Author's Note: This was originally written as part of a challenge for the Throneland community on LiveJournal. Title comes from "Asking for Roses" by Robert Frost.

I. He is not so handsome as his brother.

The girls had been twittering all day about the strapping young wolf-lord, with his muscular physique and rakish smile. In comparison, Eddard Stark seems small, faded, inconsequential.

But as she moves with him on the dance floor, she looks up at his dark-grey eyes and is surprised to find them beautiful.

Jaime sits in a corner with Arthur Dayne- even in shadow, she can tell that he's scowling. Cersei decides that she may as well have a little fun, and as she steps closer to Eddard Stark and places her hand more firmly on his shoulder, she laughs to herself at the Northman's little jolt of surprise.

II. He paces the corridors of Harrenhal, his mind full of violet eyes and dusky hair and Ashara, Ashara, the falling star-

She'd smiled at him at the feast, as he spun Cersei Lannister about the floor (letting her lead; he's really hopeless at dancing). He'd blushed furiously, and when he looked away from Ashara, he found Cersei's uncanny emerald eyes focused on his face, her lips curled up into a smile. Strange, how that girl manages to notice everything...

A stirring in a nearby alcove catches his attention. He places one hand on the dagger in his belt and approaches- a glisten of gold and a rustle of skirts, and there is Tywin Lannister's daughter, hastily retreating from the wing where the knights of the Kingsguard are housed.

"Lady Cersei?" he whispers, and when she spins about, he notices the flush in her cheeks, the disarray of her hair. "What brings you out at this hour?"

"I might ask the same of you," she snaps back, the moonlight catching in her catlike eyes. "I might ask why you're pacing in front of my door."

She shares Ashara's chamber. He lowers his eyes in embarrassment, and she catches the gesture. Of course she does.

"I shan't tell if you don't," she hisses, slipping past him and toward the wooden door.

A lock of flaxen hair catches on his cloak, and as he helps her detach it, he marvels over the softness of the strands beneath his fingertips.

III. "Ashara Dayne. You couldn't have aimed higher, could you, Lord Eddard?"

She finds him in the courtyard, dressed in training gear- likely waiting for his brother, or the Baratheon heir. He blushes at her words- he blushes often, more than any man she's ever met, and she finds it at once laughable and oddly charming.

"I know not what you mean, my lady," he murmurs in reply.

She steps closer and tilts her golden head. "Come now, Eddard- may I call you Eddard?"

"As you like, my lady."

"You are as yet unbetrothed, I believe?"

"That is true, yes."

"And you hope to bring Ashara Dayne to the North? To turn her into a lady wolf?"

He says nothing, but his blush deepens beneath his beard to a deep, distressing crimson.

Cersei is enjoying herself tremendously now, and her smile broadens as she says almost conspiratorially, "Best be careful, Eddard. Women of exceptional beauty often hide something far less lovely within."

"And what are you hiding, Lady Cersei?"

That surprises her- the briskness of his tone, the narrowing of his eyes, the quickness of his words. She only shakes her head and walks away, but she feels a warmth in her cheeks and wonders how red they might be.

IV. He's come upon her in the darkened hallways thrice now. He has no reason to be out- and if she does, she never admits to it. But they invariably end up in this tower together, standing and staring out and speaking every once in a while. It is rash and peculiar and in every way inappropriate, but he cannot deny the little twinge of excitement that always accompanies the sight of her lissome figure and streaming gold hair.

"How many women have you kissed, Ned?" It is always Ned now- she tells him that she finds "Eddard" stiff and cumbersome.

He wrinkles his brow and nearly laughs at the audacity of the question- what sort of ladies do they breed in Casterly Rock?

"I...I don't rightly know that I've kept records, my lady," he replies. It's a lie, of course- he's kissed four women. A bannerman's daughter in the North, a serving girl in the Vale, and two whores while on the road with Robert.

She's still watching him with that strange half-smile that always unnerves him- he blurts out without thinking- "And what if I asked the same question of you?"

"How many women I've kissed? I'm afraid it's not an impressive number."

He rolls his eyes, and she laughs.

"I only ask out of concern for you, Ned." The lilt in Cersei's tone implies more jape than worry, but he lets her continue. "When you kiss Ashara, you'll want to know what you're doing."

"I thank you for your concern, my lady, but I don't believe...I imagine that..." He clears his throat. "Should that ever happen, I would know what to do."

"Show me."

He blinks rapidly and stutters, "W-what?"

"I want to see." Cersei closes the small distance between them, her hip bumping against his own. "Don't tell me you're frightened? If you're too much of a craven to kiss me, what will you do with Ashara?"

Ned feels a little burst of temper at her words, but he pushes it down. "I could not, my lady...it wouldn't be proper..."

"Ned." He's turned his head to look away from her, but she forces herself back into his line of vision. "I'm not asking you to bend me over the balcony and ravish me."

And oh, the burning of his cheeks- he flinches when she touches him but is relieved by the coolness of her palms.

It all seems like a dream, too ridiculous to be real, that he should be standing here with Lady Cersei of House Lannister, the daughter of the wealthiest man in the kingdoms, famed for her fierce golden beauty- he lets his gaze trail down to her lips, full and pink and half-smiling-

Her hand has moved to the back of his neck, and she's guiding him down. The kiss is chaste, soft, with closed lips and gentle touches- he strokes his fingers through the cornsilk of her hair, smiles when he feels her murmur his name against his mouth. She's warm and fragrant and so impossibly beautiful that, for a moment, he quite forgets the Lady of Starfall, content to hold the lioness's mane in his hands and breathe in her pertness, her impertinence, her unquenchable fire.

When she breaks the kiss and steps away, eyes wide and shining, he feels the urge to wrap his arms around her and draw her back in, that he might feel her heat again.

V. After the tourney, it seemed that all anyone could speak of was the Stark family. Both Brandon and Eddard Stark performed well, but the real focus was, of course, on little Lady Lyanna, the unlikely Queen of Love and Beauty.

The next morning, Cersei breaks her fast with her father and brother, despite the fact that jealousy and resentment has quite spoiled her appetite. She pushes her fruit around the plate sullenly as she listens to her father-

"They've made quite a stir, the Starks- no more hiding in the wilderness for them, I suppose." Lord Tywin frowns in his daughter's direction, and she forces a cherry past her lips. "I'd found it peculiar, that Hoster Tully would betroth his daughter to a Northern heir, but perhaps he had the right of it. I nearly wish I'd thought of it myself."

And Cersei speaks, quite without thinking- "Lord Rickard has another son." She lifts her fingers to brush over her lips under the guise of clearing away cherry juice, all the while hoping that her cheeks haven't gone pink.

Lord Tywin's gold-flecked eyes narrow, and she feels Jaime watching her from the other side. Her father's voice, cold and crisp:

"You think that I would promise my daughter to the second son of a lord who presides over a barren wasteland? A boy who stands to inherit absolutely nothing of note?"

The silence is thick, and Cersei cuts through it with a high-pitched giggle.

"Of course not, Father. I was only jesting."

Lord Tywin's lips flatten into an annoyed line, and Cersei falls silent. She continues to pick at the fruit before her, pretending not to notice Jaime's piercing stare fixed upon her profile.

He follows her back to her room, his new, pristine white cloak flowing behind him, all the while teasing her about her "paramour", asking her when her tastes had become so unrefined, that she'd want a shaggy wolf slobbering all over her.

She pushes her brother down onto her bed, straddling his hips and kissing him quiet. They resume their familiar pace, grasping and tumbling, everything hard and fast- her mind flutters back to the chilly night on the ramparts, when Ned Stark moved his lips over hers so delicately, as though he thought she might break under further pressure- the memory sends a tingle coursing through her body, and she tightens her legs around Jaime.

VI. He wonders whether there is a way to refuse.

The idea of travelling to King's Landing quite upsets his stomach- after these past several moons, after he's seen the world turn on end and experienced loss after loss, after he's travelled from Riverrun to Dorne and back up North again, Ned Stark wishes nothing more than to be home, home with his son- my sons- and his wife. His wife- pretty, pretty Catelyn Tully, the girl who should never have been his, who was always meant to belong to someone else.

When he lies with his lady, kissing and touching her everywhere, he tries- and mostly succeeds- to forget pearly skin and raven hair and purple eyes-

But when he catches her curls in his hand, tugging on the thick, red tresses, he thinks of waves of fair hair, so fine that they slip though his fingers...and then he thinks of green eyes, too sharp and too clever...then of rosy lips and odd, mercurial smiles...

There is nothing to do for it, Ned tells himself firmly. He has no choice but to take leave of his family and ride south to watch Robert Baratheon- the newly-crowned king, his dearest friend- stand in the Sept of Baelor and wed a girl not his sister. He has no choice but to watch Robert marry Cersei Lannister.

It is only right that the former should upset him, and he convinces himself that his sudden bout of melancholy has absolutely nothing to do with the latter.

VII. I am the luckiest girl in the Seven Kingdoms. Every woman here wishes to be me today.

The girl who once was Lady Cersei of House Lannister, now the sovereign Queen, stands beside her new husband, holding tight to Robert Baratheon's large, battle-hardened hand. She flicks her gaze up to his face and finds him smiling at her, a smile that reaches only his lips. He is handsome, strong and powerful and young. Cersei wants to believe that she might care for him, and he for her- one day, perhaps, he might look her full in the eyes, might say her name without pausing first, as though keeping himself from uttering a different one.

Robert does not look at her, not truly, but Jaime does. She feels a little twinge in her lower belly at the thought of their tryst that morning, and another in her heart when faced with the naked despair writ across his beautiful face.

She feels herself begin to frown, and she breaks the stare- but she soon finds herself looking into the steel-grey eyes of Ned Stark, and that does little to improve her mood. She thinks of their evenings together at Harrenhal rather more often than she'd like to admit, and she'd fallen into an edgy temper for days after hearing of his wedding to Catelyn Tully (although that was nothing in comparison to her displeasure upon learning of his supposed bastard- Ashara Dayne's supposed bastard). He looks different now- older, graver, stronger- a Northern lord through and through.

Ned gives her a wan smile, a wistful smile that she returns. It is only when she feels Robert's muscled arm tightening around her waist that she remembers herself and pastes on the ecstatic grin expected of a new bride and a new queen.

The feast is merry- her husband drinks and drinks until he can hardly keep to his feet, and so she dances with everyone else- her father, her uncles, her brother...and Ned. Dear Ned, awkward as ever, letting her lead the steps.

She's steeled herself mentally for the bedding ceremony- I'm no blushing maiden. I'm a Lion of the Rock, and I fear nothing. And yet Jaime only unclasps her wedding cloak and sets it to the side before stepping away from her completely- the other men pull at her, prodding and pushing, and she feels at once vulnerable, left without an ally, without any sort of protection-

And then a slowing of the hands grasping at her, only gentle fingers at her back, unfastening each button of her gown one by one. The courtiers fidget with impatience, flinging crass japes in Ned's direction, but he only continues, his fingertips whispering over her bare skin as he moves down her spine.

When the men are through, when they've stripped her to the waist, leaving her in nothing but her smallclothes, they begin to argue over who will carry her upstairs. Cersei leans her shoulder into Ned, still standing at her back, and she meets his eyes with an unspoken request- Please.

When the Lord of Winterfell lifts her into his arms and proceeds toward the tower, she rests her cheek against his dark hair and feels, for a fleeting and crystallized moment, quite at peace.

VIII. They must send a gift, Catelyn tells him. The birth of the crown prince cannot go unacknowledged, not by the Warden of the North and the dearest friend of the King.

Ned agrees, of course, and defers to his wife in the matter, trusting her to find something suitable. He finds that he can always trust in Catelyn's judgment where such matters are concerned- she is clever and capable and strong, a good mother to their son- and she tolerates Jon, which is more than many women would do. He smiles as he watches her bustle about, one hand clasped over the tiny swell of her belly, and reminds himself that he is a lucky man.

That evening, as she holds Robb on her knee, Catelyn tells Ned to write a letter to accompany the gifts, congratulating Robert on the birth of his son. As he begins the note, Ned continues to watch his wife, her arm wrapped around the tiny boy-child who resembles her so closely.

The raven from the King brought word of a golden-haired infant, the mirror image of his mother. Ned feels a smile tease at his lips at the thought of Cersei and her lookalike baby, at the memory of the gentle little japes he'd toss at her regarding her vanity, at the flash of pique in her eyes that would be soothed when he assured her that it was warranted, that she deserved to take pride in her beauty.

He finishes the letter to Robert, presses it closed with his seal, and glances over at the ream of blank parchment at his side. His fingers itch to write another letter- but the impropriety of such a thing would cause nothing but trouble, and so he leaves it.

IX. Jon Arryn dies, and Cersei's husband becomes more of a stranger than ever, spending night after night away from her chambers, ignoring her presence in the Great Hall, paying the children even less mind than usual.

Not that she objects- it rather suits her to have bedsheets that don't stink of wine, to have the ability to lose herself in Jaime without constantly reminding him to soften his grip on her lest he leave marks. Joffrey manages to occupy himself perfectly well, Tommen is too used to Robert's apathy to notice any difference, and Myrcella...well, she seems rather blithe since Tyrion's arrival at King's Landing, and as little as she likes it, Cersei grudgingly allows her daughter time with her beloved uncle.

After several days of furtive silence, Cersei is startled by the gruff arrival of Robert's voice- "Make ready to go North."

She blinks in his direction, furrows her brow. "How far North, husband?"

"To Winterfell, woman, where else?" he snaps back. "I've much to discuss with Ned Stark."

Myrcella looks up from the dice game she's playing with Tyrion- Cersei takes the opportunity to glare in the dwarf's direction- and asks with breathy excitement, "May I come North too, Father?"

Robert's blood-shot blue eyes crinkle with some warmth, and he gestures to Myrcella, pulling her up onto his knee. "Yes, poppet. You'll have Lord Stark's girls to play with, and they'll show you what Northern children do."

Cersei tries to press for further information, but Robert only narrows his eyes and tells her to keep her mouth shut and follow orders. She sweeps away from the Great Hall in high dudgeon, willing her thoughts away from her fool husband and allowing them to wander somewhere far more pleasant.

Ned. It has been such a long time. Nearly ten years since he'd last been summoned to King's Landing. He spent the majority of his visit closed up in Lord Arryn's quarters, or hunting in the woods with Robert. She'd spoken scarcely two words to him over the course of a fortnight- he never even asked to dance with her at his arrival feast.

But then, the night before his departure, he'd caught her elbow as she made her way to her chambers, drew her aside into an alcove. His silvery eyes sparkled a bit with drink- but not too much, never too much, that wasn't Ned's way. He took her hand and pressed something loose and dry into her palm. She looked down and discovered a small collection of winter rose petals, coated with a preservative that made them shine like crystal. A sweet fragrance wafted in the air; she buried her nose in the flowers and breathed.

Ned's voice, soft and low- "They're not full flowers, not like the ones I gave you before" - she still had the pressed roses among her diaries, still took them out to admire them several times a week- "but these are special. The scent will never die, no matter how many years pass..." He paused, and she watched his throat move with a swallow- "I know not whether you'll ever see the fresh ones, but this is the next best thing."

She slipped the petals into the fold of her cloak, locked her green eyes on his grey ones- and then her palm on his cheek, drawing him close enough to place a kiss on the skin near the corner of his mouth.

A tiny turn of the head was all it would take- but Ned, Ned and his honor. He only waited for her to move away before bowing, murmuring a quiet "Your Grace", and proceeding down the corridor.

Cersei smiles as she remembers it now. She fumbles in the folds of her cloak until her fingers close around a petal- she's carried them with her every day, every day for ten years. No one ever finds them, not even Jaime- she's careful about that much.

She spends the day ordering her maidservants about, overseeing the arrangement of materials for a long journey North, watching and scolding and picking till nightfall.

The moonlight leaks through her window, painting everything in white and silver. Cersei scatters the petals on her pillow and drops her cheek into the sweet-smelling pile. She knows that Jaime is waiting for her on the other end of the castle- but as she lies in the dark and breathes, images of blue roses and frosted grounds and grey eyes and tentative smiles swirling and swelling as her drowsiness grows, the Queen chooses to close her eyes and sleep.