Excerpt from the journal of E. Stark

...It appears as if Cersei has taken it upon herself to disagree with everything I propose. From the choice of tapestry for the Great Hall to how we ought to welcome Lord Manderly three moons from now. Gods forgive me—I'm indulging her. Mayhap it is part of the Lannister aesthetic, to be so persistent in beauty and faculty that one is rendered permissive and accommodating—just to see their smile.

She has (begrudgingly) agreed to sacrifice our daily cargo of imported citrus fruits in exchange for a fertile import of blueberry plants from the Reach. Though I am but a novice when it comes to the agricultural arts, I have been assured by Maester Luwin that these shrubs ought to do well in any climate (save the desert). In a crusade to liberate our North from total dependence, Cersei has taken to every kind of experimentation while I parlay for support. Houses Bolton, Manderly, Umber, Reed, and now Karstark have leant their acquisition. Houses Glover and Mormont are somewhat reluctant.

New trade routes and a secure agreement with Winterfell for iron and copper ought to induce Lord Glover. The Mormonts (proud) will never accept such a blatant display of southern guile—more likely, an overture of extended trust and friendship might be the best diplomatic path to pursue.

Now even with this, my mind strays. I do not consider myself particularly adept in the art of exposition but Cersei…she engrosses my thoughts too entirely to allow me to think of anything else. What's more, I am beginning to find I do not dislike the prospect.

Roose Bolton was an oily, malevolent, sly piece of shit.

With his powder soft voice and bloodless appearance, it was no wonder everyone called him the Leech Lord. He was polite and tactful, speaking so economically that Cersei was positive she'd never heard more than ten words pass his lips. The man was a calculating, captious snake and Cersei Lannister didn't like him one bit. Cersei Stark had to be just as courteous—if not more so—since the Dreadfort (and all its surrounding lands) had gotten a head start in industrialization. Roose Bolton was not only a subtle man but he was fiercely possessive of his finances.

Iron. Steel. Weaponry. Nearly everything was smelted down around the Dreadfort and then sold for a modest price to other Northern lords and the average Westerosi solider. The Boltons had amassed a quiet fortune in this trade.

And Eddard Stark—her husband—knew.

"Why did you not follow through with such a proposition yourself? Or better yet, lay claim to the invention as your own and force the Boltons to share their profits? This is your land, not his! Whatever he has produced is yours by right, you need only take it." Cersei spat vehemently as she and Ned stood across from each other in their bedchamber. The hour was late and both were weary; in fact, had the large bed and headpiece not been between them, Cersei felt half sure that she would've pounced on him.

What will it take to get it through his head: WE are meant to reap the rewards of the land—not them.

But dutiful, constant Eddard Stark was not upset—and if he was, he hid it well. "Cersei we have to allow other keeps to make a livelihood—"

"The Boltons are wealthier than we are!"

"And it is on Roose Bolton's industry where they make their claim."

"Don't you dare try to inveigle this as some sort of one-man revolution. You know perfectly well Roose Bolton cannot import or export items outside the North without a warden's charter. An explicit confirmation of approval from you. And you gave it to him did you not? Signed the paperwork and sealed the envelope as it came." Cersei, in her gossamer nightgown and illuminated hair, looked like an angel of nemesis come down from the heavens. Chin up, stance firm—she was ready for battle.

Ned Stark, strong and silent, was weary. "Cersei, you must understand that I cannot steal away the subsistence of my bannermen just for the sake of a few gold dragons."

He paused.

That, clearly, was the wrong thing to say.

"It is not about the gold they already have—it's about the future wealth they will accumulate through this system of intention!" Cersei glided towards the bed, her fiery emerald eyes never leaving Ned's placid countenance. "The trade routes will only serve to aid them and I've heard that Roose Bolton is already planning to expand the town around his Dreadfort. They'll have more taxes to collect, more people to exploit. Mayhap one day Roose Bolton shall view his holdings and decide that this ought to be the North's capitol. That you, Lord Stark, are superfluous and within a turn of the moon, civil war shall break out and you will find yourself on the receiving end of a bloody onslaught that may last several years."

"Just because I have not denied my men their resources and vocation does not mean I have neglected in overseeing them. I am well aware that the Boltons are a formidable ally and could, with a turn of the screw, become equally dangerous adversaries. I simply do not wish to dominate a house whose support and loyalty has aided in the peace and tranquility of the North."

"So you will only act when there is fire in the streets, children on spikes, and women raped with their bellies sliced open?"

"I can reassure you that such a cruel occasion will not come to pass." Ned ran a hand through his unbound hair, as dark and enigmatic as his person. "The Starks have kept watch over Winterfell and all the North for centuries. We have never willingly allowed civil war to transpire. I understand you may see it as negligence but there is something of Northmen you must understand."

"That you all strive to bury your heads in the snow and live off the land?" Cersei taunted sarcastically, bitterly wondering if she could broker a midnight extrication if war did befall them.

Ned's answering smile was faint though his eyes communicated a silent warning she paid no heed to. "We are all kinsmen. If not in blood then in name and faith. I seek not to subjugate my people through the use of economic violence or manmade famine, Cersei. I want equal respect among us lords. No predetermined title can grant subjugation without substance." The gentle honesty in his voice made Cersei nauseous. "I understand your worries, my lady, but under no circumstance will I ever allow Roose Bolton to think himself Warden of the North. The taxes he pays are taxes Winterfell collects and though the sum is of little importance, the act itself reminds Lord Bolton that though he may live in his own keep and execute his own mandates, it is to House Stark he owes his loyalty."

The strength in his voice emboldened Cersei to act but before she could, another wave of nausea hit her—and this time, she could not blame it on sentimentality. Briefly, she felt her balance falter but that in itself was enough to spur Ned into action. A hazy fog clouded her mind and she did not know when he had leapt from one end of the room to the other and—was he now holding her?

"Lord Stark." Cersei murmured, pressing one hand against her temple. "I…fear that Maester Luwin is needed." She hissed slightly when he picked her up, her nausea and erratic heartbeat dizzying. "I feel as though someone has poured boiling water on my stomach and spun me around in a stifled dungeon cell." Cersei murmured as she was lowered onto the bed.

(For a second, she thought she felt a soft pressure against her forehead but dismissed the notion—her husband disliked public displays of affection.)

Maester Luwin had never been so grateful for his lord's steady hand and reliable surety. Even as his grey eyes stormed with worry, question, and frenzy, the Lord of Winterfell remained as calm as the still ocean surface. Inside, he was awash with trepidation and anguish. Cersei, for all her brazen certainty and spoiled sense of self, was strong. Her willpower was astonishing and for a lady of the south, she was certainly not afraid to impose it upon others. It was one of the things Ned liked best about her—one of the many things (though he dared not speak of this out loud).

He knew full well that Cersei was proud and, being the offspring of Tywin Lannister, more than willing to manipulate. He guarded his heart as best he could but the lioness of Casterly Rock held a certain allure even he could not deny. She was a scintillating burst of color—the deepest red, the brightest gold. Cersei Lannister could hold her own against any man and such capability was not to be overlooked; she accepted Ned's burdens as her own and took to running Winterfell (and all the North) as if she'd been born to do so.

Proffered from her vigorous, dynamic mind was a revelation in black and silver—a metamorphosis of the home Ned had known for so long and yet, had always been willing to guard. To have another soul share his desire—share his duty—was the truest and purest way to pierce through the Northern ice of his heart. He may not hold any love towards the Lannisters as a whole but for Cersei, he'd be willing to make amends. The gilded lions were not honorable and Ned doubted if they would ever want to be—but surely, for a house so reportedly depraved, they must bear some merits because Cersei. His bright, headstrong wife.

It was one of the most infuriating, insufferable charms his wife possessed—one that Ned was both endeared and exasperated by.

And though he didn't speak much, he was not entirely unaware of what was unfolding before him.

If Cersei needed to work in order to feel welcomed, then Ned would allow it. He would allow just about anything when it came from Cersei's lips; though vain, she saw value beneath the surface. Perhaps that was why she'd taken to old Maester Luwin so easily and, in her own proud way, now considered him ally and friend.

Even rarer, Cersei had devoted time (albeit a fraction of it) to Jon. That was something that struck Ned body and soul; he suspected that her motives were not entirely altruistic but the point was—she was trying. Any other noblewoman would have shut out the orphaned bastard boy—would have regaled him with cold glares and bitter scowls. Ned would not have blamed Cersei for that same reaction.

But Lannisters hated predicability and Cersei had always been eager to break the mold. To her, it was less about the bloodline and more about the competence she could one day harness. Oh Ned knew how Cersei's mind worked (at least, in part) and the designs she outlined, the visions she wrote down—they were beautiful, lively dreams she was now willing into existence.

He could not lose her. Not now—not when she'd managed to tunnel her way into his heart with such remarkable speed that he dared not believe it himself.

Standing outside their bedroom door, arms hanging uselessly by his sides, he'd never felt so helpless. Maester Luwin had not yet reappeared and the maids had all but barricaded themselves with their mistress. Outside, Ned knew of only one place he could go where his sanity might be kept intact.

The nursery.

Jon Snow slept peacefully in his newly built cradle—an ostentatious cherrywood monstrosity that was far too big for even two babes. He laid on white and pale blue cashmere, one arm tucked above his head and the other resting on his hip—as if ready to lead an army into battle. Ned observed him closely, carefully, so as to not disturb his tranquil features and soft breathing.

Cersei tucked him in. He noted silently, for only his wife would have made such an elaborate burrow for a bastard son of Winterfell. Jon's plump, pale cheek was rosy with warmth and his tuft of black hair curled out at the ends. Just like Lya's did when she was a child.

Shaking his head, Ned banished the memories to the recesses of his mind, instead preferring to trace a light finger across Jon's chin and jaw. The slight motion, however, awakened the slumbering babe and one sleepy silver grey eye opened, peeking up at Ned with an almost mischievous quality.

"Go back to sleep, little one." Ned murmured tenderly, peering down at Jon with a slight smile.

The babe frowned and gurgled, holding up one chubby fisted hand.

"Sh, sh—I'll see you on the morrow."

"Nnh!" Jon struggled, waving his fist in the air again. "Nnh!" His lower lip began to tremble.

"Ah, not to worry Jon. Old Nan—"

"Nnh!" Jon shook his head frantically, his eyes sliding between Ned and the nursery door that—to his confusion—remained shut. "Nnh!" His chubby fist waved again.

Ned turned back to look at the door, brows furrowed. What was he waiting for—?

"Cersei." Her name came out in a whisper—like the faint rush of a moss green brook in spring.

Jon's soft cries ceased and he looked eagerly at Ned, as if expecting the golden Lady Cersei to appear from behind him.

With a love that threatened to overwhelm, Ned picked up Jon in his arms, gently cradling the boy as if he were his own. "Hush now." The Lord of Winterfell's voice was like the rumble of thunder from faraway, all at once soothing and assertive in its low cadence. A wry smile appeared on Ned's lips, saddened by the heaviness in his eyes. "It seems as if we both need her, little one." Ned chuckled. "Cersei Stark. A Lannister. Isn't this be a sight to behold?"

Jon said no more then, though his grey eyes were fixed behind Ned—to the still closed nursery door.

Evenfall Hall, Tarth

Jaime found the dining hall easily enough. As he progressed closer towards the heart of the castle, the tapestries turned sapphire blue with hand stitched moon and star emblems that shone like lake water beneath the golden torchlight. He supposed there was a natural rhythm to the whole island that some might find pleasing.

He, so far, found the entire experience debilitating.

"Lord Jaime Lannister, my lord." A steward posted by the doorway announced in a voice as broad and heavy as a falling boulder.

Without a word of thanks, Jaime entered the hall to see a rich, high ceiling of grey stone that met at a pointed pinnacle. He felt as if he were in a spinning top dome—one decorated with mahogany, a pale stone mantle, and a long, elegant dining table filled with fresh flowers and silver dishes. Seated at the head of the table was Selwyn Tarth; an imposing, formidable man with the gait of a solider and a body of strength and determination. He reminded Jaime of the noble ox—though far more graceful.

"Lord Jaime." Selwyn Tarth rose in greeting, standing at an impressive height that was nearly on par with Jaime himself. "I apologize for the delay in your journey south, my lord. The impetuous weather here beguiles no man but certainly charms the white moon well."

"The push and pull of the tide is an ever constant force." Jaime returned, figuring that the astronomical motifs had to mean something.

Old Tarth smiled, releasing Jaime's hand and gesturing for him to sit by his righthand side—directly across from a straw haired boy.

"I was under the impression that your daughter would be joining us this evening." The sapphire and silver pendant sat heavily in his breast coat pocket. "I do believe the young lady must be part knight for she has eluded me in the hallways as Ser Barristan eludes me on the battlefield."

Lord Selwyn laughed—a hearty, full bellied laugh that could only come from a man contented with his lot in life. Clearly, Jaime mused, he'd missed the jibe behind it.

"My good Ser Jaime you are just as charming as the singers say." He chuckled while Jaime sat down.

"The singers have a tendency to embellish." He returned coolly, beginning to grow somewhat bored already.

"And so they do." Lord Tarth agreed. "But let us speak of those matters another time. For now, allow me to introduce you to my daughter, the Lady Brienne."

Jaime's sharp verdure eyes swept across the room but he saw no glimpse of pale moon hair or even the sight of a maiden's dress. Instead, to his surprise, the straw haired boy lifted his head and—

Jaime found himself drowning in two pools of the clearest sapphire blue he'd ever seen. Those eyes…just like Lady Tarth's…

He blinked and all at once, his soldier's instinct came through. Crooked nose. Sunburnt skin. Large lips. Freckled cheeks. Thick neck. Poorly cut gown. The observations were catalogued and digested within seconds though the surprise did not wear off so quickly. It took him a full minute to register Lord Selwyn's words.

This was the Lady Brienne? Was she by any chance adopted? A legitimized bastard? Seven hells—where did he procure this ungainly child from?

He managed, with great effort, to keep those thoughts to himself. Instead, he allowed a charming, blasé smile to appear on his lips—one that brought forth a heated, beet red blush from the girl. "The pleasure, my lady, is undiluted on my part."

Her blush turned into a darker shade of carmine that threatened to implode though she managed to stand up—clumsily, and with none of Cersei's practiced grace. "My lord." She gave a poorly conceived curtsey (or what Jaime supposed was a curtsey) before immediately sitting back down. "It is an honor to have you on our fair isle." Her words were spoken softly, with the timidity of a chambermaid.

Jaime suppressed an eye roll. Good gods, he was exercising a lot of restraint tonight.

"Your keep is lovely and fair." He resisted the urge to add like your gentle face since he figured Lord Selwyn might not appreciate the crude irony. Instead, Jaime smirked. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong but did I not see a young squire fighting a fully recognized knight some hours before in the western courtyard?"

"Oh yes." Lord Selwyn intoned, a faint hint of pride in his full bodied voice. "Brienne's better than most boys twice her age. She'll make a fine swords-woman some day."

"Twice her age…? Am I to understand she is not yet twelve?"

The girl ducked her head, gaze fixed steadily on her empty plate. Silence filled the room and it was clear Lord Selwyn was expecting Brienne the Silent to answer for herself.

"I've just turned nine." The girl muttered at long last, still refusing to look up at Jaime.

Though he was mildly insulted by her impudence, he couldn't exactly blame her for it. He had done things—much worse things—at the age of nine.

"Is that so." Jaime mused. "Well, you've certainly taken the Hound's height and added it to your resume of future knighthood."

Her blush deepened and Jaime felt a sliver of pity for the girl. She was certainly no coquette.

Instead, he turned his attention to Lord Selwyn who—with a few hand signals—encouraged the appearance of servants and chef's aids, each carrying a dish of freshly prepared delicacy.

"Are you a man of the sea, Ser Jaime?"

No. "Yes, I find the armada a riveting display of naval power."

Lord Selwyn laughed again, hearty and true. "No, no, my lord. I meant for leisure."

"Leisure?"

"Oh yes. My Brienne can swim faster than most knights and she's just as strong. The sea's waves enrapture her."

Jaime glanced at the straw haired girl again. Her head was bowed in what Jaime now suspected was her usual pose and—as expected—she said nothing. "I've never swum in the waters of Tarth." I've never even been on your bloody island before. "But when I was a child, the Sunset Sea held me captive—that and the cliffs of Casterly Rock."

"Oh-ho cliff diving?"

For a brief moment, Jaime allowed a sliver of a true smile on his lips. "My uncle's squire said I was the finest diver he'd ever seen. My uncle said I ought to remain with the sword."

"And you've succeeded beautifully in your endeavor." He turned to the ever silent Brienne. "Knighted at age fifteen by Ser Arthur Dayne himself. An honor if there ever was one."

Brienne looked up and Jaime, once again, was stunned into sudden silence by the blue of her eyes. They were like nothing he'd ever seen—pure and endless, like the continuous depth of the ocean itself. Her only redeeming feature. The crueler part of Jaime's mind sneered. A pity to have been born so plain though the gods saw fit to bless her with sapphires.

Lord Tarth cleared his throat. "What was he like?"

Jaime was served angelfish of marigold and electric blue by a thin haired servant followed by an array of prawns by another narrow chinned steward. "Who, Ser Arthur?" He feigned ignorance, taking the time to debate on whether or not to request mushroom sauce. It was with hateful reverence that he called upon the memories of his youth. "He was, in the words of poetry, the comet itself—blazing and violet, cutting down his enemies with such precision that he was near omnipresent." He paused. "I respected him." I wanted to be him.

From across the way, little Brienne with her crooked nose and buck teeth, appeared mesmerized.

"Did he train you?" Lord Selwyn inquired, breaking into a crab leg with great gusto while a servant poured him a goblet of Arbor Red.

"If he did then it was training on the job. I was knighted on the battlefield after cutting down my first man in the Kingswood Brotherhood. Ser Arthur disliked the monotony of training new recruits and, for so fine a swordsman, I couldn't bring myself to blame him. Why waste your talents propping up the young when your parry alone could disarm three men?" Jaime fixed his gaze on the hesitant Lady Brienne. "Would you agree with that statement, my lady?"

"I…" she fumbled, mouth moving but words silent.

"Of course you don't." Jaime raised his goblet. "You've never seen him in battle." With derisive gallantry, Jaime proffered her a toast. "To knights—new and old."

The girl's cheeks reddened, jaw tightening with consternation. It must have taken her a great deal of self control to keep from lashing out at him.

"To knights." She muttered under her breath. "New and old."

And so flowed the Arbor's wine.

Winterfell

"Your melancholy seeps, Lord Stark." Cersei's voice sliced through the still air, landing haphazardly on the chopping block that was Eddard Stark.

He glanced up, reserved and quiet, but the grim downturn of his mouth softened. "Cersei." He breathed, the faintest hint of relief in his otherwise impassive tone.

"Do tell me that you've only just awoken." She demanded irritably. "I see that the sky is still dark, the fire still hot, and your face still somber."

"That was a great many observations, my lady." He briefly wondered if she would laugh at him for saying a prayer. Judging by her none-too-pleased expression, he surmised she would. "You fainted."

"Did I?" She adjusted her heavy cashmere coverlet, nimble fingers working through the many layers until she was satisfied. "Well. I suppose I should start eating more. No more of that heavy meat—I want something lighter. Scallops fresh from the sea served over a bed of ripe corn, cherry tomatoes, and tender potatoes. Rosemary too—and basil." She frowned slightly, lower lip jutting out.

"Our supply lines won't be refreshed until next moon's turn." Ned reminded, voice gentle. "And then we must audit the granary and ensure that there's enough salted pork for the smallfolk."

Cersei wrinkled her nose but surprised Ned when she merely turned her head aside, looking out the blue stained window. Her usual fire and brimstone cooled into something Ned did not like—resignation.

"Cersei?"

"My lord you must pardon what I am about to confess but I feel weary and not at all well." Her voice was firm but distant and her hands, usually so untroubled and still, now fidgeted—twisting one of the many jeweled rings around her finger, and round and round it spun. Her next words were measured, carefully paced together. "You must understand that while my disposition may confer weakness I am not, Lord Stark, a woman of frailty."

With her eyes still fixed out the window, Ned felt something propelling him forward. He rose from his fireside position and crossed the room to where Cersei lay, wanting to be near this gilded lioness whose pride prevented her from both confession and acceptance. His weight dipped the bed and his wife, always so curious to the point of intrusion, returned her attentions to him. Her eyes burned like emerald fire, piercing through Ned as if she wanted to dissolve him of all pretense and honor.

He would never confess it out loud but around Cersei, he questioned his sanity as often as he did his virtues.

"You may tell me anything you wish." Ned intoned gravely. "For I shall always see you as what you endeavor to be. Of what you strive to create. I will not be so bathetic as to claim total knowledge of your soul, my lady, but I can promise you that with everything I am, I will try to."

Ned was aware that his words were not the amorous confession of an ardent lover but he knew, with every inch of his bloodstained heart, that he would protect his wife like no other. She had come to him a golden stranger of perfect beauty—a queen of honey wild and manna-dew whose thinly veiled scorn Ned accepted without question. She looked the part of royalty yet with every word she spoke, punctured by a violent need to prove herself, was more than just a verse of poetry—it was fire. A blazing, burning fire that threatened to consume her whole if not properly tempered by the cool winds of spring; she was so filled with passion and earnest desire that, when combined with her haughty pride and rare temper, it was easy to be burned alive.

He never considered himself the gentle rain of temperance but winter and flame was the juxtaposition of every livelihood—the foundation of humanity. He supposed there was a philosophy to it.

With only the briefest hint of hesitation, Ned reached out to take Cersei's hand. She did not recoil.

It was an irregular sight—the calloused, earth-worn hands of a solider and the pale, creamy soft skin of a lady. Two hands joined together in a unity no one thought possible. A Stark and a Lannister.

"Speak your mind, Cersei." Ned gave her a slight smile. "Even if you have already presupposed my answer, I will always listen to what you have to say."

"You're quite good at that." Cersei murmured. "Listening. Thinking. So patient, aren't you?"

"I've had plenty of practice my lady. Benjen ran circles around our father and Brandon was no better—outgoing, gregarious. He would have fled south had it not been for duty binding him here."

Cersei scoffed—though not at all unkindly. "The south is wanting as well." She derided with a click of her tongue. "After a fortnight one tires of the tourneys and stupid, ignorant courtesans who seem to titter and giggle like underfed birds."

"But you were never one of them." It was a statement—not a question.

And Cersei, never one to feign modesty, smirked. "Of course not. I would have died of shame had I behaved in the same obvious manner they did. Predictability is the death of power."

"Yet sometimes it can foster longevity. Peace."

"Only if it's wielded by the right ruler."

"Of course. I would never put a crown on the head of a wild dog."

"But you would anoint a drunken ox?"

Ned flinched inwardly, lips thinning. "Robert is a good man."

"A good man with a penchant for wine, whores, and atrocious temper tantrums. Jon is not yet two years old and he's better behaved than that inebriated stag."

"You mustn't ever speak of his majesty that way."

Cersei's eyes flashed. "Why ever not? We're in Winterfell, not that shit filled capitol."

"He is our sovereign and I will not tolerate such insolence."

"Oh honesty is insolence now?" Ned could tell that his words hit home—Cersei's beautiful features morphed into one of acerbic ire, just hinting at the inferno that lay underneath. "Robert Baratheon may be your childhood companion—the fool you spent time with when boredom creeped in—but without Jon Arryn and his court of advisors, Robert Baratheon would be nothing more than a fat sow ready for slaughter."

She looked smug—proud at how acutely her insults must have stung but Ned unclasped Cersei's hand as if he'd just been slapped. Her hatred for Robert (who she'd only met twice) could not have just come from his lackadaisical rule. Was she…was she still upset over the loss of her golden crown? He could not offer her a marble palace but he had thought she had made peace with what had occurred.

Clearly, Ned berated, he was wrong.

"I don't associate you with him." Cersei continued. "You're at least capable of governance. He merely sits on the Iron Throne groaning and eating his way to an early death." She scowled."Wasteful—that's all it is."

"I apologize if I have no crown to offer you, Lady Cersei." His words were tinged with ice and not at all pleasant to hear.

His lady wife certainly didn't like the tone of it.

"He's a pig. I would rather not be crowned the boar's bride."

"You would be queen."

"Yes." Cersei conceded, nodding slightly. "I would be." She paused, frowning slightly.

The silence stretched on for a few moments longer and Cersei's hand came to rest on top of her stomach. "My lady? Is something the matter?"

She shook her head.

Cersei's silence was a strange thing to behold. Though his wife was not excessively loquacious, she communicated with affectation—her eyes alone could unveil an entire saga, written in emerald and gold. For her to look so forlorn—almost angrily resigned—worried Ned.

"Would you ever beat me?" Cersei inquired, suddenly and without preamble.

The question struck Ned across the face, knocking the breath from his lungs. How could she…? "No—I. Though we may disagree I would never—I could never—take it upon myself to harm you. Such an act would be—that is to say, I would not…your happiness is more my concern than your agreeability."

His stuttering incoherence—jarred and shaking—must have passed some unspoken test. For now, Cersei fixed him with the loveliest smile he ever did see. A lily on her brow and roses coloring her cheeks.

"Then I have something to tell you, Ned."

She'd called him Ned. Cersei's attachment came with odd angles and shapes; she disliked visible expressions of love as she was Tywin Lannister's daughter and any display of sentiment might be taken the wrong way. Strangely, Ned liked these private utterances more than grandiose displays of maudlin affection. His propensity had always been subtle and underneath the cool control he wore so well, Ned was shy.

Reserved.

It'd been Brandon, Lyanna, and Benjen who brought verve and passion to House Stark. The wild wolves of winter, teeth sharp and jagged, ready to spill ruby blood for the family. Quiet, diligent Ned stayed to the shadows, working behind the scenes of his roguish siblings for he had not their unrestrained beauty. It seemed odd to him that Cersei, an icon of loveliness and the personification of inamorata's touch, should suppress her desires as well.

Now, illuminated by amber candlelight, a soft enigmatic smile on her lips, she was an idol of roses—sweet, incandescent loveliness that held no pretense. He ignored the uneven palpitation of his heart.

Cersei glanced down at her ring and then back at him. "I..." she hesitated and Ned wanted to hold her, tell her she should be able to say anything. Almost drawing on his strength, Cersei squared her chin and smiled. "I think you ought to buy more horses."

Ned blinked. "More…horses?"

"Oh yes. Another mare for the stallion to breed with."

He felt strangely empty and very foolish. The frenzied delight of earlier (well, mayhap not frenzied but the feeling had been raw—unrefined—a scorching, rough-hewn ochre.)

With practiced caution, Ned pushed the disappointment aside.

"I did not realize you were so fond of them."

Her jade eyes glittered, full of smug amusement—as if she held a very great and tantalizing secret. "I'm not. But our son might find it enjoyable to have a horse all his own—one he could tend from colt to adulthood."

Ah, well.

Ned did not disagree. Such a proposition made sense. It would give the child a strong sense of responsibility and—

He felt as if he'd been hit in the chest by Robert's war hammer.

"Son?" Her lightly spoken words—blithe and casual—finally caught up to his frayed senses, distracted by Cersei's wild pendulum of moods.

Ned felt as if his head had been submerged underwater—everything was indistinct and all thoughts were groggy in his brain. "You…mean to say…?"

Cersei smiled again—though this time, slightly less sure. "Yes. Maester Luwin confirmed it some weeks ago. The fainting spell I endured was caused by malnutrition. Women, it seems, must gorge themselves while carrying a child." She said the last part disdainfully, almost disgusted by such a hideous prospect.

Yet Ned felt euphoric as a strange new warmth permeated his heart and soul, a divination that was all at once unforeseen but also expected. Without warning, his hand came to clutch Cersei's, interlacing their fingers together with a strange sort of intimacy that seemed brand new.

A child. He smiled. Their child.

- "You engross my thoughts too entirely to allow me to think of anything else." — borrowed from the extraordinary pen of Alexander Hamilton in one of his many love letters to wife Elizabeth Schuyler; October 5, 1780.

- "A lily on thy brow…" — comes from John Keats poem La Belle Dame sans Merci. There are two versions that exist but I'm referencing the original which tells the tale of a noble knight who falls in love with a beautiful maiden. She takes this knight to a cave where he falls into a deep slumber, plagued by nightmarish dreams where he is warned by "pale kings, princes, and warriors" that he has been enslaved by a lovely but cruel woman. (Yes, I'll admit it—I love John Keats. His letters to Fanny Brawne include some of the most beautiful prose I've ever read.)

A/N: Sweet enough to cause a toothache. For Ned and Cersei anyway. This is pretty much the beginning of their thaw - the rest of the story'll focus on building a believable romance between the two. It won't be wrapped in candy floss but it'll be romance nonetheless! (Also listen to Schubert's serenade "Leise Flehen Meine Lieber" when reading the Tarth dinner scene to get a sense of what Jaime's mindset was like.)

Also: thank you for all those lovely messages/comments encouraging me to continue :) you guys are amazing, fantastic, subliminal people who I am very appreciative and thankful for! If I could give you all Hamilton tickets and hugs, I would.