"Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine', she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tel me what to do. Be quiet or I'l have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders.' "

- A Storm of Swords

273 AC

Casterly Rock

"I never hurt him. I was only showing them the little monster." The child's voice rises, strident with temper. "And what if I did?"

"Cersei." At the rustle of her skirts, the wet-nurse sinks with relief into a deep curtsey. Joanna waits at the landing of the flight of stairs until her daughter dips down as well. She does so with the poorest grace in the world. "You will not speak so of your trueborn brother."

"I beg pardon, my lady mother," the girl says and then, unable to help herself, bursts out, "But she had no place to question me. She's just an udder with legs!"

The wet-nurse flushes and looks to her mistress expectantly, but Joanna does not spare her a glance. "It was not her place to speak out of turn to you and in such a fashion," she acknowledges frostily, "but then, neither was it yours to flaunt your brother to our guests like a peddler's gimmick."

"But he is!" Cersei bursts out. "Just like a two-headed calf. They thought he had a tail and scales and horns - that's what they all think about him! That he's a little monster. And he is."

Joanna ignores her. "Myrma, you will take yourself to Lady Dorna to see about your wages. And then you will see yourself and your boy out."

"My lady!" The young woman sinks to her knees but one look from the Lady of the Rock quells her and with a hiccuping sob, she turns and flees down the corridor.

Too soft, Joanna thinks critically. The next one will need iron in her spine and vinegar in her tongue if she's to deal with the twins when they come visiting. Before the smirk on Cersei's face can blossom fully, Joanna adds, "And you, mistress, will spend all of today and tomorrow tacking and basting sheets with my women. A little hemming might teach you humility."

"But mother-"

Joanna does not slap her, although there's many a mother that would. Instead, she flicks her skirts away from Cersei's grasp as though her daughter disgusts her. And in some ways, she does. "And you will do so in silence so that you might better contemplate your transgressions. Speak but a word and I promise you that you'll quickly learn that there are far less pleasant things in the world than a little plain sewing. Go."

Cersei does not cry, though her eyes are over-bright as she forces herself to curtsey to her mother. But the look she shoots her is so hateful, so venomous that Joanna almost shivers.

At the banquet that night, Joanna has ordered snake-meat grilled over a charcoal brazier, spiced with mustard, dragon peppers and a dash of venom, in honor of Loreza's visit. Other Dornish foods, that Kevan sniffs suspiciously at and Jaime makes a face at when he thinks she's not looking, grace the table as well - blood oranges and caramelized dates, grape-leaves stuffed with mincemeat and orange snap-peppers. And there is stranger fare from across the waters too – breaded scorpion, unborn lamb, jellied calves' brains and dog cooked with lemon and honey.

She does not submit her guests or her lord husband to the sour Dornish vintage of course. Instead at the high table they sip summerwine and spiced hippocrass from crystal flutes and toast to a prayer for a short winter.

When Princess Elia compliments the food and asks Cersei whether Dornish fare is strange or pleasing to her, Joanna cuts across. "My daughter is not to speak today," she says, "she is in contemplation for a small mischief."

Gerion laughs heartily. "Again, Cersei? Mercy, what have you done now?" He is fond of the twins and quick to tease them, to laugh at them or make them laugh. Cersei's face turns as red as her new silk gown as the others chuckle in amusement - even Jaime, who sticks out his tongue at her. Good, Joanna thinks. A little laughter never hurt anyone. And the gods know, Cersei needs to be reminded every now and then that she cannot be a little tyrant.

"Lady Cersei is spirited," Loreza says kindly. "Such fire, such charm will be much cherished and admired in Sunspear." Tywin frowns at her for letting slip the news - women, he will bluster later at night in the privacy of their bedchamber, they can never keep their mouths shut. And then, as a concession, Except for you, my love. But now that the cat's out of the bag, he sits back and resigns himself. Kevan and Gerion, who were neither informed nor consulted, gape at him - Kevan wounded at being left out, Gery bewildered.

Cersei drops her fork and opens her mouth. "Sun-sunspear, Your Highness?" she says, stuttering for the first time since she was out of her nursery smocks. Jaime grabs her hand and squeezes it so hard that Joanna fears he might snap his sister's bones.

Joanna does not reprimand her. "Yes, daughter," she says calmly, "you are to be fostered under Her Highness's care, until such a time that you reach an age to be wed. It was decided today." As an afterthought she adds, "Jaime, leave your sister's hand. No, Cersei, you may not retire." Her daughter looks closer to bolting than retiring.

Prince Oberyn shoots his mother a look, but Loreza gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He is not to be betrothed to the Lannister girl and for that he rolls his eyes heavenwards and mimes a prayer of relief. Impertinent brat, Joanna thinks. Not at all to her taste or Tywin's.

"And we have decided to betroth our heir, Jaime, to Her Highness's daughter," Tywin says calmly, not to be left out when the announcements are being made. "Princess Elia, I bid you welcome to our family."

"I am honored beyond words, my lord," the Dornish girl murmurs, black eyes shadowed by her lashes. Her face gives nothing away, but then she is not a child like the twins. "I hope I am pleasing to you and my Lady Joanna." You aren't, Joanna thinks critically of the dark, delicate girl. But you are Loreza's daughter. You will have to do.

She kisses the girl's cheek, as a good-mother should and says, "In the fullness of time, it is our dearest wish that you and Cersei grow as close as sisters. For such you will be in name once Jaime grows to manhood. She will have much to learn from you when she leaves for Dorne with you. Dorne and... who knows where else?"

We all know where, Joanna thinks, exchanging a look with Loreza and Tywin. King's Landing, that's where.

Sadly, the marriage between Aerys II Targaryen and his sister Rhaella was not as happy; though she turned a blind eye to most of the king's infidelities, the queen did not approve of his "turning my ladies into his whores." (Joanna Lannister was not the first lady to be dismissed abruptly from Her Grace's service, nor was she the last).

- The World of Ice and Fire

278 AC

King's Landing

At twelve, Cersei is scarce a handspan shorter than Joanna. When last I saw you, you only came up to my shoulder. If she were a fond and foolish mother, a weak woman who could look no further than her own whims (like Dorna, she thinks uncharitably), the thought would have made her sad.

She kneels to receive her mother's blessing, but her eyes dart about as though looking for someone else. Jaime.

"Your brother is well," Joanna says, to forestall the questions. She pulls her daughter up, kissing her cheeks and holding her an arm's length away, the better to see her. "We saw him at Crakehall before sailing for King's Landing, not a month ago. Shooting up like a string-bean." She smooths Cersei's hair. "My, how you've grown." Tyrion peeps out from behind his mother's skirts, a shy little stranger. "Won't you greet your little brother?"

Cersei does not stoop to his level, to cuddle and fuss over him as a more tender sister might. I was tender at her age, Joanna thinks. I was never soft, but I was tender with my brother and little sisters. "You brought me the wrong little brother, my lady mother." She flicks her skirts away from Tyrion and the little boy shrinks back, frightened.

Joanna sighs. "Come," she says. "We have so much to talk about." She lets Tyrion take her hand and slows her steps down to match his waddling little ones.

Cersei throws her a curious look. "You never held our hands and walked when we were little."

"I did, actually," Joanna says, "but less than I do with Tyrion, I acknowledge. You and Jaime had each other and a host of servants and little playmates, if you wanted them. This poor little one has only me." A mother's love and a father's sufferance. Poor shields against a cruel world.

In the Tower of the Hand, all her aunts want to meet her and pepper her with questions and compliments but Joanna shoos them off. "I wish you'd shoo the little imp away too," Cersei says, as she follows her mother to her bedchamber.

"Imp," Tyrion repeats. "Dwarf. Midget."

"Peace, Cersei, can you not leave the child alone for a minute?"

Cersei gasps when her mother opens the door and claps her hands to her mouth, just as Joanna expected she would. Gowns in silk and velvet, brocade and cloth-of-gold, Myrish lace and sheer Qartheen linen. Gowns the blue of the sea and the sky, gowns in frosty silver and pewter like stormclouds, gowns as green as glossy leaves and Yi Ti jade, gowns in scarlet and rose, wheat-gold like Cersei's hair and sable like Elia's. And there are more - cloaks and gloves and dancing slippers and jewels spilling out of caskets.

"Your trousseau," Joanna says as the girl gives a muffled shriek. "Fit for a queen."

Cersei turns to her. "So I am to be queen then?"

Joanna smiles at her, a conspiratorial smile from mother to daughter and for once, Cersei responds with warmth. It touches her. "Did you ever doubt it?"

"No," Cersei says, winding a rope of pearls around her throat and staring dreamily into her Myrish looking glass. "But I always thought, after you sent me to Dorne, that you were planning to marry me to Oberyn. And I never thought you'd-"

"Care?" Joanna raises an eyebrow. "Who else would I care for but my only daughter? No, don't look at poor Ty like that. I have been plotting and scheming for you for years, Cersei."

"So it is settled?" Cersei breathes.

"All but," Joanna says. "There was a time when the queen and I had our... differences but she has always admired your father and quite agreed that no more suitable bride could be found for her son."

"Your differences," Cersei repeats, amused. One elegant eyebrow arches mockingly and Joanna has to remind herself that her daughter is no longer a child, that she is flowering into a woman's body, a woman's power. Girls are always cruel at this age, she thinks, and never more so than to their mothers.

"Yes, our differences," Joanna says calmly. "You might have heard scurrilous stories at Dorne. You will hear much more at court." She folds her arms at her waist and stares her daughter down until Cersei drops her eyes. I have stared down lions and madmen before. "Someday, when you are older, I hope to tell you the true tale. For the nonce, I expect you to treat such slanders against your lady mother with the respect it deserves."

"Yes, mother." Cersei chews on her lip and then looks up. "And what of the king? What does he have to say about my betrothal?"

"The king is amiable for now - though who can tell what moods might possess a madman? But it is for you to charm Prince Rhaegar once you meet. His father is not so set on the match as we might hope for, and if the son is not best pleased all our work will be for naught."

Cersei tosses back the rope of her golden hair back and laughs. "I was reared in Dorne, lady mother," she says haughtily, "trust me, there is nothing left that I do not know about charming a man."

Except humility perhaps, Joanna thinks. You'd be surprised how many men like a woman they can grind under their spurs. But she lets it go. This is her daughter's day, this is Cersei's golden hour. "I know," she says, holding her daughter and kissing her forehead. "I always knew you would make us proud, my love."

It would be a touching moment, but for the fact that Cersei has to disentangle herself and shriek, "Mother, he's touching my gown! Make him stop!"

That night, Joanna dresses her daughter herself - in a gown of snowy Myrish lace, with the dagged sleeves lined in gold satin. Pearls and emeralds star her throat and hair and Joanna wipes her eyes when she is done, unaccustomedly maudlin.

"You look as pure as the Maid herself," she sniffs. "I was sent to court as one of Rhaella's ladies-in-waiting when Jaehaerys came to the throne. I was older than you but I had just the one good silk gown. But it was green and it showed my figure off to advantage - Aerys could scarce take his eyes off me all night." She squeezes Cersei's hand. "You'll do even better."

"I know," Cersei says, unmoved.

She sings, she dances, she laughs. No one can take their eyes off her that night. She is beautiful, but more than that she is young and fresh and joyous, a breath of air and light in a staid court that has not known how to play and make merry for years. Next to dull, dark Elia she is at her glittering best - all the faults and flaws that Joanna remembers smoothed over under a coat of varnish. Surely more than a veneer? Joanna thinks. She has grown so much in four years. Surely she is not the child she used to be.

"Joanna." The Queen leans heavily on her son's arm. She wears a gown the color of hoarfrost and looks like death warmed over.

"Your Grace." Joanna curtseys deeply. "I hope you are well." Seized by a fit of piety, Aerys has decided that he will lie with none but his wife. Rumor has it that now Rhaella has her servants scour the countryside for a maid lovely enough to lure her husband from her bed.

"I am and I thank you for your concern." Rhaella studies her and then without a trace of irony adds, "We do not see as much of you as court as we would have wished. It must grieve your lord husband to be separated so long from you."

I do not approve of my brother turning my ladies into whores. Joanna forces a smile though the words smart and she can just imagine how they will laugh at her in the morning, at how the Queen shamed the proud Lady of the Rock. "I hope I shall have more occasions to visit the court in future, Your Grace."

"Perhaps." The Queen flicks her fingers dismissively at her. It is not an overture - they will never be as they were in their girlhood, not with all the weight of their sad history between them - but it is not a dismissal, either.

Prince Rhaegar lingers after his mother passes by. "Your daughter shines with joy, my lady," he tells Joanna.

"She is very young, Your Highness," Joanna says. "She has every reason in the world to be joyful."

"Such purity and innocence is rare," he acknowledges. "It is to be cherished and preserved."

"I hope it will be," Joanna says and a smile passes between them.

"His Highness likes Cersei very well," Elia says when the prince passes by. She watches him take a seat by Cersei and ply the harp in his lap with gentle fingers. "I look forward to happy news soon."

"There will be a wedding before the year is out, gods willing," Joanna says piously. "And then, good daughter, you will come with me to the Rock to meet your betrothed." Jaime is too young to be wed now, that must wait for manhood and his sixteenth year but it is past time Elia learned the ways of the westerlands. "And now Elia, you must tell me all about Cersei and the woman she has become, and I will tell what I can of Jaime."

Elia smiles, but guardedly. "Why, what is there to tell of Cersei, my lady? She is beautiful beyond word, charming and spirited. She is perfect."

Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion's crown. Ned remembered the moment when al the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife.

- A Game of Thrones

281 AC

Harrenhal

How did it all come to this? She asks herself, sinking wearily to the bed and running her hands over the braided gold of Cersei's circlet. She would gladly rest her aching head on a soft pillow, burrow her body under an eiderdown quilt and Tywin's sheltering arms... but a mother can never sleep while her child weeps.

"I will have her head," Cersei whispers. Her knuckles are battered and bloody. Petals and broken pottery are scattered over the Myrish carpets. "I will have her heart on a skewer and her eyes pecked out by ravens and I will burn her whore's cunt."

"You will," Joanna says soothingly, gathering her daughter's hair and plaiting it. "I will see to it myself, if you wish. But for now you must rest and calm yourself for the sake of your babe." She's fifteen, she thinks, furious at the almost farcical turn her daughter's life has taken, furious that she cannot protect her little girl from the malice of a vengeful world. A princess. A mother-to-be. When I was fifteen I had nothing and no one and yet I was radiant.

Cersei leans up on one elbow, her eyes burning like embers. "Mother," she hisses, "if I could shake Rhaegar's brat free of my womb now, I would."

"Cersei please-"

"Don't worry," she says bitterly, "I am seven months gone. I'm not such a fool as to kill myself to spite him. But he will pay for this."

"You will," Joanna agrees and repeats, "I will see to it myself, if you wish." On your wedding day, you fed each other by the hand, she thinks sadly, you were so deeply in love and everyone said how beautiful, how perfect you two looked together. Gold and silver. Tywin wept tears of joy. "Cersei, what went wrong? You were so happy on your wedding day but now... you shrink from one another and you have not told me a word. Does he have other women? I have heard of no such thing but-"

"He has never had other women," her daughter snaps. "Dreams and dusty scrolls were enough for him, or so I thought till now." She lets her mother hold a cup of wine to her lips and drinks greedily. "What went wrong, you will want to know. I can scarcely tell, myself. In the first year we were so happy... but then things changed. I cannot tell how but he began to treat me as though I were poison to him, as though I disgusted him. Now it is duty not desire that takes him to my bed - when he comes at all. He would rather moon away at Summerhall with Dayne or Connington and at first I thought that he would rather have a man-"

"Cersei-"

"–but no matter. I was wrong. When the maester told me I was with child, three years after our marriage, I could hardly believe it myself. Why her, mother? I am a hundred times more beautiful. It was my crown, the one she stole from me today. Mine."

"All crowns are yours, Cersei," Joanna says. "As for the Stark girl, mayhap she pleases Rhaegar in some perverse northern fashion. She looks innocent enough, I grant you, but she might be a little savage underneath. Past time she was wed to the Baratheon boy." She strokes Cersei's face. "Do not trouble yourself, daughter. Be yourself and Rhaegar will come back to you." If the gods are kind. "As for the rest, leave it all to me. Sleep now."

As she rises, Cersei says in a thin voice, "Mother, will you send Jaime to me? Please. I need him."

They were children then, Joanna thinks. Children playing. Surely there is no harm now. "Of course, my love. I hope he will give you some comfort." She does not need to send a page for Jaime - he is already waiting outside his sister's door, burning a trail through the rushes with his feet. So is Tyrion.

"I brought a blancmange for her from the kitchens," the eight-year-old boy says awkwardly, "and some tea from Elia."

"It will be good for her throat," Joanna agrees. "Talk her to sleep if you can, Jaime."

"Will Cersei be alright?" Ty asks anxiously. He thinks the world of the sister who still treats him like a flea-ridden cur and that saddens Joanna at times. Poor, pure-hearted little imp, he deserves better. "I wish I was a knight like Jaime, I'd teach Prince Rhaegar a lesson or two-"

"Hush, child. It is our duty to tend to Cersei but you cannot say such things of the crown prince," she says gently. "Come Tyrion, it has been a long day for all of us. Perhaps you might write a song for your sister. You know how they please her."

"I'll write a song for her," Ty says mildly. "It'll make her very happy, you'll see. It'll be about Prince Rhaegar. And his northern cunt."

Joanna rubs her temples, but she does not bother to correct his language. He is still only a little boy but he will have heard worse from the guards in the barracks and his brother. A thorn by any other name...

"Write it then. Perhaps it might shame him into remembering that his wife's shame is his as well."

If Aerys had agreed to marry her to Rhaegar, how many deaths might have been avoided? Cersei could have given the prince the sons he wanted, lions with purple eyes and silver manes... and with such a wife, Rhaegar might never have looked twice at Lyanna Stark. The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled, though however bright a torch might burn it could never match the rising sun.

- A Dance with Dragons

282 AL

King's Landing

"Your Highness."

She sinks gracefully to her knees before the new princess. Lyanna Stark offers her a cool hand to kiss and Joanna thinks she looks like a small brown dormouse next to her husband and sister-wife. Where Cersei is tall and shapely and glowing, the Stark girl is short and skinny as a lathe. Dark and light.

Targaryens had taken more than one wife before, the High Septon had argued. So had the gods, who wed brother to sister. Who were they to judge the ways of gods and dragonlords? But you have no dragons, my lord, Joanna thinks, accepting the kiss of peace from Rhaegar. And the filly you purchased at such grievous cost might soon prove barren.

Under her loose-flowing gown of purple silk, Joanna can faintly see the curve of Lyanna's belly. She steps aside with Tywin, his jaw gritted so hard she fears it will snap. Robert Baratheon bounces little Princess Rhaenys on his lap, face bland. In place of a shamed harlot, his cousin has given him his eldest daughter to bride, when she flowers. A good bargain. Her granddaughter is so pretty too, with silvery-gold hair and purple eyes.

Young Robert is good with children, Joanna thinks. Rumor has it that he has a bastard in the Vale. The Starks are lined up against the wall, their faces a study in contrasts. Lord Rickard glows, Brandon glowers and the younger two sons are plainly bewildered.

"I will not be shamed any longer-" Tywin hisses once they are outside in the gardens. Servants offer them dainties - slivers of baked apple and pears-in-brandy, stuffed mushrooms, smoked salmon and tart wines.

"Peace, husband," she says. "She will never wear the name of queen. We were assured that that is to be Cersei's alone."

"The name matters not if the Stark girl has him by the breeches," Tywin growls. "And I have no faith in him anymore. When he was a boy I had thought- but it matters not. There is nothing to differentiate the father from the son now."

"Charm and madness in equal measure." She sighs. "The older we are, the more foolish all our old hopes seem."

"Hope is a chancy mistress. I prefer to believe in certainties." He curls his lip. "I have given Aerys my chain, there is nothing left for me in King's Landing. I had expected Cersei would be wiser-"

"It is not her fault. That is Rhaegar's alone."

"She must have done something wrong," he persists. Just like a man, Joanna thinks irritably. "She gave him a girl-"

"Rhaegar crowned the Stark girl with roses two months before Cersei gave birth," Joanna reminds him, frustrated.

"She did not please him for years before that," Tywin says curtly. "She must have done something wrong, Joanna. What was it? Was she too lewd, in the Dornish manner? Was she sharp and shrewish, as was her wont? Was it her slowness to breed? What was it?"

"Her only sin was being a woman," Joanna snaps. "A woman at a madman's whim." And the words remind her so much of herself at Cersei's age that suddenly she cannot stand to be too close to Tywin. Abruptly she curtseys to him. "I beg your leave, my lord. I must see to my daughter."

She threads her way to Cersei's chamber, where she has already retired without her attendants. Small wonder that she would want to withdraw from the humiliation of the ordeal where Lyanna Stark was introduced as a princess to the lords of the realm and consecrated by holy oils. I tried to teach you modesty when you were a little maid, but I never dreamed that such a day would come to you, my poor child.

Cersei sits on her bed with Jaime's arm around her, her crown in her lap and her hair unbound, and looks up dully when her mother enters. Joanna does not bother to ask them why they are alone. They are past impropriety now.

"Wait outside," she tells Jaime. "I have something for Cersei." Jaime opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but she snaps, "This is women's lore. You will best serve your sister by keeping out of it."

She waits till he is gone before pulling the pouch out from her petticoats. "I had them off an old woman from the East. I met her first when I was trying to conceive," she says. "It had been seven years since I'd been with child, after you two and I feared that I would never have another."

"And you bore a little monster," Cersei says sweetly. "A hideous humpbacked little dwarf."

"Cersei, was it your tongue that cut away your love?" She tugs at the drawstrings and holds up the powdered herbs to light. "Mix this into the girl's wine and I promise you she will never quicken again."

Cersei sniffs at them curiously. "Well at the very least I know she's bound to birth a beastling," she says bitterly, "may she die of it." Joanna winces. I almost did. She smiles faintly at her mother. "When her bastard rots in her womb, I can tell Rhaegar that I have quickened with our second. Mother, I am with child again. Tell father that I pray that this one will be a son, a lion cub with a golden mane and emerald eyes."

Lady Nym's arrival had preceded theirs by some hours, and no doubt she had warned the guards of their coming, for the Threefold Gate was open when they reached it. Only here were the gates lined up one behind the other to al ow visitors to pass beneath al three of the Winding Walls directly to the Old Palace, without first making their way through miles of narrow alleys, hidden courts, and noisy bazaars.

- A Feast for Crows

284 AL

Sunspear

The bride wears blossoms of beaten silver in her hair, the young groom a golden tunic embroidered by his sister's loving hands. They put on a gallant show and the rabble at the Threefold Gate are appeased by all that glitter. Well I have seen dourer couples, Joanna thinks as Elia laces her fingers through Jaime's and proceeds in stately fashion across the courtyard. Aerys and Rhaella for a start.

She had closeted herself with Cersei at King's Landing, informing her very precisely of what she could and could not say at her brother's wedding. But she need not have troubled herself - Cersei seems happier than she has seen her in years, scattering largesse and showing off her baby. Little Prince Aegon, heir to the throne.

"It was good of you and Lord Tywin to consent to have the ceremony held in Dorne," Prince Doran says softly, coming up behind her while she watches the guests feasting and frolicking in the gardens.

"A bride should be married in her own home," Joanna says with a smile. "We would not have it any other way. Your mother was a very dear friend. She will be greatly missed."

"I hope to live up to her legacy."

"You already are," Joanna says. The Prince of Dorne is no green boy, he has children of his own and a stolid steadiness that is more comfort than she can say, in these uncertain times. The children flit and flutter through the garden like butterflies - Doran's girl and boy and Oberyn's bastards. Soon Aegon will be old enough to toddle behind his sister and that makes her happier than she can say. "My lord husband and I look forward to years of profit and amity between Dorne and the Rock."

He raises his cup to her and making her excuses, she goes to find her husband. "Will you not dance with me?" she teases Tywin, though she knows the answer.

His lips curl faintly at the corners, not quite a smile but close. "You know I never do, Joanna." She slips her arm through his. If they were alone, he would have leaned against her, resting some of his weight on her. But not in public of course, that would never do.

"A wedding is such a magical place, isn't it?" she muses, quite ready to submit herself to the mood of the day. The hot Dornish air seems to make it so much easier to relax, for her at least if not him. "Do you remember Cersei's?"

He nods absently, but he is hardly listening, intent on his own thoughts. "A pity our Princess Lyanna had to miss this one," he says smoothly. "It might have reminded her of happier times."

"A pity, but then a miscarriage is always hard on a woman. If not in body, then certainly in soul," Joanna says mildly. "Luckily she has Queen Rhaella to console her through this afflicting time. And in the meanwhile, Cersei and the prince seem to be enjoying themselves."

They are dancing in fact and a moment later she glides through the crowd to remind her son that he might care to do the same with his bride. "Elia loves to dance, don't you sweetling?" she says, putting one arm around the young woman and the other round the boy. Jaime gives her a look that says, And so? Her fingers tingle to smack his sulky face and she thinks dreamily of the child-sized fetters back in the Rock's dungeons where she ought to have spent some time consigning the twins. You can drag a horse to water but you can't make him drink, I suppose.

"There is no need for Jaime to trouble himself, my lady mother," Elia says sweetly. "I am sure Oberyn will come to claim me at any moment."

Well she can dance with her brother then, Joanna thinks, relieved. If not the bridegroom, a brother is almost as good. "Your tact is a treasure, good-daughter," she says, kissing the girl's cheek. "No, forgive me, you are a treasure."

"So I remind her whenever I see her," Prince Oberyn says, bearing down on them. "So I hope I need not remind you, good-brother," he says to Jaime with a smile. A viper's smile, Joanna thinks suddenly and now she sees the sense in the name all of Dorne has given him, where once she had only thought it brazen and vain for a chit of a boy.

"I am sure you will have no cause," she says smoothly, resting her hand on Jaime's shoulder. "Not so long as I am his mother."

Cersei's good mood persists into the following morning and Joanna wonders whether she has managed to lure Rhaegar to her bed again. Duty can sire a son as well as desire, she thinks. And Rhaegar is nothing but earnest in his desire to give both his wives their due.

"Elia will prove herself quite capable when the time comes for her to take up her duties as chatelaine," Joanna remarks to her as they wait outside the bridal chamber to wake the newlyweds and collect the wedding sheet. "She grows daily in my estimation."

"I'm sure," Cersei says, not troubling to hide her yawn.

"Did you not sleep well last night?" Joanna inquires delicately.

Cersei's eyes gleam. "Not a wink. After I handed Elia the cup with the wedding wine last night I went straight to bed... but I never slept at all, mother."

The tiring-women step out with a basket and Joanna steps forward to take out the sheet. She shakes it out expectantly and then stares at it, bewildered at first and then disappointed. Cersei peers at it over her shoulder. "Oh how very odd," she murmurs, flicking at the snowy, unblemished linen with her fingers, "they must have slept sound as babes all night."

285 AL

Casterly Rock

Her sons were dreamers born. Jaime had but one, Tyrion a thousand.

Some days, he will tell her that he means to take the cloth, that he will be High Septon. "Does the thought of a gold and crystal crown tempt you?" she asks. "I have been told it adds a foot to a man's height."

Other days, it is a chain that he dreams of. Maesters have no need for wives, they are wed to knowledge and all the wisdom of the world is theirs. "If its a wife you fear, why stop at the Citadel? As a personal favor, your lord father would be happy to have you gelded and send to the Wall," she points out. "There is some small honor in the black knights for a Lannister, none at all in wearing a collar."

When he was a child in the nursery, he would dream of dragons and once had even asked his uncle for a hatchling as a name-day present. She did not doubt that he still dreamed of adventure - all boys did at that age - that in his mind's eye he saw himself tall and straight-limbed on dragon-back or abroad a ship set for distant isles.

Today he tells her that he wants to be a singer. "By all means," she says, "I have always wondered about the banshees they say lurk in the forests of Yi Ti. You are kind to wish to show your mother a live performance."

He laughs, he never takes her words to heart and she ruffles his hair. "The sound might be sour but the words will be sweet," he assures her. "Love songs. Even Cersei likes my songs, Mother, and you know how easily pleased she is."

Even Elia smiles at that. "Are you in love then, Tyrion?" she teases him. It is good to see her smile and jape, she has been very wan of late. The poor girl is wasting away, Joanna thinks and she feels not a little guilty. Jaime shows her no kindness, if he ever speaks to her in a voice not dripping with scorn I have never heard it. And Tywin is restless for a grandson.

He blushes and tries to cover it up awkwardly. "Spring is a good season to fall in love."

"And is she very pretty?" Elia asks. "Does she have blue eyes? You must write a song to them, there is much grace in the way you frame words. I know many a maid would be enraptured."

"She would be if she kept her eyes shut," Tyrion says waspishly and Elia's smile falters.

There is no place for a mouse in the lion's den, Joanna thinks. "Tyrion, don't speak so to your good sister," Joanna intones, out of a sense of duty. "She meant no harm." She should feel pity but now she only feels irritation at the girl - why must she be constantly defending Elia from the rest of the family? A spine is what you should have grown years ago. That and tits.

"Tyrion you are entirely too young to be falling in love and making eyes at milkmaids," she tells her son sourly. "Or charwomen. Or whatever it is."

"Love inspires me, Mother. If I have no object for my wayward affections, I shall be desolate."

"Desolate but in your father's good graces. It will be years before we find a wife for you and I would rather that your... wayward affections were not the cause of any embarrassment to us."

"Pray do not sleep uneasily on my account then. I cast the net of my love wide but sadly, I have yet to find a fish foolish enough to be caught."

The need for further conversation is prevented when Jaime strides into the room, swinging two wooden practice swords like a juggler. Still a boy, she thinks affectionately.

"Mother," he says and bends to kiss her cheek. He bows coldly to his wife and then scoops up Tyrion, laughing when his little brother punches his shoulder playfully. "High time I found the rascal. He scuttled away like a crab when I tried to catch him." It warms her heart to see them so close. If only Cersei loved Tyrion as Jaime does, I would be at peace. I would know that I had done right by my children then, that they would always be strong for each other. But it is not to be, she has already accepted the truth of it sadly. Cersei has always had a hot temper and a cold heart.

"It is good to see you playing," Elia ventures mildly.

"Training, my lady," Jaime says curtly. He cuts her off mid-sentence with another crisp bow and marches out of the room, his brother perched on his shoulders. Jaime has but one dream, his mother thinks, and Tyrion will sooner have his dragons than Jaime will have Cersei sitting in Elia's place, with their sons in their arms.

Elia gives her good mother a sad look. "It is hard," she begins softly. "It is hard-"

"Yes," Joanna agrees, sinking her needle savagely into a square of silk. This is not her quarrel and she will not be drawn into it by a skinny girl, still terrified of her own shadow. "It is always hard when a wife is not the mother of sons. It poisons her husband's love for her and his family's goodwill and really, who can blame them?"

286 AL

Casterly Rock

"I should have drowned him at birth," Tywin remarks. There is no particular rancor in his voice, only resignation.

Joanna glances up from her sewing. In times of trouble she likes to take out her darning, to keep her fingers busy. Better mending socks and patching hems than tearing out her hair or her errant sons' throats. "Would you have?" she asks. "If I had-" she hesitates. They never speak of it. Even after thirteen years the memory of that long night and what might have been torments him and terrifies her. "If I had not lived," she finishes softly.

"Oh don't be a fool, wife," he grunts, clearly not in the mood for sentimental riffraff. "Tempting as it might have been, I'd find myself left with only one son then."

"You could have found yourself another a wife."

He raises an eyebrow at that and she rises and puts her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his back. "I love you," she whispers, touched in spite of herself. He permits it for a moment before shifting away from her, clearly uncomfortable with caresses in broad daylight.

"I suppose this is a ploy," he says sourly. "To soften me towards the boy."

"As if that could ever work on you," she scoffs. "No, my lord, I know only too well how hard and unshakeable you can be when you put your mind to it." She tugs at a fraying thread on his cuff, thinking it time that the tunic was replaced. I have just the right pale green put away, she thinks, distracted for a moment. Flecked with gold, to match his eyes.

"I've kept him in the lowest level of the cells," he reminds her.

"Moldy bread and bog water never killed a man in a day," she says, unruffled. "It will not kill Tyrion, not with his constitution. And the sight of a red-hot poker gleaming in the dark can do marvelous things to a man's resolve." Even one as pig-headed as my boy.

"You are a heartless mother, my love." He tries to sound grave, but there is too much approval in his voice.

"If I'd been the same with Jaime when he was Tyrion's age I'd have less trouble in my household," she says dryly. "Jaime's scuffles with Elia leave me at my wit's end."

"And I suppose you won't tell me where you've kept the girl?"

Tysha, m'lady, my name is Tysha. She had eyes like black currants and it was easy to see why Ty thought he was in love."No," she says mildly. "I could not in good conscience, my lord."

"Some would say your good conscience was a slippery thing, my lady." He is teasing her now and she relaxes. The girl is as safe as she can make her, if Tywin were in earnest he would root her out with fire and sword and nothing his wife might say, on her knees or clinging to his feet, would move him. But the news of Prince Jaehaerys's birth, their second grandson, has put him in an unusually good humor and for now he is content to let her see to the situation with Tyrion.

"We mothers can be slippery things where our children's best interests are concerned."

"You truly think that creature is in his best interests?"

"Peace, Tywin," she says. "Years ago, there was no lack of naysayers when you took me to wife, who told you you'd be better off with the Lefford heiress or one of the Serrett sisters or-"

"So you want our son to marry a crofter's daughter," Tywin says flatly. "If she is a crofter's daughter after all and not just another lucky whore." He raps on the table with his knuckles, restless, and Joanna knows that he is thinking of his father and the chandler's daughter.

Joanna flushes. "I said no such thing. But a little kindness, a little gentleness never went amiss. And Ty, poor boy, has had little in his life. Leave me to tend to this and I promise you that you will have no cause for displeasure. I ruled the westerlands in your stead for years, husband. Can you not trust me this once with our son?"

He sighs and presses her palm to his lips, curling her fingers over his kiss. Her wedding ring glitters on her heart-finger, the gold as brilliant as it was on the day when he first knelt to her in the sand. There is but a single word inscribed on it, the glyphs in High Valyrian. Always. "I yield to your better judgment then, my love," he says. "With a few reservations."

"A few." She smiles up at him and he shrugs helplessly as though to say, oh well, what can you expect? Tywin emerged from his mother's womb with reservations about the world.

The next day, she orders Tyrion brought up to her solar from the black cells. He squints in the bright sunlight, rubbing at his manacled hands. It pains her to see him like this but Tywin is watching from behind the curtains and he will never forgive her if he thinks her too weak and yielding. The girl sits on a footstool at her feet, stitching spring flowers on a pillowcase.

"Tysha!" He shambles towards them but is brought short by the length of the chains around his ankles.

The girl quivers like a leaf but bidden to be deaf and dumb for the interview, she never so much as looks up. Her stitches are mousy-thin and fine, in her rose-colored silk she could pass for a lord's maiden daughter. And a very pretty one at that.

"Won't you greet your mother, Tyrion?"

Tyrion reluctantly tears his eyes away from the girl and gives her an awkward bow. "I bid you good day, my lady mother," he grits out and then with a savage smile, "I would step closer but I fear the smell might render you faint."

"Certainly the rank odor of the dungeons is not one a lady might care for a closer acquaintance with," Joanna agrees. "I rather think Tysha would agree with me if she could speak."

Tyrion's eyes look ready to pop out of their sockets. "You've had her tongue cut out!"

"Oh don't be so dramatic," Joanna says, rolling her eyes. "Do you take me for a savage? I have always found that a few choice, sweet words work wonders that awls and pincers never can."

"You might care to tell my lord father that. Could save ourselves a few dragons that way."

"Forgive me, I meant to say a woman's words. A man has his sword and no need of words."

"Women and half-men have words, is that what you mean to say, lady mother?"

She looks at her boy, her last baby with his black and green eyes burning with so much bitterness, so much hate. You are so much more than you know, my love, she thinks, so much more than a half-man. She wishes she could fold him in her arms, keep him close forever. Hide him, not for shame, but for a love so fierce that sometimes it hurts. If I could have given up my life to have you born straight and whole and strong like your brother, to spare you all that pain, I would and gladly, she thinks. But I could not and I have tried to make amends for it all your life. I can only hope they are enough.

She can almost see the paths set in stone before her – Tyrion's life if she were to give his first sweet summer love to Tywin and if she did not. The choice is hers and hard as men call her, there can be no doubt of which is the right one. If one of her wards had brought back a whore and claimed she was his bride, she would have tossed both the newlyweds in the dungeons to rot without a second thought. But not her poor son. Not his poor little love.

"You were never married," she says calmly, "you are only three-and-ten, too young to be wed without your father's consent. Tysha," she says, resting her hand on the girl's glossy dark hair, "seems a sweet child though. I have a mind to keep her in my chambers as a maid-in-waiting or perhaps as a bedmaid for one of your aunts." She looks at him coolly. "If, when you the age of manhood, your lord father believes you to be of suitable diligence and competence, I might suggest to him that you be given greater responsibilities at Lannisport. I am sure Tysha might have family to take her in at Lannisport. Such a big, bustling city after all. So easy to lose oneself in."

Tyrion's eyes widen as his mind registers the import of her words. "Mother," he says in a strangled voice.

She waves him to silence. "Remember I said if," she says tartly. "And with your father's approval at that."

But he is not listening, of course he is not. He is already dreaming of a manse in Lannisport, of his dark-haired beauty swathed in silks and jewels, of a baby perhaps. Three years. Three short years. He falls to his knees before her, looking ready to kiss the hem of her gown or weep and cut a caper.

Oh well, let him dream, Joanna thinks and bites her lips to keep sharp words from slipping out. Cersei would not have bitten back, but then she is not her daughter, is she? When I was his age I dreamed of being the Lady of the Rock.

"I won't fail you, Mother," he says hoarsely. "I swear to it."

"I should hope not," she says, steepling her fingers together. She is the Lady of the Rock once more, not a doting mother, and she lets the frost creep back into her voice to remind him of who he is dealing with, of who might be listening and with what intent. "I rather think that would not bode very well for Tysha."

290 AL

Casterly Rock

Her hand flashes out and Jaime reels back under the force of the blow. Even Tywin looks surprised - she has never struck any of their children before. There had never been any need, not when a well-placed word worked so much better.

"How dare you shame your lady wife so?" Joanna hisses, palm red and tingling and poised ready to strike again. With an effort, she masters herself. This is not a time to yield to her temper. "How dare you shame us so?"

If a man had struck him, even his own father, Jaime would have hit back - or more likely, drawn a sword. But he only gapes at his mother, one hand halfway to his cheek. Cersei speaks up for him, one arm curled protectively around his back. "It was the Viper who began it," she spits out. "No man who was a man would have taken such an insult lying down. If you would have a scapegoat, madam, I suggest you start with him and his precious sister."

Joanna is not so foolish as to turn a hand on her daughter, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. No matter how badly she wants to, she would not put it past Cersei to hand her over to the white knights at the door. Instead, she folds herself into the armchair beside Tywin, clenching her hands in her lap to keep them still. "Swords were drawn under this roof tonight," she says, "blood spilled over bread and salt that our guests partook of."

"And the boar," Tyrion murmurs, "pray don't forget the boar."

"Oh mother," Cersei says, with a toss of her golden hair, "no one died. For all Oberyn's mewling, he'll have but a few scratches to show on the morrow." She smirks at her twin, as though it is all a game to her, and he has the audacity to wink back at her.

"Betrothals and fosterings were to be spoken of tonight," Joanna says flatly. "And what did we have the pleasure to witness? Brawls and fisticuffs." She rises with dignity. "Jaime, I leave you to your lord father's discretion. Cersei, Tyrion, come." When the girl purses her lips mulishly, she hisses, "Now." They have been grown for years but something in her tone makes them listen and they follow her out of the study with only a minimum of snicker-snackering.

"Cersei, I want you gone by tomorrow," she tells her daughter flatly, after shutting the door on Tywin and Jaime. "You and the children."

"I am the Queen-" the girl, who has never fully grown into a woman, begins.

"-and I am the Lady of the Rock and you are a guest under my roof," she says, her voice like ice. "You may choose to leave with grace, but you will leave by sunset." She waits before her daughter storms off before sagging against the stone wall and rubbing her temples.

"Mother?" Ty tugs at her gown, concern on his face.

"You should go home as well," she sighs. "Your paramour and your daughter will be glad to see you back so soon." Tysha and Lanna. She must remember to send him with the bolt of ruby brocade she had purchased for the little girl - enough for a new gown and scraps left over for a dress for her doll. Oh what she would not give now for the uncomplicated comfort of a manse in Lannisport, the colorless contentment of a simple hearth, a little home.

"I ought to see Prince Oberyn and say my piece to him, poor as it is." Tyrion's lips quirk in amusement. "I might only be a halfman but I have always tried to compensate by being doubly good with words."

"That would be a start," Joanna acknowledges. "It was good of you to think of it."

"Thinking is what I do, lady mother."

She bends and kisses his brow. "Then you are the only one of my children to do so, sweetling." She finds Elia in her nightgown, sitting on her bed and unbinding her plaited hair. She looks tiny, like a little girl in the middle of that great white bed where more often than not, she sleeps alone.

"Lady mother, do come in."

She had come in ready to fuss over the girl - pour her wine, brush her hair, ask her if she needed anything, that sort of thing. But now she pauses awkwardly in the doorway, caught unawares and shamed somehow by Elia's serenity. She looks like she does every night and every day, placid, unruffled and in a world of her own. It irritates her more than she could say. A storm of tears, a hailstorm of hairbrushes - that she is used to from years of dealing with Cersei. That she can handle. But this, to act as though nothing is amiss, is almost an insult.

"I came to see if you needed anything, good daughter. It has been a trying day for all of us, but you most of all."

"No, nothing out of the usual," Elia murmurs, rubbing some scented lotion on her hands. It smells of oranges and Joanna supposes that Oberyn has brought it for her from Dorne.

"But your brother-"

"Oberyn is always getting into scuffles." Elia shrugs. "I will see him in the morning and we shall laugh over this... misunderstanding." It is a dismissal but Joanna lingers in the doorway.

"Jaime has always been wild and willful," she says, smoothing her hands nervously over her gown. "I hope you will not hold this against him." And unable to stop herself, worn out by the day and Elia's chilly indifference she forgets herself and bursts out, "But then your brother had no cause to speak of him as he did so-"

Elia's black eyes flash for a moment but then she looks down and Joanna thinks she must have imagined it. She is the sweetest and most pliant of creatures. "Of course I will never hold it against him," she says softly. "He is my lord husband and I wish only for his welfare."

292 AL

King's Landing

"Powdered herbs, my arse," Cersei hisses as she slips into her gown. This is a matron's gown in a murky dark hue, high-necked and unornamented - not at all in the fashions she prefer. But it will court favor with her judges. "We should have slipped poison in her soup when we had the chance." Her veil of fluted cloth-of-gold covers her braided hair and throat and over it she wears Naerys' crown, a heavy thing of red gold with gemstone-eyed dragons for the seven points. "I gave Rhaegar three children and she gave him grief and a womb filled with rot and pus. She is eaten up with her own spite."

But he loves her for all that, Joanna thinks. Her gown is scarlet and gold, the colors of House Lannister. "She would never have dared make such accusations if she had not some proof-"

"Her bitterness is all the proof she needs. The milk madness of a barren woman." Cersei stacks golden rings on her fingers and her words rattle, too sharp and quick.

Oh daughter, Joanna thinks. Did you think me a fool? You should have told me. I would have helped. I would have done something. But she bites her lips on the harsh words. Done is done and now her duty is to her daughter - and her son as well. "Or perhaps the northern herbs she gathers to lure Rhaegar to her bed," she suggests.

"Yes, that's a good one."

Joanna grabs her hand. "Stop pacing," she says, her voice like frost, steadying her daughter. "You are queen and she is but a savage little whore. They all know her shameful story. Why should they listen to her at all?"

"Because they love her," Cersei sneers. "Everyone loves her - scattering gold all over Fleabottom, riding up and down the city in her open chariot, parading herself like a common harlot. Ugh."

"But they fear you," Joanna tells her. Or your father at any rate. "You do not need their love, Cersei. And," she adds carefully, "it is not so strange that your sons take after you... and Jaime. Your daughter is Rhaegar's, tis plain to see. But from now on, you must not see your brother alone, not without a chaperone. Do you agree?"

Cersei nods eagerly, she will agree to anything now. Oh my daughter, Joanna thinks sadly, why are you so slow to learn wisdom, so quick to throw away all the gifts the gods have given you? For what? Spite? Folly? Madness? "Tyrion has been working for you," she says, "yes, the brother you despise."

"What, the whoremaster?" Cersei asks, face twisting. "I do not need his help. Has he been serving me in the winesinks and pits of the city?"

"Strange to say he has," Joanna says serenely. "Spreading stories and songs among the low folk. You and your father would say that is what he does best but then sometimes I think neither of you have the sense the gods should have given you."

"Is his little concubine spreading her legs to spread the stories quicker?" Cersei asks sweetly.

"She is dearly loved by your brother, who wishes nothing but good for you," Joanna says. "He has served you better than Jaime, I would say. At least he has never dragged your name through the mud. And Tysha is the mother of your niece, whether you like it or not."

"The mother of a bastard," Cersei sniffs.

"Some," Joanna says sweetly, "would call you that as well. The mother of two bastards. Traitor, adulteress, they would say you should hang from your heels at the city gates with your flesh stripped away and your brats impaled on pikes next to you. You were always a spoiled girl, Cersei, and you have grown into a stupid woman. I would rather have borne a dozen dwarfs than be saddled now with with you."

And for the first time in her life, she slams the door behind her. Tywin is waiting for her in the antechamber, his face frozen into a hard mask. He raises an eyebrow when she enters the room.

"If she were not my daughter," Joanna says shortly, "I would gladly see her hang." She pours herself a measure of wine. "I hope you have kept Jaime close under watch. Did you find Elia?"

Tywin shrugs. He has no interest in his son's barren wife, as he has already called her to her face. "Is it true-" he begins abruptly, as though unable to restrain himself any longer.

"Oh husband," she says irritably, "how much longer will you fool yourself? Of course those children were Jaime's." Well the boys at least. Rhaenys was conceived when Cersei still had faith in Rhaegar.

"Did you always know?"

"Of course I didn't. I pieced it over the years as any person with a brain and a few licks of sense could have. And I did my best to keep it out of the light - until Cersei ruined herself through her own folly."

"A toast," Tywin says dryly, "to our children. Our beautiful, perfect children."

"Peace," Joanna says, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. "Not all is lost. Our children may be thrice-cursed fools but we are not. Your grandson will yet sit on the Iron Throne. Above all, Lyanna Stark has no proof. Only shadows and accusations."

He strokes her hair and for a moment, they sit still, wrapped in each other's arms. Lovers still, in spite of the weight of years gone by. Always lovers, Joanna thinks, burying her face in his shoulder. Always.

"Come husband," she finally says, reluctantly. "It is time we took our places in the court."

The Lannisters sit together in a curtained alcove, away from prying eyes and whispering tongues. Tyrion has brought Tysha, heavy with their second child, but Tywin is long past caring. Maybe a brother for little Lanna, Joanna thinks. If Jaime and Cersei were to lose their heads today, Tyrion's children would have to be legitimized. Jaime is seated below, ringed with guardsmen.

She slips her hand into Tywin's, the pressure reassuring her as the judges fill in and the king's wives take their thrones on the dais. Lyanna Stark rises and begins to speak, the words filtering past Joanna. She has no proof. But then she says, "If it please my honorable lords, I would like to bring in my witness." Tywin's nails dig into Joanna's palms and she curls her fingers tighter around his. Her heart begins to thump wildly and Tyrion utters a muffled oath.

"My lords, may I present to you the Lady Elia Lannister?"