Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6338611.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Cersei_Lannister/Jon_Snow, Robert_Baratheon/Cersei_Lannister, Lyanna
      Stark/Rhaegar_Targaryen, Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister, Catelyn_Stark/
      Ned_Stark, Joffrey_Baratheon/Sansa_Stark, Jon_Arryn/Lysa_Tully_Arryn,
      Petyr_Baelish/Lysa_Tully_Arryn
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Cersei_Lannister, Robert_Baratheon, Ned_Stark, Sansa_Stark,
      Joffrey_Baratheon, Petyr_Baelish, Varys_(ASoIaF), Catelyn_Tully_Stark,
      Bran_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Porn_With_Plot, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Older_Woman/
      Younger_Man, Cuckolding, Star-crossed, Graphic_Description
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-05 Updated: 2017-05-23 Chapters: 12/? Words: 40716
****** The Lioness and the Pup (formerly A Bastard's Love) ******
by Jon_Stargaryen
Summary
     Jaime never goes to the North with the royal party, so Cersei finds
     another to fill his place temporarily. Unfortunately it turns into
     more than that.
     I understand if you hate this pairing but it came to my mind while
     trying to think of another smut scene in another story.
***** In The Beginning *****
Chapter Summary
     I edited the original chapter to fit a more serious, continuous story
     thatcan survive without the sex. I kept most of the content the same,
     though I changed the delivery.
THE LIONESS
Anger was not the proper word for what Cersei felt, sitting at the high table
of Winterfell's Great Hall as her loving husband, saw fit to honor her with a
wench on his lap, her teats in one hand and a cup of ale in the other. Of
course it was not unusual for Robert to openly dishonor her for all to see,
though it was unusual for Jaime to be absent when she felt the need comfort, as
well as the need to privately dishonor her husband later.
Before embarking on their journey to the frozen hell that is the North, Robert
ordered Jaime to stay in Kings Landing, insisting that having the Kingslayer in
his party would only hinder his efforts; by the gods she hated that moniker,
hated the scorn Robert chastised Jaime with, how the name still caused him to
cringe every so often. In addition to Jaime, none of her Lannister kin other
than her vile imp of a brother had been allowed to come, and that was because
her children asked so fervently.
Thus the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms found herself surrounded on all sides by
Northmen and Roberts courtiers, neither providing much comfort.
Glancing towards Robert, seeing a new serving wench on his lap, this one with
an even heavier bosom, Cersei decided to preserve what little dignity she had
on this evening. Looking to Lady Stark who, for her part was still trying to
engage her in conversation, she rose from her seat.
Clearly startled by the sudden movement, Lady Stark made to inquire on her
health. "Your Grace? Are you unwell?"
Remembering her courtesies, Cersei placed a forced smile to her lips. "Of
course. I merely find the evenings festivities to be exhausting." She said,
with far more warmth than she felt. "I believe I should retire."
Lady Stark bows her head in deference, not forcing the subject further, for
which Cersei is grateful. She makes her way from the high table, spotting a
half-sleeping Tommen as she goes, jostling him awake. He only protest slightly,
rubbing his eyes as they make their way to the exit, where a steward awaits
them.
With their guide in tow, they make their way through the ancient castle, Cersei
glancing upon the stone with less than mild fascination; she vaguely wonders
how long the castle has stood, though pushing away those thoughts as their
party arrives at Tommen's chambers.
Dismissing the steward, she calls for Tommen's handmaidens to undress, bathe
and redress him, watching her golden cub as they follow her orders. Once they
are done, she helps tuck him in, pressing a kiss to his golden crown. She moves
for the door, looking back once with a smile to see her cub nestled in his
sheets, then exiting to make for her own rooms.
She arrives at her chambers, swiftly dismissing her maids before resting upon
one of the lounges provided in her temporary chambers. Her anger holds root
within her, refusing to abate as she feels her core ache for what is denied
her. She continues to rearrange herself, restless in her skin as she tries in
vain to forget the aching in her loins.
Giving in to her compulsion, she reaches for her furs, draping herself in
warmth before she leaves her chambers hoping the night air will sooth her. She
makes her way through the corridors, tracing the steps of the steward until she
emerges from the keep victorious.
Her expectations of being the only soul not enjoying the festivities are
shattered, looking on as her imp brother converses with another occupant of the
yard. Despite her expectations of an awkward encounter with the pair, her
brother moves on, clearly done with the conversation, leaving the boy in the
yard.
The boy returned to the center of the yard, brandishing a blunted tourney sword
in his hand as he began to train in earnest. As he moved his sword, Cersei
could not help the wonder she felt at watching him. He moved as though his
sword were a part of him, an extension of his arm. He shifted and whirled and
parried against unseen enemies. For a few moments, Cersei thought the boy
resembled Jaime, with his graceful style and quick hands. 
As he turned in a wide arch facing her, she realized that the comparisons
stopped there. Jaime was tanned and golden like the sun itself, though this boy
was pale of skin and dark of hair, like the night sky framing the moon. While
Jaime's face always boar an easy smile, this boy seemed sullen. Looking back at
her, instead of emerald orbs that matched her own, grey the color of beaten
steel locked on her own.
The boy dropped to a knee in front of her, his final stroke melting into his
kneel and his sword rested at his front foot and knee. "Your Grace." He looked
up to her, showing his face.
He had the Stark face, long and guarded, though unlike his father who was
passable, the boy was comely in a roughly hewn sort of way.
She stepped forward. "Rise." He nodded lifting himself to his feet. "It cannot
be comfortable, kneeling in the snow." She noticed how he shifted
uncomfortably, softening her features to be more approachable. "Every soul in
the castle is either on the walls or in the Great Hall, other than you?"
He looked down to his feet. "You are here as well Your Grace?"
She chuckles lightly at this, causing the boy to look up at her face, a small
smirk playing at his lips. "I found the festivities to be less than
satisfying." She said, shifting to lessen the ache in her core. "Why are you
not enjoying the festivities?"
His lips turned down at that, shifting into a frown before slipping into a mask
of indifference. "Much the same as you, Your Grace." He took up the tourney
sword, polishing it lightly before replacing it in a nearby rack.
Her eyes followed him with curiosity. "You are quite skilled for a boy of your
age." She said, grabbing hold of his attention s he turned back to her. "Would
you care to act as my escort for the evening? I seem to have forgotten my
Kingsguard. " 
He regarded her with something akin to caution. "Lady Stark thought that the
presence of a bastard might upset yourself or the King." He shifted slightly,
his hand gripped tightly at his breeches.
She laughed lightly, trying to lift the mood, incidentally startling the young
man. "Robert has several bastards tucked away around the realm, possibly even
in the Westerlands." He looked surprised at that. "And I asked you to escort
me, certainly that is permissible?" She raised a brow to him, watching the
color rise in his face.
He straightened his back, trying to seem taller and more alert, then cleared
his throat. "If it please the Your Grace, I shall escort you." He put out an
arm. "Where should you wish to go?"
Cersei could not return to the heat, the cold being the only thing calming the
stirring in her loins. "I should like you to tour the grounds. I wish to see
more of Winterfell through your eyes-" it was then she realized that she had
never asked his name.
As if picking up on the unspoken question the boy opened his mouth to speak.
"My name is Jon. Jon Snow."
===============================================================================
 
The next hour was a blur, between walking around the gods wood and armory and
the glass gardens, she lost herself. Jon guided her through the gods wood,
stopping before the heart tree, admiring its grotesque carved face dripping red
sap, as if crying blood. He told her that many generations of Starks worshipped
before the tree. From there they went to the kennels, to look at some of the
castle dogs as Jon compared his direwolf pup, who seemed to materialize in an
instant and vanished just as quickly. From there, the pair doubled back to the
Glass Gardens, Jon spouting historical details about the Kings of the North and
their accomplishments, the entire way there. When they made it to the glass
gardens, Jon taught her about how the harsh climates make it near impossible to
grow food in many of the lands of the North, but the glass gardens allow the
land to receive light without the risk being covered in snow. As if to prove
his point, he plucked a blue rose from the ground, presenting it to her
gallantly. She accepted her favor graciously, clipping the stem and wearing it
in her hair.
Eventually they made their way to a dilapidated structure, the roof caved in
and several windows missing. Her escort looked back to her with a wolffish
smile, extending his hand in an open gesture. "Do you trust me Your Grace?" He
asked, clearly not expecting a real answer from a woman he just met.
She nodded in response, stifling her urge snort, grabbing his hand and
accepting his guidance into the tower. He led her passed downed beams and
crumbling walls, up dusty obstructed stairs, leading her to the top of the keep
where Winterfell could be seen in its entirety. From this vantage point, open
to the world, the once dreary castle seemed alive with the bustle of its
inhabitants to and fro and the lively noise coming from the Great Hall.
"This is one of my favorite places in all of Winterfell." He declare solemnly.
"It may not be much to someone who has spent their entire life to the south,
but to me it seems so-" the words seem to elude him at this point. "Wondrous."
Cersei turned to him with an appraising look.
"I'll be joining the watch soon. When I do I'll have to leave this all behind.
I shall be married to my vows." He said, again answering questions not asked.
She wondered why a boy so young would willingly go to a glorified prison. He
would never experience the joys of looking down upon his first child, or the
passion of making love for the first time. And with that she was reminded of
the dull aching inside of her, needing a release. Realizing that her hand was
still clutched in his, she wiggled her fingers to stop them from stiffening.
Jon clearly took that as a sign of her discomfort, removing his hand from her
grasp and taking several steps back. She moved toward him slowly, like a lion
cornering its prey, making sure he did not flee. "You seem nervous Jon." She
advanced even further. "Do highborn ladies make you nervous, with our lethal
skirts and needles?" She giggled, seeing the tension leave his shoulders.
She needed her release and by his own admission he was leaving for the Wall
soon, never to be heard from again. If there was a better option available to
find her release, she could not think of one; he was young strong and virile,
though he may be a green boy, he could be trained. And none would ever know;
just Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell and his Queen.
"Have you ever lain with a woman Jon Snow?" She asked having made her mind. She
advanced on him, the tension returning to his shoulders.
"I- you mean- Your Grace?" He eloquently responded. His face quickly turning
Lannister Crimson, as he shifted away only to hit a wall.
No longer being able to contain herself, she surged forward trapping his body
with hers, trapping his lips with her mouth. Jon resisted, her lips moving
softly against his to no avail. She believed all hope was lost when she felt
his lips part, a subtle moan escaping his mouth. "That's it." She whispered
against his lips. "Share this moment with me." She ran a hand along his flat
stomach trailing down to his breeches and cupping his manhood in her palm.
"Share your first with me." He breathed into his mouth, jostling him in her
hand.
He moved his head away from hers tenuously, fighting the compulsion to give in
to desire. "We cannot." He breathed heavily. "I cannot dishonor my king, your
lord husband." He grabbed the sides of her face, looking directly into her
eyes, his steel orbs hardening with resolve. "I cannot dishonor you."
She smooths a hand down his chest, then migrates to the back of his neck. "You
owe him nothing." She pulled his face to look into her eyes. "Do you think his
thoughts rest with me while he is with his whores? That my honor is a concern
of his?" She looks into his grey pools imploringly. "I need to feel someth-"
Her next words are never spoke as Jon, moves his mouth back to hers, moving
with more fervor and intent than before.
Without pause her hands move to his breeches, unlacing the troublesome garments
and shoving them down his thighs, exposing his small clothes which suffer the
same fate. Jon removes his doublet and tunic with great haste discarding them
on the floor.
He then moves to turn her around, moving to her laces. She turns on him holding
his hands steady by the wrists. "No. It will take too long to remove and much
longer to redress." Jon nods breathing heavily, kicking his boots free and
completely removing his breeches and small clothes, tossing them to the side.
Looking over his body, she could have done far worse; he was lean and strong
his muscles heavily defined. She moved her eyes over his manhood, stiff and
strong. She couldn't help the comparison to her love; while Jaime was certainly
large and grand in her eyes, Jon was longer by a section of her little finger
and thicker still.
She immediately felt shame at the comparison; Jaime would always be her one
true love, Jon was a mere distraction, a temporary tool until she returned to
Jaime.
Her thoughts were broken as Jon placed her against the wall, lifting her skirts
and sliding his hand over her mound, slowly caressing her folds. She grabbed
his wrist, pulling his hand toward her mouth, kissing the fingers. "Now take
your hand and rub inside of me softly."
He did as she asked, rubbing his two fingers inside of her, flicking them
across her sex. "Good." She whispered in his ear, encouraging him in the right
direction. Jon looked beneath, her skirts causing her to snicker. "What are you
looking- Oh!" She did not finish her thought, for as she tried Jon shifted the
hood of her pearl, attacking it with his palm while his fingers twitched and
dipped inside of her. It only took a moment for her to come undone, as he
worked diligently at her mound. Her peak was rising steadily within her, her
belly tight with anticipation, just a little further and she would lose
herself. And then it stopped.
Cersei looked to Jon, heat rising in her cheeks, though he was not focused on
her face. He lifted her skirts higher, as if looking underneath. Then without
warning, he dipped bellow her billowing fabrics, vanishing. Cersei made to
protest the loss of contact until his lips brushed her sex, putting her leg
over his shoulder to open her more.
She instantly resumed her crashing peak as Jon began to lick her, massaging her
folds with his fingers, his lips and tongue occupied her pearl, sucking and
licking and stabbing her way to a sweet release. He gripped the back of her
thigh that was still attached to the floor, as she crashed around him, his
tongue still on her, his fingers still within her. She began to crumple forward
as strong arms made to brace her against the walls.
Her head began to clear, as his face came into view again, concern marring his
beautiful features. "Did I harm you your grace?"
She chuckled weakly. "No. Certainly not." She breathed out heavily. "Where did
you learn such a thing?" She asked with genuine curiosity.
He blushed innocently. "Some of the guards talk about pleasing their women." He
told her, the red in his face increasing. "They talked about using your mouth,
so I tried it." He seemed so young in that moment. So innocent.
Then he lifted he skirts once more, one hand moving to her mound, the other to
his cock. He looked into her eyes, silently asking for her permission.
Cersei grabbed hold of his manhood in one hand, the other arm draping over his
shoulder, then nodded he permission just before he thrust inside of her, her
hand as his guide.
For a moment she held him there, basking in the fullness of her loins. For the
first time since she parted with Jaime, she felt full and satisfied. Then Jon
began moving slowly inside of her shoving her harder against the wall, content
to simply move inside of her for a few strokes before picking up speed. It
continued for a short while until she felt the tell tale sign of a mans
release, Jon twitching inside of her as his movements became slower and more
stiff right before he spilled his seed within her.
He stood there, still sheathed within her for several moments breathing
heavily, before looking into her eyes. He must have seen something displeasing,
for he turned his head, his cheeks inflamed once more.
She grimaced, placing a hand to his cheek him. "You did well. After all I was
your first." She could not help feeling regret at the hurt look in his eyes.
The hurt only lasted a moment as he looked to her with something akin to
wounded pride, before straightening his back and diving deep within her, much
deeper than before bucking his hips into her heat. Before long she had wrapped
both arms around his shoulders, her knees to his waist. He gripped her thighs
roughly as he delved inside of her bringing her to her release, forcing her to
bite his shoulder. She swore to herself that she heard him roar as he released
his seed within her once more.
She collapsed against the wall, Jon still inside of her as her breathing began
to slow.
He locked eyes with her, lust clouding everything his gaze. She grabbed his
manhood once more, stroking him to his full hardness, as she grinned at him
almost matching his own smirk.
He took her thrice more that evening, in varying positions, lasting different
amounts of time. He would make love to her as best he could, followed by asking
her if she was satisfied. If he was not satisfied with the response his work
garnered he would try again. He brought her to her peak several times, though
he was never truly sated.
Eventually, they both collapsed onto the furs that were discarded four
couplings ago. They were tangled up in one another, Jon's manhood still
sheathed within her growing softer by the second.
Jon untangle himself from her, rolling over so that he still lay atop her,
though at a more comfortable angle, his softened manhood warm against her
thigh, his head against her breast.
She lye there stroking his hair, enjoying the feeling of warmth beside her, the
feeling of a strong handsome man inside of her, one that she does not despise.
He is no man, he is a boy, a voice within her chided.
===============================================================================
 
She does not remember falling asleep, or how long he has been asleep, though
when she wakes the sky is still dark. She turns her head to see Jon still
collapsed around her, his right hand clutching her breast in a territorial way.
She moves a hand to his hair, combing through his locks gently. He stirs around
her, flexing the hand latched to her bosom, forcing a giggle from her throat.
"You have a singular focus."
He smiles sleepily, opening his eyes to look upon her face as she moves away
from him. She stands shakily, her strength still waning until she felt strong
arms wrap around her waist. "Are you unwell your grace?" Jon breathed onto her
neck, his manhood poking through the fabrics other dress.
"I believe so." She sighed. "Though I'm afraid I don't have the energy I once
did." She turned to him smiling at the confusion on his face.
She looked down his body and his eyes followed, as if not realizing his current
state of undress until just now. "My apologies Your Grace!" He began to
scrabble about the room searching for his clothing, laying a hand on his
breeches first before looking down to her feet. Her eyes captured his line of
sight landing on his small clothing at her feet.
She bent down to pick them from the floor, Jon protesting the obscenity of it
the entire time. "You were inside of me until recently. I believe we can put
aside propriety." She said handing him his bottoms.
She wrung her hands around one another as she prepared herself for what was to
come next. "It is best you tell no one about us." He looked to meet her eyes,
something akin to disappointment alive in them. "Bedding the King's wife is no
small feat, even if your father is Warden of the North." She stepped toward
him. "If any knew of this, both our heads would adorn the walls of the Red
Keep." The look of absolute terror in his eyes steeled her nerves. She gripped
the front of his tunic, near his stomach. "I will call for you when I am
ready."
He looked at her in confusion. "Your Grace?" His question was answered with a
deep kiss to his lips, their lips once again locked in heated battle, their
tongues fighting for dominance until finally Cersei stepped away.
For a moment she stood still, appraising her new lover, looking over his entire
body, stopping briefly at his manhood, once again standing at attention.
She walked out of the room in the broken tower, finding way back down the
stairs and into the night without her guide smiling the entire time.
***** Chapter 2 *****
THE WOLF PUP 
The past fortnight since he'd first lain with the Queen was like something out
of green-boys fantasy, heated and hectic and dangerous.
Many a evening he would return to his chambers to find a sheet of parchment
penned in the Cersei's own hand placed under his door, inside of his trouser
pockets or if she were feeling particularly bold, she would deposit them into
his hands in passing. These secret missives were usually in few words and
extremely vague, The tower or My chambers or his personal favorite: Tonight.
The first evening he received the message bearing but a single word, he must
have walked the entire castle looking for her until he eventually gave up,
returning to his chambers to find his Queen, standing in the shadows waiting
for him. From that night onward, he took the meaning that 'tonight' was code
for finding him in his rooms after dark and waking the castle.
Each time she would come before him, modestly dressed and unadorned by her
silks and jewelry, as to draw less attention. This incidentally made removing
her clothing much simpler, though assisting her into her clothing was still a
burden, covering her beauty for another day or two.
Some might have argued that she was not as beautiful without her flowing silks
and baubles, though Jon was not of this opinion; he found that his Queen had a
natural beauty, one that shone brightest when framed by simplistic design. In
fact a Jon found her ravishing in her simple gowns, hair cascading loosely over
her shoulders and just above her bosom, an almost teasing gesture, her
beautiful flaxen tresses framing an incomparably beautiful face.
His thought tended to drift to Cersei more often than not these days,
especially before they were to meet. Thus his thoughts were plagued by his
Golden Queen as he stood outside of the Broken Tower, waiting for her arrival.
They were to meet here during the day, as most of the castle's men had joined
the King's hunt along with Lord Stark, leaving the women to their gossip and
sewing, while the children would play.
Jon had not joined their party, having caught a rather harsh chill the evening
prior, causing illness and fatigue. Though it was no real loss to them, for the
King should not suffer a lowly bastard such as himself.
Of course this was all just an excuse to steal away with his love. Though she
is not your lady, a small voice within him chided. He pointedly ignored his
more rational side, instead choosing half truths, she loves me, she gave
herself to me.
The voice spoke true; she would never belong to him, always to the king, always
to another. They would never walk under the sun together, though they had
walked the Glass Gardens on many a sleepless night. She would never speak his
name in the presence of others, though alone in the howling winds of the broken
keep, she would roar it like her family words suggest.
So drawn into his thoughts, he almost missed the sound of stiff grass and snow
crunching under light feet, the sound of someone not used to the snow and
frozen foliage of the North. He knew who it was, though he humored her, letting
her soft hands caress his eyes.
"Guess who." She said, the smile on her face clear in her voice as she nibbled
his neck. She was in a playful mood today and he would indulge her antics.
Jon feigned ignorance, shifting his head from side to side in mock confusion.
"Might you be the maiden, with your voice so fair?" He waxed poetic, pulling
one of her hands away from his eye, bringing it to her lips, kissing the palm.
He turned back to look at her. Beautiful. He then looked around, assuring
himself that none had followed either of them, then he lead her into the tower.
Again, they crept up the stairs over and under broken beams and passed broken
walls until they finally reached their sanctuary.
He looked around the room, staring at the simplistic paradise he had built
them; a large four-posted featherbed on a wooden dais, draped in furs for
warmth. Next to it was a table with a large stone bowl, for housing their
clothes and washing their love from one another. It had taken several nights to
get the furniture into their haven, slowly but surely creating an atmosphere of
comfort, in an otherwise dreary and uncomfortable space.
He turned his attention back to her, in her plain dress with her hair worn
down. Perfection. Like the Maiden made flesh as the southron say, though to him
she was his Lioness.
His thoughts were cut short as she made to undress, unlacing her bodice. Jon
surged forward, tossing aside his tunic and doublet with practiced finesse, his
hands moving to the laces of his breeches as their lips collided momentarily.
He laid a trail of kisses along her jaw, moving to her neck, nipping at her
exposed flash as she presented it, making his way to her breasts. He kissed her
left breast first, taking her nipple into his mouth, suckling like a babe at
the breast as she groaned into his ear. He took notice of this as he did much
the same to the right nipple before trailing fire down her flesh once more.
When he reaches the apex of her thighs, where the thatch of blonde curls lay
hidden, he pauses placing a kiss to her mound.
Then he began in earnest, removing the hood from her pearl with his tongue,
looking into her eyes assuring her consent. Her head nodded, an almost
imperceptible gesture, forcing him into action. He attacked her pearl, sucking
it into his mouth and stabbing it with his tongue. His hands instantly went to
work, one to her belly holding her in place against the wall, the other
traveling and teasing her folds and dipping inside of her, tongue still teasing
her pearl.
He works diligently at her as always, teasing and suckling and flicking his
fingers within her until he makes her crumble before him gripping his hair
tightly, she screams. "Oh gods... Jon... You must-" 
She didn't finish her thought. Before she could she came to a shuddering peak,
her arousal splattering his chin and his lips. She begins to crumple to the
ground before he rises to catch her. She smiles at him before placing a kiss to
his lips taking the lower in her mouth, no doubt tasting herself. She then
pulls away, observing the look on his face as she wipes his lip with a thumb.
"Don't look so smug. It's not attractive in a man?" She said with feigned
annoyance before a matching smile adorned her face.
Before he could respond she got to her knees before him, using their discarded
clothing as a cushion as she removed his small clothes. His cock sprang to life
as soon as it touched her hand, proud and hard. She moved her head forward
coming before his cock, then she licked him from his base to his tip. He felt
his manhood twitch before she took him into her mouth, bobbing her head back
and forth massaging his sack as she swirled her tongue around his shaft before
creating a suction with her mouth causing him to writhe in pleasure. He was so
close to his release now, his mind nearly going numb as he rasped out, "My
Queen, I am close."
She understood, letting his cock leave her lips with a pop, stroking him to his
release as he spilled on her bosom.
She smiled at this, making to stand as he extended his hands for her to take,
which she did graciously. Stepping passed him she walked to the feather bed
turning back to look at him before lying on her back and motioning for him to
come to her.
He feigned ignorance, looking around as if she were talking to another. She
laughed and rolled to her belly calling to him over her shoulder. "Would you
like to fuck me Ser Snow?"
He moved forward placing his knees to either side of hers. "How crass My
Queen." he whispers into her ear. "That language should be reserved for a
brothel." he said, biting he back, pulling her up on all fours placing her
hands to the low rising headboard.
Gripping her hip with a hand, he used the other to guide himself into her heat,
plunging into her sex and quickly finding his rhythm.
Their hands fought for space on the headboard as the struggled to keep steady
as the bed shook.
Jon was now hunched over behind her, his chest pressed to her back. Their skin
was slick with sweat, touching with each thrust he made. He let one hand drop
beneath them, fondling her breasts as he pumped inside of her. They roar and
growled and grunted as their sigils suggested.
They continued their lovemaking until they heard a shuffling sound outside of
the window.
They froze in position, Jon still sheathed within her sex. He leaned in to
whisper in her ear. "Get under the furs."
He pulled out of her suddenly, causing her to gasp as he rushed to put on his
small clothes, then his breeches. As he threw on his tunic he looked back to
see that his lover was beneath the furs, random strands of her hair splayed out
in the open.
He inched closer to the broken window, grabbing a splintered beam as a weapon.
If this person had malicious intentions, he would protect her with his life.
That thought was still at the fore of his mind when he made it to the window.
Quick as a snapping wolf he reach out and grabbed the interloper, who seemed
lighter than what he expected; with one hand he pulled their weight into the
room, coming face to face with Bran, his baby brother.
With a mixture of a sigh and a laugh, he pulled Bran further into the room.
This was the best case scenario; Bran was the intruder, which meant if he were
convincing enough he could easily get rid of him. Cersei was out of sight and
his disheveled appearance can be blamed on climbing into the tower. His focus
snapped back to Bran as he settled on a plan.
"Brandon Stark!" His brother looks to him with fear and shame. "What did your
mother tell you about climbing while the royal procession is here?"
The boy looked down to his feet, suddenly very interested in his boots.
Jon moved his hand from Bran's collar, softly placing it to his shoulder
encouraging him to look up. As he did, the fear and worry in his eyes seemed to
give way to regret. "But everyone is gone, I wouldn't bother anyone." He
whined.
"That's not the point Brandon." He used his full name to express his
displeasure plainly. "You gave your mother your word that you would not climb
while we had guests. You're a Stark, your word should mean more to you."
Bran frowned at this. "I'm sorry." He hung his head.
Jon squeezed his shoulder. "Sorry doesn't cover it Bran. Do better." He started
to lead Bran out of the tower.
They were at the door to the chamber when Bran stopped, looking around the
room, likely noticing the furniture and clothing strewn on the table. He turned
to Jon scrunching up his face. "What are you doing here?"
Jon had to pause at that, hearing a gasp from his love under the furs, which
Bran must've heard as he turned. Jon pulled his attention back to himself. "I
was too unwell to go on the hunt, so father asked me to look for some things in
the Broken Tower. And I found some ladies clothing and furs." He threw together
the lie hoping it would work.
"Ok." Bran didn't question. They left the tower together, making it down to the
bottom and into the courtyard, where Jon sent Bran on his way with a promise to
not climb.
He stood in the cold for a few moments absorbing the feeling on his skin, then
heading back into the tower, making his way to the chamber. Our chamber. 
When he entered Cersei was still under the furs. He put his hand on the
silhouette of her body. "It's safe now."
She slowly poked her head from under the furs, the look of bewilderment on her
face was adorable. "He almost saw us." She smiled as the hilarity of the
situation dawned on her. She looked down to his hand placed on her sex. "You
seem naturally drawn to that spot." She wiggled an eyebrow before resting her
weight on her elbows, exposing her breasts beneath the fur.
He surged forward trapping her lips with his own, biting and licking. They did
this for what felt like hours, time slowing around them as they were trapped in
a battle of lips and tongues.
When at last they broke apart, Cersei gave an audible sigh of displeasure, her
eyes still closed to the world. He moved forward to whisper in her ear. "We
must return eventually lest your husband send out a search party." Her nibbled
the flesh at the apex of her ear.
She pushed him away playfully, standing from the bed laying her body bare to
him as she reached for her clothing. She turned back to him, securing her small
clothes with a wiggle of her body, her firm arse bouncing freely before being
enslaved by her clothing. She then went about meticulously dressing herself,
making absolutely sure not a stitch of her wardrobe was out of place.
When she was done he stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her, his hand
resting at her belly. With the other, he shifted her golden hair from her neck
before placing soft and loving kisses to her skin there. She shuddered beneath
his caress, shaking lightly in his embrace. He went about this for a few
moments until he lifted his mouth to her ear. "I shall think of you each night
on the wall." She turned in his embrace as he repositioned his hand on her
lower back. "Your lips." He brushed her mouth with his, running his hand
through her hair. "Your golden locks." He pressed his forehead to hers. "And
most importantly your eyes."
She pursed her lips, looking to be contemplating their inevitable separation.
"It doesn't have to be that way." She opens her mouth again but the words seem
to evade her, until she seems to have found the right words. "I can convince
Robert to bring you with us, you can squire for any knight of the Kingsguard,
like Ser Barristan or even-" the words seem to die in her throat. "Either way
you can come with me, and we can be together. You can make a name for
yourself." She looks at him, her emerald eyes pleading.
"The Watch-" he started.
"Is a glorified penal colony. Most of the seven kingdoms send their worst
criminals there." She looked him in the eye, grabbing his face to force him to
look at her. "Your brothers will be rapists and thrives and murderers." She
kissed him, this time deeper and harder, like she was trying to convince him.
It was like wanted show him the life that he could live should he leave with
her. "You can come with me. Be with me, love me. I will be your Watch."
He stepped forward, pressing his body flush against hers. "If that is your
wish, I would be happy to serve my Queen."
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Their in the Riverlands now, near Darry. Joffrey and Arya still have
     the fight. Sansa is still a turncoat but Bran is with them. Also a
     bun in the oven for the Royal Couple. Happy times.
     Also after this point the time skips will become shorter. In this
     story there is no POV on the wall.
THE LIONESS
"Jon!" She screamed his name into his shoulder as she rode out her peak atop
him, biting him savagely.
She stilled atop him, his manhood still sheathed within her as she caught her
breathe, exhausted from their coupling. After a few moments breathe, she
dismounted him, leaving him spent on her sheets, panting like a common pup as
she settled next to him on the bed.
In the time time that had passed since Jon agreed to come south with her,
leaving The Wall behind, he had spent nearly every moment beside her, her
every-present shadow until his duties squiring for Ser Barristan begin.
She felt a rough wetness against her hand, lapping at her skin there. Looking
down, she noticed Jon's direwolf Ghost licking at her arms, looking at her with
intelligent eyes. She wrapped her hands about the direwolf's head, mussing his
fur as he burrowed his head into her arms sniffing at her belly. You can feel
it, can't you, she thought to herself as Ghost licked at her belly, then moved
to rest his massive body across her legs. She half-giggled, half-grunted at the
additional weight to her person.
Her thoughts were yanked back to Jon, taking a lock of her hair and whirling it
around his finger. "Like spun gold." He huffed out, lying on the bed still very
much naked, bringing a smile to her face.
She sat there, stroking Ghost behind his ears as those crimson eyes stared back
at her, like pools of blood. Her hands migrate to the patch of hair beneath his
muzzle, invoking a yawn from the great beast.
The bedding shifted as Jon moved behind her, arranging his legs to either side
of her, arms wrapping about her middle. He placed a chaste kiss to the nape of
her neck, brightening the smile on her face, increasing the flutter in her
belly. "You." He blows into her ear before taking it between his lips, nibbling
on her lobe. "Are going." He kisses the skin behind her ear where he knew she
was sensitive. "To spoil him." He said, biting her back gently, careful not to
leave a mark; Robert did not seem to notice the marks, though it would do no
good to bring undue attention.
She turned her head, placing a hand to his cheek as she rubbed his face before
placing a soft chaste kiss to his lips, smiling against his mouth. "Like I do
his master?"
Jon moved back slightly and feigned insult, causing her smile to broaden. "So,
you spoil me now?" He grinned broadly, lifting her up as she began to shriek
jovially, then spun her about the room. Her joy did not last, for her stomach
began to lurch. She patted his arm, a silent instruction to release her, which
he followed dutifully.
He set her down on the bed, moving around her to examine her face. "Have I hurt
you my Queen?" He looked into her eyes, the concern clear in his voice as well
as his face.
She placed a hand to his shoulder, a slight smile on her face to reassure him.
"I am fine. My stomach is just a bit unsettled." The relief in his eyes is
instant as he leans in, placing a kiss to her forehead. He moves away, a
ridiculous grin in place when he moves away, taking his clothing in hand.
Jon moves away from her as he dresses himself, swiftly lacing his breeches and
doublet. He then motions for Ghost to leave her tent, retaking his seat on her
bedding, closing his eyes and silently slipping into some sort of meditation.
This was not a strange occurrence; he does this each time before leaving her
tent, sending the wolf out first, sitting in meditation momentarily before
leaving himself.
He stands abruptly. "Your Grace." He kisses her forehead once more. "I promised
to meet Bran and Arya today. Father has posted me as their escort." He says
before bowing his head to her, backing out of her tent to join his wolf.
Cersei sits on her bed for a few moments, coming down from her reverie before
her day must begin in earnest. After a few moments more, she moves from her bed
to the mirror that has been placed in her tent. She turns to the side,
examining her profile, hands rubbing over the barely visible rise in her belly.
You must tell him eventually, the voice in her head chides. She thinks of how
either of them would react; Jon may not behave poorly, he was a kind soul,
always looking to make her smile. Robert, for all of his faults, tended to
treat her well when she was with child.
Cersei slipped into her nightshift, calling for her handmaidens to enter and
dress her for the day to come. In the back of her mind, she wondered how the
women missed a large white wolf and a man of five and ten, though part of his
appeal was discretion.
The women went about drawing her bath, bringing in jar after jar of warm water,
pouring rose-oil into the bath for fragrance. The women scrubbed her skin,
lathering in the smell of the oils. When they were done, she rose from the tub
allowing them to pat her dry before they went about draping her in the gown she
would wear, silk Lannister Crimson with Myrish lace along the leaves and gold
woven into the bodice. The style was such that it did not lace around her
abdomen, allowing her to continue pretending that she was not with child. She
stroked her belly thoughtfully, wondering what this babe would look like; would
he be like his true father, a northerner through and through, or would she be
like her mother, sun-kissed and golden haired.
One of her maids caught her reminiscing, smiling at the queen. "How far along
are you?" The woman asked with a smile. She must have read the look on Cersei's
face, for she made to continue. "I know the look of an expecting mother."
Cersei smiled, letting out a shuddering breath. "Two moons maybe. I cannot be
certain." She said hoarsely before clearing her throat.
"The King must've been happy to hear the news?" One of the others asked, and
Cersei choked back a scoff, straightening her face.
"He does not know." She replied curtly and sternly, saying all that need be
said with that: And he shall not know until I see fit.
With that she made to leave her tents, only for one of her household guard to
rush into her path. "Your Grace, there has been trouble at the ford. The Crown
Prince is injured."
Cersei felt her chest tighten at that, all thoughts of her unborn child were
shoved aside as she rushed to find her firstborn. Her mind was in a daze as
events continued to swirl around her. She knew that the younger Stark girl and
her wolf had attacked her boy, though no one knew where the girl or her brother
went, Jon having went to search for his sister. The other Stark, Brandon, was
with his father, though she was certain that Jon mentioned being with both his
brother and sister.
By the time the sun fell in beneath the horizon, Cersei had exhausted herself,
heading back to her tent. Her handmaidens took their time undressing her, now
mindful of the child growing within her. After the women left her, Cersei made
to climb into her bed, stopping when she stepped on a hard object, hearing the
clink of metal as she disturbed it. She reached down, taking hold of the sword
belt with both the sword and dagger still sheathed within it.
Cersei climbed into her bed, cold and alone, though the furs covered her well
enough; she clutched the belt to her body, making a note to place them in her
luggage on the morrow. She fell into a troubled sleep, tossing in her bed,
throwing her furs to and fro. So troubled was he sleep that she did not notice
the presence of the great furry wolf next to her.
For Cersei, the days after her Joffrey's attack flew by in a daze; Jon was
still out searching for his sister, though he did leave Ghost to watch over
her, ever the silent guardian. When they received word of the Stark girl being
found without her wolf, she was furious. Their men had found them before the
Stark guards, having her brought before herself and Robert. They were not
waiting long before Lord Stark arrived, fuming at the treatment of his
daughter.
The children argued about their versions of events, Joffrey saying the
butcher's boy and Arya attacked him and then set the wolf on him, Arya claimed
that Joffrey attacked her while she was playing with the butcher's boy. In the
end it came down to Sansa, the simple girl that she was, seemed to have lost
her memory of the altercation, much to her sisters dismay.
She wanted revenge. She wanted blood for the injury to he son. "What of the
injury to my son? How do you plan to rectify this situation?" She said, her
voice cold and detached. "Someone must be punished for this."
Cersei's anger abated when Jon stepped forward, shielding his sister. "Your
Grace. If I may be so forward, I believe we should treat this as what it is,
the actions of children taken too far."
To speak against him tore at her heart. Between her lover and her children, she
would always choose her children; be it Jaime or Jon, her children would come
first. Fortunately she did not have to choose, for just as she opened her mouth
the breathless form of Bran Stark appeared in the hall before the assemble
nobles and men at arms.
Upon seeing her younger brother Arya Stark began to scream, "Bran was there. He
saw it all." she turned to her brother "Tell them what happened. Tell them what
he did." The hall erupted into murmurs and shouts calling for the seven year
old to speak.
"SILENCE! All of you." The King yelled causing the hall to become eerily calm,
before turning to a shaking Brandon Stark. "Now tell it true boy. What
happened."
Bran looked to his shoes for a long moment, elongating the silence of the hall.
His eyes rose falling to his father, who nodded encouragement, then to the
king. He rose his head looking directly into Robert's deep blue eyes. "Well..
Arya and Micah- I mean the butcher's son were playing at swords by the ford and
I was watching." He scrunched his face as if trying to remember, eyes never
leaving the King. "Then the prince and Sansa came and the prince wanted to
fight Micah, but I don't know why. He took out his sword but Micah only had a
stick." He began to rock back and forth nervously, the attention clearly making
him uncomfortable. "Arya tried to defend Micah but the prince knocked her down
and pointed his sword at her." His eyes lit up before he told the last part.
"And then Nymeria bit the prince and he dropped his sword and started to cry."
At this the boy began to giggle as the hall erupted in raucous laughter.
This all ended when Joffrey began to advance on the boy, swords were drawn by
all: Northmen, royalists or the Castle Darry guards. Her eyes immediately fell
on Jon who was still without his arms, having never returned to collect them.
Robert pounded his fist on the arm of his seat. "Sheath your swords, all of
you. We are guests in this house." The men took their time returning their
weapons, the Northmen only doing so at Lord Stark's insistence. Robert then
turned his attention to Joffrey. "Now you!" His voice was low and threatening.
"You will behave according to your station. You will be King one day." His
voice rises steadily "How do you expect men to follow you if they cannot trust
your word."
Robert turned to the assembled men at guards, servants and men at arms rubbing
his brow. "Let it be done with this. Call it a squabble between children." He
looked to his new Hand, nodding his head to him as the gesture was returned.
"Those beasts are not coming to the capital. They are far too dangerous." She
said with a tone brooked no argument.
Robert nodded in acquiescence as the Stark children shrieked and cried, each
giving their own argument to the lack of fairness.
As Lord Stark calmed his children and made arrangements for a contingent of men
to lead the animals to the back north to Winterfell, she watched the crowd for
her lover, seeing his back as he left the hall, never looking back to the dais.
Never looking back to her.
Cersei, having had enough excitement for one evening, hastened back to her
quarters, her ladies following her wake. One of her ladies opened her chamber
door, allowing Cersei to enter as the others filed in, fluttering around the
room preparing her for bed. A warm bath was filled for her, the usual mixture
of assorted oils added to the water giving it a lovely aroma. Her handmaidens
rushed forward to help her out of the restrictive gown she wore, though as the
moved about her she felt a familiar sensation.
She quickly motioned for the women to clear her path as she lurched forward,
bracing her hands on the rim of the basin and releasing the contents of her
stomach. She had to tell him, her husband and her lover; both need to know what
the future holds for them, for the sake of this new life involved
She immediately ordered her handmaidens to redress her in modest clothing,
giving little attention to her hair or gaudy adornments. For this trip she had
to be as common as possible.
She left he quarters in a a thin woolen dress of muddy green, her hair worn
loosely around her shoulders and her body unadorned with finery. The Queen
walked the corridors of castle Darry, searching for the father of the babe
growing within her.
She walked the halls and yards for what seemed to be hours looking for the boy
who was meant to be her guard, going unnoticed for the most part. She had
nearly given up hope when she came upon a group of Northmen thoroughly
engrossed in their conversation, likely nursing their wounded pride for the
dishonor to their liege lord. She was contemplating heading back to her
chambers, thinking to pursue him another day, when a rather large and bearded
northman moved, revealing a sullen northern bastard heavily in his cups. She
stood there for a moment, observing him speaking with a smile on her face until
she heard him speak.
"I just wonder how a woman could be so cold?" He said in a slur. "No wonder the
King is so fat, having the Queen and her lions hounding him." The men broke
into laughter, clanging their cups and patting him on the back.
"Careful boy." A burly man said raising a brow. "Best not let the Queens men
hear you. You are her guard?"
Jon snorted at this. "I care not for the lioness, or her concerns." He said as
he put out his cup for a servant to refill. "She has already taken everything
from me." He took a long swig before continuing. "I gave her everything and all
she did was use me. The woman is poison." She felt the air leave her, using her
anger to sustain her.
She walked to him with all haste, slapping the cup from his hand and
regrettably drawing attention to herself. Jon looked to her with confusion,
opening his mouth to speak as he stood from his seat. She grabbed him by his
doublet, half-dragging and half-leading him away from the courtyard. She moved
through the corridors toward her chambers in great haste, avoiding contact with
anyone who might recognize her or ask questions about the drunken child she was
dragging through the castle.
Fortunately she made her way to her chambers without incident, her maids having
vacated the space long ago. She turned back sharply to Jon who surged forward
to kiss her, earning a resounding slap for his troubles. "You're drunk." She
said, her voice iron, her face stone. "I don't know what I was thinking,
believing you could be any better than any other man!" She shoved him, finding
him far easier to move in his current state. "You just take your pleasure
thinking it is owed to you because of the cock between your legs!" She shoved
him again, this time hard enough to knock him to the bed.
She jumped atop him pounding his chest repeatedly, Jon in no position to defend
himself. "Used you? I gave myself to you." She slapped his face. "I endangered
my children, risked my life and my honor for you." She cried out gripping his
doublet, only then realizing he had fallen asleep in her bed once more. With
few choices she pulled him further into the bed as best she could, resting his
head on her thighs. She let herself drift into a troubled sleep, her eyes
filled with unshed tears thinking about what she stood to lose if any of this
came to light.
===============================================================================
 
The next morning she awoke to the shifting of weight in her lap, only then
remembering that she had Jon in her bed once more.
"Cersei?" She heard him rasp, his voice hoarse with sleep. She opened her eyes
to look down at him, confusion flickering across his face. "What has happened?"
He said raising a hand to her cheek wiping a stray tear she had not felt leave
her eye.
She moved from beneath him letting his head hit the mattress as she made to get
as far as she could from him in this confined space. He stood to follow but she
raised a hand. "No!" She screeched. "I will not be your poison any longer." He
looked to her with confusion, taking a step only for her to throw a necklace at
him. "I heard you!" She yelled, making a concerted effort to give him a very
expensive bruise.
He stepped into one of the many baubles thrown, taking the hit directly to the
forehead and wrapping her in his embrace. "I was drunk." He soothed, rubbing
her back as she sniffles. "This is unlike you my Lioness." She heard him say,
while rubbing circles into her back.
She looked into his eyes, deciding to just rip out the arrow. "I found out that
I am with child only to find their father speaking ill of me. What was I to
do?"
For a moment she thought he had not heard her, his face a daze looking down on
her. "What?" He let out in exasperation, an emotion she could not recognize.
She rolled her eyes, grabbing his hand to place on her belly, rubbing it around
to note the slight curve. "I'm at least three moons I believe. I tried to tell
you last night-"
"I was a drunken fool last night Cersei." He kissed the corner of her mouth,
dipping to one knee before kissing her belly. "Where is my dirk?" he asks as he
looks around, as if the missing dagger would materialize. She walked over to
the wardrobe grabbing his sword belt from inside, walking back across the room
to hand it to him. He strapped the belt to himself, and gestured for her hand.
"Do you trust me?" He asked her gently, as if trying to remind her of the first
leap she took. She eventually took his hand, deciding to give him some measure
of hope.
JON
He led her out of the room into the early morn, having her walk in front of him
as if he were simply escorting her, acting as her guard. He subtly directed her
through the corridors, and into the open yard where it was still dark. They
walked slowly to the castle's, Cersei always two steps ahead. As they reached
the heart tree, he stood there for a moment thinking about what he was
promising, about what he was giving up. He closed his eyes, visions of a babe
with brown hair and green eyes floating through his mind. At that moment his
decision was made.
He took the dagger from its sheath holding it by the tip with his forefinger
and thumb. Still on one knee he grabbed her hand, placing it to the his lips
then straightened himself looking serious and solemn.
She rolled her eyes, clearly not liking the direction in which this was
heading. "Jon what are you doing? Get up from there."
He looked into her eyes, her lovely green irises shimmering in the dark. "Do
you trust me?" She rolled her eyes again, forcing him to amend his words. "Do
you trust that I love you, that I would give my life for yours and our
child's?"
She huffed clearly not in the mood for this conversation. "I trust that you
would protect our unborn child."
He noticed the way she excluded herself from his protection. "And what of
yourself? Do you believe I would leave you, cast you aside?"
She smirked harshly, almost as if she meant it to harm him. "And if your father
or Robert meant to harm me? What then? Would you fight through the Kingsguard
and the Northmen to slay them for my honor?"
With that he turned to the heart tree, laying his hand over the bark, feeling
the heavy contrast to the soft skin of moments before. "You know, when a
follower of the Old Gods swears an oath to a heart tree, it is as binding as
one made in a sept." He held up the dagger once more. "With this dagger I swear
myself to you."
"Jon-" she tried but he cut her off, speaking over her.
"I shall protect your person and our child with my life. I shall keep your
secrets. I shall share your pains, your burdens." He breathed out a raspy
breath, continuing with trepidation. "And if I should ever break my word, let
this dirk take my life."
She put a hand to her mouth, muffling the sound of her next words. "Jon you
cannot do this, I forbid it."
He simply smiled wryly, standing to his full height and turning toward her
fully. "The oath has been given and cannot be taken back." He states as fact,
handing her the dagger. "If you would like to end my oath, you may take the
dagger and pierce my heart."
Her eyes flash with anger and something akin to fear, she surges forward,
dagger in hand. In one moment he is against the tree, it's face digging into
his back as the dirk digs into his neck. She looks at him for a long moment,
weighing her options and risks. "I will accept your service." She flicks the
blade lightly, causing a small nick on his neck. "A reminder of your oath to
me." He says as she removes his sheath from his belt, putting away the dagger
in the folds of her skirt.
She turns to walk towards the castle. "Where are you going?" He calls to her
softly.
Cersei looks over her shoulder. "I must tell my lord husband the wonderful
news. I am with child." She tilts her head to the side and giggles. "I may need
my guard to walk with me to inform the King."
He steps forward to walk behind her, dabbing the blood that is blooming from
his cut, wondering what he gave up to be with her and what it would cost him.
 
***** In the Dark of the Night *****
THE PUP
He sat at his place in the Great Hall, seething in silence at the spectacle
that his King was currently making.
The welcome feast for the Hand of the King should have been a joyous occasion
for Jon, a grand feast, abundant in meat and mead and revelry; unfortunately
all he could see was the decadence of the Stag's court. Men pawing at serving
wenches drunkenly, their wives close by in addition to the sheer amounts of
food and drink being wasted by drunken fools; food that could be given to those
less fortunate.
Oh yes, the celebration began joyously with the announcement of the Queen
carrying the Robert's supposed child. The merriment was abundant, noble Lords
and Ladies and Knights stepped forward, all giving their best wishes to the
queen on her carrying of the next prince or princess. King Robert sat back,
allowing his lady wife to soak in all of the attention, beaming with something
akin to joy. He even went so far as to not grope a single passing serving
wench. This all lasted for no more time than it took the King and his ilk to
drink their fill, so not very long.
The moment the King had taken his fill of wine he began pawing at the closest
serving woman to him, a young girl with brown hair and a full bosom. As if
Robert's actions were an incantation, the rest of the court began to follow
their King en mass; making bawdy lewd jests, fondling serving girls and being
loud and rambunctious in general. As this behavior continued, Jon looked to
Cersei to see the resigned look upon her face, though he saw the underlying
scorn behind he facade.
With this, Jon could no longer spew his venom into his cup; no, instead he
raised from the table starling the Northmen to either side of him. He curtly
apologized to both men, before walking to the doors of the Great Hall, turning
back to look into the emerald orbs that had been studying his back and
smiling. 
Though he failed to notice was the second pair of emerald lights shining on
him, ones belonging to the Slayer of Kings.
===============================================================================
 
Jon made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, searching for the
passage that would lead to the Royal Apartments, and regretting ignoring the
short tour he had taken with the rest of the household.
Jon turned a corner, leading him to what he vaguely recalled was a service
entrance to the Royal Wing. Looking around, certain that none had followed him,
he slipped into a corner, dropping to the floor and resting his back against
the wall. He reached out with his mind, barely tapping the mind of the first
creature he encountered inside of the corridor.
                                     88888
The mouse darted up and down the passageway, listening for the rustle and clank
of the big creatures, the smells they poured on themselves to mask their musk.
He ran by cave after cave, looking for something. But what?
A smell, like flowers, but not flowers. Like something playing at being
flowers: Roses. The mouse ran past the-- fourth cave and the fifth, stopping at
the sixth to his-- left, smelling the not-roses. And just like that-
                                     88888
Jon returned to his own body, inhaling with great need, having found himself
overwhelmed by this journey.
He had been practicing ever since their camp left the lands around Cerwyn, near
the end of the White Knife; at first they had just been dreams, dreams of
Ghost. More accurately, they were dreams within Ghost, which Jon was content to
ignore until Bran confessed to having the same dreams. Though with, Bran the
dreams went much further; he showed Jon how he could slip into the minds of
animals, something that was supposed to exist only in the stories of Old Nan.
Jon comforted the boy and assured him that he was no monster, going so far as
to ask the boy to teach him.
Since that day, the two of them trained at it until about midday, barring
unforeseen accidents. Jon had become somewhat efficient at using the skins of
animals, though it could not hold for long, but it is good for small things
like looking for a Queens rooms without being noticed.
Having assured himself that the passage to the Queen's chambers were clear, Jon
slipped through the hallway and into Cersei's room, quietly closing the door
behind him. Turning to face the inside of Cersei's chambers, he realized that
he had never been in her rooms before; he had been inside her tent and her
chambers in other holdfasts and castles, but never in the Queen's Chambers.
Against his better judgement, he began to peruse her belongings. Peaking inside
of her wardrobe, he found only the maternity clothing she had likely ordered be
brought out for the babe growing in her belly, cutting off underneath her bosom
with fabric blooming out to accommodate her girth. Patterns of gold and silver
and copper adorned the ascending point bodice, stitched in intricate patterns
about the bosom; even heavy with child, none could say she was without taste.
He smiled. Jon caressed the fabric reminded of what should be his, feeling
shame at his resentment of the King and the fact that another would raise his
child. He closes the wardrobe, blinking back his unshed tears as he moved about
the room, looking upon perfumes and Rose oils neatly gathered upon a shelf.
So caught in his thoughts he lost track of time, though it must have been late,
for he heard the sound of shuffling feet in the corridor and the sound of soft
feminine voices. Looking about, searching for a place to hide, his eyes settled
on the doors leading to the balcony of Cersei's room. He rushed to the doors,
shoving them open and darting outside before closing the doors quietly. His
timing was nearly perfect, moving aside just as the doors opened, revealing
Cersei's handmaidens.
The women went about their duties as Jon sat waiting, hoping that Cersei would
be there soon. The ladies brought steaming water, filling a large tub as others
pulled out night clothes to dress her in.
Jon could not remember how long he had waited before he drifted to sleep.
                                     88888
He padded lightly through the strange woods, looking upon his prey as he slowly
closed in. The stag cocked its head, looking at him in fear before darting
deeper into the woods. He followed.
As he ran, the Wild Sister burst from the woods to join him with the Small
Brother not far behind. They chased the horned beast, slowly boxing it in. They
moved swiftly fanning out, pushing the beast to where the Small Sister waited.
Just a bit further. A little more.
Sharp and quick the Small Sister tore from the brush, snapping at the stag's
hind leg and dipping away, avoiding the wild kick. The stag hobbled to get away
as Ghost pounced on his neck, blood rushing into his mouth as the stag went
down, limp in his jaws.
The Small Brother and Wild Sister stepped forward to take their fill, ripping
at the carcass of their prey. Ghost urged the Small Sister forward, a silent
gesture to take her share. She is too small, too weak. She will drag the pack
down if she is not stronger; for the pack to strive she must-
                                     88888
Jon is awoken by a soft hand to his shoulder. He snaps to attention, shaking
the hand away until he looks up into the emerald orbs of Cersei Baratheon. "How
long have you been out here?" She asks, smiling down on him sadly.
He jumps to his feet, smoothing out his clothing. "Not long I think." He
responds, looking within her room, seeing it empty of any others. He steps
inside. "I came to see to you Your Grace."
Her smile brightens at this and she giggles. "Have you now?" She asks in a
playful tone. "And how will you do that?" She raises a brow, moving toward the
bed before sliding onto it, her legs propped on pillows.
He paused at that; how would he tend to her? "I saw how the King was tonight."
Cersei grimaced. "We do not have to speak on it if you prefer." He said,
looking at her prone form of his Queen, deciding how to continue. "Does it
hurt- I mean the babe?"
Cersei looked to him, an inquisitive look upon er face. "It is uncomfortable
sometimes. Though it will get worse later on, especially the legs." She yawned
out. "Walking around with this extra weight is not very pleasant." She smiles
wryly.
"Is there anything I can do to make this better?" He asked looking into her
tired green orbs, as he reached out stroking her knee.
She shuddered under his touch. "My legs do ache somewhat. If you could rub them
for me that would be wonderful." She said, her tone less weary.
Without question, Jon went about massaging her legs, weary from carrying his
child. He continued for much of the evening, taking direction from Cersei from
time to time. In the midst of his ministrations, they began to speak about
their homes and their hopes and their dreams. Eventually their conversation
drifted to the upcoming tourney in honor the Hand of the King.
"He probably hates it." Jon informed her, a rough chuckle leaving his mouth.
Cersei looked at him, a peculiar knit to her brows. "Tourneys are supposed to
be fun." She says wistfully. "The pageantry and revelry, the excitement of
crowning a victor and the victor crowning his queen." She spoke about it with
such wonder.
Jon wanted to say something; anything other than, you would be my Queen of Love
and Beauty. "Have you ever been chosen?" He settled for that, though he wanted
to know more.
She sighed as his hands moved over her left ankle. "A few times, though always
in small tourneys in the Westerlands." She says with a shuddering moan as Jon
rubs circles on the skin around her ankle. "My father inspires great respect in
the west, making it a taboo to court me." She lets out another moan, pushing
him away. "He was saving me for Prince Rhaegar, if King Aerys agreed."
Jon looked into her eyes, holding her attention on him as he moved to grab her
hand in his. "You would certainly be my Queen of love and beauty." He places a
chaste kiss to her knuckle, then to her palm.
Cersei takes his face in hand, smiling to hold him. "Then the good Ser shall
have my favor." She says, reaching out with both hands, gesturing for him to
help her up.
Jon carefully raised his Queen from her bed, careful of her belly. She moved
through the room to the wardrobe, reaching inside with her back turned to him,
searching for something. She turned back to him with a smile on her face, her
hands behind her back. "Close your eyes." She insisted and he humored her. Then
he felt the soft fabric wrapping around his wrist, weaving around itself
several times before Cersei finally tied it on. Her soft finger trailed along
his palm as she moved away. "Now open your eyes." She whispers.
Jon looks to his wrist, admiring the green silk wrapped around his forearm,
gold embroidery freckled along the creases in the fabric creating a strange and
beautiful contrast to his queen. He raises a hand to her face, slow and and
tender, stroking her cheek. "Like your eyes?" He caresses her cheekbone, near
her ear.
Cersei grabs his hand, bringing it to her lips before laying a chaste kiss
there. "You should go." She whispers into his palm. "The Kingsguard is
stationed on the door, but you can leave through my solar." She ushers him to
the door, dropping his hand as he crosses the threshold and closing the door
behind him.
Jon hears her voice through the wall and moments later the sound of a door
opening, signaling him to slip through the door of her solar. He hastens
through the corridors of the Royal Apartments until he reaches the servants
corridors, swiftly descending the steps as he made his way back to the Tower of
the Hand. Before each turn, Jon stopped to tap the mind of one of the palace
rodents, using them as his temporary eyes. This continued until he came across
a strange sensation, his mind reaching out to a cat only to be rebuffed by a
presence already ingrained in its mind.
The presence was small and scared, though it held a certain amount of
aggression, though toward whom or what he knew not. He turned the corner to see
a haggard black cat staring at him, compelled him to move foward as the it
mimicked his motions; when Jon took a step the cat followed, putting the same
paw forward to mirror his actions, he tilted his head in sync with the cat.
They eyed one another cautiously for a moment, before the cat simply turned its
head and stalked away into the darkness, leaving Jon to contemplate the strange
encounter as he walked towards his quarters in the tower. He passes the guards
stationed at the entrance of the tower, breathless and tired, making his
excuses as best he could. Fortunately they allowed him to pass without much
questioning, leaving him to slip into the tower silent as the night.
After hiking the stairs two-by-two, he slips into his quarters, darkness
engulfing his world. He fumbles with his doublet in the darkened room, not
noticing the presence of Tully- blue eyes within his space.
"Jon." A voice whispers from the void, causing him to reach for his dirk. He
stops when he turns to see a frightened Bran, sitting upon his bed.
Jon stays his hand, moving closer to his little brother. "Brandon Stark!" He
hisses, his voice hoarse with surprise. He notes the apprehension in Bran's
eyes, calming himself before continuing. "What are you doing here so late?"Bran
looked to him, eyeing his elder brother nervously. "I saw something while I
was--" he did not have to finish. Jon knew he was within an animal, looking
through their eyes.
"What did you see Bran?" He prompted gently, trying to provide an air security
and trust for the boy. "You can tell me brother."
Brandon chewed on his lip, his brows scrunched. "I saw you tonight." He said,
jarring Jon from sense of security. "I was looking through a bird outside the
Queen's Chamber. I didn't mean to I swear, but I saw you there--" Bran paused,
shifting on the bed. "With the Queen?" His tone was questioning, as though he
were not sure.
Jon scrambled for an explanation, anything that could be seen as reasonable
purpose for his visit. His mind settled on a long shot which was not too far
from the truth. "I was there begging her favor." He said, the lies flowing from
him like water. "I sought her as a sponsor for the upcoming tourney. Her Grace
complained of pain in her legs, so I helped her ease the ache."
Bran looked at him for a moment, contemplation plain on his face. After a long
pause, Bran seemed to accept his words. "Alright." He grumbled under his voice,
shifting to the edge of Jon's bed before hopping off. He began to move towards
the door until Jon reached a hand out to grasp him.
"I will need your help in the tourney brother." He said, gripping Brandon by
the shoulders. "I shall ask Ser Barristan to lend me a set of armor, though I
will need a squire." He raised a brow suggestively.
Bran looked upon him in shock. "You mean for me to squire for you?" He asks,
his brows nearly reaching his hair. "In the joust?"
Jon smiled broadly, his lies of Cersei forgotten by the small boy. "Of course,
though it must be a secret." He puts a finger to his lips, adding emphasis to
his words. "Father would skin us both and make us into soft fuzzy cloaks!" He
tickles The boy, making him laugh. "Now run along. We have a long day tomorrow
with Ser Barristan."
Bran nodded, the smile still tugging at his lips as he dipped through the
doorframe and into the night.
Jon continued to unlace his clothing, preparing for bed. 
When he was finally bare, he climbed into his bed without preamble, tossing the
sheets aside to absorb the warm night air. As he lie on the featherbed,
thinking of the events of the evening, his hand subconsciously traveled to the
scar at his neck. "My Queen of Love and Beauty." He sighed into the otherwise
empty room.
The events of this very night would set the tone for the rest of his stay in
King's Landing. Starting with the tourney.
***** The Fall *****
THE LIONESS
Nearly a sennight has passed since she returned to King's Landing; six days
that she and Jaime spent tiptoeing around one another.
Even as he stood watch over her at this very moment, no words were spoken
between them other than what was absolutely necessary; as he stood guard over
her, looking around for possible threats, his eyes scarcely moved to her and
when they did, they never dipped below her neck. She found it foolish; it was
as if he thought ignoring her swollen belly would erase the child growing
within her.
This could not continue, lest someone suspect things better left in the dark.
"How long do you intend to punish me dearest brother?" She inquired, her voice
soft and smooth and low. She waited for a moment hoping her brother would
respond, hoping this conversation would go further and better than her other
attempts. Unfortunately, Jaime seemed intent on fostering the foul mood,
choosing to stay silent. "It was bound to happen at some point, Jaime." She put
a hand to her belly, stroking the babe that her brother so pointedly ignored.
"For all that he is not, Robert is still my husband."
At that, Jaime turned to glare at her, unfettered fury blooming across his
face. "And when did that start to matter?" He exploded, his voice blooming
throughout the garden. Fortunately the garden was presently devoid of prying
eyes, though it is no excuse for recklessness.
Cersei shifted her arms closer around her belly, finding Jaime's tone alarming.
"Since you left me alone with him for near six moons."
Clearly her words jarred him, for he moved swiftly as years of training had
taught him. He gripped the arms of her chair, his knuckles blanched from the
force. "I was forced to stay, or has that fact slipped your mind sweet sister?"
Jaime spat back at her. "You know as well as I that Robert has not forced you
into his bed for years. He has three legitimate children from you, he needs
nothing else from this marriage." Having realized the uncomfortably close
proximity to his sister, he moved away slightly. "No. No, if you shared his
bed, then it was because you wanted it." He hissed, the rage bubbling over
despite his best efforts.
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms looked to her brother, a knight of the
Kingsguard and protector of the Royal Family, with palpable fear. "Is that so
hard to believe brother."
Faster than Cersei could cry out, Jaime lifts a mailed fist roaring like the
golden lion clasping his cloak, spittle flying from his mouth. He held his fist
aloft, a mere breath away from her face. "I betrayed the greatest men I have
ever known, for you." He growled, his rage seeping between his teeth. "I set
aside my honor, for you." For her entire life, Jaime had been her knight of
songs; when she became queen he was her white knight and her personal guard.
Cersei found it difficult to reconcile this image with the one before her; a
valiant white knight versus the this beast of a man before her.
Would Jaime truly strike her? He never had before, though she had never hurt
him in such a way.
"Ser Jaime?" A voice calls out from behind her brother.
Cersei looks under his shoulder, getting a better vantage of the interloper
only to see grey hair, forming a long solemn face, holding two familiar grey
pools like liquid steel. Her heart drops at that; this is not the time for
chivalry, but before she can say that he speaks again. "Ser Barristan has
requested you presence." He says moving closer to the pair. "I was instructed
to find you, then take up your post guarding the queen." He takes another step,
clearly taking note of the anger within Jaime.
"And what does Ser Barristan want with me?" He asks, scorn and loathing
dripping from his lips.
"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard-" he pauses momentarily to remind Jaime
that he has no choice. "Did not see fit to grace me with that information. I am
just a messenger." He says, stepping within arms reach of the pair.
Jaime's eyes burn with pure hatred, and she is uncertain of whether that is for
her or Jon. "And what a fine messenger you are; the bastard son of the Hand,
squire to Ser Barristan the Old-" Jaime is cut short by Jon's interruption.
"Ser Barristan the Old, as you call him, is one of the greatest Knights in the
history of the Seven Kingdoms. Greater than a knight whose loyalties sway with
the wind, who would dare-" Jon's lecture is cut-short by mailed fists reaching
out to grip his doublet. Jaime stared into the face of the boy with pure
loathing, seemingly trying to run him through with his eyes. When this strategy
did not work, he thrust Jon against one of the posts of her canopy.
For all of the trouble Jon has found, he seems if anything somewhat reigned
bored with the situation. She finds his calm somewhat unnerving as he puts an
arm out, gesturing the way he came. She follows this line of sight, noticing a
wisp of dark grey around the corner. She does not have much time to focus on
this, as Jaime slams him against the post once more, whether to get a reaction
from Jon or to hurt him she knows not. Cersei begins to rise in an attempt to
stop this madness, only for Jon to put a hand out to her, keeping her in place.
Even when he is facing death, he is worried for my safety, she thinks to
herself. The chivalrous fool.
With that, Jon cocks his head to the side, forcing Cersei's line of sight in
that direction. She finds herself alarmed by what she sees coming toward the
pair of men; a rather large hawk, making no sound other than the beating of its
wings. Her attention moves back to Jon, intent on warning him, but when she
lays eyes on him he is shifting away from her brother, moving as far as Jaime's
iron grip will allow him.
She knew not what Jaime saw, though she assumed it was fear or opportunity, for
he removed one hand from Jon's doublet, pulling it back in preparation for a
strike. Cersei feels her heart quicken. "Stop this foolishness!"
With speed and grace that she has yet to see in him, Jon grips the arm still
attached to his doublet, pulling Jaime off balance with both hands before
placing a kick to his shin. Before Jaime can regain his his composure, his face
is met by the falcon from earlier, squawking and pecking at his golden hair,
driving him into a frenzy. He swats at the bird of prey viciously, fighting for
his freedom to no avail.
As though the gods had decided that the situation were not strange enough, a
dark blur emerges from the bushes to join in attacking Jaime, moving and
clawing around his legs, finding the small chinks in his armor. 
This continues for some time, Jon shifting closer to her and observing her
brothers duel with the winged menace and the ball of fur. There is a look on
his face that she cannot place, though it seems akin to boredom or
disappointment. "We should stop this." He says, moving forward to dispatch the
bird first, picking a twig from the ground and smacking the creature. He then
turns to the cat. "Stop that, you." The little beast ceases its attack, moving
to Jon and brushing against his leg before darting into another bush.
He then looks to Jaime with a weak smile. "That was quite the feat. I've never
known a hawk to become that aggressive without provocation." He puts out a hand
for the golden fool. Jaime seems to contemplate the meaning of the gesture for
a moment, before grasping the offered hand.
"A lesson for the future boy; even the Kingsguard can look the fool from time
to time." He say with a forced smile, patting Jon on the shoulder. "Apologies
for the rude introduction, I lost my temper for a moment. Siblings can do that
to you." He looks to Cersei, his gaze beaming with hidden meaning. He pauses
for a moment, staring her down. "Anyway, I should go and see what the Lord
Commander wants." He bows to her and ruffles Jon's dark locks, a purposefully
condescending gesture, before departing from the garden. She watches his back
as he moves closer to the castle, never turning back to look at her.
When she can no longer see him, she lets out a sigh of relief, finally looking
over to Jon. His face is full of unasked questions. "Don't." She says,
preempting the onslaught of tough inquiries she would rather not face.
Jon merely looks into her eyes, nodding his understanding. "I swore to keep
your secrets." He says in a low voice, hoarse with something she cannot
understand. "I take my oaths seriously." With that, he extends an arm,
beckoning her to take the offered limb. After only a moments hesitation, Cersei
takes the offered limb, holding on to steady herself as she is unsure on her
feet.
As they walk, she grips his arm tighter, calling his attention to her. "You
should be more careful Jon." She admonishes, pulling him to look into her eyes.
"Luck will not always be on your-"
She is cut off by the swift shuffling of small feet. She looks up to see the
youngest Stark of the bunch, Brandon. "You hit me! I can't believe-" the boy
barely has time to speak, as Jon moved away from her clamping a hand over his
mouth swiftly. The boy looks to Jon, then to her and a silent understanding
passes between the two, Brandon nodding his head.
Jon moves away from the boy, bracing his body back against his queen's. Bran
dips into a clumsy bow, before standing to his full height and shifting forward
on his toes. "Your Grace." He says, puffing his chest out to her.
"Hello again Brandon." She says with a smile, taking the boy in. "Were you to
deliver the message as well?" She asks, merely making polite conversation.
The boy scrunches his face in a confused manner, looking to Jon for an answer.
"I had to say something, did I not?" She looks to Jon, noting the guilty look
on his face. "I panicked and I needed a reason for Ser Jaime to leave." He
said, guilt and nervousness laced in his voice.
"So Ser Barristan did not want Jaime then?" She said, slight confusion in her
voice. Jon shook his head, looking to the ground. He was so convincing, she
thought to herself. And it is not too strange for a knight to send his squire
on menial errands.
Caught in her thoughts, she did not notice that they had reached her chambers.
Jon stepped back, dipping into a deep bow. "I believe we have reached our
destination my queen." He says, his voice a purposely low growl, foretelling
events to come. "Unfortunately we have business to attend to."
Brandon jumps at this. "We have to train for the-" The hand goes back over his
mouth as Jon looks into his brother's eyes, shaking his head. Brandon nods,
prompting Jon to let him go and stand.
Brandon dips beside his brother, straightening himself as they hurry away,
leaving Cersei to contemplate the meaning of all the strange things she had
heard and seen.
===============================================================================
After the shock of her morning, the rest of her day seemed to be somewhat
restrained. She spent most of her time speaking with the ladies of court, a
sewing circle of simpletons as far as she is concerned; stupid women, talking
about stupid things of little consequence to anyone. Growing tired of the
conversation in the boring circle of women, Cersei retires to her rooms for a
break, resting before she dines with her children.
Dining with her children is a more bearable activity, Tommen telling stories of
his adventures with Brandon Stark and his bastard brother under Ser Barristan's
supervision. Myrcella spoke of a new book she had begun to read, given to her
by the beastly little Stark girl. Joffrey did not speak, but to admonish his
siblings for even speaking to the more uncultured northerners.
They spoke on little else of substance, though she did learn that Jon had taken
to training Tommen with the sword, though she would have words with him about
that later.
===============================================================================
 
 
With her children off to their respective evening preparations, Cersei walks
the short distance to her chambers, hearing the bustle of her ladies more
clearly as she approaches. She sweeps into her bedchamber, her handmaidens
descending upon her instantly: undoing laces, pouring water and taking down her
hair. Cersei allows them to go about their chores, drifting into a somewhat
tranquil state as she prepares for her evening entertainment. When her clothing
is off and her hair is completely loose across her shoulders and the tops of
her breasts, she slips into the tub that has been filled for her, allowing the
scent of blue winter rose oil to seep into her skin. She runs her hands through
her hair and over her skin, assuring that the essence of the oils permeate her
pores.
After a sufficient amount of bathing, she rises from the tub to be patted dry
by her handmaidens. She then moves to the center of the room, allowing herself
to be adorned in a sheer gown of thin peach silk, before dismissing her
servants with an acknowledgement of their services.
She waddles to the bed, turning back the sheets to slip into her back, propping
her feet against pillows left at the foot of the bed. Someone is trying to
impress me, she thought to herself. Though all of her thoughts fall away as she
hears the clumsy shuffle of boots outside of her door. Is he trying to wake the
whole bloody castle, she admonishes quietly as the door opens, revealing hair
of beaten gold.
She barely has time to think before the rest of Jaime's wobbling form stumbles
through her door, nearly crashing to the floor in his white enameled armor,
sure to wake the whole wing. "Jaime?" She whispers harshly, drawing the
attention of his clouded eyes, drunken idiot. "What in the hells are you doing
here? You're not even on rotation this evening!" She whispers, her voice
climbing higher with each syllable.
He stumbles to her bed, the smell of wine preceding him as he trips on the
corner, his face falling to Cersei's outer thigh as her slumps to the
featherbed. "Sweet sister!" He nearly shouts lifting his face from her flesh.
She puts a hand to his mouth, calming him somewhat as he nods his
understanding. His next words are a whisper. "I have come--to say--that I--
forgive you!" He says, pausing every other word, running his his fingers up her
flesh, before crawling up her body.
"Jaime you're drunk." Her tone like iron, she makes to push him away but he is
steadfast and powerful, even in his intoxication. She groaned under his weight.
Jaime either didn't realize her discomfort or didn't care. "I need you sister."
He slurred, sliding his hands down her sides, slipping her gown up her body
long with her nightshift. "I've been so long without you." He licked at her
lips sloppily.
Cersei was in a full panic, shoving against his chest, trying to stop his body
from crushing her unborn babe. "Jaime!" She whined out, her mind barely
registering the strange presence in the room. "Jaime, you can't-"
Suddenly the weight was gone. She looked about the room, her eyes landing on
dark figure standing above Jaime his body heaving. Her panic increased rapidly
as she looked down to the limp form of her brother at the feet of her lover.
Suddenly her entire life flashed before her eyes; more accurately, it was their
life, hers and Jaime's. Running around the rock, getting into all sorts of
mischief. Summer trips to Lannisport, the evenings spent looking out over the
Sunset Sea, imagining what was beyond the horizon. She thought of the first
time he had taken her, how they fit perfectly together. And now he was gone.
As she sat in her bed, she could only stare between her brother and Jon as the
tears fell. She began to sob softly as she inched closer to the foot of the
mattress, closer to Jaime. She could vaguely hear the soft tones of Jon calling
her name, moving closer with each cry. She could feel the ghost of a hand
coming to her shoulder as she slipped to the floor, clutching Jaime to her
belly.
"Cersei." Jaime whispers lazily into her middle.
She swiftly pulls him away, examining his body and the floor around him, noting
the distinct lack of blood on any surface. She grips him by the face, looking
down on his dazed form, turning his head to notice the reddening flesh on his
jaw near his right ear. She locks eyes with Jon, crouched over her shoulder,
with a sheepish look on his face.
"What did you do?" She inquires, keeping the humor out of her voice, leaving
only authority. 
To his credit, Jon looked thoroughly ashamed of his actions. "I hit him in the
ear." He said, suddenly finding his boots very interesting. "Robb did it to me
once or twice." He shrugs like the boy of five and ten he is. "Could barely
stand after, let alone fight. I thought it might work on him." He phrased the
last bit as more of a question.
At his admission, she could barely stifle the laughter building in her throat,
allowing it to slip free in small bursts until it tumbled from her body. Jon
merely stood there above her, a quizzical look on his face. She fought down her
laughter enough to speak in a somewhat coherent manner. "Fate is a strange
thing, is all." The look on Jon's face showed his confusion had increased if at
all possible. She sighed in exasperation. "Never you mind. Help your queen to
her feet." She raised her arms as Jon moved to stand behind her, wrapping his
arms about her now bulbous frame, his cheek brushing hers as he lifted her to
the bed and deposited her beneath the sheets.
He made to move away, when something in her force a hand to his tunic. He
looked down to her, his eyes soft and tender as he gripped her hand in both of
his. "Will that be all Your Grace?" He whispered in a husky rasp.
She released his tunic, her hand retreating to the rest of her person, only for
Jon to hold it aloft placing a soft kiss to her palm. He then moves forward to
kiss her forehead. "Good night My Queen." He says, making to depart until
Cersei grips the back of his neck, pulling his face down upon hers. Her meaning
is not lost on him as he traps her mouth in a deep kiss, moving his lips
against hers with practiced efficiency. He slips his tongue into her mouth and
passed her teeth, coaxing her own small muscle out of hiding. He is getting too
good at this, she thinks to herself as Jon lays her down flat, moving atop her
carefully as to not crush their babe.
Her thoughts are broken as she feels him stiffening against her thigh. Before
she can voice her acknowledgement, he moves away as swiftly as he came. He
stands there for a moment looking at the door, then to Jaime, then to her.
"Would that I could attend you this evening, my love." He says, stepping back
into a grandiose bow. "But I do have a knight to carry and a household guard
and a Kingsguard to avoid." With that, he stepped over to the Jaime, lifting
him from behind to bring, armor and all. He then proceeded to drag him off into
the night. "Sleep well." He rasped under the weight of the fallen knight, as a
final farewell.
With his departure, Cersei's body suddenly seemed to remember how tired it was,
dragging her into a troubled sleep. Though she would never tell anyone, lest
they think her mad, her dreams took her to soaring heights, clouds above the
seven heavens and over waters of crystal blue. She saw visions of fire and ice;
of blood and earth. 
Of dragons and wolves.
***** Chapter 6 *****
THE PUP
The sun is just beginning to rise overhead as he takes his seat against the
wall, exhausted from the morning's drills. They had started long before the sun
rose in the sky, training fiercely in an attempt to make him ready for the
Hand's Tourney. Each morning, Jon and Ser Barristan, and Bran and Tommen from
time to time, would wake long before the rest of the castle, taking to the yard
to practice.
When first he had asked, or begged, depending on who was rebelling the tale, he
expected the man to refuse in no uncertain terms. To his immense surprise and
satisfaction, the aged knight agreed, only after asking Jon nearly a dozen
times if he was certain; nearly a dozen times, Jon affirmed his wishes with
glee, not knowing what he truly bargained for.
This time each morning saw him with new bruises, his body exhausted and hungry,
and worst of all his lance arm was numb with use. After the first day, Ser
Barristan began to add extra weight behind the shield in the quintain,
considering it as good practice.
'You are a boy of four and ten, slight of build and inexperienced.' He had
said. 'This will provide you with some semblance of a true hit.'
Each morning he would start with a few harsh spars with the aged knight, as Ser
Barristan had deemed him more than adequate with the sword, especially for a
boy of his age. The rest of the morning was spent practicing with a lance, Ser
Barristan teaching him more advanced techniques each day.
"How does your arm fair, boy?" The knight asked, genuine concern in his voice
as he handed him a skin of water.
Jon nodded, taking the skin and drinking it with reverence, nearly draining it
in its entirety, only stopping when Ser Barristan ripped it from his hands.
"Easy son!" He said, smiling as he mussed Jon's hair playfully. "You will find
water is in great supply north of the Dornish Marches." He said, looking over
his shoulder at the sound of wood clashing in the yard.
Bran stood victorious, sword pointed at the prone form of Prince Tommen for
only a second. A moment later, Tommen extended his arm skyward, chest heaving
as sweat stained his underarms. Bran gripped him by the wrist, hauling him
bodily from the dirt, squaring off for another round as they clashed once more.
Jon chuckled lightly, watching as the two boys formlessly battered one another,
like farmhands. "Their form is awful!" He said, looking to the aged knight and
noticing his lingering stare.
Ser Barristan's eyes cleared almost immediately, as he turned to assess the
boys once more, a smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "What they lack
in skill, they more than match in ferocity." He said, the laughter clear in his
tone. "They would make wonderful butchers!" He said, causing both of them to
burst into raucous laughter. As the jovial sounds began to ebb, Jon noticed the
Lord Commander slipping into his trance once more, a sort of despondent longing
etched on his face.
"Did you wish to ask something of me, Ser?" He asked, more out of concern than
curiosity. Since the first day they had met, the Ser seemed prone to staring
into space for long periods of time, a melancholy look etched across his face.
Only recently had Jon realized that this only occurred near him, for the knight
never seemed to slip while on his duty or with others.
Ser Barristan did not respond, preferring to smile and muss Jon's hair once
more, filling him with a strange paternal warmth. He fought back the feeling,
determined to not be moved on this. "Your stare does not bear the intensity it
used to, but it is still strange Ser?" He led, waiting for the knight to
follow. "Almost like a father, or a grandfather stares at his family." He
continued.
Selmy took a few moments, opening and closing his mouth several times, before
finally responding. "Why do you struggle so much to win this tourney?" He
asked, deflecting the question. "I mean to say, who is all of this effort for?"
He continued.
Not a complete lie, Jon thought, trying to create a story of his own,
preferring partial fiction to the truth. "I began training to win the favor of
a noble lady." He said, sighing into the gap left by his pause. "Though she is
currently wed to another." Neither of those are technically lies, he justified.
"So I mean to crown Queen Cersei, in honor of her child." He said with a ghost
of a smile. The last was only half a lie, though it could be true, given that
the babe is his.
Ser Barristan sighed, holding a pained smile to himself. "I knew a man much
like yourself." He began. "Young, strong, the son of a man with great power."
He said, sighing out his next word. "And like yourself, he too fought hard to
win a grand tourney, all for the favor of a fair lady who belonged to another."
He paused, grinding his teeth as he blinked back tears. "If he could have
gleaned the future-" Ser Barristan choked on his words, offering Jon a weak
smile. "Life is not always a song." He said, in summation.
He wanted to ask the Ser what he meant, though any words he had were cut off by
the presence of Tommen and Bran, looking upon them like lost sheep.
Ser Barristan sighed, helping Jon from the ground. "So, Brandon will partner
with me." He said, pushing Tommen in his direction. "You shall handle his
training, today." Ser Barristan gave a knowing smile, rounding on Bran as he
began to instruct.
Jon sparred with Tommen for the rest of their time in the yard, giving
instruction when necessary, and praise when due.
He was beginning to see improvement in the young boy, though the road to
becoming a warrior would be long and arduous indeed. "Enough for the day." Ser
Barristan declared, looking on the sorry state of their two unofficial squires.
"We shall resume on the morrow." He said, coming to stand before Jon, leaning
in closely. "I want you to rest for the next few days. Let your bruises and
aches heal before the Tourney." He mussed his hair once more, before heading
off with Prince Tommen, likely taking him to Cersei.
Bran grabbed Jon by the wrist, dragging him hurriedly into the Tower of the
Hand, bursting into small hall startling all in attendance. After breaking his
fast with Bran and Arya, who materialized sometime during his meal, looking
disheveled and tattered, he returned to his rooms to find some peace of mind.
Jon floated into his rather large featherbed, attempting to rest his body after
a hard day of training. Finding sleep to be less attainable than he first
imagined, he rises from bed, slowly ambling to his wardrobe. He begins
methodically to shift his clothing, picking up his meticulously folded
garments, searching for the green length of silk which represented his Queen'
favor.
Panic begins to set in, whipping his chest into a frenzy as he searches for the
gift Cersei had given him as a keepsake. He hastily begins to unfold his
clothing, throwing his second garment to the ground, hearing a harsh purr
behind him as he runs a hand through his thick dark mane.
Turning from the wardrobe, it takes him a moment to notice the small figure in
the doorway, rustling a small length of cloth with gold embroidery, colored the
same tint as Cersei's own emerald eyes.
Calmly and quietly, Jon began to address the cat. "That does not belong to
you." He said, reaching out with his mind in an attempt to control the feral
beast. Upon contact with the cat, something inside it began to war with the
intruding boy, scratching and clawing at him until he was forced to depart,
almost dropping to his knees.
The cat merely walked away, the silk clutched in its jaw, as though nothing had
just happened. I suppose if you're the animal, nothing really does happen, he
thought, we just steal your body and you are forced into obscurity. Unable to
think of a suitable alternative, Jon began to follow the cat through the tower.
He took a turn, heading down a flight of stairs, then through a stone door of
some kind, his surroundings not entirely registering to him as he passed
through the archway. He slid through a narrow corridor, coming to a stop at the
base of a ladder, looking up to the cat on the very top landing.
He began his climb, periodically hearing small sounds like Jeyne Poole and
Sansa chattering incessantly about the Golden Prince and his beautiful and
gallant nature, the incident where he attacked their baby sister all but
forgotten. He pushed that thought away as he trudged upward, leaving the little
girls to talk about silly things.
He looked upward once more, seeing the damnable black cat pawing at the silk,
likely creating tears in the fabric and ripping up the stitching. "Give it
back!" He hissed through the open cavern, mindful that he was currently trapped
in the wall next to someone's rooms.
He hauled himself upon the raised platform, snatching his property from the
thieving feline, glaring daggers at the small creature, and being pointedly
ignored for his troubles. He moved forward, intent on tossing the cat into the
shaft below him, stopping as he recognized the sound of voices behind a stone
slab in the wall. He moved to press his ear on the cool stone, getting a better
vantage to listen in.
"-never speak of this again in my presence Ser!" He heard his father whisper,
only catching the last bit. He did not have to wait long for the aforementioned
Ser to make himself known.
"So you mean to continue this farce of him being your bastard until-" Ser
Barristan began, though he was cut off by father's voice, ringing loudly
through the walls.
"I said enough!" He shouted. "I am following his mother's wishes." He said, and
Jon could hear the sound of wood scraping on stone.
"Then why bring him to this place?" Ser Barristan paused. "This place where his
brother died. Where his sister died." He said, sadness clear in his voice, even
behind a slab of solid stone.
Father groaned audibly. "Because Queen Cersei insisted and Robert did not fight
it. And I could see no feasible reason to prevent my landless bastard from
squiring for Ser Barristan the Bold."
"My lord, I only wished to tell you this for the boy's sake." He said, pausing
once more. "I can see it because I know what to look for, and so might others."
His voice had changed, moving closer to him. "Like the Kingslayer, or any other
who knew Rhaegar and would wish to gain favor with his killer."
"And what do you wish to gain from this knowledge Ser?" His father said, his
Lord's Voice coming forward, as if preparing himself for an execution.
Ser Barristan was silent for a long while, and Jon began to hear a loud
shuffling from behind the stones slab. Fear rose in his chest, believing he
would be discovered, until Ser Barristan finally spoke. "I wish to protect what
my prince left behind." He paused, the rustling ringing more softly than
before. "I wish to protect his only living son."
Jon found himself feeling lightheaded, though he could not tear himself away,
wanting to hear them say it. He needed that confirmation.
Of course it was not meant to be.
Before more could be said, the damnable cat screeched loudly, silencing the
room on the other side of the wall. In an instant, Jon heard the audible
silence extend, no words being said between the two men on the other side.
In a panic, Jon stuffed the scarf into his doublet, flying down the rungs of
the ladder, two at a time.
The shock of hitting the ground was not enough to shake him from his daze, as
he looked back toward the entrance he had taken. Back toward father and Ser
Barristan, he thought, back toward the false knight and my not-father. He
ambled down one of the many other tunnels, aimlessly limping after his hasty
descent from the small crawl space.
He had not heard everything, he knew; though what he had heard was enough to
hazard a guess. Eddard Stark only ever claimed one bastard, and even if he had
another, how would Ser Barristan know of them. His mind rumbled with
possibilities and theories; he searched for anything that could explain what he
had heard, that could make sense of the hole in his heart.
The further he walked, the more he observed: peeking through grates near the
floors, listening through walls and small slabs of stone, acting as doors
throughout the Red Keep. It took him a moment to fully realize what he had
stumbled upon, but by that point, he found himself hopelessly lost in the maze
beneath the castle.
Not that he particularly cared. It was actually liberating to be lost, and it
left his mind to wander away from troubling thoughts.
So focused on the new treasure he had found, he scarcely registered the faint
light moving closer to him in the darkened tunnel, though the soft padding of
feet did no favors to his pursuer.
He turned abruptly, reaching for a sword that was not present at his hip. Damn.
He moved a hand to his other side, nearly forgetting that he had never replaced
his dirk. Double damn. He dropped his center of gravity, waiting for the
interloper to attack. "Why are you following me?" He said, speaking into the
torch that the stranger held, his face obscured by the bright light in the dark
tunnel.
There was a small, feminine giggle, as a face began to form from the shadows,
paunchy and rounded and lacking of hair. His massive body emerged as well,
rounded to match his head.
The man smiled, an almost predatory gesture, taking a step forward. "You seem
lost young man. Might I help you find your way home?"
***** Let the Games Begin *****
Chapter Summary
     A bit of time has passed since I last posted. I've been in a creative
     rut as of late, though I think I've cured it.
THE LIONESS
Looking out over the competitors from her perch on the Royal Dais, Cersei could
scarcely quell the unease within he belly.
As Robert delivered his commencement address, welcoming the noble's in
attendance and commending the participants for their bravery, promising gold
and glory for the victors, Cersei and her children merely sat and observed
their King. While Tommen seemed positively delighted with the spectacle,
Myrcella seemed somewhat inattentive, staring into the crowd in search of
something. In contradiction to either of his siblings, Joffrey sat still and
regal, observing his father and King with a focus lacked by either of his
siblings.
The address was purely ceremonial, the true tourney beginning in earnest on the
morrow, with multitudes of knights and free-riders eager to honor the Hand of
the King, and by extension, the King himself. Taking stock of the dozens of
mounted, armored men, her mind began to swim, unable to focus on a singular
figure. For the most part, each knight was spectacularly armored, sparing no
expense in their pursuit of winning the day and befriending the new Hand, who
seemed less thrilled than any with the arrangement, taking offense at the
epithet given to the tournament, The Hand's tourney.
Cersei could only imagine Lord Stark's expression as she looked over the sea of
gilded men, their armor far too burnished and lustrous to be practical. Thus
far, she had made out nearly a dozen houses, including House Massey of
Stonedance, and the bronze field and runes of House Royce of Runestone, in
addition to nearly a dozen renditions of the twin towers of House Frey, dotting
up and down the line of champions. Glancing over the assemble mass of clashing
sigils and blazons, Cersei's stomach began to rebel, forcing her to look
elsewhere.
Quickly, Cersei looked to Myrcella, who's focus was still engaged by something
nearby. Cersei shifted her gaze, attempting to capture the same image that
seemed to captivate her sweet girl. Following her line of sight, Cersei's eyes
migrate to the area where Lord Eddard sits, accompanied by the elder Stark
girl, a septa and some other plain looking girl of an age with Lady Sansa.
Missing were the young Stark boy and Jon, as well as the smaller, wilder Stark
girl, though that was no true loss.
Though it seemed odd that Brandon Stark was not with his father, it was nothing
to lose focus over. Her eyes shifted back to Myrcella, noting the inquisitive,
and somewhat disappointed look gracing her face as she scanned the crowd near
the Stark's place of honor. Cersei's curiosity was beginning to get the better
of her, her eyes still locked on her daughter.
"Is there something wrong, my sweet?" Cersei inquires, startling the girl,
nearly causing her to topple from her seat. She graced the smaller Lannister
girl with a knowing smile, which Myrcella returned sheepishly, turning her head
to look her mother in the eyes.
"I-" the child began, averting her gaze nervously, her soft hands thumbing the
seams of her dress. "I thought that Lord Stark might bring his son with him to
the tourney, since he is squiring for Ser Barristan?" The girl finally said, a
row of teeth biting down into her lower lip, darkening its hue, slightly.
This inquiry to Cersei by surprise, as her daughter had shown little interest
in young Brandon, at least to her knowledge. If anything, it would be more
characteristic for Tommen to concern himself with the younger Stark's
whereabouts, as the two had become attached at the hip, following Jon Snow and
Ser Barristan wherever they went.
More for her daughter's sake than to satiate her own curiosity, Cersei scanned
the crowded Noble's Stand to either side of their dais, making a show of
searching low and high. Once she felt that she had wasted a sufficient amount
of time, she turned back to her daughter, an expression of contrition. "I'm
sorry, sweet girl." She said, partially meaning what she said. "I cannot see
Brandon anywhere." Cersei admitted. "He is likely somewhere with his bastard
brother."
A look of confusion passed over Myrcella's face, departing just as quickly as
it had appeared, leaving an indecipherable expression in its wake. "Yes." She
said, faintly. "With his elder, of course." Myrcella whispered into her lap,
her word barely audible.
For a long moment, Cersei merely stared into her daughter's golden crown,
wondering what she could possibly want with Brandon Stark. Perhaps she fancied
the boy; despite his age, the boy seemed to take his looks from his mother, and
would likely grow to look like his elder brother, Robb. Though at this age,
Brandon was little more than toddler, and Myrcella had yet to reach ten name
days, making the idea of any infatuation a stretch by anyone's imagination.
Abruptly, Myrcella's head snapped upward, startling Cersei from her thoughts as
the younger blonde eyed Tommen, sitting in the compartment with the rest of his
family as Robert's commencement address came to a close. "Tommen probably knows
where they are." Myrcella said, mirroring her mother's thoughts, her voice
laced with accusation.
She followed her daughters gaze, looking to her youngest child. No longer, she
thought, rubbing her belly, making sure the babe was still within. From time to
time, she had to remind herself that she was once more with child, as if the
babe were some lucid dream and her dalliance with Jon Snow were a mere fantasy.
Silently slipping from such thoughts, Cersei focused her attention on Tommen,
who seemed to be trying very hard, not to look like the cat that ate the mouse.
His eyes immediately moved from mother to daughter, flickering to Ser Barristan
for just a moment, before guiltily darting into his lap.
Cersei looked to the aging Lord Commander, following his gaze to the assembled
knights below. In his field of view, Jaime sat a horse in his gilded, golden
armor, his posture straight and noble, his face as dashing as ever, with nary a
blemish. To either side of him sat a member of the Kings, sitting tall and
proud in their white enameled armor, their white cloaks flowing over the backs
of their mounts, marking them as the Royal Family's sworn shields. To either
side, the noble Warriors were flanked by the lowest of the low. To one side sat
a Frey, bearing the sigil of his house proudly across the face of his shield
and dented breast plate, his weasel face showing through his dented, dull great
helm. To the other side sat a knight bearing no sigil at all, his frame was
small and dull; even from a distance, Cersei could tell that his armor was
hastily assemble, hailing from several different sets, as each piece was a
slightly different color and did not fit together so well. Judging from his
size and armor alone, she deduced that this pretender knight would not go far
in this tourney, soon to be swallowed up by the more qualified warriors around
him.
Her eyes shifted back to Ser Barristan, now standing to the other side of
Robert, her husband back in his seat after giving his speech in honor of the
games. Though she could not see his eyes, his posture sang an interesting song
for her. While his right gauntlet stayed steadfast on the pommel of his sword,
steady as faith, his left gauntlet seemed to shake, ever-so-slightly.
The field below began to clear, the ceremonial opening having come to an end
for the time being. Beneath them, a sea of bronze and steel and gold and iron
began to shift, creating a moving painting with the sigils of dozens of
families, churning the stomach of the Queen of Seven Kingdoms. It did not help
matters that Robert smelled of wine, though to a lesser extent than usual,
denoting his effort to make her pregnancy less strenuous.
A strange pressure on the back of her hand alerted her to the presence of
Robert once more. "Are you unwell Cersei?" He asked, almost sounding like a
caring husband. His face was full of concern, though deep down she knew he only
cared for the babe in her belly.
She nodded slightly, resisting the urge to snatch her hand away. "I'm fine."
She lied. "It's just- all of--" she waved her hands through the air, gesturing
to the tourney grounds, swallowing her bile. "This." She finished, speaking
into her hand.
For a long moment, Robert sat in silence, seemingly weighing the options before
him. "I will have Se Barristan escort you and your litter back to the Red
Keep." He said, decisively. "None of the Kingsguard will be competing today;
mostly hedge knights and free riders." He continued, as if putting her mind to
rest. "Either way, this heat cannot be good for the babe?" He finished,
shifting his hand to her belly, causing her heart to quicken.
If he knew whose babe was in her belly, he would surely crush it underfoot
without hesitation.
Pushing away the thought, she nodded, extending her hand to Ser Barristan, who
had moved closer upon hearing the King's words. She rose from her seat with the
assistance of her escort, before swiftly moving from the Royal Compartment. On
the arm of Ser Barristan, Cersei slowly and methodically descended the stairs,
ever attentive of her current condition.
The moment their feet graced the dirt, she immediately felt safer, giving a
silent prayer to The Smith. After gaining knowledge of her newest babe, she
found herself praying far more frequently, seeking solace in the idea of a
higher power.
As the pair walked the grounds, many stopped to bow before her, wishing her
good fortune in carrying. She acknowledged each, as courtesy dictated before
moving along.
They had nearly reached her litter, having taken in several stray Lannister
men-at-arms along the way, when Cersei noticed that Ser Barristan's attention
had once more been stolen. She looked in the direction of his helm, taking in
the sight of the mysterious knight from before.
As if feeling her gaze, the Lord Commander snapped his attention to her litter
as it came into view, striding diligently toward her transport, assessing the
field for possible threats.
Try as she might, Cersei could not bury a feeling that had been gnawing at her
conscious for days. Unbidden, the thought drifted to the surface of her mind,
bursting forth like flame from a dragons maw. "I thought to see your name in
the lists, Ser?" She said, taking hold of his elbow, slowing their progress to
prolong their conversation.
He looked back to her, his gait slowing somewhat as he took several diagonal
steps, his face becoming more visible with each. "It was until three mornings
ago." He said, looking down upon her, his eyes not unkind. "I withdrew." He
said simply, offering no further explanation.
"Is something wrong with your health, Ser?" She asked, more curious than
concerned. If Ser Barristan fell, that would leave Jaime as his natural
replacement, having served the longest of the Kingsguard, outside of Selmy.
Though she held no great enmity for the man, his loyalty was not to her, which
made him a threat.
The aged knight shook his head, smiling down at her, kindly. "Nothing of the
sort." He said, dashing her perceived concerns in the wind. "I merely mean to
give the next crop of Knights this opportunity, without this old man getting in
their way." He said, chuckling wryly, adding to the snickers of the Lannister
guardsmen, as well as her own.
Having paid close attention to his wording, she capitalized on a key phrase,
using it shift to a subject of more interest to her. "Speaking of the 'next
crop of knights,' I see that your squires have gone missing." She said, smiling
kindly to the sworn shield.
His face suddenly shifted into one of panic, before relaxing drastically,
settling into a mask of indifference. "I gave them both leave to enjoy the
tourney and ensuing festivities." He said, though his tone told her that he was
not telling her everything.
"I did not see them with their father, in their place of honor." She said,
watching Barristan cringe at her words. But which ones, she thought,
desperately in need of mor information. "Were they elsewhere?" She asked,
innocently.
"I'm sure I saw them around, somewhere." He said. "Though you are correct. They
were not with Lord Stark." He continued, halting in his step as they reached
her litter. "Your Grace?" He extended a hand, offering to help her into her
litter. She gladly accepts, realizing that she would receive no further
information on this day.
As the curtain closes behind her, cutting her off from the outer world, Cersei
smiles inwardly, having learned more than she knew before. Foremost, both Stark
boys had been in attendance, judging by the way Ser Barristan answered her
question, though they were not in the Noble's Stands. They may have been with
the commoners, she thought, however unlikely the idea was. In addition to that,
she knew where to uncover more information on the Stark boys' habits and plans.
Tommen.
***** The Crucible *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter was done on my phone, so it may have multiple spelling
     errors. Any jousts I left out from the book are staying as they were
     in the original.
     These next two chapters are mainly to set a tone for the legend of
     Jon/give him super powers.
THE WOLF PUP
The sound of hooves crunching through dried, dead foliage alerted the pack to
the presence of their prey, their scent obscured by the direction of the wind.
With a nodd of his head, Jon signalled for the small cousins to get into
position, preparing to rouse the beast from its shelter.
No! Not Jon. He thought, rushing forward, regaining his identity.
I am within Ghost, he thought. I am within the beast.
Such thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind as he crashed through the
underbrush, taking his prey unawares. In the center of a small thicket,
encompassed on all sides but one by his pack, a herd of deer, no more than
eight in number, lazily grazed upon the grass growing beneath the canopy
overhead.
In the moment before the two factions clashed, a strange recognition passed
over the largest of the herd, a stag, broad and imposing. The horns upon his
crown stood high and regal, nearly twice the length of its body.
The moment is broken as the pack descends upon their prey, the herd turning to
flee. Dipping low on their haunches, the bulk of the her swiftly sprung towards
the clearing, just beyond the copse of elms. Not all were fortunate enough to
escape, two doe falling before they could finish turning toward the clearing, a
single stag lay dead on the forrest floor, impaling two more doe with his horns
before falling himself.
And there were three.
The last of the the herd sprinted across the tree line, their flight desperate
and frantic. Ghost could smell their fear as the wind shifted, forcing the
aroma of terror and sweat and skin into his snout, driving him onward.
From either side of the small clearing, a cluster of small cousins flooded the
area, led by his massive kin. the wild brother, Summer, a ringing at the back
of his head informed, sprang from the brush to his left, his companions making
short work of two of the remaining herd.
And there was one.
His thoughts were quelled as the wild sister sprang forth from the right,
jutting forward to take the large antlered beast. She reached his flank in but
an instant, snapping out at his hind legs, her jaws coming up empty as the
beast veered to the side, darting forward towards the edge of the clearing,
leaving the wild sister to tumble to the ground in his wake.
Ghost pursued viciously, slowing for a moment befor Nymeria, bumping her softly
as she rose on steady legs, the pair darting towards the treeline in pursuit of
their prey.
The pack behind them had lessened, many stopping to eat their feel from the
felled herd left in their wake. Summer, Ghost and Nymeria continued to pursue
the beast, leaving their companions behind, with their smaller legs and shorter
bodies.The three of them easily made progress in their pursuit of the beast,
nature having groomed them for rougher terrain and harsher climates than this.
Try as it might, the stag could not shake the trio of pursuers at its back.
Darting through a wind threshhold of trees, the stag burst forward, not
noticing the retreat of the three direwolves behind it. Or the flash of grey
hurtling towards its flank.
As the small sister burst forth, biting into the back left haunch of the stag,
tearing at flesh and bone and fur, her brothers and sister stood back, drinking
in the sight and savagery. Their admiration only lasted a moment, the scent of
blood overpowering their pride of their pack, drawing them in.
Taking his first bite, Ghost savored the warmth of a fresh kill between his
teeth, the blood flooding his maw--
===============================================================================
 
The floor of his tent rose to meet him, his face colliding with the lukewarm
grass beneath him.
"I tried to wake you!" Said a small, shrill voice, somewhere above him.
Jon groaned audibly, making his disappointment clear to his baby brother. He
barely had any time to process his fall and regain his feet, before Bran began
to tug on his armor, urging him to rise.
"Where were you?" The lordling asked, as Jon hopped into a crouch, slowly
making his way to a full stand. Without receiving an answer, he went about
seeing to Jon's armor, just as Ser Barristan had taught them.
He took a deep breath as Brandon did his work, looking around the room in an
attempt to reaquaint himself with the space. "Somewhere in the Kingswood." He
responded, his voice hoarse with disuse. "It was me and Ny-" He paused,
realizing his slip. "Ghost. It was Ghost and Nymeria and Summer." He continued,
pausing to inhale as Bran tightened his gorget. "The pack is even bigger now! I
wish you could've seen it; Lady even made a kill." He continued, the word
flowing like the mouth of a river.
His little brother snorted. "Well, someone had to wake you for your next tilt."
He derided, moving to the flap of the tent. "Your horse has been fed, watered
and saddled."
Jon moved to stand behind him, assuring that his face would not be seen through
the flap of the tent, he placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I
can never thank you enough for this, brother." He whispered, shaking Bran
gently. "Maybe one day, when you get your spurs and have your first tourney,
I'll squire for you."
Bran turned on his heel, smiling into the face of his elder brother. "I'll hold
you to your word, brother." He said, his smile broadening. "You may not be a
Stark, but your word should count as much as mine." The boy finished, proud of
the lesson he had shoved back in Jon's face.
Jon forced a smile, trying to overlook the incidental slight in his brother's
words, focusing instead on the intent.
"So, who is my opponent?" He asked, forcefully changing the subject of the
conversation. "The Knight of Flowers?" He asked, false sarcasm lacing his
voice, attempting to mask the trepidation he felt at the prospect of facing the
knightly son of Highgarden. "Or maybe another Frey?" He asked, the smile
broadening across his face at the idea.
He knew, just as well as Bran, that there were no more Freys in the lists,
having unhorsed several himself. Fortunately, their abundance of knighted kin
was not reflective of the family's skill, as each Frey he faced was only
slightly better than the last. Certain members were acceptions, he had heard,
though none had deigned to attend the tourney, it would seem.
The look of trepidation upon Bran's little face was more than enough to give
Jon pause. He began pacing the tent, the soles of his boots trampling the grass
beneath them. "Ser Jaime." He breathed, almost inaudibly. He clears his throat,
ensuring the clarity of his words before he speaks. "You'll be facing Ser Jaime
next." He restates, confirming Jon's fear.
Hells, he thinks, taking hold of his borrowed great helm in prpeparation for
his next tilt. Donning his helm, he could feel Bran's eyes burning a hole into
his back. "You think I'll lose." He surmised, not having to ask.
For a brief moment, the two stand in complete silence, Bran not wanting to
admit what both know to be true. "I never said that!" The small boy exclaimed,
barely containing his panic. "This thing that we can do-" Bran broke off,
attempting to find the right words to articulate his feelings. "It changes us."
He said, his small fists closing on one of Jon's wrists. "I know you can feel
it."
Turning to face his brother, Jon sighs audibly, the sound ringing within his
helm. "I'll be careful, Bran." He says, mussing his brother's hair.
Stepping outside of his tent, Jon takes stock of his mount, drinking happily
from his trough, preparing for the coming tilt. He put out a hand, rubbing the
flank of his partner as he drank his fill. The sound of the tent flap
fluttering behind him alerted him to the emergence of Bran. "Tommen told me he
would squire tomorrow." Bran said, trying to change the subject, likely
attempting to quell their doubts. "He's going bring Ser Barristan as well."
Jon nodded slightly, until he realized that with his height and the helm
covering his head, the gesture might be lost on Bran. "Good." He affirmed. "I
can use his advice for what's to come."
With that, he motioned for his mount to cease his drinking, smothing his hands
over the muzzle of the beast. Moving around to the side of his partner, Jon
slips his foot into the stirrup of the saddle, slinging his body over the
stallion to secure his other leg. Through all of this, Brandon Stark stood
silently. "Nothing is going to happen to me, Bran." Jon says, looking down to
his brother. For that is what he is. "This is what we talked about."
"I know." Bran chimed, looking down at his feet, scraping his shoe across the
flaxen grass. "I just keep seeing you on the ground, broken. It scares me."
"I'm afraid as well, brother." He sighes, having hoped to avoid this subject.
"But I need to make a name for myself. As a bastard, I will inherite nothing,
and father is not like to give me so much as a hut, let alone a small keep." He
says, attempting to keep the bitterness from his voice, almost choking on the
irony of his recent discovery. "All that I have, I shall have to gain for
myself. And that starts with bulding a reputation for myself." Without another
word, Jon spurred his horse forward heading toward the tilt yard. As he trots,
his thoughts are drawn to the possible setbacks for his current plan.
While he had gotten ample practice using his gift since learning of his shared
secret with Bran, pushing his abilities to its limit, he had yet to use it in a
true tilt. In practice, Jon had discovered that his bond worked both ways, as
he tends to bring a piece of Ghost back with him whenever he shares their bond.
Each time he had come back, his senses were sharper, more acute. With the eyes
of Ghost, the slightest change in movement could be seen, allowing him to
adjust to minute changes in circumstance. This coupled with his sense of smell
and hearing, Jon had repeatedly sparred with sveral knights at a time, testing
his abilities and finding them delightful. Along with his other senses, his
strength and speed seemed to increase, if only marginally.
While he originally planned to compete without the use of the gift, he became
further tempted as the competition became thinner, leaving only the elite
behind, including Ser Loras, Ser Jaime, Lord Renly and both Cleganes.
He thought himself fortunate to be jousting Ser Jaime, as he had no desire to
face Lord Renly or Ser Loras, as either of them seemed wholly likeable people,
and either Clegane would be too massive to truly defeat at his current
strength, no matter his desires to do just that.
Not yet, he thought, pushing down thoughts better left in the dark.
He also had very personal reasons for wanting to bring Jaime Lannister low,
specifically the way he interacted with his sister. Since begining his stay
within the Red Keep, Jon had witnessed the cool nature of Ser Jaime's attitude
toward his twin sister. From time to time, his behavior even approached
outright aggression, cornering Cersei, making threatening gestures, even laying
hands on her.
While he could not overtly slay a knight of the Kingsguard, he could certainly
bring him to heel with a sound defeat.
As his stallion canters into the tilt yard, all thoughts of possible defeat
abandon him, replaced by a yearning to see his Queen adorned in a crown of
roses.
Bran trots to his side, bringing his pony to a halt. Looking to his side, the
river blue eyes of his little brother are staring into his helm, peering from
beneath his cowl. "You will win, Jon." He said, giving a weak smile that failed
to mask his trepidation. The gesture itself was worth more than anything,
despite the obvious dishonesty it was delivered with.
Reaching out a mailed hand, Jon mussed the hood covering Bran's mop of red
curls. "Thank you." He said, reaching down and taking hold of the lance his
brother balanced in his arms. "Now take your place." Jon ordered, turning back
to the field, looking to Ser Jaime. "This won't take long."
All else fell away. The noise of the crowd became a dull buzz. The fading light
of the sun acted as a backdrop to the golden, gilded form of Ser Jaime, making
his armor all the more pronounced. Every crease and fold and crevice of his
opponent armor became visible, the softer joints shining like beacons in the
night.
The signal is given for the first pass to begin.
Jon spurs his mount forward, as the Knight Marshall scrambles to find cover
from the encroaching mounted warriors.
Beneath him, he can feel the smooth gait of his mount reverberating through his
body, as though they were one. He held his lance steady as the moment ticked
away, the wolf within him dragging time along. Looking. Searching. Hunting.
Within a hairs breath of clashing, Jon takes note of the slightly askew
position of Ser Jaime's shield. With the current position of his lance, the
coronel was like to glance harmlessly off of Ser Jaime's shield. Fortunately,
this left the other side of his shield dispropirtionally vulnerable.
Slipping back in his saddle, Jon angled his lance to the other side of the
Kingslayer's shield, sliding his own shield forward, disrupting the path of Ser
Jaime's lance. The collision came in the same moment.
The pain in his shoulder nearly topples him from his saddle, forcing him to
drop the remains of his shattered lance in order to better grip the reins. It
took him several moments to right himself, bringing his stallion to heel as the
crowd broke into raucous commotion around them. Wheeling his mount around in
preparation for the next pass, the young squire is greeted by the sight of
Jaime Lannister, clutching his sword arm as he writhes on the ground, his
squires rushing to his aid.
He makes to assist Ser Jaime, trotting in his general direction, though he
thinks better of it, wishing to avoid adding insult to injury. He instead trots
further down the list field, dismounting his stallion just beyond reach of Ser
Jaime's frantic mount.
Reaching out with his mind, he calms the beast, leading it toward the fallen
knight. "Tell your master, I plan to come for my prize later, but for now, he
may leave the field with his mount and armor intact." He informed the pair of
petrified Lannisters, ignoring the fictitious daggers they were glaring into
his helm. He watched as the pair helped Ser Jaime back onto his mount, ushering
him off of the field in preparation for the next tilt.
With his match over, Jon took hold of the reins of his mount, leading the beast
from the field. It is only then that he takes notice of the two men taking the
field. Ser Gregor Clegane cantered onto the field, his mount screaming in
agony, its mind scratching at the walls around Jon's own soul. Across from the
massive childkilling monster, a knight in gleaming armor, fit for a king, rode
atop a fresh mount.
Finally making his way off of the list fields, he barely had the time to tie
his mount before a raucous cry rose from the crowd, falling to silence before
he could turn to see the cause for commotion.
On the ground before the crowd, the broken form of Ser Gregor's challenger sat,
battered and broken. As the onlookers murmured amongst themselves, blood
continued to flow across the list fields, smearing the soil in a rich crimson,
like the banks of the rivers he had seen on his way to King's Landing. Though
he is horrified by the sight of such brutality for the sake of entertainment,
he finds himself unable to look away. Suddenly, the body on the ground becomes
smaller, all of the armor is stripped away, exposing a thin frame wrapped in
skin the color of olive. It takes Jon no amount of time to recognize the form
conjured by his mind, the image of what Elia Martell might have been, stretched
before him, plaguing his vision. The field before him gives a slight repreive,
only to taunt him further, as the body begins to morph once more, becoming even
smaller and paler. Jon jerks his head away, refusing to bend to the will of his
demons, parading an image of a broken babe before him.
His eyes catch the retreating, unrepentant form of Ser Gregor Clegane, The
Mointain That Rides, stoking his ire. Something inside of him begins to crack.
No, not crack. Boil.
He begins to fume, feeling the beast within him fighting to break free, as the
broken carcass of the knight is removed from the list field. The body of some
random knight does not concern him. He only has eyes for Ser Gregor.
***** Chapter 9 *****
THE LIONESS
A knock on the door of her bedchambers roused Cersei from her sleep, forcing
her from the temporary assymlum from her responsibilities.
The knock came again, followed by the stern voice of Ser Mandon Moore. "Your
Garce, the-"
His words are interupted by another knock, lighter and hastier than the first.
"Mother!" Tommen's voice boomed from the other side of the door, the wood doing
scarcely anything to keep the noise at bay. Again, the knock came. "Mother!"
She groaned audibly, praying that he displeasur would reach them, keeping them
at a distance for a bit longer. To her everlasting gratitude, the noise
subsided, replaced by a low whisper outside of the door.
Moments later, the door creaks open slightly, revealing a cluster of
handmaidens, running to and fro in preparation for the days' festivities.
Beneath the threshold of the door, passed the scurrying maids, Ser Mandon and
Tommen stood immobile.
The small boy stared at his mother, a smile brimming on his face, his eyes
nailing her to the featherbed. "We have to be ready!" The boy shouted, barely
restrained from converging on her by the dour Ser Mandon. Its seemed to take
all of the knight's considerable skill to keep the her child at bay
His patience having finally run its course, Ser Mandon hauled his prince from
the floor, taking him underneath his arm and turning to leave. "Come along
young prince." The white cloaked knight commanded, tucking the boy more
securely underneath his mailed arm. "The Queen must ready herself for the
tourney." He affirmed, carrying the prince of the realm out of the Queen's
Chambers as though he were a common sack of flour, pulling the door to with his
free hand.
With the exit of her son and their sworn guard, Cersei felt herself relax,
rising unsteadily as her handmaidens make the necessary preparations for the
day ahead.
Easing down into her bath, allowing the scent of rose oil to take hold of her,
Cersei began to survey the space around her. A woman, barely older than
Myrcella really, brought forth a bair of gowns, both tailored to fit her ever
expanding middle. To the left, the child held a gown of the purest black,
thread of gold was intricately laced into the bodice, just above the belly,
creating a pattern resembling interwoven stag horns branching over her breasts.
To the right, a gown of much the same design hung from the girl's other hand,
the fabric the dyed to the brightest of crimson, stitched with golden thread,
creating the gilded silhouette of a lion across the bodice and at the wrists.
As two others scrubbed her thoroughly, removing the grime from the previous day
and subsequent night, Cersei made a show of deciding which gown she would wear,
having decided long ago to avoid wearing the Baratheon colors if at all
possible. With a wave of her arm, red and raw and damp from her bath, she
gestures to the gown denoting her heritage as the daughter of The Rock, the
thick rich crimson and the smell of red roses lulling her into a daze as she
goes about her preparations.
She drowns her troubles in oils and waters.
===============================================================================
 
Cersei could feel the mounting tension in the air before reaching the tourney
grounds, the unease about the fields having been expressed within the outskirts
of the city beneath the shadow of Visenya's Hill.
All about them, the shallow murmuring could be heard as the spectators, lowborn
and high, whispered about the festivities ahead.
While it was not strange for spectators to whisper about a tourney, the amount
of trepidation that could be felt from the masses was unheard of in times of
peace. As Cersei climbed the Royal dais, Myrcella and Jaime in tow, Tommen
having absconded with Ser Barristan some time ago, she could feel a foreboding
rumble within her belly.
Stepping into the box, she drew the attention of Robert and Joffrey, both of
whom scorned the idea of breaking their fasts with their wife and mother,
respectively. "You seem well." Robert reported gruffly, addressing her with a
modicum of concern.
She nodded, taking in the field before them, where the melee was beginning to
wind down, less than a dozen men still fought. Most notible among the combatant
was Ser Thoros of Myr, his flaming sword acting as a beacon. "I am. It took me
a bit longer than expected to ready myself." She said, stepping forward to
stand next to Robert. Jaime stepped forward, extending his arm to ease her into
her seat. She took hold of his forearm graciously, slipping into her place of
honor next to the King. "I thought that the melee would be held after the
completion of the joust?' She inquired, confused by the sight before her. She
doubted that the joust would have concluded so quickly, as there were at least
three matches scheduled for the day.
Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly preparing to deliver
troubling news. "About that." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There
was a minor setback, so we pushed the melee forward until we could decide on a
solution." He said, clearly disappointed that he was not competing.
"I thought to see you on the field as well, Your Grace?" She inquired, knowing
that he fully intended on participating.
"In his infinite wisdom, my Hand has spoken fervently against my involvement."
He said, gesturing to the field. "Leaving the true fight to Ser Thoros and that
thrice damned Knght of the Lion Heart." He said, sloshing the wine in his
goblet and turning her stomach.
Looking to her side she could see the irritation on his brow at the mention of
the mystery knight. "And why is he damned so fiercely?" She asked, as Jaime has
never been her husbands favorite White Cloak.
Laying his goblet aside, Robert looks to her in surprise. "As you can likely
tell from the mewling chattel in the stands, the Knight of the Lion's Heart has
formally challeged The Mountain, who was meant to face The Knight of Flowers."
He says, pointing to the field, where the only two combatants are Ser Thoros
and Rickard the Lion Heart.
"I had Renly speak with the boy to see if there would be an issue. He knows the
Flowers better than I." He said, as Cersei had to fight the urge to tell him
how well his brother knew the Knight of Flowers. "So, I pushed the melee
forward in hopes of continuing the-"
Robert's next words are drowned out as the raucous noise of the crowd signals
the end of the melee, with Ser Thoros still on his horse, his flaming sword
still burning brightly. Below him, standing in the soil below was another of
the participants, his plate unadorned and monotone, mismatched and poorly
fitting as it was.
For a long moment the two merely stood in the center, the mystery knight
looking into the face of his opponent, before doing something strange. He
places a mailed fist to his chest, bowing before the superior skill of Ser
Thoros, causing the crowd to cheer even louder.
As the field begins to clear, squires rushing in to take hold of their battered
and beaten masters, the mystery knight takes his leave, bringing with him the
attention of many. Including Ser Thoros and Ser Jaime.
Rising to his feet, steadier than he has been in years, Robert prepares to
address the crowd. "This brings an end to the Melee. Your champion is Ser
Thoros of Myr." He booms. "There will be a brief intermission, then the final
jousts shall commence." He says gruffly, walking away from the Dais in
preparation for the next event.
Jaime extended his hand to help her up, formal to a fault, his characteristic
easy smile gone. She took the hand, following after her husband as her brother
followed behind her. Always behind her.
===============================================================================
 
Returning to the stands after their midday meal, the profuse tension about the
grounds could still be felt deep within her bones. With the preparations for
the first tilt all but done, the crowd is left to wait for the second
competitor to arrive.
To one end of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane rests upon a massive stallion,
casting an imposing shadow over the barricade the two riders. In the stands
closest to him, the audience is eerily silent, fearful of rousing the beast
among them. Beneath the monstrous mass of flesh and bone and steel, his mount
seems to struggle under the excessive weight of his armor, swaying from side to
side on unsteady legs.
To the opposing side, the field is empty, the runner having been dispatched to
retrieve Ser Rickard only moments prior.
"So." Cersei chimes, giving a cursory glance to the assembled warriors, from
Robert to Ser Mandon, even Jaime, though he does not return her gaze. "Does
anyone have a prediction for the upcoming tilts?" She probes, adjusting herself
upon the seat, placing a hand on her swollen belly, protectively.
"The Mountain is going to crush this little mystery knight, like all the rest."
Joffrey chimes in, ignoring the slight grins from Ser Mandon, Jaime Ser Preston
Greenfield. "The man has to weight twelve stone at the least. His opponent no
heavier than myself." He said, defiantly flicking his wrist, dismissing their
smirks.
"And what of you Kingslayer?" Robert asks, his face genuinely pensive. "You've
faced the man." He says, lending esteem to Jaime's opinion, by virtue of
experience.
All eyes turn to Jaime as he seems to ponder the question, intent on giving
sage counsel. "I am unsure who will emerge victorious," He admits, brushing a
mailed hand through his hair. "Though if someone would like to place a wager,
I'll bet on The Lion Heart." He looks to Ser Preston, a challenging look in his
eyes.
The landed knight raises his hands in surrender. "I would not bet against The
Mountain, but," He begins, allowing his last word to hang in the air, leaving
his thoughts to the imagination of those around him.
A light scoff resonates from the side, where Joffrey has risen from his seat, a
look of displeasure marring his face. "I would wager half my inheritance." He
glowered, a defiant look in his eye. "A joust is nothing but a game of luck.
Any fool can get lucky." He continued, barely containing his frustration. "The
Mountain is an unstoppable force."
All around her, the veteran warriors stood quietly, taking in the words of
their future king. "Ser Gregor is likely to lose this tilt, and Sandor Clegane
after him." Mandon Moore states, his tone cold and factual, his eyes flat and
lifeless. "Ser Gregor is the sturdier man, though his opponent is more precise,
along with being slighter in build. This makes him harder to hit, as we saw
with Ser Jaime." He continues, nodding to Jaime, respectfully.
Jaime purses his lips, attempting to keep his grin on display. "Not only that,
he also has good instincts." He retorts, looking down to his boots. "He saw
right through my shift during our tilt." He persists. "I lost a perfectly good
piece of armor and a fine mount."
Robert opens his mouth, preparing to retort, when the signal is given, assuring
that both participants are ready. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Robert
gives the order for the tilt to begin.
Spurring their mounts forward, the two challengers level their lances, the
ensuing clash lasting less than a moment. As the moments creep onward, the
distance between the riders growing wider as they slow their mounts from a
gallop to a trot, their is no discernible difference from the moment before
they collided, both men seeming healthy and whole.
Looking to the mountain, Cersei takes not of the seemingly unscathed lance in
his hand, the tip hovering just above the ground. As it catches on the turf
beneath him, the mountain tumbles from his stallion, pulverizing the dirt with
his massive body, his armor grinding and creaking as the joints work against
one another.
A group of squires rush to the field, taking hold of the massive man,
attempting to roll him onto his back and remove his armor, in an effort to
asses the damage, she assumes. In an almost comical display, seven squires work
to turn the man on his back, pushing and pulling on the metal, until finally,
with a massive thud, Ser Gregor's blood soaked chest is on full display.
Sticking from his collar, on the side of his sword arm, a piece of bone can be
seen sticking from his skin, while another bone struck from the other side,
just below his underarm, both soaked in blood. No, not bone. She thought,
craning her neck to observe the man at the other end of the tilt yard, holding
the remains of a lance in his hand, his shield having been discarded a ways
back, his helm staring into the waiting area at the end of the field.
Turning her head a bit more, she took in the form of Sandor Clegane, The Hound.
Beneath his snarling helm, his scarred face gave nothing away, a look of
indifference plastered upon his skull.
Without a single word, the Lion Heart gallops from the field, never turning his
head. Not looking down to the field as the bloody remains of Ser Gregor Clegane
are hauled through the dirt, leaving a trail of burgundy behind him.
"This was more than likely an execution." She hears from her side, looking over
to see the pale, cold eyes of Ser Mandon studying the field. "He likely
challenged The Mountain hoping to get a clean shot at killing the man, without
facing the consequences." He continues, his eyes falling on Cersei at the end.
To a certain extent, she can believe what he is saying, though she finds the
idea completely idiotic. What remotely sane person would joust The Mountain
That Rides, risking their life on the chance that they might win.
Her thoughts are scattered once more, the pounding of hooves bringing her to
the present, where Sandor Clegane is galloping toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his
mount unstable beneath his body. The Hound collides harshly with the lance of
Ser Loras, tumbling to the ground upon impact, finding no friend in the coarse
dirt as the terrain gives him a heavy thump.
Off to the side, the mystery knight canters from the edge of field, signaling
for his two squires, even smaller than himself, to stay put, pointing to
another of his companions, gesturing for him to follow.
Near the center of the list field, The Hound makes it to his feet, clutching
his shoulder as he glowers at the Knight of Flowers. In lieu of confronting the
man before him, Sandor Clegane merely stalks from the field in cold fury,
allowing his hatred and humiliation to fester.
Ser Loras merely sits atop his mare, awaiting the last tilt of the tourney. The
Knight of Flowers, third son of Mace Tyrell, seems comfortable in the saddle,
as though his victory is all but assured.
"Clever boy?" Someone says.
She cocks her head, taking in the sight of Jaime once more. Though, instead of
standing guard, he seems more intent on watching the end of the field, where
the mystery knight had just made his exodus. She turns her head, noting the
commotion that rises from the crowd as the man returns to the field, after
ending Ser Gregor, mounted on a new horse. This one is a mare of purest
chestnut, her muzzle stripped with a single line of white.
"He seems to have sorted things out for himself rather well." Se Arys chimes
in, taking stock of the developing scene below. "I doubt that the trick will
fool someone who's seen it." He continues, coming to stand next to Jaime.
She clears her throat, disturbing the men folk from their private conversation,
drawing their attention to her, allowing them to note the confusion on her
face.
"They're saying that the Flower's mare is in heat." Robert booms from beside
her, causing her to feel foolish, if somewhat indignant. "It drove The Dog's
stallion mad and ruined his tilt." He explained further. "Nothing I can do
about it now. My judgement has been made." He concludes, turning back to the
field where the two men have made the necessary preparations.
Robert waves his hand, giving the signal for the final tilt to begin, the
Knight Marshall darting out of the way, attempting to clear the area of the two
clashing forces. Both lean in form and sure of aim, it is anyone's guess as to
who will be crowned the victor of the tourney.
Time seems to slow, just as the two men are near to clashing, the movements
almost magical, both men seemingly merging with their mounts in a perfect fluid
motion. The clash happens swiftly.
Instantly, Ser Loras is thrown from his mount, tumbling to the ground with a
sickening crunch. He rolls in the dirt several times before eventually landing
on his back, the center of his breastplate nearly a concave from the sheer
force of the blow.
The crowd erupts into a wave of raucous noise, chanting the chosen epithet for
the mystery knight. As one, the common folk seem to be enticed by the novelty
of making lewd and tasteless gestures, with several women relieving themselves
of their clothing, throwing them onto the field. It is complete bedlam.
For a long moment, the mystery knight allows his horse to canter in the center
of the list fields, seemingly basking in the cheers of the crowds. This changes
as his mount begins to veer into the partition between competitors, the rider
clutching his helm as the masses begin to compose themselves.
The man's retainers gallop forward, clearly concerned about their master, the
cowls that had been adorning their heads flying away as they reach their
destination. A small boy with golden hair reaches upward toward the knight, his
small hand gripping the great helm upon his head. The man takes note of the
boy, remembering where he is, looking about to see the stunned audience, as
they take in the sight of their Prince, along with the Lord Commander of the
Kingsguard and a small boy she knows as Brandon Stark.
Taking stock of those around him, the champion moves his hands to his helm,
removing the mass of metal, allowing a tumble of dark brown curls to break
free. Ignoring the blood covering a portion of his face, Jon puts out a hand to
Tommen, who proceeds to take hold of a lance in his chubby little hands. The
prince then latches onto Jon's mailed arm, gesturing for him to pull him onto
his own horse, which he does, grabbing the boy bodily, hauling him onto his own
mount. Jon wraps an arm around Tommen keeping him steady, allowing the boy to
take hold of the lance, while keeping it aloft with a hand of his own.
Tommen looks to the older boy, expressing something that cannot be heard over
the raucous roar of the crowd. Jon leans in, whispering something into Tommen's
ear, causing the prince's face to burst into a massive smile.
Taking control of the lance, Tommen spears the crown of crown of crimson roses,
looking back to Jon for his mark of approval, allowing the lance to dip a bit.
Swiftly, Jon levels the lance, catching the garland before it can slip from the
edge, as Tommen leans back, whispering into his ear, pointing towards the
Noble's Stands. Jon slowly lifts his eyes, nodding his head before spurring his
mare into a slow trot, heading towards the stands.
As they grow closer to the Noble's section, Cersei feels the pounding of her
heart, threatening to escape from between her breasts. Finally the pair stop
before the Royal Dais, Tommen nervously looking to all of the faces above them.
"M-m-mother-" He stumbles, his voice barely above a dull whisper, his eyes
sinking lower toward the ground with each syllable. Suddenly a hand is on his
shoulder, squeezing lightly in reassurance as Jon lowers his mouth to Tommen's
ear. With each word, Tommen seems to find more courage. He clears his throat.
"Mother," He says, his voice still shrill, though carrying more weight than
before. "As my queen, and my lady mother, I wish to honor you as my Queen of
Love and Beauty." He says, lifting the lance, with the aid of Jon Snow,
depositing the crown of crimson roses into her lap. "May you give me a healthy
brother." He says, gesturing for Jon to trot from the field, with Ser Barristan
at his side and Brandon Stark at their heels, handling the reins of his pony.
"Or a sister!" He turns back, shouting over the shoulder of his escort. This
draws a round of raucous, blaring laughter, which fills both sides of the
tourney grounds with mirth. Surprisingly, even Robert is on his feet in a fit
of laughter, though he spent most of the day in a particularly foul mood.
Panning over the crowd, very few are able to keep a straight face after such a
spectacle. Looking into the face of Lord Stark however, she can see that the
Hand is upset by something, his face a mask of stone, poorly hiding his
discontent. At what, she knows not. Though she would like to.
 
***** All That Glitters *****
Chapter Summary
     A bit longer than usual, I know.
     I'm going for a sort of, fame corrupts the tragic hero, but he shall
     rise above on the strength of his friends, type of chapter. There is
     a lot of content, and the next chapter will probably be nearly as
     long.
THE GIANT SLAYER
 
"It has been quite some time since one so young has made such an impression."
The man said, a smile stretching across his face, nearly detracting Jon's gaze
from the crimson and emerald feathers adorning his neck and torso. "Barristan
the Bold reborn, the people are saying."
For a moment, he sat stunned, the feathers still capturing his attention, until
he realized he was in a conversation. "Thank you my Prince, but I am no
knight." He recovered, remembering to use the honorific the banished Prince of
the Red Flower Vale preferred, according to the king.
Tilting his head slightly at his misstep, Xho's smile falters momentarily.
"Just so, Master Snow, you are the champion all the same." He says, leaning in
a bit closer, waving his hand through the air between them in a grandios
manner. "As a man of--" He says, creasing his brow as he studies Jon's face.
"Six and ten."
"Five and ten." He responds, attempting to mask his annoyance at the Prince. "I
turned five and ten before reaching the city." He further explained, only
realizing his mistake after he made it.
The prince's demeanor brightens heavily as he latches onto a possible common
ground. "You've just had a nameday?" He nearly shouted, drawing the eyes of
several passersby. "How did you celebrate your step into manhood?"
"I stopped my sister and our wolves from being executed." He returns flatly,
causing the smile adorning his dark skinned companions' face to drop. "As a
bastard, I rarely have a grand spectacle such as this in my honor." Jon said,
waving his hand around in the air, gesturing to the festivities around them.
For several moments, the pair sat in silence, Jalabhar Xho clearly attempting
to find a way to restart their conversation as Jon silently dared him to try.
Just as Xho seems ready to move along, bracing his hands on the arms of the
chair which once hosted Ser Thoros of Myr, he shifts his weight heavily in the
chair, securing himself on his chosen perch. "Even so, your bastard status
aside, you have distinguished yourself from others," He says, waving his hand
about the crowd. "defeating several men well above your station, including the
Knight of Roses." Xho continues, grating against his patience even further. "I
could use a man like you, for when I retake my kingdom, Jon the Giant Slayer."
Xho persists, finally finding the proper thread, unraveling the practiced calm
Jon had spent his lifetime of bastardry cultivating.
In the time that had elapsed since his triumph over Ser Gregor Clegane, the
entirety of the Red Keep, highborn and low, had taken to addressing Jon by one
of the several epithets that has been created since, denoting his crude
victory. He's heard every name from Jon Giantsbane, to The Red Wolf, which a
washer woman mistakenly addressed him as earlier this very evening. Of the
names he has heard thus far, the most insulting was The Snow that Crumbled the
Mountain; a clear play on his status as a bastard. It's as if the populace is
judging him for slaying the monstrous man, who was more monster than man, and
dispensing Justice that was long overdue. And there is more Justice to be had.
Attempting to contain his ire, Jon begins to flee into his other self, seeking
out the calm sanctuary of Ghost's mind as the image of the crowd is soon
overtaken by that of his brother and sisters, huddle together in their den
surrounded by the small cousins. He is drawn back to the conversation, his
attempt interrupted by Jalabhar Xho's persistent chattering.
Just as he is contemplating dismissing himself from the feast, a small cough
draws his attention to the opposite side of the table, where a small person
waits patiently. "Jon?" She intrudes on the building tension, her voice soft
and sweet. She rocks nervously on her feet, her golden hair swaying from side
to side as a small strand of hair falls over her emerald eyes. Extending a had
to him, Princess Myrcella Baratheon gestures for him to take hold of her arm.
"Would you care to dance with me, Jon?" She questions, skipping the unnecessary
honorific of Ser unlike the other higher born attendees.
Rising from his seat with all haste, nearly toppling the table and its contents
onto the floor, Jon pounces on the chance to rid himself of the Prince of The
Red Flower Vale as he comes upon Myrcella on the other side. Taking hold of the
offered arm, Jon escorts the young princess into the fray, slipping by several
couples already in the process of performing to the cadence, ignoring the
uncouth shouts that masquerade as whispers.
Taking Myrcella's hand in his own, aligning their bodies properly as the rhythm
slows to a crawl, Jon cannot help but thank the gods for the years that Sansa
and Jeyne Poole once used Robb and himself to practice their steps.
The pair fall into step with the rest of floor, moving and swaying with the
assembled guests. As a child of less than ten namedays, Princess Myrcella moved
with a practiced grace that reminded him of Sansa, though Jon still has to
compensate for the difference in height. Fortunately for them, none would
notice, as the eyes that once followed them seem to have found other things to
occupy their attention.
"You are a very good dancer, Jon." Myrcella utters softly, drawing his
attention downward towards his partner, pulling him in with her innocent
emeralds. "I apologize if my height is a problem." She elaborates, looking into
his eyes as her own glitter with an emotion that he find troubling. "It is very
gracious of you, taking account of my shorter legs." She declares, tapping his
shoulder twice as the cadence shifts. "Twirl me." She commands.
He does, spinning her softly as she becomes lost in the crowd, leaving Jon to
take hold of a new partner and fall back into step with the rest of the floor.
The woman in his arms could not have differed more from princess Myrcell,
despite the golden hair upon her head. Unlike the princess, the woman is tall
as well as being well proportioned, her vast bosom against his chest, and wide
hips swaying with his indicating her jaunt into womanhood. 
Following the sudden change in tempo, Jon lifts his hand above the unnamed
woman's head, twirling her about. As she turns, her backside lingers just a bit
longer than necessary, allowing his hips to explore more of her body. Facing
Jon once more as she leans heavily into his embrace, she thrusts her breasts
tighter against his chest as she smiles seductively. "You move with your feet
as well as you do with a lance." She teases, leaning in as their breathing
hastens, from the dancing or the tension, he cannot tell.
"Many thanks, my lady." He returns, gripping her hips tightly as they hasten
their steps, darting through the cluttered floor, her hair tumbling loosely
over her shoulder. "I've been told." He smiles, releasing her to her next
partner as he takes hold of Princess Myrcella once more.
In his embrace once more, Myrcella begins to speak, taking up the same topic as
befor as though they had never parted. "I thought you were wonderful in the
tourney, Jon." She says, nearly tripping over his boot, clutching his hand
tightly to steady herself. She blushes prettily. "Thank you, Ser."
"I am no Ser, Princess." He corrects, causing her blush to deepen.
"It was very exciting to see you joust, Jon." She blurted, forcefully
abandoning the ensuing conversation of his bastardry. "You seemed to be almost
half horse at times. It was quite entertaining." She continues, slowing her
pace as the music ebbs to a halt.
Taking her by the arm, he escorts her from the floor while searching the hall
for another Baratheon woman entirely. In the seat of the highest honor, where
Robert Baratheon should sit with his queen, a massive drunken lout sits upon a
King's chair, pawing at a serving girl nearby. Upon his chin, his beard
glistens with wine and food as he slams his massive paw on the table, screaming
for more wine. Though Robert Baratheon is the only king he has ever seen, he
refuses to believe that this is how the Lord Protector of the Realms should
behave himself. 
What he does not see is Queen Cersei Baratheon.
A sudden break in Myrcella's stride forces his eyes back to the floor, where he
takes stock of the pair before him. Standing before them with Sansa at his
back, urging him forward, Bran stood terrified on unsteady legs as he shakily
held is hand out to the princess. Bumping him harder, nearly toppling the
lordling of seven, Sansa becomes more insistent.
"Would you do me the honor, Princess Myrcella?" Bran requests, bowing clumsily
despite his reputation as a skilled climber throughout Winterfell.
Beside him, all of the tension that once invaded Myrcella Baratheon instantly
fades as she loosens her grip on his forearm, stepping forward as her fingers
linger on his sleeve a bit longer and then on his hand, caressing his
forefinger softly.
Taking Bran's offered hand and squeezing it within her own small palm, the
princess tugs him to the floor as the current song reaches it's peak.
Watching them from the outskirts of the floor, Jon cannot help the chuckle that
rises from his throat, especially when looking upon his brother's terrified
face.
"The Princess is very bold." Sansa breathes from his side, nearly scaring him
from his skin. Turning his head, he takes in the sight of his little sister. "I
think she fancies him." She continues, oblivious to the fright she has just
given him.
He follows her gaze to the floor, noticing that Bran's fear has all but vacated
his face. "Aye." He replies, drinking in the sight of the two children
stumbling about the floor, tripping several of the other couples. "They aren't
very good, are they?" He continues, causing Sansa to release a light chuckle.
She glares pointedly at him, attempting to stop the fit of giggles bursting
from her. "As I recall, you were worse at his age." She admonishes, though it
lost most of its bite through her giggling. Holding out her arm, she allows Jon
to escort her back to the high table. Though it was a short walk, he was
grateful for the small gesture, having not seen much of Sansa since their stay
in King's Landing began. While Sansa had been distant, he had seen Bran and
Arya frequently, especially at the beginning of their stay, before Arya started
her dancing lessons and Bran discovered his fondness for Tommen. At a certain
point, the pair had reached an inconvenient level of interest in his
activities, especially when his desire was to sneak out to see Cersei.
His eyes flicker to the side as he pulls out Sansa's chair, expecting to land
upon the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, instead finding her chair empty.
Attempting to cover his concern for his lover, Jon shifts to a broader
question. "The tables seem to be emptying, somewhat." He began, looking over
and noting the absence of Tommen and Arya as well. "The Queen and Prince Tommen
seem to have gone already. As has Arya." True to his expectation, Sansa does
not seem to suspect anything.
"I'll try to find her." He lied, squeezing her shoulder once more, before
making his way towards the large oaken doors leading out of the feasting hall.
Though he hadn't seen the direction in which Arya had made her escape, he knew
she was likely abed or prowling the Red Keep, causing trouble for some washer
woman or scullery worker. Either way, his little sister was not at the
forefront of his mind as he crosses the threshold leading from the Great Hall.
"You weren't thinking of leaving." A feminine voice call from behind him.
Before he can turn to answer, a soft hand takes hold of his wrist, lifting his
arm as a mane of golden tussles against his side. Beneath his arm is the woman
from the feast, smiling brightly up at him, steering him down a corridor
leading away from Maegor's Holdfast. "It's poor manners to leave a feast in
your own honor." She continues, falling in step with Jon as her breast deeper
into his side, stirring his more carnal nature.
Jon scrambles to think of an excuse, other than bedding the Queen or any other
treasonous acts he could think of. "I have never been one for feasts." He
responds, deciding that the truth is easier to stick to than a lie. "I was
never aloud to attend feasts when lords and ladies were hosted." He explains,
hoping that the more dour fragments of his life will sober her, as they ought
to.
Defying his expectations, his companion bumps his hip with her own, shrugging
his arm from her shoulder to her waist, his hand landing on her arse. "And now
you are a squire in King's Landing, and the guest of honor to His Grace
himself." She rebuts, placing both hands on his side. "You must behave
accordingly." She admonishes, shoving him into a darkened alcove. "I found this
place before the tourney." She explains, struggling to untie his breeches in
the encroaching darkness. Kissing his neck viciously, she begins to tear at the
bindings of his doublet, leaving the ties of his breeches undone. "No one will
bother us." She surmises, ripping open his doublet and tunic simultaneously.
On some level, Jon grudgingly commends the level of thought that has been put
into her plan. The alcove is situated conveniently for secret rendezvous,
tucked into a darkened section of a forgotten corridor. In all of his
exploration of the Red Keep, he has likely passed it by no more than once,
which is strange seeing as he has been learning all he can about the place.
His admiration of the mysterious woman is cut short, as the golden haired
maiden drops to her knees before him, dragging his small clothes and breeches
down with her.
"M-my lady." He stammers as her lips tickle the head of his cock. "This is
hardly appropriate." He flounders, looking for reasons why he cannot with her
what he has done with another. What his body is desperate to do. "You have yet
to even give me your name." He gambles weakly, hoping she will take this as a
rebuke, for he is unsure of his will to stop.
In the darkness, his vision is somewhat impaired, though he is certain that she
is smiling. "All who know me call me Ami." She says, engulfing his manhood into
her jaws before he can offer further protest. 
Her mouth is warm and wet, and not-at-all displeasing, as she set upon him with
ferocity. As she begins to jerk her head along the shaft of his manhood, Jon
finds it difficult to form any thought whatsoever, especially in regards to
protesting her attentions.
Having never been with a woman other than Cersei, he finds the comparison to be
quite unbalanced. While his interactions with Cersei have always been
pleasurable, the sensation that Ami elicits is beyond anything that he might
have imagined. He becomes lost in her motions, running his hand through her
hair, like spun gold.
She tosses her head back and forth along his cock, taking him all the way to
his hips, before coming back, licking the slit at his head savagely. After what
feels like a lifetime, Ami removes her lips from his cock with an audible
smack, before nibbling softly down the underside, creating a strange sensation.
Moments later, after nearly bringing him to the edge, she takes him back inside
of her jaws, sucking the life from his flesh as she attacks his manhood
viciously.
It only takes him a moment to reach his peak. "Ami." He says weakly. "Ami, I've
reached my-" he announces as he grips her head, attempting to remove her from
his cock before he erupts within her mouth. Oddly enough, his warning only
seems to spur her on, causing her to move her head faster as he reaches his
peak, spilling within her.
He slumps against the wall, regaining his strength after such a trying ordeal,
as Ami rises to her feet, kissing his abdomen and chest softly on her way up.
"Did I please you, Jon." She whispers, biting his ear as she strokes his
hardened cock. With her other hand, she guides him to her sex, brushing her
small clothes aside so that he may feel her heat. She is wet to the touch,
almost overflowing as she guides his fingers inside. "I want you to take me."
She whispers, switching positions with Jon, so that he is now pinning her to
the wall. 
He moves forward, placing his head at her entrance. "Please." She whimpers,
rubbing her mound against his head, wetting his manhood with her desire. "I
need you inside of me." She whimpers, nibbling at his neck.
Jon's breath catches in his throat as he slides within her, fully enjoying the
feeling of a woman for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. For a long
moment, he merely rests with Ami against the wall, enjoying the tightness of
her around him. Hoisting her against the wall sharply, gaining leverage beneath
her, Jon can feel her tighten around him as her breasts falling loose of her
bodice and falling onto his chest.
As he makes to move once more, continuing their coupling, Ami begins to push at
his chest, producing a low muffled sound of displeasure. He instantly pulls out
of her, wondering if he might have frightened the poor girl, until a voice from
the darkness answers his question.
"Lady Amerei Frey." Lord Varys whispers, announcing his presence to the pair of
fornicators. "Several of your brothers have been searching for you." He
continues, either unable or unwilling to read the situation, as Amerei stands
posted against the wall, scandalized. "As is your dear husband, Ser Pate." He
reveals, causing Amerei to squeak, ruffling her clothing in the dim light of
Lord Varys' torch, gathering up her dress as she scurries away.
For a long moment, the two men stand in silence as Jon repositions his
clothing, lacing his clothing after putting his manhood away. "I tried to stop
her." He speaks into the silence, hoping his explanation was not as weak as it
sounds.
"Ah yes." Varys replies, with no small measure of sarcasm. "I could see you
were putting up quite the valiant fight." He continues, tittering lightly at
his own jape, attempting to provoke him. "How were you to overcome such a
vicious assault?" He derides further, refusing to relent.
Jon snorts harshly, refusing to rise to the bait, choosing see the humor in it
instead. "You've made your point." He returns.
"Clearly she is quite the formidable opponent." Varys says, continuing his
assault, clearly believing he can amuse himself further. "You even had to use
the wall to gain leverage." He concludes, bursting into a real fit of laughter,
or as real as Jon has seen from him thus far.
"Why have you sought me out tonight." He inquires, ignoring the eunuch's taunts
as best he can.
Composing himself, Varys pulls a sheet of parchment from his dagged sleeve.
"Despite your protests, I have sent word to your great-uncle on The Wall, Aemon
Targaryen." He says, raising a hand to cut of the ensuing storm of outrage. "I
was discreet. I used no names and made sure to leave out any obvious
identifiers." He explains, calming the panic within Jon's chest. "He sent word
that I thought you might find interesting." He says, extending the parchment to
Jon before slipping into the night once more.
Jon begins his trek to The Tower of the Hand, his quest to see his love all but
forgotten.
As he bolts the door behind him, Jon cannot remember how he got to his
chambers, or even who he saw on his way there, though he surely encountered
someone judging by the large wine skin in his hand that was not there
previously.
Pulling up a chair, he begins to read the words of his grandfather's uncle, or
great uncle depending on which Aemon he is.
Nephew,
If you are who you claim to be, then I am overjoyed by your mere existence.
Though if you prove false, please be kind to an elderly man and continue this
charade, as I fear my heart could not take the pain. I have lived at the edge
of the Seven Kingdoms for nearly a century, watching as the kingdom suffered
under a tyrannical, Mad King and as his line ended ushering in a new line.
For nearly a decade, I waited for the King's headsman to pay me a visit, though
it seems that time has forgotten about me. While I wish you well, I can only
hope that you have your mother's look, so that you may stay hidden from those
who would see our line extinguished.
While I am forbidden from taking sides in the wars of the realm and the
politics of the thrones, that shall not stop me from righting a terrible wrong,
by returning to our family something that was foolishly given away nearly a
century ago.
While it is much too heavy to send by raven, I will see that it is put in the
proper hands once more. With this, I am entrusting you with our legacy, as I
can no longer bear the torch alone.
                                                    With regards and gratitude,
                                              Maester Aemon of the Nights Watch
 
So engrossed in his only relative's letter, Jon did not notice that the tears
marring his face until they began to fall on the parchment, threatening to ruin
his only link to his father.
Knowing that the words on the parchment are too dangerous to be left alone, Jon
resolves himself to burn the letter. He walks to the corner of the room, taking
a flint and candle in hand, striking the mineral together in an attempt to
dispose of his treasonous reunion.
Finally striking the flame, Jon folds the parchment, moving it before the flame
in an attempt to burn it. This attempt only lasts for a moment, for he quickly
loses the will to burn the only shred of proof that Aemon Targaryen is alive
and well. The only proof that he is not alone on this gods forsaken continent.
In a panic, he rushes around the room, letter in hand, searching for a decent
place to hide his treason, until his eyes land on the feather bed. Lifting the
mattress, Jon takes his knife from his belt, cutting a sizable hole in the
fabric.
Looking to the letter once more, he reminds himself that it is necessary,
before stuffing the parchment into the underside of his mattress, hoping that
no one finds a reason to look beneath the surface.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sort of a foreshadowing for the future. Hope you enjoy it.
THE LIONESS
 
Her heart constricts within her chest as she scrutinizes the correspondence
once more, agonizing over each word enclosed within her father’s missive while
sequestered inside her private solar.
As the sun bears down upon the Red Keep, bathing her workspace in an ethereal
glow and casting slim shadows from the embellishments nearest to the window,
causing the drapery to dance and sway against the floor, Cersei begins to fear
for the life of her once lover.
Instinctively, she places the parchment onto her desks and reaches to her
belly, feeling the stirring within as the babe begins to rumble in protest of
her racing heart. She begins to run her hands over her girth in circular
patterns, soothing the pup growing within.
Falling into a rhythm, Cersei continues to massage her middle, alleviating the
pressure mounting within her womb and settling into a reverie, humming the
words to Two Hearts That Beat as One.
The pounding of a heavy fist rouses her from her sleep. Her hands dart away
from her belly, finding purchase on the desk before her as they collide with
her goblet, spilling water on her father’s dispatch before crashing to the
floor with a heavy clang.
Picking the parchment from the table, she frantically begins to wave the
demanding letter through the air in an attempt to dry the ink, though she can
recite the words by heart at this point.
The door of her solar bursts open, revealing a panic stricken Robert; his eyes
darting about the room for possible threats, eventually landing on his Queen.  
She imagines that she looks quite foolish, waving the parchment through the
air, though if Robert thinks this, he does not say.
For a long moment, the Lord Protector of the Seven Realms merely stands in the
shadow of the threshold, staring sheepishly at his wife, his chest rising up
and down with the force of his heart. “I was concerned about the babe.” He
explains, making clear his reason for storming through a lady’s private rooms.
“I heard the crash.” He further elaborates, stepping into her solar. “I wish to
have a word with you.” He declares, reaching out and taking hold of the chair
on the opposing side of her desk.
He sits heavily upon the wooden, high-backed chair, taking a few moments to
distribute his weight evenly, before continuing his oration. “How do you feel
about Ned’s bastard boy?” He questions, stirring her panic once more.
How could he possibly know? She panics, thinking of the possible ramifications
of her treason. Be calm, she reminds herself, secure in her knowledge that
Robert is not a thoughtful man, and if he had knowledge of her affairs, she
would not be breathing.
“He is a competent swordsman and an excellent jouster, if the tourney is to be
any indication.” She returns, calmly and objectively. “Has someone raised a
complaint about him?” She probes, hoping to gain more insight into the
reasoning for their current course of conversation.
Reaching upward with his massive paw, Robert claws at his beard, looking to her
desk and locking eyes with the crimson seal of house Lannister, creasing his
brow in frustration. “So, you received one as well?” He questions, removing his
hand from his chin and sliding it over her desk to take hold of the parchment
before her. He scans the document, pronouncing a word aloud from time to time
as he devours the verbal onslaught her father has fabricated. “I received a
raven much like this earlier this morn.” He explains, tossing the parchment
back to the desk. “As if I’d punish a man for a slip of his lance during a
tourney.” He booms. “Especially for slaying your father’s lapdog.” He shouts
once more, laughing raucously at Ser Gregor’s misfortune.
Bringing his merriment to heel, Robert smooths his hands down the front of his
doublet. “I wished to have your opinion, because there has been a request made
to legitimize Lord Stark’s bastard boy.” He continues his original thought, his
face becoming a mask of steel.
It takes her a moment to process the information she has received. “Lord Stark
has requested the legitimization of his bastard?” She questions, feeling the
crease of her brow as she tries to make sense of his pronouncement. “To what
end? He is already squiring for Ser Barristan.” She returns, questioning any
gains that could be reaped from legitimizing a bastard, especially with so many
trueborn sons. “He could easily become a landed knight.” She concludes.
It is not as if the offer has not been made. Several lords in attendance at the
tourney had expressed interest in employing a man of Jon’s abundant skill,
going so far as to offer a knighthood and accompanying lands to Lord Stark,
though the Hand of the King flatly refused each one.
Leaning forward, breaking Cersei from her thoughts, Robert’s eyes seem to glow
with a certain amount of mischief. “Have you seen Myrcella recently?” He
questions, throwing her mind into disarray.
Thinking back to this very morning, Cersei responds. “She broke her fast with
myself and Tommen this morning.” She responds with curiosity lacing her voice.
“Ah.” He breathes, shifting back into his chair once more. “And, where is she
now?” He probes, attempting to contain the smile that is threatening to rip his
face in two.
“She is likely in the yard, now.” Cersei returns as the agitation begins to
build within her, looking at Robert, the cat that ate the mouse. “After
breaking her fast, she said she would run an errand before meeting with Tommen
in the training yard.” She elaborates, deploring the smug grin on Robert’s
face.
“Of course.” He whispers. “The training yard, with Ser Barristan and Tommen and
Brandon Stark.” He continues, his smile growing wider with each name.
“Yes.” She replies curtly.
Reaching into his doublet, he produces a sheet of parchment, holding it aloft
near his chest. “Ned didn’t ask for his boy to be legitimized.” He announces,
creating further confusion as he tosses the stack of parchment onto her desk.
“Myrcella came to this morning after breaking her fast and presented a plan for
further unity between Houses Stark and Baratheon.” He explains.
Cersei takes hold of the parchment, unfolding it with bated breath and scanning
its contents. Within is an outline of a proposal of a possible betrothal
between the princess of the Seven Kingdoms and the bastard of the Hand of the
King.
The draft provides sufficient reasoning as to why the match would be
appropriate and beneficial. Among the reasons listed, Myrcella is certain to
list proven marshal prowess in addition to his reputation with the smallfolk,
citing several of the epithets that he has gained since the tourney as well as
the words of the continued praise he has received since his victory over The
Mountain.
“She put quite a bit of effort into her petition.” Robert speaks, drawing her
attention to his face, adorned by a proud smile. “It almost breaks my heart to
tell her no.” He continues, leaning forward with his arm outstretched,
requesting the parchment once more.
She yields the materials to Robert, contemplating the difference between his
current attitude and his established relationship with his family, reflecting
that she might have been able to love this Robert. “She must marry within her
station.” He continues, sighing heavily as he slides the parchment into his
doublet once more.
Bracing his hands on her desk, he rises to his feet, swaying a bit with the
ravages of age and excessive feasting. “I’ll talk to her about it this
evening.” He says, turning his back to her, taking several steps toward the
door, before turning to face her once more. “If Joffrey had half her courage
and a fifth of her mind, he would be the greatest king the Seven Kingdoms have
ever known.” He smiles, turning his back to her once more as he exits her
solar, closing the door behind him.
For a long moment, she is left to consider the implications of all that she has
learned on this day, absorbing the desires of those closest to her. Her father
would see Jon dead for his perceived slight against House Lannister, while
Myrcella would see him elevated in an attempt to fulfil some childish fantasy.
“Ser Meryn?” She hails, waiting for the Kingsguard without to answer the call.
The door to her solar glides opens, revealing the knight of Gallowsgrey
standing vigil beneath the threshold. “Your Grace?” He responds, moving his
hands to his head as he removes his helm, revealing his shock of pumpkin
colored whiskers and beard.
Rising from her seat, Cersei makes her way around the large oaken desk before
her. “I wish to walk the castle.” She explains, exiting her private solar,
leaving Ser Meryn to close the door behind her and follow in her wake.
Striding though the corridors of her home, her head held high as she passed the
throngs of kids and guardsmen, Cersei allows her mind to wander as the armored
boots treading behind alert her to the presence of her retinue. In retrospect,
Myrcella's infatuation with Jon is not as outlandish as one might believe,
given her daughter's recent behavior.
When the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms expressed a deeper interest in her
younger brother's tutelage, none thought to question the recent development, as
all of her children began to change since returning from the North. Myrcella
has become steadily more outgoing, engaging members of the Stark family,
Joffrey becomes increasingly withdrawn with each day, and Tommen, more than
any, has become more adventurous, squiring for Jon, despite him being a squire
himself. 
She had assumed that the recent increase was due to a growing need for the love
her sibling, though she sees it now as an attempt to gain access to the object
of her infatuation.
While Cersei had been making plans for the further advancement of House
Lannister, based on the premise that Myrcella fancies Brandon Stark, as well as
Brandon's similarities to his elder brother, Myrcella had been crafting a
doctrine of her own, weighing the advantages of a match with the object of her
desire. While Cersei could not help her pride as a mother, she cannot stand
idly as her daughter attempts to wed herself to a bastard, wasting her
political significance as well as bedding her mother's lover.
She is broken from her concerns as she nears the training yard, hearing the
commotion within before entering, as the raucous din of merriment permeates the
walls nearest to the training yard. Stepping away from the stairs leading down
to the yard, Cersei takes her place in the gallery above, helping herself to
one of the settees made available for those who would seek the intrigues of
mock combat.
Focusing on the scene below, she takes in the image of one man facing three.
Moving about the yard, shuffling swiftly, the singular opponent does all that
he can to defeat his three assailants, keeping them within his line of sight,
corralling them with his pair of short swords. Moving about in his drab armor,
his dark hair falling over his face in moist ringlets, the warrior almost seems
like a shade.
Suddenly and with the quickness of a sparrow, the dark warrior descends on the
man to his left, disarming him with a few quick strikes and knocking him to the
dirt, tapping his breast plate with the tip of his sword, before bringing his
blades up to defend once more, clashing steel with his remaining opponents.
The crowded area below erupts into a raucous mixture of cheering and jeering as
the warrior falls into a slow rhythm once more, shifting his feet slowly in the
dirt. He continues his movements, watching and waiting, taunting his enemy as
he bides his time, throwing shallow thrusts in an attempt to draw his opponent.
Again, just as sudden as before, the shrouded figure surges forward, taking
advantage of the positioning of his enemy as they attempt to shift positions to
outmaneuver him. 
He pounces, attacking the opponent out front, forcing him to take several steps
back, tripping and stumble upon his comrade as the encroaching foe delivers a
solid kick to his thigh, sending both men to the dirt. Savoring his victory,
the shrouded figure saunters forward moves forward, twirling his pair of swords
about, as the crowds lining the walls lose control of their senses. As the two
make to rise, their adversary swiftly taps their breastplates with a tip of
either sword.
Dropping to a knee, the dark haired man plants his swords into the soft soil,
extending a hand to either man as he says something, too low for her to hear
over the raucous din of the spectators. The men grab hold of his offered hands,
hoisting themselves from the dirt and collecting their shields from the ground
where they had fallen, revealing the golden antlers on blue of House Buckwell,
along with the black wings on a white field denoting House Staunton. Two other
men step forward, though they have brought no shield with which to identify
themselves.
Cersei rises from her place, continuing her journey as she takes the stairs to
her side, drifting down towards the practice yard, emerging on the other side
of the pale red stone, using the crowd to conceal herself. Near the center of
the makeshift arena, a small group of armored men mill about, exchanging
handshakes and hard nudges in a show of good faith. Four of the men depart,
shouting raucously to the solitary figure left behind and making bawdy
gestures, which their opponent returns in kind, though to a lesser degree.
Not noticing that his queen has entered his space, the warrior, now known to
her as Jon Snow, begins to navigate through the crowds of onlookers rushing
forward to congratulate him on a wonderful spar, treading toward a more
isolated section of the practice yard. Stepping from the archway, intent on
surprising Jon as well as the children, she is caught off guard when something
small collides with her thigh, drawing her attention to the hastening form of
Ser Barristan Selmy. Looking down, a shock of blonde hair caresses the length
of fabric nearest her upper thigh.
"Hello mother." Tommen muffles into the folds of her gown, clutching her skirts
momentarily before falling back in a position ahead of Ser Barristan. "Did you
see it?!" He asks, cantering on his heels. "Jon was fighting five people!" He
announce, gesturing the number of combatants with both, waving them animatedly.
She makes to open her mouth in response, though her words are stolen at the
sound of light armor and boots approaching. "Prince Tommen asked Ser Barristan
if a man could fight with two swords." Glancing to her side, she is met with
the visage of Jon Snow, drowning in a sea of his own sweat. He steps into a
small bow, as more of a formality than anything. "Ser Barristan told him it was
foolhard-"
"Which it was." The aged knight returns dryly, taking a step towards his
squire, bumping him with his shoulder playfully.
Leaping forward to take hold of Jon's hand, Tommen nearly yanks the elder
squire from his feet. "But Jon did it." He shouts, continuously yanking on the
hand within his grasp.
Jon seems to consider this for a moment, lifting his hand an consequently his
Prince with it. "Though it only worked because they were using swords of a size
with mine own." He replies, crouching down slightly and taking Tommen by the
shoulders. "If they had maces and axes-"
"Father used a war hammer." Tommen interrupts, bouncing furiously beneath Jon's
grip.
A cloud descends upon his face, turning the lighthearted smile upon his to a
stone mask. "So he did." He counters, causing Tommen to cease his movement.
The smaller boy reaches upward, grabbing at the corners of Jon's mouth and
forcing his smile to return. Pulling back his small hands, leaving the forced
smile where he placed it, Tommen turns to her once more, the bounce in his step
returning. "Did you come to see me train mother?" He questions, bumping Jon's
leg as the elder boy rises to his feet once more. "Ser Barristan says I've
gotten better." He informs, looking to the aged knight for affirmation, to
which Ser Barristan nods.
"We shall make a fine knight of our prince yet." Selmy concurs, bumping his
charges' shoulder and reaching down to ruffle Tommen's hair.
Glancing down at her beautiful boy, Cersei cannot help the smile that stretches
her face. "I had hoped to take in a midday meal with my children." She replies,
reaching down to pinch his fleshy cheek, drawing another round of giggles.
"Cella was here just now." He announces. Shuffling his feet on the ground,
Tommen looks around frantically for several moments, shrugging his shoulders in
defeat. "She was here."
"I saw her leave with Ser Arys just a while ago." Jon offers, gesturing to the
opposite side of the yard where another archway stood, leading into the main
castle. "Seemed to be in a hurry." He amends, raising a quizzical brow towards
her.
She attempts to hide her grimace, having wanted an expedient resolution to
Myrcella's folly. "Then it shall be just the two of us." Cersei declares,
pinching her son's cheeks once more, receiving a childish swat at her hands,
lightly rebuking her affections.
Taking her hand in his, Tommen makes to leave the rest of the young warriors
behind, waving mournfully to Brandon and Arya Stark, as the two race to the
other side of the practice yard. His eyes drift to Ser Barristan, as he makes
to follow behind their procession to Maegor's Holdfast, then to Jon, collecting
all of their discarded training gear. Jerking against her hold, Tommen reaches
back for the bastard of the Hand. "Can Jon come with us?" He questions,
breaking his hold on his mother's hand as he rushes to take Jon's, forcing him
to drop the training materials within his grasp.
"Well I'm sure Jon has-"
"I don't think it would be proper to-"
"Please!" He begs, cutting of their vehement protests to the contrary. "At
least to the bridge?" He continues, increasing the frown on his face, making it
nearly impossible to deny him. I've always had a weakness for my children.
"Alas, I cannot." Jon groans, taking a knee once more and taking ahold of
Tommen's shoulders. "I also have duties to attend. But I promise that I will
make time to see you before evenfall." He vows, removing his right hand,
holding it aloft between himself and her son, glancing to her for just a moment
before settling his eyes back on Tommen.
"Alright." Tommen replies, taking the offered hand, grasping the three
forefingers in his smaller clutch. He releases Jon's hand, his fingers
lingering on the uppermost digit as he shuffles slowly into the folds of her
skirts.
Jon smiles softly towards the pair of them, waving slightly before taking off
in the opposite direction, picking the discarded tourney equipment from the
ground and chasing after his younger siblings, his thickening dark tresses
swaying in his wake.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     So... I posted this on fanfiction.net and just fell out. Hope you
     enjoy the latest installation.
     I'm not even gonna set an expectation for the timing of a future
     chapter.
THE GIANT SLAYER
No good can possibly come of this, he contemplates, finding his composure
difficult to maintain.
Continuing on his course, Jon maintains his distance as he follows Ser
Barristan to his destination, attempting to avoid the onslaught of questions
that would only beget an onslaught of lies.
"Her Grace chambers are just a bit further." Ser Barristan says, glancing over
his shoulder to ensure that his charge had understood him.
He nods, confirming that his words were heard, not bothering to mention that he
had been to those chambers before. And I will once more, he ponders,
formulating their next encounter with meticulous detail.
So focused on his musings- piecing together the mechanics and logistics of his
plan- he fails to realize that the White Knight has come to a full stop,
colliding with the heavily armored man before tumbling to the floor.
Immediately abandoning all other thoughts, he instead decides to focus on Ser
Barristan, expecting to find a look of agitation or annoyance; apparent on the
knight's well-weathered face is understanding and empathy. He extends a hand to
the sprawled form of the youth before him, hauling him to his feet before
clapping him on the back with a heavy mailed hand. "It's understandable to feel
out of sorts in the presence of royalty." He whispers, clutching Jon closely
before the door to Cersei's chambers, releasing him moments later. While it
takes considerable authority over his emotions to prevent the scoff that
threatens to rise from his chest, Jon keeps his composure. "But I can guarantee
that you have been through worse." Ser Barristan concludes, not knowing how
correct his assertion truly is.
Perhaps he does know, he considers, recalling the conversation he had
overheard, between Ser Barristan and Lord Stark.
Before he can delve much deeper into this line of thought, Ser Barristan
delivers two firm knocks to the door before stepping away.
After a short juncture- during which, Jon constantly fidgeted with his fine
clothing, taking a break only to run his hands though his unruly hair- the
door's hinges groan weakly, exposing a serving woman draped in faded Lannister
Crimson.
She offers them a timid smile before stepping aside, allowing them entry into
the spacious chamber. As they pass, he turns his head, nodding his
acknowledgement. As his eyes linger on her, he cannot help but acknowledge the
blush creeping up her neck.
As if feeling his lingering gaze, her eyes snap to her feet, refusing to travel
upward again.
In advance of any thoughts he might have on the subject, a firm hand takes hold
of his shoulder, leading him toward the large table in the center of the room.
"Give the boy a fancy name and some gold, and it goes to his head." See
Barristan says, nudging him softly.
Though he cannot see his face, as his regard has converged on something much
more marvelous, he can clearly hear the grin behind his words.
He elbows Ser Barristan gently, rapping his bone against the sturdy plate
armor, producing a husky laugh from the older man. "How dare you strike an
ordained knight?" He says, not quite attaining the stern tone that he was
aiming for. "I shall deny you your knighthood on principal, now." He continues
his charade, chuckling near the end.
Jon turns to him, shifting his focus from the table, where the Queen and Prince
Tommen speak in hushed tones. "You jest?" He replies, tapping the center of the
immaculate enameled armor. "Your armor is still finer than any I own." He
jests, accepting the incredulous expression from Ser Barristan.
Both of them knew that this was false, seeing as Ser Barristan had trained him
and was there to witness his victories over the likes of Ser Jaime Lannister
and Ser Loras Tyrell. He had also told him that their pride would not allow
them to purchase back their armor.
Before either of them can rebuff the seemingly absurd notion, fate intervenes
in the form of a fledgling fawn.
"Jon!" Tommen yells from somewhere to his side, having seemingly appeared from
the other side of the table. Attempting to locate the young princeling, Jon
turns his head at the last moment, barely avoiding a grievous collision as
Tommen clashes with his upper thigh, embracing his leg as tightly as his little
limbs can manage. "Mother promised to invite you to eat with us before you
leave," He says, kneading his face against Jon's leg, refusing to let him go.
"But you're leaving tomorrow." He whines, lifting his face to stare into Jon's
eyes with the one of the most darling frown he had ever seen.
Reluctantly, he reaches down, ruffling Tommen's hair affectionately- allowing
the oddly paternal gesture. "I have to go." He replies, continually keeping
contact with the small, golden haired boy. "My father will no longer be hand,"
He sighs, attempting to explain the circumstances in terms that a boy barely
older than a toddler would understand.
"If he truly wished to stay," A familiar voice responds, articulating her
reproach with an unfamiliar inflection. Something akin to contempt. "It could
easily be done." Cersei concludes, gouging holes into his eyes with her own,
her emeralds smoldering like molten steel. "All he need do is ask."
He releases his hold on Tommen's hair, guiding him toward the table where his
mother and sister sit, unmoving. "It would be seen as a disservice to Lord
Stark, in return for his kindness." He replies. "I have my honor."
For what seems like an eternity, he and Cersei stare each other down, both
silently imploring the other to see reason.
The door opens behind him, breaking the tension in the room long enough for him
to discern the identity of the interloper. Entering the chamber are several
women, hoisting several platters filled with indescribable amounts of
refreshments; cakes and tarts, meats and fruits, along with receptacles of
sloshing liquids.
A light tugging at his fingers draws his attention toward an insistent Tommen,
doing his very best to drag a man who is- by a conservative estimate- thrice
his size.
He takes mercy on the princeling, following him to his assigned place setting,
with Tommen and Myrcella on either side of him and Cersei directly across from
him.
All about them, the serving women begin their task, filling a nearby table with
an their array of platters; as one, they each take hold of a singular dish,
parading their fare before the gathered monarchy, depositing their possessions
when demanded.
After a single pass, Jon glances toward his plate, finding it piled high with
meat and fruit and bread. Taking hold of his dining utensils, he prepares to
devour the meal before him, spearing one of the thinner slices of boar's meat
in anticipation.
"Are you to return to the North?" A timid voice inquires, drawing his focus to
Princess Myrcella.
He cranes his neck, staring into her eyes for the briefest of moments before
the princess averts her gaze, suddenly finding the meal before her of greater
import. "What I mean to say is," She whispers, her gaze still concentrated on
her meal.
Before the princess can continue, Cersei's fingers are upon her chin, lifting
her head. "Never hang your head when speaking," She says, grasping her
daughter's chin gently before giving it a slight shake. "especially to those of
lower birth." She revises, her gaze flickering to him momentarily, gauging his
reaction.
He would not rise to her provocations. Before making the decision to accept her
invitation, Jon steeled himself for the possible ramifications of his decision.
He instead turns to address Princess Myrcella once more. "I understand." He
says, intent on avoiding another awkward address for the poor girl. "Truly, I
do not know." He replies, have no knowledge of Lord Stark's designs for him.
"The North has few enough knights as it is, and there are few tourneys to be
found there."
While both of those were valid concerns, neither was the true reason for his
reticence to return North. What truly gave him pause was the idea of returning
to Winterfell, where Lady Stark was free to torment him as she saw fit, with
little to nothing that he could say to object without offending someone far
beyond his station. It would be best to send me to someone in the vale, he
muses. Or perhaps the Stormlands.
"Your father was well liked in the Vale." Ser Barristan opines from behind
Queen Cersei. "You may thrive there as well."
The two lock eyes for a moment, cementing the reality that his private thoughts
were not mere thoughts. "Yes." He returns curtly, eager to change the topic of
the conversation.
"When will you be back?" Tommen asks, his voice nearly a shout within the
uncomfortable silence.
He sighs. "I do not know?" He responds. "It is not my choice."
"You could stay here!" He replies, raising his voice slightly, competing with
himself. "I can make you a knight!" He continues, having clearly registered
nothing of the conversation thus far. He turns to his mother, his face twisted
in confusion. "Can't I?"
"Not as you are now." She answers, dashing the boy's hopes. "Though you could
demand it of a knight in your service." She continues, restoring the grin to
Tommen's face.
The portly little prince points a finger toward Ser Barristan. "You could do
it." He says, causing the aged knight to release a laborious sigh.
"I could." Ser Barristan says simply, though Jon can tell that there is more
left unsaid.
After more than two moons together, the knight and his squire had discovered a
greater understanding of one another; listening to him now, he could hear the
underlying disappointment in his tone.
He wonders if Ser Barristan can read the wistful energy in his posture; he
wonders how much of the desperation for validation of his existence Ser
Barristan can see. "I would not ask Ser Barristan to knight me for such a
reason." He decides, taking all in attendance unawares- being knighted by Ser
Barristan Selmy publicly would be a great boon to any who wished to gain
notoriety. "It would be a disservice to the Ser Barristan as well as myself."
He explains, taking up his fork, still spearing the lukewarm boar slice on his
plate. "I must earn my spurs on my own merit." He concludes, taking a bite of
his boar, silently bringing their conversation to a close.
For the remainder of their meal their party dines in relative silence, save the
occasional outburst of inquisitive vehemence from Tommen, breaking the calm
with each new thought:
"When will you be back?" he asks, to which Jon replies simply, "Whenever I
receive my knighthood."
Another few bites pass in silence, before the next question arrives. "Will you
come for my nameday?" he asks, and again Jon answers honestly,"I cannot say.
The world is an uncertain place."
Secure in the notion that Tommen has no further questions after several moments
of silence, he returns his attention to his own platter, finding the cool
contents less than appealing. Taking hold of an overly-oblong pear, he
impassively nibbles upon the strange fruit, awaiting the appropriate excuse to
take his leave.
His wait is not overly long.
No sooner does the Prince finish his meal, than he is bounding from his settee
with a decisive leap. He hastens round the table as quickly as he can, taking
hold of Jon's hand as they flee from the scene.
He stumbles slightly, having been taken by surprise by the small lump of energy
forcing him onward as he tries to keep up.
"May we be excused, mother?" Tommen questions, though his stride toward the
door does not break as he awaits her answer.
"You would do well to remember that you have lessons today." Cersei reminds her
youngest legitimate child, exerting as much authority as she can, willing him
to turn toward her once more.
Releasing a boyish groan, reminiscent of something that Robb might have done at
this age, Tommen turns to face his mother. "But Jon is leaving on the morrow."
He whines, tugging at his captive's arm as he squirms toward the floor. "My
lessons will be here until I die!" He stresses, flinging himself to the floor,
hanging onto Jon's hand as though it were a tether to this life, forcing him to
hoist the pouty Prince back to his feet.
An audible chuckle resonates from one of the less populous corners of the room,
drawing the attention of those occupying the rest of the space- as well as the
ire of Her Grace.
Taking not of the unwanted attention, the Lord Commander straightens his
posture, once again donning the mask of the silent of the silent observer,
allowing Jon's attention to naturally shift to Cersei once more as he lifts
Tommen from the salmon colored floor.
Considering the pair for a moment, she opens her mouth once more having made
her decision. "Eat your fill before your lessons. Your septa will be awaiting
you." She breathes, offering no invitation for discussion.
He hangs his head. "Yes mother." Tommen returns despondently, releasing Jon's
hand as he sluggishly drifts towards his seat, taking his place beside his
mother once more.
Having quelled the young Prince's minor act of rebellion, Queen Cersei returns
her attention to the squire beneath the archway of her private solar, a
questioning expression taking residence upon her brow.
Uncertain of her intentions, he merely stands beneath the archway awaiting an
explanation.
Catching sight of a shimmering object beyond the royal family, his attention is
brought to Ser Barristan, who proceeds to place a hand upon the lower torso of
his armor and dips his head slightly, reminding Jon of his courtesies.
Dipping into a shallow bow, he stares forward, drawing the Queen's emerald eyes
toward his own. "By your leave, Your Grace." He questions, his voice barely
above a whisper.
A stiff nod of her head is his only answer.
With his back straight once more, he slowly backs away, finding his way through
the door once more as it swings closed before him.
Inclining his head to either side of the door, offering a gesture of respect to
the white knight manning the entrance to the Queen's apartments, Jon turns on
his heel, rambling briskly through the corridor before rounding a corner as
though nothing were amiss.
Slowing his stride, he observes his surroundings, finding the passageway bare
before him.
Likely due to the gathering of nobility within the Queen's Chambers, Jon
reasons, placing his hand upon a door at his side, shoving it inward.
Slipping inside, gingerly closing the heavy timber door behind him, he finds
the vast chamber conveniently devoid of life. Ambling toward the pair of large
wooden framed glass doors, he silently takes stock of the belongings within,
noting the piles of books strewn about, deducing the keeper of the enormous
space- highly doubting that King Robert or Joffrey were very well read, or that
Tommen could decipher books of this magnitude at his age.
Coming upon a small drawing table near the egress toward the balcony, he finds
a rather large tome, its binding well worn from constant use.
Picking the book from the table, he studies the cracked, leather-bound cover,
finding its contents more than passing strange. "The Foundations of the Seven
Kingdoms- Dynastic Marriages of the Great Houses of Westeros." He whispers,
skimming through the sizable text, contemplating the possible purpose that this
book might serve a child of Princess Myrcella's standing and age.
Attributing this to the youthful folly of a princess- much like Sansa, with her
knights and tourneys- he returns the time to its perch, stepping to the pair of
opposing doors, pulling them within as he makes his way to the shallow balcony
overlooking the dry moat below.
Wasting little time, for fear that he might be discovered, he pulls the doors
shut behind him before stepping toward a section of the heavy stone balustrade,
tucked into the corner of the balcony, lifting himself onto the railing as he
launches himself onto the roof of Maegor's Holdfast, fighting the undue burden
being placed on his torso.
Having taken a moment to collect himself, he creeps along the rooftop,
stealthily making his way to the portion of the structure which should
correspond with the Queen's bedchamber below.
Fearing the shadow that might be cast by the waning sun, he maintains his
distance from the edge, choosing instead a spot further up the incline.
Having found his perch, Jon carefully removes his grey direwolf cloak- folding
it once, then twice, then thrice over- fashioning a makeshift pillow and laying
it upon an area of exposed tar.
The incline is merciful as he falls to his knees, colliding softly with the
warm surface before rolling to his back to gaze lazily upon the cloudless sky.
He hasn't been there long when a cast of hawks flies above, catching his eye,
and his envy. Reaching out to the considerable gathering of predators above, he
singles out one of their number, closing his eyes to the sky above, allowing
himself to drift.
It was raining when he woke.
He'd known before his eyes had opened, feeling the kiss of each droplet upon
his brow.
As he opens his eyes, the water trickling from his crown seeps through his
lashes, clouding his vision. In that brief moment, obscured by sleep and rain,
the city beyond the Red Keep seems almost serene- a silhouette of the purest
black, stippled with little yellow lights, beneath a sky of dense, heavy grey.
It was a far cry from what he'd seen by the light of day. Even as his eyes
clear, the foulness that seemed to coat everything and everyone within the city
below was nowhere to be seen, cloaked by shadows and darkness.
He smooths his hair from his face, glancing down at his tunic and breeches. His
clothes were mercifully dry for the most part, though they were not like to
stay that way, given the worsening conditions around him.
It'll be pouring soon, he reminds himself, sliding swiftly to the edge of the
roof.
It happened so quickly, he barely had the time to panic. One moment he was
gliding along the damp, weathered tar of the roof, the next, he was plummeting
from the edged.
Colliding roughly with the damp stone below, he felt a sharp spasm in his
ankle, addling his mind. Through the pain, a small voice reminded him to keep
his tongue, lest he be discovered and skewered.
Limping along the wet balcony, crouching as low as his leg might allow, he
reaches the Queen's Chambers, finding the door slightly ajar.
Nudging the door, the entryway widens just enough for a man of his size to slip
through.
The room is dark. Too dark to truly distinguish between the separate articles
of furniture by sight, though not so much as to shroud the figure lying upon
the bed.
Light of foot, he slowly makes his way to the bed, slipping his feet from his
boots as he goes, feeling the cool stone floor against his toes.
"The roof?" A subtle whisper breaks through the gloom. Before he is able to
react, the lying form upon the bed takes an upright position, turning her head
in his direction. "I'd wondered where you'd gone." Her voice was fresh and well
rested; not at all hoarse with sleep like he'd expected.
She knew, he concludes, smiling to smiling despite himself.
Running a hand through golden mane, now dull as dusted straw in the dimness of
the darkened chamber, she recedes further into the large featherbed.
Accepting her silent offer, he continues on his path, no longer bothering to
conceal his footfalls. "How did you know I would come to you?" He questions,
his voice barely above her own whisper.
Seating himself at the edge of her bed, he slowly rolls the damp tunic over his
head, patiently awaiting an answer to his question. Tossing aside the discarded
garment, he lurches onto his side, finding himself face to face with his love.
She'd obviously resumed her place while he was divesting himself of his
clothing.
"An educated guess." Is her reply. "Tommen returned from his lessons, with your
brother of course, in search of a certain neglectful squire."
Before he could protest her characterization of him, the words continued to
tumble forth. "If Ser Mandon is to be believed, they had asked nearly half the
castle by the time they reached my chambers." She said, reaching to brush the
skin of his belly with the tips of her fingers. "But none had seen you.
"Once Ser Barristan told them that he hadn't seen you, they conceded their
defeat." Through the darkness, he could see the shrug of her shoulders against
the bed. "I assumed you might be lying in wait to seek me out in the dead of
night, like before. If wrong, I'd miss a single night of sleep for my
troubles."
He found it oddly alluring the way her mind worked; the way she could bring
several seemingly unrelated thing together to craft a more fitting story.
Shuffling further into the bed, he wraps an arm about her middle, encircling
her body with his own. "Surely you did not come to cuddle me to sleep?" She
mocks, gingerly scraping her fingernails along his skin in warning.
Releasing his breath through his nose, he takes her hand in his. "I had to see
you once more." He confesses, kissing the flesh of her knuckle. "I needed to
know your feelings before I left. You seemed upset with me during our meal."
She returned his sigh. "I told you, we must keep appearances. It would do us no
good to show such familiarity before so many. And, Tommen is quite taken with
you.
"He wishes to be your squire when you are knighted. I wish to spare him the
pain of your departure if I can."
"I will return." He replies anxiously. "The moment I've earned my spurs, I
shall come for you both." He whispers, sliding closer. "I shall take Prince
Tommen and raise him up to be a true knight, like Aemon the Dragon Knight, or
Ser Barristan Selmy."
If she had any thoughts on the matter, she did not share them. Running a hand
along the skin of his arm, she slowly makes her way to his cheek, stroking the
bone with the pad of her thumb. "Such a comely young man." She whispers into
his lips. "You have your father's color, but this," She continues, tracing the
outline of his jaw. "This must have come from your mother."
Uncomfortable with their current topic of discussion, he takes hold of the
fringes of her gown. "No." She hisses, taking his wrists in hand. "Leave it."
He doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches beneath shift, finding the valley of her
sex unimpeded and wet with desire. Wiping away the proof of her desire, he
eases his queen onto her back before depositing himself between her thighs,
caressing her neck tenderly with his lips. "What would you have of me, my
queen?" He breathes, brushing his lips against the groove of her cheek, where
jaw meets ear.
For a long moment there is no reply, save for the soft sigh of her breath in
his ear and the rustling of her mound, pushing against his breeches. "Worship
me." Was her breathless reply.
He needed no further urging.
Straightening his back, he unfastens the ties of his breeches, slipping them
down his thighs as he scuttles between her legs once more, positioning his hand
at her entrance. One hand gripping her thigh, he presses his palm to her mound,
fumbling in the darkness for the little pearl of flesh that will bring about
her pleasure.
The subtle tremor in her thigh confirms that he has found the right place.
In a practiced motion, he slides his fingers between her folds, moving them in
tandem with the roll of him palm upon her pearl. It was something his love had
taught him.
When first he'd failed to truly please her with his hand, Cersei seemed amused,
if not mildly annoyed, at his inexperience. "When you put your fingers inside
of me, you want to curl them, as if you were beckoning me forward."She'd said,
guiding his hand.
At the time, he'd followed her instructions, amazed at how easily he could
bring a woman to her peak. During the passing moon between Winterfell and
Darry, he'd employed different positions with his fingers and palms, hoping to
make something more of what she'd shown him.
Her current elation is the product of his labor. As his fingers twitch back and
forth inside of her, teasing the place that would bring her pleasure, the thumb
of the same hand absently massaged the flesh of her pearl.
Before long she'd reached her peak; coating his hand jin her desire as her
thighs shudder and jerk about him.
She reaches for him, barely scraping his stomach with the tips of her fingers.
"Jon." She whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with contentment.
She needs not say more.
He takes himself in hand, reveling in the warmth of her arousal upon his
manhood as he positions the tip against her slick folds. From the hitch of her
breath, she needs no further preparation. Even so, he slips the head of his
cock along her folds, forcing her back to arch. "I will call for Ser Meryn if
you do not hurry!" She hisses, fumbling about in the darkness for his manhood.
He cannot help the rough chuckle that escapes his throat. "Yes, your grace." He
whispers, slipping beyond her lips for the first time in moons.
The sensation is just as he remembers; like a warm, moist hand taking hold of
his being. A ragged breath escapes his lips as the root of his manhood presses
against her pearl, sending a shiver through her thighs. Tightening his grip on
her thighs, he stills inside of her, content to enjoy the depths of her sex for
a while longer.
Impatient as always, his love recedes as far as the feathered bed below will
allow, before slamming her sex into him, bucking and writhing like a mare in
heat.
Shoving his hips down upon her in kind, he traps her beneath him. "Let me share
this night with you." He whispers hoarsely, grinding his hips against her own
as he leaned forward to steal a kiss.
When first they had met, Cersei had stood above him by little more than an
inch; now, standing shoulder to shoulder, he stood slightly less than an inch
above her.
His growth seemed to be for naught, for the swell of her belly kept him at bay,
confining his ministrations to her neck. Pressing his lips to the exposed
flesh, just above her left breast, Jon begins to nibble upon the skin there;
not hard enough to leave a mark, but just enough to draw a response.
Keeping his position, he quickened his pace, crashing into her thighs with a
greater urgency than ever before. Before long, the familiar tug in the flesh of
his lower stomach warns him of his impending release.
From the grip of her sex around his cock, it is obvious that her release is no
further than his own. Perhaps she is closer, he muses, slowing his pace to an
agonizing crawl.
Taking his hand from her thigh, he slips it between them to tickle her pearl.
Between the depth of his stroke and the gentle graze of his fingers, it is only
seconds before the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms comes undone beneath him.
Lifting her shoulders from the bed, she bites into his neck savagely, muffling
her cries of jubilation. Wrapping his unoccupied arm about her shoulders, he
pulls her closer as the pair weather their release together, biting into his
hand to quiet his groans of ecstasy.
His seed came forth like lightning, scorching the halls of her womanhood like
the remnants of the Broken Tower of his youth, leaving him spent.
Curiously, his release did little to sate his lust. If anything, lying with her
after weeks of shunning her affections seemed to awaken something within him.
Where he'd expected to find solace between her thighs, he instead found a
primal force, raging against its confinement.
Receding from the space her thighs, he grasps the inner curve of her knee,
guiding her to kneel on her hands and knees. Reaching out to either side, he
pulls and tugs at the covering of the bed, pooling blankets and sheets and
pillows beneath her belly.
She lets out a small sound that might have been a laugh; though with her face
turned from him, he cannot tell. He ignores it.
Taking hold of his manhood once more, hardened by the sight of her backside, he
shuffles forward on his knees. As the flesh of her thighs and extremities press
against his hips, he guides his head along her folds, slowly stoking the tip of
his cock against her pearl, delivering waves of shivers through her spine with
each pass.
Wrapping his unoccupied hand around her left thigh, he holds her steady,
bringing his head to her opening of her sex.
He sinks inside of her with reckless abandon, delighting in the pressure of her
velvet folds enclosing around him. There is a sameness to it; this sensation he
feels. Mcuh like moments ago, there is a tightness that exists inside of her; a
hunger threatening to engulf him if he is not wary. But unlike before, there is
a strange openness to her.
With each thrust, his hips bottom out against her mound, searching for that
thing. That thing that separates this coupling from the last, or the one
before.
As his pace quickens, he can feel the muscles in her thighs and hips grow taut,
anticipating each stroke.
He loves it. He loves that they fit so well together. He loves that she knows
the rhythm of his strokes. He loves the feeling of her warm, velvet fist
gripping his cock between her thighs. He is almost certain that he loves her.
He banishes those thoughts, tightening his grip on her hips as he slams into
her arse with significantly greater force than before, holding her to him.
She releases a stifled moan, letting her head fall to the mattress.
Curling himself around her back, he lays a trail of kisses along her spine,
whispering words of affection as his hands wander the expanse of her skin.
Pressing his arm into the valley between her breasts, he pulls her bacloser to
his chest, straightening his back, and hers by extension.
As he continues his motion, his strokes curtailed by the closeness of their
bodies, he allows his other hand to slide between the valley of her thighs. For
a moment, both hands fumble about her body, seeking out her sensitive places in
hopes of bringing her to her knees- in a figurative sense.
He finds her nipple first, pressing his thumb to the hard blosom upon her
bosom, kneading it against the pad of his finger as he finally reaches her
pearl. Simultaneously teasing her most sensitive spots, he can feel her coming
undone around him.
Her body grows limp in his arms as she reaches her peak for the second time
this evening, just moments after his own.
Gently, he eases her onto her side, laying her in the center of the vast
featherbed, watching as the waves of residual pleasures of their coupling roll
over her.
He proceeds to take her thrice more before dawn; each time bringing her greater
pleasures than the last, etching the memories of this night deep inside of her.
He is still inside of her, softening by the second, when the first sighs of
dawn reach the castle walls. He helps her straighten her gown, having ruffled
her shift during their coupling, before haphazardly dressing himself for his
departure.
He leaves the way he came, shambling onto the roof of Maegor's Holdfast whence
he came. Once there, he crept into the mind of one of his servants, finding the
pathway before Prince Tommen's door unguarded. He discounts the roof silently,
padding along the balcony and creeping through the Prince's chambers.
In the servants corridors below, where stewards and grooms have already started
their day, he borrows a jerkin with the crowned stag of House Baratheon of
King's Landing before heading to the bridge.
To his fortune, it was Ser Boros Blount that stood guard. As he slipped by, the
rotund knight payed him no mind, in his worn breeches and black Baratheon
garments.
As he made his way back to the Hand's Tower, presumably to finish packing his
things, he thought of the things he would miss. In truth, there were very few.
He would miss his lessons with Ser Barristan, and his spars with the other
Crownland squires. He would miss Prince Tommen and unceasing admiration. Most
of all, his heart would yearn for his queen- though she thought him naive, and
had told him to his face more than once.
She'd sworn that he'd become an illustrious tourney knight, winning purses and
bedding fair daughters of lesser lords.
Such thoughts fade quickly enough as the entrance of the tower comes into view.
Huddled tightly around the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, clutching the
grips of their swords, a heavy tension is visible on each of their faces.
"What's happened?" He questions, glancing from face to face, hoping to find one
that he remembers well.
He does.
As the guards part for their commander, he realizes with a start that the man
before him is someone he has known since his youth. "Jory?" He questions,
unsure if the man beneath the blood and scars is truly the captain of his
father's guards.
He hobbles forth, taking hold of the breast of Jon's borrowed jerkin, pulling
him forward. "What in the hells are you-" He breaks off, shaking his head.
"More importantly, where very been?" He questions, ushering him through the
blockade.
As they ascend the staircase, it quickly becomes apparent that Jory cannot make
it under his own power. He stops, turning back to stare at the man. "I can find
my way." He offers.
Jory nods, blowing a droplet of sweat from his lips before turning to descend
the staircase once more, looking all the more relieved for it.
From Jory's state, he rightly assumes that something has happened with his
father. This becomes all too apparent as he steps through the open door of the
Hand's Chambers, immediately detecting the scent of blood.
Around the bed, his siblings kneel to either side of their father, displaying
differing emotions. While Sansa and Bran do little to hold back their tears,
heaving great sobs into their father's bedding, drenching the linens in salty
tears, Arya silently grips his hand, glaring fiercely at no one in particular.
"What happened?" He questions, drawing everyone's attention from his bedridden
father. The sound of male clinking and shifting alerts him to the presence of
someone else in the room.
Tucked away in the corner, and pair of men make their way toward the door to
stand before him. While both were hearty men with broad shoulders, the elder of
the two was obviously taller, standing nearly a head above Jon. "Lannisters."
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