss her after all, but then there is a flurry of movements and something hard, cold and steely is pressing against her throat, just where his hands had been. She stiffens, but then forces her muscles to relax again.

"And here I thought you liked the white dress."
He chuckles.
"Believe me, I do."

She tries to figure out his game, whether he is playing with her, wants to scare her, or whether this is serious. She finds she can't. So she plays for time.
"I thought you wanted me as a partner. Not dead."
"Very true. Open your hands."

With a flick, the blade is away from her throat, and instead hovering in front of her body. She frowns, but he is waiting, until she finally holds out her hands. Faramir oh so gently places a dagger in her palms, a reassuring weight. It's not his usual one, and neither is it the one he received from Tywin Lannister. It's smaller, more easily concealed, but just as sharp.

"My other wedding gift to you. Please don't stab me though."
"Why?"
"Why a dagger?"

For a moment, his hands slide around her so he is hugging her from behind.

"Because I want you to be safe and this dagger can more easily be worn under your clothes."
"Valyrian Steel?"
"Indeed."

He can't see her smile, but she decides that at least she won't stab him tonight, despite the stunt he just pulled.

"Do you need help with your laces?" he changes the topic.
Cersei decides to play along.
"If you could losen the back -"

He is already on it, careful, more like a ladies' maid than a lover. He undresses as well, and the situation appears so strange- now that she is allowed, it feels as if she is not supposed to look at him. They get into bed, but he turns to face her.

They blow out the candles and the room is shrouded in darkness, the only source of light the slowly dying embers. Finally, it is her who leans over, because something tells her that weddings without any kiss a strange, especially if you already know the groom intimately. He makes a little surprised sound which tells her he must have closed his eyes before, but Faramir doesn't let her pull back. Instead, his arms come around her so that she stays halfway on top of him and she feels she is starting to melt as he is working his magic on her. Like a candle, dripping down, until her body is pressed against his and there is no space left and she is dizzy and panting. Cersei thinks that maybe she wants something more after all, but he stops her wandering hands.

"Kitten, tonight we've got time."

It's just a whisper against her ear, too quiet for the people outside to hear, and yet filled with something that makes the room seem a little less bleak. He is right, for the first time they are allowed to do this, and it should make it less exciting, but instead she only feels everything more, maybe because she doesn't have to worry about somebody barging in. So, maybe Karstark and Umber get their amusement after all.