THE LIONESS UN-ANTLERED

Watching Robert swing his hammer in the practice yard was like witnessing an awesome act of nature; a hurricane leaving ruin in its wake or a tidal wave swamping all before it. The knights tossed about like a little girl's rag doll were not necessarily lesser men for losing to the Mighty Stag. They were simply lowly mortals whose misfortune was to be in the path of something far, far greater, more powerful, and Seven ordained than themselves.

The daily palpable demonstration of the King's magnificence in the Red Keep's inner bailey always sent a thrill down Cersei's spine and straight to the depths of her rapidly moistening loins. No less so this morning. 'What incredible children we shall breed,' she promised herself ecstatically.

The blow from Ser Lyle's mace shattered the bottom of the tough oak and ironbound royal shield, but the Strongboar's best did not so much as sway the Mighty Stag an inch from his purpose. Remorselessly, the realm renowned war hammer came around in exchange to sunder the foe's entire shield in twain. Her father's strongest bannerman, save for the giant Clegane, next desperately tried to answer by tangling the haft of his shorter weapon with the King's own longer one, but a deft twist of the strong royal wrist sent the offending mace flying.

Then, an impossibly quick, low backhanded swipe took out the Strongboar's legs. Immediately followed by the heavy, anvil like head of the Dragon slaying weapon scornfully coming to rest with an insolent, substantial clang on to the breastplate of yet another fallen, hapless mortal. Cersei clapped her hands in applause at the triumph.

"I yield, your Grace" Ser Lyle coughed hoarsely out of a bruised and battered chest.

"Next!" Robert bellowed in command; ignoring the knight as he turned about impatiently to look for the new opponent.

Jon Arryn's pet knight, the newest of the white cloaks, answered the call like a dutiful hound at a trot. In addition to his Vale loyalties, Cersei did not like that one's cold, beady, unreadable eyes. Thankfully, even after more than a half-year's new reign, there were still two open spots on the Kingsguard. She would have to move quietly and cleverly there; as she needed more than just her twin amongst them as a loyal ally.

She watched as Robert contemptuously tossed away his partially broken shield and, taking a two handed grip on his weapon, rushed ferociously straight at this newest … nuisance.

"'Ours is the Fury.' House Baratheon's words seem particularly apt for his Grace, do they not, Lady Cersei?" the plain looking, brown haired, brown eyed woman beside her asked. "As if long ago Lord Orys secretly knew that one day a scion of his house would rise from betrayal to claim the Iron Throne."

'Speaking of nuisances,' the Lioness thought of the jumped up hayseed whom she was now and forever forced to socialize with. Despite her thoughts, Cersei set a smile upon her face to look down at the uninspiring, vaguely feminine shaped mouse; refusing to swallow the bait that she had anything to fear from the backhanded implication of Orys Baratheon being Aegon the First's closest friend. "Only to his enemies, Lady Shyra. And I could never be my dear Robert's enemy. Could you?" she counter attacked. 'True, he may take time to tame,' Cersei admitted, but she was young and beautiful; she had all the time in the world to do so ... once she became Queen in a mere week's time. Any thought of the impending wedding never failed to please her to no end.

Her rival smiled a polite, deceitful smile in return; showing off slightly crooked teeth and drawing unfortunate attention to that ridiculous snub of a nose. "No, Lady Cersei, I meant nothing like that. Only, that, I am surprised at the men that the boys from my childhood have grown into."

'Bitch, rubbing my nose in your acquaintance with my Robert.' "That's right. I keep forgetting, Lady Shyra, that House Errol is from the Stormlands; and, thus you may have met his Grace and his brother a time or two." She mewed a tiny, bored sigh before continuing. "I fear at Casterly Rock, before our betrothal, I did not o'er study the lords and holdfasts of Robert's banners. A slight I aim to correct now that I am to become Queen. Now what is your father's hall called again?" Cersei asked with the innocence of a sweet maiden and the venom of a manticore.

That unattractive smile widened a tad. "Haystack Hall, Lady Cersei."

"That's right … Haystack. Silly of me to forget. Oh, look … poor Ser Mandon," she said with utter insincerity.

"Next!" roared out of the large circle of mortals cheering around the King and up to the ears of the pair of women watching them from a balcony of the Maidenvault; proper noble quarters for two betrothed young ladies right before a royal wedding.

Some proud peacock of House Serret, Cersei knew not which one, strutted out to futilely strive against the Mighty Stag. Her father had commanded the cream of the Westerlands to attend his only daughter's wedding and crowning. And come they did, riding their mightiest steeds and wearing their finest silks and velvets. None were so foolish as to gainsay Tywin Lannister wishes; especially where his precious Cersei was concerned.

The two soon to be wed maidens, and unfortunately future goodsisters, watched in the silence of their separate jealous thoughts as the feeble knight was readily dispatched in a maelstrom of painful blows.

"Next!"

Some petty squabble of honor erupted between two fools over whose proper turn it was to be the one next crushed underfoot by the Mighty Stag; her Mighty Stag; her Robert; her dream, the perfect King to her glorious Queen.

Curiosity at last snared the Lioness and caused her to break the silence between them. "And how different were my Robert and your Stannis as children, Lady Shyra?"

"Stop your womanly harping! You've tried my patience enough, I'll take the both of you together!" the object of Cersei's affection snorted menacingly at the bickering mortals.

"His Grace was a mischievous, good natured scamp," the bitch said with a playful smile heavily laden with happy memories that Cersei could never know. "He took Lord Steffon's punishments for his more roguish exploits cheerily; even refusing the use of a strap lad from out of the group of young pages who followed him everywhere."

Cersei smiled quietly in pleasure. 'Robert and Jaime are so a like.' Her twin had always manfully stepped forward to take the beating for the both of them when her schemes of fun very occasionally got them into a spot of trouble. Her hand gestured to encompass all below them. "And those great knights and powerful lords of the Realm will also follow him anywhere," she proudly proclaimed. "Not so different after all."

"They are all men who have put the pranks of childhood aside for the noble duties of ruling and justice. But where went his Grace's good cheer, Lady Cersei? Now, I fear I see only fury," the colorless hayseed preached with a dreary wistfulness.

Cersei fought to contain the heat rising in her cheeks and the doubts hidden deep within her bosom. She suspected where the Mighty Stag's fury came from. Her. More of a rival in many ways than the Errol bitch beside her. The one, thankfully dead, who sparked the Rebellion. And who, like sly Elia with deluded Rhaegar, had been chosen before a Lioness of the Rock to be a royal bride; a Queen.

Well Lyanna, Elia, and Rhaeger were all dead. And clever Father, strong Father, had brilliantly played the Game of Thrones to rectify the injustice to her. She would not, could not, disappoint him. Any thought of earning his displeasure, in all but the one secret, gnawed at her. But once the golden crown sat upon her beautiful blonde brow, his pride in her would know no bounds; watching her rule Westeros with Robert, with Jaime ever by her side.

Cersei would see this weak rival banished to Storm's End with her dreadful husband. It would be easy. Robert clearly did not much like his brother. Perhaps, once that fat Northern toad Manderly took Dragonstone and killed the last of the dragonspawn, Stannis, as next in line to the Iron Throne until her womb quickened, could be forcibly maneuvered into taking the traditional seat of the heir apparent. Leaving Storm's End for little, useless Renly. The idea pleased her greatly. Her mood lightening, she amiably chided back, "And your dear Stannis? Is he also full of this fury that worries you, Lady Shyra?"

The answer, though it came in the same, insipid voice, was amazingly, brutally frank "No, not fury exactly. But a deep resentment, like a well banked fire, smoldering deep and hot within him. I told him such when he came to tell me my lord father had accepted his betrothal proposal."

The Lioness couldn't stop her eyebrows from shooting up in surprise. If she truly had a tail it would have started twitching. She couldn't believe how foolish the naïve chit was to speak such words aloud. Cersei bit her tongue to stop from laughing in the stupid cunt's face.

"I asked him whether the siege had changed him so from the quiet boy I once knew," she mindlessly continued; face again taking on a look of thoughtful, troubled remembrance.

"And?" Cersei prodded incredulously.

"There are horrible things better left unspoken," she declared with distaste

"That is what he told you?"

"Oh, no. Lord Stannis told me in excruciating detail of their gruesome circumstances within Storm's End. Of the Tyrells feasting and laughing in front of starving men. I would not relay more to you, Lady Cersei; nor any lady, as t'would be improper. Is there not something sweeter we might talk of?"

For this creature, Cersei had had to wait two extra months to be wed. Awkward, unappealing Stannis had dawdled in making a decision, and then Seven only knew chosen the woefully inadequate in every way Shyra Errol. It stung the Lioness knowing her nuptial glory would be diluted by the dual wedding ceremony for the two brothers that her Mighty Stag had insisted upon. Yet it was a small compromise for the crown she deserved. Thankfully, this witless, dowdy, backwoods wench sired in a haystack would have no place in the crowning ceremony!

"Kingslayer!"

Shyra Errol coughed politely to gain Cersei's attention. Then, "I believe his Grace is about to spar with Ser Jaime."

This would be her Mighty Stag's last bout of the morning. He always saved the strongest challenge, either her twin or Ser Barristan, for last.

Cersei thought it a mite unfair of her betrothed to cross weapons with one of his white cloaks. They were, after all, sworn to protect him; not hurt him, even in only a mere training match. Of the score of times she had watched Jaime match strengths against her Robert, her twin had not won once. Only the past his prime Lord Commander had ever so much as disarmed the Mighty Stag; and those few times had all ended with a weaponless Robert then trying to then grapple by hand with the unfairly still armed old man.

Oddly, those defeats had seen her betrothed give his warmest smiles: strong body lying in the dirt, face plate tipped up to reveal a splash of crimson on battered nose or broken lip, a sword point or dagger hovering over the royal visage, and Ser Barristan asking in an exhausted voice, "Do you yield, your Grace?"

Cersei promised herself that Robert would smile in much wider delight than that on the night of their bedding. Oh, she would be properly demure, at first … then … the Lioness would emerge with a lusty roar of her own! Cersei's loins flooded pleasurably in anticipation of the coming ecstasy. Jaime felt true within her, as a twin should. But she knew nothing would compare to her Mighty Stag, whose antlers had gored the bloody dragons to death, when his greatest tine pierced her willing velvet purse.

For minutes Jaime dazzled with a display of speed and strength and skill, keeping the King off balance; unable to unleash his full awe inspiring power. Then her Robert displayed his own knacky skill. The haft of the warhammer suddenly dropped all the way down between the Mighty Stag's big, powerful hand; so that the head now abutted his fist. The butt of the haft thumped down on her twin's unsuspecting forward foot; then, swung up almost faster than the eye could follow to smash the sword arm, sending both man and sword spinning through the air.

"Get up, Kingslayer! I'm not through with you!"

"Your Grace, my sword lies over there," she heard her twin complain.

"And there's more than one weapon on a battlefield. Now fight!" And the King began chasing his white cloak humiliatingly about the circle to hoots of derision from their lessers.

Her Robert was all things greater than her own beautiful twin: taller, stronger, braver, handsomer, skilled, charming, and, finest of all, more powerful. The lone exception being fleeter of foot. That was the price Robert had paid at the Ruby Ford for the kingship; the thigh wound received in exchange for crushing the tyrant Rhaegar's chest to dust.

At last Jaime clued in and snagged a spear from a simple man-at-arms watching from the edge of the circle. Her twin was no Dornishman, but the extended reach kept the King at bay until her Mighty Stag would brook no more of it and charged in with utter disregard to eyes, armpits, groin, and knees.

Cersei held her breath, she herself would no more brook her twin showing up at her wedding with even the slightest mar than she would her betrothed.

Realizing defeat inevitable, Jaime, dancing rapidly backward, dropped the spearhead to catch between the thundering royal legs. And the King stumbled, losing his balance even as his dense mass and sheer strength caused the length of hardened ash to snap. But despite falling, her Mighty Stag could not be stopped. The heavy warhammer flew true out of his hand like a slender dart to strike resoundingly on her dodging twin's shiny shoulder pauldron. Over he too toppled.

Being the less stunned, the Mighty Stag scrambled to his feet first, but weaponless. Jaime rolled to his knees and began to pick up the thrown royal weapon as the King he was sworn to protect lumbered awkwardly towards him on a now noticeably limping leg. Her Robert caught the half blow from her precious twin with his massive hands, and then an armored knee smashed into the side of Jaime's face.

A brief cheer went up from the sycophants as the Mighty Stag stood over the fallen young lion.

"Well fought Kingslayer! Kingslayer?!"

And then generously, the King sweetly condescended to effortlessly swing the limp, unconscious body of his valiant white cloak off the ground and place him over a broad shoulder.

Later in the day, Cersei knew she would take the opportunity of her twin's battering as an excuse to visit him alone. And to confirm whether or not he would sport a cut or a bruise to his face on her wedding day.

"Ser Jaime fought valiantly," Shyra Errol said by way of a backhanded compliment.

"My brother did, but who can defeat his Grace?" Cersei answered proudly.

"Ser Barristan has," the bitch replied simply to antagonize her.

Cersei could not let the indignity stand. "I do not see Stannis armed for practice. Why is that, Lady Shyra?" the Lioness asked, willing her claws to lash deep.

"What have you done?"

The blunt, unprefaced accusation flung before she had barely taken step inside her father's solar rocked Cersei. "Father?" she asked worriedly, well remembering and fearing that tone. For the last two months he had been nothing but solicitous of her.

"The King was raging this morning to the Hand that he wishes no damnable sham marriage to some foolish chit. By which, I take it, he means you," came the withering answer; icy green eyes staring into her soul in search of the taint causing his vast disappointment.

"I .. I have done nothing, father," she automatically defended herself. Ashamed that her voice was not as steady as it should have been. "His Grace spent a charming evening with me last night. We shared amusements and drink with his boon companions in attendance ... until I went to check on Jaime."

Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock said nothing in response. Trying to beat a truth that didn't exist out of her with his eyes. Just like when she was a child.

The only truth from Cersei that could have ruined her wedding would have already caused her death if Robert Baratheon had discovered it; and she was far too clever to ever let that happen. Though the danger did add a certain …

"The King did not spar. Perhaps that inadvisably caused his humors to rise for some silly reason," she attempted to lightly turn the conversation for once away from herself.

That brought a different, unexpected, and still unhappy reaction out of her father. He leaned forward in his chair, the lion condescending to note the existence of his prey. "You would be well advised, Cersei, should you still be fortunate to be crowned Queen, that a King's reasons are never … ever … 'silly,'" he hissed more than whispered at her.

'or Tywin Lannister's reasons,' she silently amended. Then, also, defiantly 'or Cersei Lannister's reasons.' Was she not the Lioness of Casterly Rock? "You have taught me properly, father. I shall be the Queen you want. And that Robert will realize he needs," she answered with the combination of compliments, pride, and cleverness that went far with her father.

He eased back slightly in his chair to prove her right. "This is not the first I've heard of the King saying this nonsense."

That was news to Cersei. While Robert had certainly been proper to her since even before the betrothal months ago, he had not yet warmed to her as most did; let alone doted upon her. Instinctively she considered who had brought the warning. 'Varys or Pycelle,' she quickly decided. 'Or both.' Neither, any longer, had allies in King's Landing thanks to the sulfurous taint of Aerys that clung to them; remaining on the Small Council through the sufferance of their betters.

"Worse," her lord father continued. "His heart's desire apparently is to become a sellsword captain in Essos. Leaving the Iron Throne to his brother Stannis. I ask again, what have you been doing, Cersei?" the Lion growled with contempt for all involved in this folly.

Lannister red heat leapt on to her cheeks. That dour slut Shyra Errol Queen instead of her? Never. "I will make him forget that pitifully Stark bitch!" she snapped without thought.

A small smile appeared on her father's mouth at her pronouncement. "How?" he prodded softly.

'Yes, how?' Cersei wondered. She had ears. She overheard the ridiculous devotion with which the King's loyal bannermen spoke that dead Northern cunt's name. A dull haired, flat chested thing that was half horse according to those that saw her at Harrenhal. She cleared her throat. "Perhaps Lyanna Stark went willingly with Prince Rhaegar," she suggested.

The smile grew a bit and approval shined in the deep green eyes regarding her. "Words you must never again say aloud and deny if asked," he cautioned.

Causing her to pout.

"Though others, of lesser repute, I am told, have already begun whispering such about her," the wise Lion continued.

"Father." Her relief and gratitude evident by the tone of that one word.

Whatever warmth had been growing immediately got swept away as he re-exerted his natural leonine presence. "How, Cersei? What must you do to bind Robert Baratheon to our House?"

She would not state the obvious. Appear beautiful. Compliment. Flirt. Play to vanity. Disparage that which he already scorns. Such was as simple and automatic as breathing to her.

What more could she do? She certainly would not throw herself at him; no matter how his Warrior incarnate form excited her. She was a Lannister of the Rock for Seven's sake; and, would never lower her dignity to that of some filthy tavern wench, no matter the long ago spoken rumors of her betrothed's thirsts. But she must be Queen. She must. She would die if …

"Queen you shall be..."

The memory of that dark night suddenly flooded into her as it was wont at times to do. And as always, Cersei realized she should have demanded of wretched Maggy the Frog the number of children she would bear Robert, but then stupid, naive Melara had had to interrupt to ask her foolish, deadly question; and, the old woman's answer had scared them out of the tent.

"Not Jaime, nor any other man, Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close."

And the prophecy had been true, hadn't it? Clueless Melara had drowned in a well that night before … before Cersei could bring help. 'So the first prophecy must have been true too,' she reassured herself for the thousandth time. True up to a point.

"... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

Another, more beautiful than herself? Ashara Dayne was dead now, praise the Stranger. And once she was crowned Queen, nothing could ever take that away from her. Nothing.

Emboldened. She drew herself erect.

"I am Cersei Lannister, daughter of Tywin and Joanna Lannister. A betrothal has been made. I shall be Queen. And woe strike the fool who dares step in the path of the Lion. For a Lannister always pays her debts. Hear me roar," she proclaimed with utter certainty.

A pleased smile greeted her answer. "And how will Robert Baratheon be bound to our House, my daughter?" he asked, this time not unkindly.

"By bearing his Grace many sons."

The half full Queen's Ballroom, her ballroom tomorrow, looked splendid; though very different in so many little ways from soon to be doomed Rhaella's reign over it. As with all of Maegor's and the entire Red Keep, dragon motiffs and House Targaryen colors were now utterly absent. Instead, individual tapestries highlighting each of the Seven Kingdoms hung in pride of place between the beaten wall length silver mirrors and either side of the high arched windows pointed towards the Blackwater Rush and the Kingswood.

As she delicately sipped her Arbor Golden, Cersei contemplated the improvements she would be making to the décor for the parties she would throw. The tapestries of Dorne, the Reach, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North must remain, though shifted about; lest she set jealous tongues to wagging. She would place an order to Lyse for larger, more glorious ones of both her dear Westerlands and her Mighty Stag's Stormlands. And of course there must be a plethora of new, brilliantly colored banners to festoon the gallery above; showing lovingly locked together Lions and Stags.

"You look beautiful tonight, Lady Cersei," the aged voice to her left pronounced; moving past the night's usual bland discussion of the merits of each course of food. Then a raspy chuckle. "Of course, when have you not looked blessed by the Maiden? I dare say never." Then one of the man's liver spotted hands reached out to touch the arm of the lady seated the other side of him. "Is that not so, Lysa?" Jon Arryn rhetorically asked his over pale wife.

Cersei wore her golden hair up so as not to distract any view of the Lannister crimson silk gown adorning her body. In fact, for that very same reason, she wore no jewelry at all; except for the ivory pins keeping her thick hair in place. The material was very sheer and left her neck and arms visible; while her smallclothes beneath were daringly even sparser and more thin. Her father had initially forbidden her from wearing the risqué ensemble, but Aunt Genna had supported her desire to show Robert Baratheon the promise of all that he would be wedding.

"Yes," the little fish agreed with a jealous tone that a dull smile did nothing to hide. "A King's dream."

"And a King's wife on the morrow," the Hand said kindly in proclaiming the obvious.

She returned her most charming smile. "You are too kind to me, Lord Jon. Lady Lysa," she said modestly and with pleasure. From Lord Tywin and his agents Cersei had learned she owed much to the Hand in first arranging the betrothal and most importantly in securing the wedding against whatever 'silly' doubts his former foster son had had about it over the last week: giving up the Iron Throne to be a sellsword? In Essos of all Seven forsaken places? "And you as well, Lady Lysa. I've always thought that House Arryn's colors fit your complexion perfectly."

Another insipid smile. "It was difficult surrendering my Tully blues and reds. Pray you have an easier time giving up your Lannister gold and crimson."

'No, that will not happen,' Cersei thought. The colors suited her; though her gown in Baelor's Sept would only be Lannister gold, since the crimson did not match so well with the hues of the Baratheon black and gold that her Robert would drape over her shoulders. While the cape would be exchanged, Cersei was a lioness; not some trout shedding its slimy scales for an aged, feather bare falcon. Her polite smile grew wide. "For his Grace?" She turned to look at him on her right. So strong. So noble. "Anything," she exhaled with such pleasure that she wondered whether it was in fact the … truth.

Her movement must have caught the Mighty Stag's glance; causing him to both disengage from speech with her lord father and to set down his own goblet so that he might finally properly address her. "Yes, Cersei?" his powerful bass rumbled soothingly. Barely noticeable past his broad, broad shoulders, she watched her father's clear, cool green eyes observing them. The betrothed couple had annoyingly spoken little together so far at the high table.

"Lady Lysa and I were exchanging compliments on each other's appearance, your Grace."

Sharp eyes moved away from her magnificent decolletage and down the left side of the table. "Lady Lysa looks well," the Mighty Stag said with a contrary hint of concern.

"She does," Cersei agreed, adding the perfect soft note of empathy to her voice. It was now a little over a month since the miscarriage. And, in truth, Cersei had spoken her honest opinion to Lady Lysa. Arryn sky blue did better drown out and hid the frightful pallor and large pores of the woman's skin. Alas, nothing could ever be done to disguise that shock of limp, red hair.

The Mighty Stag simply nodded back at her. His eyes again dipping down where she wished them too.

Having gained his attention through the skills possessed her, Cersei was not about to relinquish it. "Far be it for me to suggest, your Grace, but when duties lessen, perhaps a trip for Lady Lysa to the Eyrie or Riverrun might do her and her lord husband some good?" she suggested with sincere sounding compassion.

The Lioness intended to pay her marriage debt to Jon Arryn by making her Robert see the selfishness of keeping his former foster father with a young, heartbroken bride on much longer as Hand. The Game of Thrones was equal parts brutal strength and subtle maneuvers; Cersei meant to secure her rightful position beside the Mighty Stag on the playing board sooner rather than later.

"I hope to send Jon to secure Dorne's allegiance later in the year," the King surprisingly confided to her in a quiet voice.

Inside she smiled with pleasure at being drawn in to affairs, while outwardly she took note that as he spoke, the King's eyes could not help but stray a moment towards the table where that fat and loud Northern oaf sat. The Master of Ships must first subdue Dragonstone and secure the new dynasty with the destruction of the last dragons. She felt her womb clench. Yes, that could not happen soon enough to satisfy. "Alas, the desert sun it not a place to send dear Lady Lysa," she replied wistfully, while leaning closer in to his Warrior blessed frame.

A slight, pleasing up curve of the King's lips happened and he said, "No. But I hear you might prosper in Sunspear."

"Your Grace, I am a lady," she chastised back immediately, for Dornish women were renowned sluts; though not excessively, for this was the King she was gainsaying, and her not quite yet the Queen.

"Ha," the Mighty Stag snorted. "Your forget, Lady Cersei, your brother is one of my Kingsguards. He must tell me everything. Think you not I have asked him about you."

"And?" she challenged back jauntily, safe knowing that her twin would never reveal anything damaging. Though Jaime deserved at least a slap for not having warned her.

"You were a mischievous little thing growing up in the Rock, weren't you?"

Automatically her lady's training told her she must contradict the accurate allegation, yet … Robert Baratheon had won a throne over the slight done to some wild, horse riding Northern she-wolf. And he appeared warm to the idea of a naughty side in her. She leaned closer still. "Frightfully," she husked. "Did Jaime confess that I used to beat him regularly at training swords?"

"No? Never!" her betrothed hooted with interest.

"True, until my lord father learned of it and forbid me to pick up a tourney sword," she outwardly pouted with her full, red lips and a little girl's voice. "I look forward to you teaching me how to play with a man's sword, your Grace."

Robert Baratheon's face mottled at her double entendre. "Desert," he suddenly exclaimed and snapped his fingers to get the servers' attention. He bit into the flaky pie promptly placed in front of him. "Cherry tart," he announced, as a warm, pink stain appeared at the corner of his mouth.

With the last dishes taken away and wine goblets topped off, the true purpose of the night's quaint Stormland's wedding eve custom could begin: the exchanging of gifts between the betrothed's families. Alas, it was not just the Arryns, Tywin and Jaime Lannister, young Renly, and her Robert at the high table; Stannis Baratheon and his Errols sat there too, like nasty bumps on a particularly unattractive log. At least the vilest little bump, her impish brother, was not in attendance; not anywhere in King's Landing, her father keeping the family shame away from her glorious triumph.

Cersei felt tears swell as her father solemnly presented the betrothed's maiden cloak to her. "This is the cloak I placed over your Lady mother Joanna's shoulders on the day of our wedding. Like you will be on the morrow, we married in the Great Sept of Baelor; where, the only cloak in all the Seven Realms worthy to replace this one shall be given you, that of a King's," Lord Tywin Lannister proclaimed proudly.

She floated on air; the dream become reality, as the Queen's Ballroom, her ballroom, erupted in applause at the knightly gesture.

Next, a loud orange cloak emblazoned with a piss yellow haystack was given to drab Shyra by Lord Abnyre and her wraith thin brother Kyrstif.

Then her Robert stood and gestured to a happy faced, little Renly. "Brother, as you will become the Lord of Storm's End upon my marriage and yours …"

'What?!' the Lioness thought. No one had told her this. She looked at her father, but his face remained perfectly still, unreadable.

".. to you is the right of giving the Lady Shyra the same wife's cloak that our Lord father Steffon gave to our Lady mother Cassana. Wear it … wear it in good health, Lady Shyra. And bear Stannis many sons."

'Bitch! That was mine!'

The guests cried out their "Huzzahs!" at the King's joint gifts of House Baratheon heirlooms.

Cersei pinched her mouth into a smile at her Robert's … generosity.

Stannis' thin lips, fought as they did, slowly parted to reveal a genuine, if still pained smile. "I … thank you … Robert," he said with pauses that left the impression he was unused to placing those words together.

The Mighty Stag would make her Queen. And then her cornucopia would overflow with abundance: unending wealth, the most beautiful clothes and jewelry, power over all lords and realms, and perfect children.

"You're as much fun as the dregs at the bottom of a cask, Stannis. But … " the King grimaced uncomfortably. "… you earned it, brother."

Then the rest of the ballroom joined in the gift giving. Women only to brides. Men only to grooms. Another quaint part of the custom.

Uncles Kevan, Tygett, and Gerion presented his Grace with the finest Sorrel stallion from the Westerlands' pastures, a magnificent red leather jousting saddle, and spurs made of pure gold. Cersei had no idea which of them dared to smuggle the horse into Maegor's Holdfast, but the Mighty Stag showered vast appreciation on the gift; and then nearly came to tears of laughter when the beast dropped a steaming load of dung on her ballroom floor. "Is that part of your present to?" he roared giddily.

Aunt Genna and her weasel husband gave Cersei several bolts of colorfully dyed Volantine silk. Her mother's brothers, Uncles Stafford, Tyland, and Gerrold, gave the King a black belt of alternating gold stags and lions. Cersei received a matching red mare and saddle from her mother's sisters, Aunts Kyra and Leila; thankfully without presenting this horse in the ballroom.

Jon Arryn presented his former foster son with a simple looking sword in a somewhat battered sheath. "The sword you were knighted with, your Grace." "I shall cherish it forever, Jon." Lady Lysa gave Cersei perfumes extracted from flowers of High Garden, balsams of the Summer Islands, resins of Sothoryos, and myrrhs of Mereen. "I shall wear these with the pride they deserve," she assured the little trout.

Both Cersei and Shyra Errol received a passel of emerald green studded jewelry from the lady wives of Robert's Estermont Uncles Eldon and Lomas, as well as a gaggle of uninspiring female cousins; including a beastly titted one without a husband in attendance. Cersei thought it not a pity that the color did not match the eyes of Stannis' betrothed like they did hers. Fat Wyman Manderly, without a wife in King's Landing, apparently broke Stormlands' etiquette by directly gifting Cersei with a silver mermaid pendant sporting swirling white and green pearl eyes. Shyra's version had pure black ones.

The Errols presented sparse gifts as befitted their lack of wealth to Lord Stannis and the soon to be lady of Storm's end. Cersei could not remember what Jon and Lysa Arryn gave the pair, if anything. She had probably been paying attention to her Mighty Stag at the time. And it was not Stannis who fostered at the Eyrie after all.

"How charming," she exclaimed with a clever facsimile of pleasure when her almost goodsister presented her with a hay stalk gold broach inlayed with diamonds at the top for the grains.

"And here is my gift to you, dear Shyra," she 'gushed' handing over a substantial, velvet lined box.

"Oh, Lady Cersei, its gorgeous," the drab ooohed pulling out a thick torc made of beaten Westerlands' gold.

'May it keep you weighed down and chained to Stannis,' she prayed.

Her Lord father ended the gift giving when a pair of husky pages carry in a chest that was placed before the King. He nodded at them and they flipped open the lid. "Ten thousand dragons, your Grace. And I've nine more chests as well for your treasury." His words brought a hush to the room.

Cersei broke the calm. "Your Grace, it appears my brother Jaime neglected to present me with a gift," the not entirely satisfied Lioness complained with a light, amused tone.

"I fear, Lady Cersei, that as a knight, your brother is not allowed by our realm's traditions to provide a gift to a lady; even one so delightful as yourself," ancient Lord Boros Estermont Stormland'splained to a scion of the Rock.

"Ha! What say you, Kingslayer? You're not one to let custom stand in your way. Do you have a present for your lovely sister?" the King commanded an answer.

Cersei knew he could.

Her twin smirked from where he had been seated on Kingsguard "duty" at the end of the table next to Lysa Arryn. "While I believe my vows only forbid marriage, children, and lands; I fear my lord father has, in his wisdom, forbidden me from pinching anything of interest out of Casterly Rock's Golden Gallery or even its many vaults. So despite my wishes to shower your betrothed, your Grace, or sweet Lady Shyra, should it not raise Lord Stannis' jealous ire; alas, I am as poor as a begging brother."

'As if father does not know our Uncles sneak you money.'

Her Robert snorted in amused appreciation at her brother's wry taunts. Then, "What is to be done, my Lady?" he asked gallantly.

"Then I ask a boon of your Grace."

"By all means."

"Permit your White Cloak to escort this maiden on her last chaste night to the Maidenvault. Allow that to be his gift to his sister."

"By all means," the Mighty Stag agreed. And then sprang up to his feet. "A toast. To the morrow!" he roared.

"To the morrow!" the room chanted back; all coming to their feet because that is what their king had done.

Her betrothed drained in his goblet in one long draught.

"My thanks for all of you attending," he said in a carrying voice. And then softer, just to her, "Lady Cersei, I leave you to the tender cares of your brother. To the morrow," he echoed, tilting his head to gaze with evident longing but a moment with bright blue eyes into her deep green ones. And then he stalked off with barely controlled desire for her.

"'Last chaste night?'" Jaime amusedly murmured into her ear, before he resumed nibbling at her lobe.

"Stop saying that," she laughed back at him as his hands deliciously kneaded her bare flesh.

"What? The truth?" he teased. "I've half a mind to let you stay chaste, tonight."

"But you won't"

"hhhmmmnnn?" he answered and began a pretend motion of drawing away from her.

"Never," she insisted, reaching out to grasp his cockstand.

"Naughty, naughty."

"Fill me. Be me," she begged huskily, staring up from her bed into a matching pair of dazzling emerald eyes.

"That might break my vows," he smirked; no longer moving, allowing her face to reach up to his cheek.

"Oh you've broken many, many things." And she began stroking his long, stiff member; pushing the foreskin backward and forward over the firm, bulbous knob. She heard him whimper in desire. "Like my maidenhead," she whispered alluringly as she nuzzled his neck.

"Oh gods," he gasped, body suddenly jerking forward; surrendering to the inevitable. His weight sank back down a top her; his downy haired, heavily muscled chest brushing against her erect nipples. The now closed gap between their naked bodies stayed open just enough to allow her hand to keep manipulating him. "Hurry," he urged.

Cersei instinctively pushed her twin's member to the hot, damp slit at the top of her needful velvet purse.

"Oooooh," they moaned together as he thrust into her. Their pelvises joining. Again. Their bodies merging. And again. Their souls as one. And again and again and ...

The magnificent leonine beast crouched and powerfully leapt.

Crafted by the Gods, She/He soared through the void.

Far below the dual sexed creature lay a towering, rocky edifice.

Home. Their den. To do with as they pleased.

Stronger together than apart.

Always together.

Always.

… shadows flickered on the ceiling from the torches burning in her bedroom.

She experienced the last of the separation from their intense union and remembered again who she was ... Cersei. The Lioness. A Queen.

Jaime lay beside her, gazing at her adoringly; no longer erect. For the moment no longer desperate for her; though she felt his essence clinging to her even as his seed slowly dribbled out.

"What will we do?" he asked; always the more uncertain of the two of them.

"What we must. What we always do, Jaime."

He nodded thoughtfully. Then frowned in concern. "Robert will know you are not a virgin, Cersei."

She laughed to herself. Men were so gullible. "I thought you said he had brought only a few sluts to his chambers?"

"Only one or two; and none lately," her twin agreed before continuing in earnest. "But the man has a reputation. He came out of a fucking brothel to fight Jon Connington at Stoney Sept. He has acknowledged bastards in the Vale for Seven's sake," Jaime near hissed.

"All the better," Cersei chuckled. "He will be so eager for me he'll hardly notice."

"Cersei," Jaime chided in a low voice.

She giggled briefly, then reached out for his limp member. "Oh. OH!" she gasped. "Your so … so big," she declared in a girlish voice. The Lioness was quite curious as to whether the Mighty Stag was better endowed than her other half. "Will it fit? So big," she gulped.

Cersei felt her brother's exhausted cock start to twitch at her game. "Oh … oh … its going in. So tight." Her Robert's must be bigger. He was a full grown man compared to Jaime. The strongest in all Westeros. Her Mighty Stag with an antler to match his size and girth. "Soooo …. OH! I … I … take me my King. I … I never knew it could be like … this." And she undulated her hips suggestively to prove her point; half imagining it was ... she could not decide which one of them … doing it to her.

In truth, she had a ring which when twisted just the right way presented a sharp prick. The Lioness had long been prepared to nick her velvet purse so that in the morning's light the pious fools might see the crimson sign of the antler's strength and her Lioness' virtue displayed on a mere bed linen.

Alas, her convincing display only reminded her brother that he must now at last share her charms with another. His face clouded. "And what if I've made you pregnant?" Jaime continued with his litany of doubt.

That notion in particular always seemed to worry her twin for some reason. While the pleasure of their joining was undeniable, it had never been just about the pleasure. "Neither you nor Robert will make me pregnant this weeki. It's not the right time of the Moon for me." 'But someday you will, Jaime,' she promised herself. A second son. With her twin always by her side, the Imp could never be allowed to inherit the Rock. She would make ensure that only a purebred Lannister succeeded her father, Tywin.

She rolled on top of him and kissed him deeply. "You must go, my love," the Lioness said firmly, but sadly. He'd spent too long already. All it took was one stupid servant or overly solicitous lady-in-waiting to accidentally enter what they had been forbidden.

Jaime pouted, the spoiled boy having to give up his treat. "One day I'll spend the whole night with you," he growled. Still he obeyed her, as he always did and began shifting away from her.

"Yes," Cersei quickly agreed; followed by one last kiss and then the slide off his glorious golden body. 'But not now.' The Lioness must prepare to become Queen in the morning.

Robert looked near as splendid as Cersei did, in his doublet of forest green, beneath a cloak of soft gold velvet emblazoned with a black as night crowned stag. The ruby and black diamond encrusted antlered gold crown rested as easily on his thick mane of black hair as her perfect hand rested within his powerful one. Her Mighty Stag appeared so vastly more impressive and handsome than his brother Stannis had in the just concluded earlier ceremony.

And any comparison between her own beauty and that backwoods hayseed was not worth Cersei's effort to contemplate. Not one of the throngs of lords and knights and ladies granted the privilege of attendance to her royal wedding would in seven days' time remember a whit about that other, lesser one.

Praise the Maiden that the dual weddings of the brothers had not enforced a complete sharing upon Cersei's dignity. Neither of the unenthusiastic, mumble mouthed halfhearts had smiled even once; even as a pretense of happiness for the gathered crowd.

Whereas Cersei had positively beamed a light that threatened to overwhelm the rainbow emanating from the High Septon's crown when her Lord Father Tywin had led her up to the marriage altar placed between the giant statues of the Father and the Mother in the immaculate Great Sept.

The old man now bobbed his head at them, almost blinding her with the diffused light spat out by the crystals, signaling the betrothed pair to commence the exchange of vows.

"No longer must I face death alone as I now carry you in my heart to the end of days," her Robert said bravely to his Queen in mere moments.

"No longer must I face death alone as I now carry you in my heart to the end of days," she repeated adoringly at the King.

"When the Seven call, may the Stranger lead you from the realm of love you created to your rightful place in the Seven Heavens," the High Septon blessed them.

The Mighty Stag and the Lioness tenderly repeated the individual binding vows of marriage for each of the other six aspects of the Seven: Crone, Smith, Maiden, Warrior, Mother, and Father. Together they wove the ritual words into a magic that matched only one other Cersei had ever known. And with last set of vows, the High Septon gave his final blessing on their marriage:

"May your marriage always bring glory unto the Faithful. Joy to one another and blessings to your Houses for generations. May you face every challenge hand-in-hand knowing that with the Father's grace, you will conquer all obstacles together. May love and children fill your hearts and your home throughout all the days of your lives. May Westeros be forever a better place because the two of you fell in love. In all of the Seven's blessed names, so be it."

Then the sweet, ethereal voices of the eunuchs of the Faith's Choir filled the highest vaulted ceiling in the enormous Sept, anointing them with the gift of song.

"This wedding day, bind us together.

Laughing or crying,

Happy and true,

In Seven's sure keeping,

So we may never wander away …"

"Bind us together

With cords that cannot be broken

Bind us together, Mother,

Bind us together with love …"

"Warm with compassion,

Showing the way …"

"Bind us together …"

"May our home be ready,

To welcome your children …"

"… Bind us together with love."

The familiar hymn had never sounded more perfect to Cersei's ears. Tears of joy came to the corners of her eyes as the last heavenly notes lingered in the air. She could not help but squeeze Robert's hand, but he was already staring at the High Septon in anticipation; she could feel him slightly quiver. Cersei wanted to break into peals of giddy laughter, knowing none would dare the wraith of her Mighty Stag.

The old man cleared his throat so that in a strong, carrying voice he could ask, "Here, before the eyes of the Seven, if your heart is true, pronounce before this noble assembly why Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister may not wed as husband and wife."

The challenge went unanswered as she knew it would; not even Jaime dared the undareable.

Then, through the ensuing silence, her Lord Father stepped up on the dais beside her. Turning to look at him, she saw him unable to repress his small smile of joy; signifying the immense pleasure of achieving his life's goal: a grandson on the Iron Throne. His long guiding hands clasped her lady mother's gorgeous crimson and gold dragon adorned maiden's cloak and dramatically lifted it off her shoulders; relinquishing the Lioness at last to take her own path away from his protection.

Next, little Renly hopped forward out of the front of the fawning crowd to hand his brother a folded soft gold cloak. The Mighty Stag shook it out with a commanding flourish, causing the cape to spread out like a butterfly's wings. She smiled, noting that the ebon crowned stag inscribed upon it was bordered with Lannister gold. And the lone visible eye sported a shimmering emerald.

The previous night's slight would not be forgotten, but she decided that this was an acceptable cape to receive from her husband. And then he draped it over her. Strong hands resting gently a moment on her shoulders. Quickly followed by fingers sliding across her upper chest. Powerful fingers encompassed the doe shaped golden clasp at the neck. And the deed was done, her new cloak was fastened tight.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," her Robert's deep bass rumbled with emotion.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Cersei proclaimed.

Her Mighty Stag bent down from his great height to kiss her. She saw herself, all her desires realized, reflected in his clear, bright blue eyes.

His hands returned to her, drawing her in. Their lips touched. Briefly. Too briefly to properly satisfy her. Yet it completed her.

Cersei Lannister was now Queen of the Seven Realms.

Both her dreams and the prophecy had finally come true.

On the morrow, in the Throne Room, the Lioness would be formally crowned.

The sole center of all Westeros' attention.

So lost was she in her triumph, that she barely heard the dreary old High Septon declare, "Robert of House Baratheon and Cersei of House Lannister are now forever more joined as one flesh, one heart, and one soul in the eyes of the Holy Seven."

"My Queen, congratulations on your new life of nuptial bliss," sweet Marbrand said nobly from the other side of the high table. And then he bobbed his head with due respect to her; though Cersei saw his lustful eyes, half hidden beneath a dangling copper colored forelock, dart to stare at her high full breasts.

"And my congratulations to you on your knighthood, Ser Addam," she returned the compliment with emphasis and pleasure. That Jaime's best friend ogled her, even at her wedding feast with the King, her husband, beside her, was no surprise. Since she first flowered, he had always done so whenever he visited the Rock. A fact she had always teased her twin about.

His smile widened at the acknowledgement of his proud, new status. "Very kind of you, Cer … your Grace," he sputtered back, almost falling into the trap of childhood over-familiarity.

The Lioness turned her regal view to address the, Seven be thanked, last in line who stood behind the fine-looking Addam. "You must be gratified with your son's knighting, Lord Damon."

The vigorous, middle-aged man too smiled widely. "Your Grace, far be it for me to chastise my new Queen on her wedding day, but it is for us humble lords and ladies to show felicitation to your lovely, royal self. And not the other way around," the Lord of Ashemark recited with smooth grace; though his eyes too drooped ever so slightly towards the daring expanse of cleavage revealed by her low cut dress.

Cersei knew it to be true. None, perhaps in the whole history of the Seven Realms, were more lovely than she right now. While her Robert had remained in the handsome ensemble he had worn to Baelor's, the Lioness, a bit like a leopard, had chosen to change her spots and gotten into a lovely off-white gown; one perhaps more appropriate for a bedding than a wedding feast.

She chuckled in appreciation at the japery in his remonstrance of her. "Then give me your blessing, Lord Ashemark, and I shall cherish it always," she teased, extending her hand out for the rare privilege of permitting anyone than her dear husband to kiss it.

"How's that shoulder, Ser Addam. Not too bad, I hope," she overheard her Mighty Stag rumble as Jaime's friend had moved on after being superseded in the Queen's attention. The young knight had been one of the King's sparring victims o'er the past week.

"The Westerlands' loss is all of Westeros' gain, your Grace," Lord Damon said huskily before laying a gentle kiss on the back of Cersei's bare hand.

"I hefted a shield yesterday, your Grace. Only a little tender."

"And Westeros shall ensure the Westerlands' receives its fair share in exchange," she bantered back.

"Good, good. Mayhap you can have a go at me on the morrow."

Ashemark's smoldering eyes rose up from her still grasped hand, not making it as far north as her face and thus addressed her breasts. "You do your father and House proud, your Grace." Then he reluctantly relinquished his hold on her and stepped forward to follow his son before giving her Mighty Stag cause for jealousy.

The King had exhibited exemplary discipline on that front, she thought as the last honored well-wisher moved on. Only the ladies, the sword-swallowers, and the so aged they no longer remembered where their cocks hid had failed to be stimulated at the sight of her. Robert himself was clearly moved beyond almost all endurance; staring at her, a drink ever in one of his powerful hands, and a sheen of arousal sweat on his commanding forehead.

The Lioness settled well satisfied back into her seat beneath the towering height of the Iron Throne. The backdrop under which those from the twenty long tables below the high table had approached her and her dear husband to offer their congratulations; and, in return receive the sweet condescension of a royal thanks. One table permitted to approach after each course of dinner.

Now concluded, Cersei could more fully turn her attention to enjoying the music pouring out of the gallery from the collection of drummers and pipers and fiddlers; as well as strings and horns and skins. Tumblers flipped summersaults back and forth down the main aisle between the high table and the central doors. Jugglers lofted not only balls, but more dangerous daggers and axes. The entire room was a cacophony of exciting action and cheerful noise and vibrant colors in celebration.

The titanic Throne Hall barely accommodated the staggering number of superior lordly guests invited to her wedding feast. Tables and benches overflowed and groaned with the weight of Westerlands' and Stormlands' nobility. And what with her Robert having fostered with Jon Arryn in the Vale, a sizeable contingent of friendly Vale lords were present, having dutifully sailed to pay homage to their liege and one time friend. Even timid, little Lysa Arryn had a few friendly faces to cheer her disconsolate meager bosom, for Hoster Tully had brought those banner lords who had deigned to attend under his House's so briefly Riverlands ruling flag.

The thorny Tyrells, though invited, had wisely chosen not to come. While wanting a flawless day, Cersei was torn by their disrespect to her; as well as at the loss of amusement from watching the inevitable snit Stannis would have thrown at the presence of his reviled, former besiegers. Still, a few of the very finest Reacher lords had come. Earlier, her magnanimous Mighty Stag had seemed well pleased to reminisce about Ashford with Randyll Tarly, the only man ever to defeat him in battle; and not that pompous, over-boasting Lord of "Lowgarden."

A spotlessly garmented page placed a large, golden brown, flaky topped pie on the high table between the Lioness and her Mighty Stag. She was not sure which number it was, she had lost count already in her excitement; though she supposed it must be the twenty first. In total, seven times seven courses would be served. 'What number could be more auspicious than that,' she wondered.

"Would my lady care for the first slice?" her husband asked her attentively, if not accurately.

Cersei steeled her face from showing the slight irritation that his address of "my lady" had given her. She smiled encouragingly and responded in kind, but with the best cheer. "My antlered knight is chivalrous to his doe."

He took that as the invitation it was meant to be, and picked up his knife.

"Bwahahaha!" he roared upon making a cut. A bird, and then a second, flit out of the hole. "D'ya see that Cersei! Ha, that's damned clever! Larks, I think!"

She smiled sweetly back at his evident amusement. Such pies were a tradition, but usually from a sole, much larger tin; and with a larger quantity of birds contained within.

"Stannis, open yours!" her King commanded.

Sitting past Cersei and his hayseed from the Mighty Stag down the high table, the current, temporary heir looked suspiciously at his elder brother.

"Go on! I doubt you'll find a pair of swans. If its nightingales we'll send the pie over to Lord Caron," he laughed, before taking another drink.

Slowly, Stannis obeyed.

A mockingbird flew out. Then … nothing more.

Insipid Shyra peered into the pie. "Oh, the poor thing's hurt," she exclaimed and reached in. Out she pulled a broken winged bird.

'How apt,' the Lioness thought.

"May we keep him, my lord husband?" the hayseed asked.

"Just another Proudwing, Stannis. Best snap the neck of useless things," the King announced with an odd tone to his voice.

Stannis looked long over Cersei's head at his brother.

"Please?" the useless thing at Stannis side asked again.

Flinty blue eyes shifted to look down into dull brown ones. His head nodded once.

A small smile, a first that day as far as Cersei remembered, briefly crossed that plain face. "Boy," Shyra not the Queen or as pretty as the Queen called for the nearest page.

'Stupid cun…'

THUNK!

Cersei's head snapped back. Her pie had been pushed off the edge of the high table.

"Next course!" her Mighty Stag thundered. His amusement apparently at an end. The goblet quickly replaced his words at his lips.

In an instant, a jester on stilts rushed over to the shattered concoction of pastry and filling; purposefully landing a foot in the slippery mess. "WAAAAAA!" the mottled fool cried, suddenly flying arse over tits.

The Throne Hall roared its approval of his antics.

Hamish the harper kept a respectful distance on the dais as he followed behind the Lioness and her Mighty Stag; though he played more for the crowd below them than he did for the royal couple. Upon their arising from the wedding thrones the not unattractive bard with the first signs of salt in his pepper beard first sang the utterly appropriate love ballad "My Lady Wife." He was now on "My Featherbed."

"… and how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree …"

Even having limited herself to a single, or occasionally a second, bite of each course, Cersei's svelte belly positively bulged from the extravagant feast like some unwanted bastard child. Her close-fitting gown dress seemed to grow snugger and snugger, almost like a noose, with each step she walked with her royal Robert down the high table to thank each family member present. Why they must thank these guests, she did not know; had that not been the point of the previous night's feast?

'I will see better customs followed when my first son marries,' the Lioness vowed. At least she only had to speak with her Lannister kin and a few sporadically placed Estermonts. Stannis and his Hayseed were thankfully not accompanying them, being down at the other end of the high table where most of the Stormlanders and Haystacks sat.

Cersei felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun in anger and found a foolishly grinning Addam Marbrand. "What …?" she began, then noted a small horde of smirking, velvet and silk glad handsome young men gathered behind their apparent leader.

"The bedding!" they roared lustily.

"The bedding!" the entire Throne Room cheered. Followed by a long confused jumble of intermixed coarse, bawdy jokes and out right slurs at her exalted station's expense; with "tits" being the word most frequently shouted.

The Lioness' cheeks may have blushed in response, for she did feel a heat come to them as she maintained a steely visage. Only when Cersei was sure of her control did she notice an equal number of maiden aged ladies also gathered on the dais between her and the Iron Throne. She cared not a whit for them and their purpose. Her concern was only for herself.

Then, thankfully, Jaime's strong voice rose above the din. "If any of you tiny cocked louts remove even the smallest stitch of the Queen's garments before reaching Maegor's, I'll lop off the offending hand!"

A disappointed groan escaped her gaolers' lips.

"And what of the King!" a saucy female voice shouted out from the crowd.

That caused her twin to grin. "Loss of a hand for every lady who doesn't hold a scrape of his Grace's clothing by the time we reach Maegor's!"

"HUZZAH!" the room thundered. Robert tipped his head back and laughed in appreciation.

'I'll hold you to your promise, Jaime,' she thought viciously as her feet were lifted off the dais floor by the eager swains swarming her. The Lioness would never abide the public loss of her dignity. The Outer Yard and Middle Baily were chock full of a host of lordlings, hedge knights, filthy men-at-arms, and vulgar serving women feeding and drinking to their lusty bellies' content.

She had spied their pathetic lot and even been drunkenly cheered by them earlier when she made her way on horseback through the castle to the feast. They must be denied the view of her naked shame, though she had no doubt it would strike many of them dead, on the customary bedding march. She was no whore.

Thankfully her twin and his white cloak brothers did their duty. Out the back of the Throne Hall she was carried, into and through the garden that led to the Kitchen Keep, then up the stairs to the Red Keep's outer wall. By this point she was as man-handled as any low tavern's sole serving wench; and spoken to with an equal share of ribald comments. Most importantly her gown seemed intact.

Once upon the wall, the Lioness noted that the lagging gaggle of girls no longer bothered to try to support her Mighty Stag. While his clothes were well shredded, they had not yet been torn from his powerful frame by the shrieking, love-struck, jealous maidens. She smiled at seeing his sour face as they tugged him unwillingly forward by those heavily muscled arms. Those very same, magnificent arms that would so soon hold her, and only her.

To the White Tower the procession trod. Down through the spartan quarters of the accompanying Kingsguard and out into the near empty Lower Bailey. There lay Maegor's Holdfast. Her new home. Her new life. Only one last insignificant obstacle to overcome and Robert would be hers forever; King to her Queen.

The desire filled louts, each one no doubt sporting the hardest cockstand he'd every sported in his pathetic life, carried her over the drawbridge above the yawning, spike filled moat and within.

"HUZZAH!" they cried in triumph.

The official ravishing of Cersei's clothes immediately commenced.

She heard more than saw Jaime and the other white cloaks push the last of the disgusting revelers out of the bedchamber. Her bedchamber. The Queen's bedchamber. To maintain her shy, maidenly façade, she pulled back the top sheet of the giant poster bed the bastards had dumped her naked body and slid beneath it. Her mind could still feel their grotesque, pawing hands. And her breasts were outright sore from all the groping.

The thick, carved oaken door at last slammed shut. The continuous raucous hoots and noise made by the vile carousers was at last reduced to a dull roar. Cersei could finally hear herself think. She waited several moments for her Mighty Stag to announce his presence but received nothing for her patience.

She craned her head about to peer around the hanging canopy tapestries and the bed posts for a sign of her Mighty Stag. Only a few lamps and torches set in sconces burned to light the large room. "Robert?" she called out with both real and put on nervousness. "Are you here?"

Cersei received a grunt in response.

And then her husband stepped out of the shadows. The Lioness saw that the jealous sluts had peeled all of the covering off of her Mighty Stag as well. He took the large flagon away from his lips and set it on a table.

"Cersei," he at last said near breathless, staring hard at her.

She offered him a timid, yet beguiling smile in exchange; as her emerald eyes drank him in in all his glory. So tall. So broad. So strong. Heavily muscled arms and a powerful chest that even the heavy mat of ebon hair could not hide. A flat, defined belly with a continuing hourglass shape of covering hair descending from chest to the black mass of hair sprouting out above his legs. And dangling down from between those two pillar like legs, his thick antler.

The Lioness felt herself start to moisten in anticipation of the piercing that splendid tine would bring her in moments. Unlike herself, Cersei realized her Mighty Stag was not utterly perfect. His skin bore the light colored, healed marks of an honorable warrior on arms and torso. And best of all at the top party of his meaty, burly thigh the great wound with which he had won the Iron Throne. With which he had won her.

In his eyes she saw a barely controlled, furious lust aimed at her. Cersei wanted to rip off the thin satin sheet covering her own splendor so that he would simply take her now. She was ready. She almost trembled with her desire for him.

"You're lovely," she gasped, breaking the silence.

His brawny hands clenched into fists. "Don't say that," he commanded loudly.

"Your Grace?" she whispered, immediately worried that the Lioness had been too forward; forgetting her proper role for this one night.

"Quiet," he snapped, and then began striding about the bedchamber like the wild, untamed great beast that only a Lioness might conquer.

Entranced, Cersei sat up to observe his mating dance; bed linen falling away from her substantial, firm breasts and engorged nipples. Her Robert was everything she yearned for. Everything she needed.

"Come to me, my Mighty Stag," she moaned, no longer able to control herself. "You're magnificent!"

He charged at her, face flush.

SLAP!

Cersei half flew out of the bed from his backhanded blow.

She saw stars as he loomed in a rage over her.

"Don't say that! Don't ever say that!"

"Wh-wh-what?" she stuttered through a daze.

"Look at me!" he roared in command.

His man staff dangled right in front of her face from where he stood by the bed beside her sprawled out form.

"Look!"

He was pointing at his antler. Cersei tried to focus. No, she slowly comprehended; he was pointing at the huge scar next to the tine.

"Rhaegar not only took my betrothed … he … he … he took my manhood, godsdamn him to the deepest pit of the SevenHells!" Robert Baratheon practically screamed.

Realization dawned on her. Her Mighty Stag had not sported a cockstand. She gulped. He would never sport a cockstand. Which meant …

A powerful, huge hand grasped her neck and lifted her body partially off the bed.

Furious blue eyes glared death into her; lips quivering with untouchable anger.

"If you ever speak a word of my shame, I shall crush you into dust."

Her head bobbed as much as his painfully strong hold allowed in acknowledgement of the horrible promise.

"Every night that I am in the Red Keep, you will sleep in my bed. And each morning you will greet every lady-in-waiting, every dressing maid, every squire serving me with a satisfied smile. Do you understand?" he hissed.

Cersei nodded again. Her life was become a nightmare. An image of sweet Jaime flitted through her agony wracked mind.

"And when Pycelle or any other maester examines you and gives you some nostrum to drink for your fertility, you will accept it gladly and say loudly you wish you could give the King the son he deserves. Understand?" the rampaging animal snarled; spittle flying on to Cersei's upturned face.

No children. No children. Not even with her twin, her other half. "Stannis," she hacked out through her abused neck.

"Yes. My dolt of a brother or his children will inherit the Iron Throne," he agreed angrily. "That was why I demanded a double wedding. Fucking Westeros must have a King. And … and I … I cannot sail off to Essos to become a sellsword and hide my shame, godsbedamned!"

Finally somehow satisfied he opened his hand and Cersei flopped down to the bed. She sobbed he great breaths of air. The beast had nearly choked her unconscious or worse.

Her tormentor's now free hand joined the other to rip away the last of the sheet covering her and pushed her legs apart. "Time to give those fools the crimson gift they expect," he said brutally.

The Lioness' hands flew down to try and smack her attacker away. She strove with all her might to snap her legs shut. To no avail, his strength was too much for her; one hand shackling her wrists and the other dealing her another blow to her face.

Tears spilled down Cersei's face as she went limp in surrender; her shame would only grow.

A thick, callused finger poked painfully into the now dry entrance of her velvet purse. It hurt going in. It met no resistance in doing so.

"You little slut," he laughed with bitter mirth, withdrawing the offending digit unadorned with a virgin's blood. "Who was it? Or has it been more than one, you little whore?" he barked.

The Lioness peeked out of her den and shook her head no. Cersei would never betray Jaime. Never.

The monster raised a meaty arm. "I could beat it out of you. Would you like that?"

"Never," she squeaked in defiance. To Jaime she would, she must, be true.

Insane blue eyes peered into determined green ones.

The fist came down. The thing posing as a man laughed bitterly again. "I believe you." And then, just as quickly his arm went up. "If you are ever caught with another, I will draw and quarter you myself. Understand?"

Cersei promptly nodded.

"And if you ever become pregnant. I will thunder the 'Rains of Castamere' upon you and your entire House," the Demon of the Trident promised with gleeful violence.

Her eyes simply widened in shock, completely believing the vile threat.

"Good. We have an understanding then, Cersei," her antlerless husband announced almost cheerily. "Let's have a drink to celebrate our bargain."

The flagon was raised and he drained the rest of it in one go, some of it overflowing his lips to dribble down his chin and onto his hairy hide.

The Lioness gulped several times before daring to open her mouth. "What will we do now?"

"I intend to get drunker, slut," came the satisfied response.