ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 13: The Wolf and the Lioness
POV: Cersei Stark (289 AC)
The aroma of ancient stone, damp moss, and the salty breeze blowing from the marshes of the Neck filled the royal chambers of Moat Cailin. Lying upon sheets of soft linen and grizzly bear pelts on the enormous rosewood bed of the master bedroom, I allowed myself a moment of pure and absolute delight. My hands, adorned with gold rings and small protection runes that I myself had demanded from the smiths, rested upon the already prominent curve of my belly. A new pregnancy. Another heir to consolidate the dynastic power that the Starks and Lannisters had been weaving with threads of blood, iron, and magic.
To finally be able to move into my own castle was a triumph I savored with every breath. When Moat Cailin was nothing but a cluster of black ruins, three collapsed fire-spitting towers, and ramparts swallowed by the mud of the swamps, I did not even deign to set my lioness feet upon this land. Why would a daughter of Casterly Rock look at the decaying skeleton of a dead fortress? I had remained in the runic comfort of Winterfell, watching from afar. But now... now that the reconstruction was complete, the true historical grandeur of this place made perfect sense.
Raising myself slightly on my elbows, I looked through the slits of the arched windows. The colossal towers—the Children's Tower, the Gate Tower, and the Drunkard's Tower—rose like immortal sentinels made of black granite and basalt, reinforced with alloys of icy steel and anchoring runes that defied time itself. It was easy to understand, looking at the immensity of that military architecture, why the ancient campaigns of the Andal kings had died and rotted at the base of those walls for thousands of years. The grandiosity of Moat Cailin was vast, brutal, and impenetrable. It was enough to satisfy me, to feed the Lannister pride that dictated I deserved nothing less than the top of the world.
But what truly captivated my attention that morning was not just the external architecture, but the battle of flesh, sweat, and muffled moans unfolding right before my eyes, in the very same room.
Watching my wolf work was always a spectacle of pure, savage beauty. Unfortunately, due to the advanced stage of my pregnancy, the maesters and the common sense of the Winter Throne had decreed that I should not be the recipient of that vigorous treatment for a time. However, I felt not a shred of jealousy or bitterness. Quite the contrary. Watching Eddard Stark, his broad, muscular back glistening with sweat, pinning Ashara Dayne's head against the feather mattress while penetrating her with a rhythmic, implacable force, was more than enough to satisfy me for now.
The sound of flesh colliding, the contrast of Ned's pale, scar-marked skin against Ashara's shapely, Dornish silhouette, and the low moans she let escape with her fingers clawing into the sheets created an atmosphere of power that I controlled with my gaze.
Truthfully, I never expected my life to reach this highly peculiar and... scandalously perfect arrangement. When I married my wolf, right in the first few months, I noticed the undeniable closeness that existed between him and the Star of Starfall. After all, they had traveled together for weeks, crossing Westeros from the deserts of Dorne to the extreme cold of the North, carrying grief that only survivors of the Rebellion understood. Furthermore, if the rumors circulating through the taverns and halls of the South were correct, the two had already shared inflamed glances and whispered promises long before, on the green fields of the Tourney of Harrenhal.
A few months after our marriage, when the womb of Cersei Stark already sheltered the first fruit of the Stark blood, I received my definitive confirmation. To my utter surprise at the time, Ashara Dayne herself had volunteered at court to tend to me, acting almost as a lady-in-waiting and protector during the most difficult months of my pregnancy. In the beginning, I confess that Lannister paranoia whispered in my ears; I feared the Dornishwoman held some grudge, some dagger hidden between her skirts to rip away the heir I carried. But the fear evaporated quickly when I remembered where we were. We were under the roof of Winterfell, and under the omniscient eyes of King Arawyn, absolutely nothing escaped. No one would dare break the peace of the Winter Throne.
As the days passed, the isolation of the chambers fostered long conversations accompanied by Dornish wine and mead. On a particularly warm afternoon, while she massaged my swollen feet, I decided to test the limits of her boldness. I asked her directly about Harrenhal, the tourney where the world had begun to bleed.
Ashara had merely stopped what she was doing, raising those magnetic violet eyes, and offered a provocative, typically Dornish smile.
— Oh... is the lioness jealous? — she had asked, her voice as smooth as Dornish silk. — I was married to Brandon Stark at that time, Cersei. My loyalty and my bed belonged to the Wild Wolf.
— It is not jealousy, Ashara — I had replied, adjusting myself on the cushions with the haughtiness of a queen. — But rumors have long legs. They say Ned Stark nearly lost his mind over you in those tents.
— In fact — she had continued, without losing her smile, though a shadow of melancholy passed over her face at the memory of her late husband —, it was there at Harrenhal that I became pregnant with Brandon.
I remembered perfectly the confidential information Arawyn had shared with me later: that after the complications of that terrible loss during the war, Ashara's body had been scarred, making it impossible for her to bear further children. Even so, faced with that revelation about the past, the intrinsic curiosity of a Lannister spoke louder, ignoring the tension the topic evoked.
— So... that means you never slept with Ned at that tourney? — I inquired, narrowing my eyes.
Ashara let out a melodious laugh, a chuckle that echoed off the protective stone walls.
— Well... I never said that — she replied, winking one of her violet eyes. But before my mind could process the weight of that insinuation and the possibility of a retroactive betrayal, she quickly completed, disarming me: — But do not worry, Cersei. My son was truly Brandon's. The blood did not lie.
— How can you be so sure? If you lay with both in the same span of the tourney?
The smile she gave me next was something only a woman born to the deserts and libertine customs of Dorne could conjure. A smile that exuded ancestral secrets and a total absence of southern shame.
— Darling, I am from Dorne. In Dorne, we know... other ways — she said, letting out a mischievous laugh. — You see, at that time, my relationship with Brandon was already more than established, so much so that we married in secret shortly after. But for some reason, Ned was deeply sad and melancholy at that tourney. Lyanna's obvious rejection of her betrothal to Robert Baratheon, added to Robert's excessively libertine and promiscuous way, had left young Ned completely down, questioning the honor and future of his own sister. To cheer up his younger brother, Brandon convinced me to do something... unusual. He brought Ned to our room that night. And well... while Brandon followed the normal path in the front, Ned followed the path in the back. We Dornish do not see sin where there is comfort.
Hearing that heretical revelation, spoken with such naturalness and without the slightest hint of concern, had made me laugh in pure disbelief. The "Quiet Wolf," the man whose honor was more rigid than the ice of the Wall, participating in a Dornish debauchery engineered by his own older brother. From that afternoon of scandalous confidences, the barrier between the lioness and the Dornishwoman crumbled completely. We became more than allies; we became confidantes.
After the birth of my twin daughters, King Arawyn, demonstrating a medical and mystical wisdom that humiliated any maester of the Citadel, had decreed that my body needed absolute rest. I was not to have children for a period of a few years, allowing my essence and my womb to fully recover before harboring a new Stark heir. It was during this hiatus that my intimacy with Ashara reached its peak. In order not to break my sacred vows before the Old Gods and, above all, not to draw wrath or judgment under the roof of a magical King capable of seeing everything and everyone through the roots of the weirwoods, I made a bold decision: I resolved to bring Ashara Dayne permanently into our matrimonial bed.
Making Eddard Stark agree to that, however, had been a herculean task, much harder than I had ever imagined. Any man in Westeros, from the most powerful lord to the filthiest mercenary, would sell his soul to the Seven充Hell to have the two most beautiful and coveted women on the continent sharing his marriage bed simultaneously. The lioness of Casterly Rock and the Star of Dorne. But Ned, with his almost irritating morality, had rejected the idea repeatedly, stammering about duty, fidelity, and the sins of the flesh. In the end, of course, not even the most austere wolf could resist the combined temptation of our bodies and our joint insistence. The fact that he had resisted for so many moons before yielding was something that I, secretly, had to commend. He was a man of iron, but iron always melts in the heat of Dornish and Lannister fire.
A sharp cry of ecstasy from Ashara broke the flow of my memories. Her back arched one last time before she collapsed onto the mattress, panting heavily, her long dark hair splayed out like a pool of black silk as she tried to regain her breath and the strength lost in the onslaught.
Ned remained on his knees for a moment, his chest rising and falling. Then, with a satisfied and uncharacteristically relaxed smile shaping his Northern features, he moved across the mattress, approaching my side of the bed. He leaned down, placing a chaste kiss on my forehead and then on the curve of my pregnant belly.
— Right — he said, his voice husky from the carnal effort, as he searched for his linen tunic on the floor. — Now I must dress and meet with the gate garrison. We need to establish the daily patrol routines and the positioning of the new runic sentinels on the outer walls of Moat Cailin.
I smiled, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and caught him by his strong wrist before he could pull away.
— And where is my parting kiss, my wolf? — I asked, my voice laced with feline malice.
Ned leaned down again, leaving a swift and affectionate kiss on my lips, making a move to stand up right after. But I did not loosen my grip on his wrist. He furrowed his brow, not understanding my restraint.
— Who said the parting kiss was up there? — I whispered, opening my legs beneath the thin sheets and pulling him firmly into the inviting space between them.
Ned's gaze flickered between military duty and the pure desire that the sight of my body aroused. The wolf lost the battle to the lioness. Without a single word, he discarded the tunic he had just retrieved and positioned himself between my thighs, surrendering to the work with renewed intensity. The pleasure, thick, warm, and familiar, took hold of every fiber of my being, filling the room with fresh moans that made Ashara smile, knowingly, lying right beside us.
The afternoon was already late when I decided to leave the royal quarters. The pale Northern sun managed to penetrate the constant mist of the Neck, illuminating the inner gardens we had designed in the heart of Moat Cailin. Although that green space did not possess the mystical and terrifying immensity of the godswood of Winterfell, it was ample enough, filled with cold-resistant shrubs, wild flowers, and well-kept lawns where the children could run freely under the watchful eyes of the sentinels.
Seated in oak chairs adorned with velvet cushions, we formed a circle of women that, in any other era, would be considered a political miracle or an absolute impossibility. Beside me sat Ashara, now fully recovered, Elia Dustin—with her Dornish elegance and her health visibly restored by the King's runic arts—her legitimate children, and Lyanna Stark herself, who had chosen to move with us to the new fortress.
Lyanna maintained a serene gaze, though a hint of melancholy still resided in the depths of her grey eyes. According to what she herself had confessed during the journey, although Winterfell would always be her ancestral home, she still felt suffocated by the guilt and the weight of the memories of everything her old, foolish juvenile rebellion against Robert Baratheon had brought upon the realm. Since all the closest friends of her son Aemon, were settling in the Neck under Ned's command, she felt her place was here, helping to raise the new generation of wolves.
Close to the children, acting as true living walls of flesh, bone, and icy steel armor, stood the remnants of Rhaegar Targaryen's old Kingsguard. Ser Oswell Whent and the legendary "White Bull," Ser Gerold Hightower, stood motionless as statues, their hands resting on the pomos of their swords, ensuring that no danger dared even breathe near the little ones.
Further ahead, on the gravel-cleared training area, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy dedicated themselves to teaching the art of combat to the older boys.
With heavy wooden swords in hand, my Robb, alongside Aemon and Aegon Targaryen, formed an obstinate trio. The three boys attacked in unison, delivering coordinated blows against the legendary "Sword of the Morning." Arthur Dayne, however, wore an arrogant and amused smile on his face. To the boys' astonishment and obvious frustration, Arthur had accepted the challenge with an outrageous handicap: he had his left arm literally tied behind his back by a thick leather rope. Even fighting with only one hand, the Dornish knight moved with the grace of a panther, dodging, blocking, and parrying the wooden swords of the three youths with a humiliating ease, turning the training into child's play.
— Come on, Robb! Keep your shield up! — I called out from my seat, letting out a loud laugh as I saw my son pushed back by a subtle tap of Arthur's wood. The frustration stamped on the three boys' faces was enough to make all the mothers present laugh openly.
A bit further away, the legendary Ser Barristan "The Bold" subtly guided the steps of the younger ones. To my mixture of pride and exasperation, my youngest daughter, Arya, a wolf-girl who seemed to have inherited all the untamable savagery of the Northern blood, fiercely insisted on learning the handling of the longsword, completely ignoring the lessons of needlework and etiquette. I saw no reason to stop her; in a world shaped by magic and gods walking among men, a lioness or a wolf needed to know how to tear out the throats of her enemies.
Alongside Arya, Roderick Dustin—the robust son Elia Dustin had brough forth with William Dustin—demonstrated impressive discipline for his age, while taking care of and leading the games of little Brandon and my sweet Tommen, who chased each other across the grass.
My older daughters, Myrcella and sweet Sansa, were seated a few yards from us, surrounded by their young ladies-in-waiting from the lands of the Manderlys and the Dustins. I could not help but focus my eyes on Sansa. My firstborn displayed, with almost imperial pride, the intricate and delicate blue runes that King Arawyn had carved directly into her fair skin. The mystical inscriptions glowed subtly under the afternoon sun, an indelible mark connecting her directly to the power of the Winter Throne, making any other lineage in Westeros look common and worthless.
Supporting a small portable wooden table over my knees, I returned my attention to the parchment I had been drafting over the past few hours. It was a dense, detailed, and proud letter, destined for my father, "Lorde Tywin Lannister, in the depths of Casterly Rock.
In the text, I did not economize words to describe the opulence, comfort, and, above all, the invincibility of my new home. I wrote of the grandiosity of Moat Cailin, of how the regular army of the North was becoming a force that no southern alliance would ever be able to challenge, and of the fact that the Starks controlled secrets that made Lannister gold look like dust in the wind. I smiled inwardly as I drew the final lines with black ink. Who could have imagined, in all the eras of Westeros, that Cersei would be the child to bring the greatest pride to the old lion? Jaime had chosen to don the white and abdicate his inheritance for a hollow honor; Tyrion remained the misshapen monster father detested; but I... I had become a lady of the greatest runic fortress in the kingdom, mother to a new dynasty of predators that would rule the world.
— The parchment will not be long enough to contain all your pride, Cersei — Elia Dustin's soft voice woke me from my thoughts. She was smiling, adjusting the shawl over her shoulders. — What are you relating so intensely to your lord father?
— Only the truth, Elia — I replied, sealing the parchment with the red wax that carried the sigil of the intertwined wolf and lion. — I tell him that the North is no longer a wilderness of ice and savages. We are the center of gravity of this world now.
Beside me, Elia leaned forward, shifting the focus of the conversation and directing her gaze toward Ashara, who was watching Arthur's movements in the training yard.
— And what of the double runic marriage? — the Dornish lady asked, her eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity. — Has Ned already spoken formally with King Arawyn about the officialization under the laws of the Throne?
Before Ashara could open her mouth to answer, I took the floor, adjusting my posture with the authority of the one who managed the arrangements of that house.
— Ned has already spoken with Arawyn, Elia. In fact, to be entirely fair, he had already tried to speak with the King long before we moved to Moat Cailin. The real obstacle in this whole story was not my husband... it was Ashara herself, who had been dodging the subject like an eel in the swamps.
Ashara crossed her arms, feigning an indignation that her slightly flushed cheeks belied. She defended herself promptly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear:
— I had my reasons, Cersei! As everyone here knows perfectly well, due to the wounds of the past, my body is no longer capable of bearing children. I cannot give heirs to the Stark name. Because of that, in my mind, I thought marrying again on paper and before the gods would change absolutely nothing in our routine or our intimacy. We already shared the same bed and the same secrets.
Lyanna Stark, who until then had remained in silence watching her son Aemon train with Arthur, turned her face in our direction, showing interest in her sister-in-law's answer.
— And what changed in your Dornish mind, Ashara? — Lyanna asked, with a light smile on her lips. — What finally made you accept Ned's proposal and my nephew's runic blessings?
Ashara let out a dramatic sigh, though her violet eyes overflowed with genuine joy and a hint of vanity that I knew very well.
— Well... even knowing it was entirely my choice to remain as a companion throughout these years, I changed my mind upon seeing the imposition of this castle and the way the North respects us. I want my right as well. I want to be called publicly Lady Stark before the lords and courts of the realm. I will not accept staying one step behind.
I let out a loud laugh, shaking my head at that audacious declaration.
— Well, look at that... so that means the proud Star of Starfall harbored a deep envy of me and my official position? — I teased, narrowing my eyes with amusement.
Ashara did not hesitate for a single second. She flashed a radiant, shameless smile, stepping closer to me and planting a light, affectionate slap on my shoulder.
— Obviously yes, Cersei! — she exclaimed, laughing openly, drawing Ser Barristan's attention from afar. — Enjoy your last moments as the sole and sovereign Lady Stark of this castle, my dear lioness, because soon, very soon... the King's runes will decree that I shall officially be a Stark as well. We shall divide the title just as we divide the wolf.
The sound of our combined laughter echoed through the garden of Moat Cailin, blending with the childish battle cries of Robb, Aemon, and Aegon, who continued to be toppled by Arthur Dayne's wooden sword.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the comforting warmth of the afternoon sun against my face and the blessed weight of the new life growing in my womb. I looked at the sealed letter that would be sent to the Rock, at the immensity of the black stone towers surrounding us, and at the women and children who formed the heart of that place. An absolute satisfaction, such as I had never experienced in my youth in King's Landing or in the empty ambitions of the South, filled my chest.
Adjusting the cloak over my lap, I closed my eyes for a brief moment, smiling at destiny. I was Cersei Stark, the lioness of the North. And seeing the kingdom of iron, magic, and pleasure we had built among the ruins of the Neck, I could not help but think how much, in the end... I had been an extraordinarily lucky woman with that marriage. The Winter belonged to us, and the world would soon know it.