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Part 2 of Westeros AU
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The Good Ship NedSei - Ned/Cersei Fics
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2016-08-14
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This Life I Chose

Summary:

In which Cersei convinces her father of a different match.

Notes:

This is a continuation of The Lonely Heart, or rather, a companion piece. I left out the wedding scene and the scene where Ned and Cersei convince Tywin that their marriage is politically sound, but I thought I'd write it before I moved on to the next piece, which is going to take place a few years down the line.

If you haven't read The Lonely Heart, I suggest you do so before reading this piece.

Again, this fic takes place in an AU world where Cersei is the only child of Lord Tywin Lannister, and thus lives a vastly different life.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Cersei has to remind herself that she is not afraid of her father.

She is the first to admit that it is very difficult to remember this when she is in front of him, but she repeats it to herself nonetheless. She takes strength from Ned’s presence besides her, stone-faced and tension radiating off him, but so close she could reach out and draw his hands into hers, press her face into the cool leather of his jerkin to calm the anxious heat that makes her flushed and constricts her chest.

She is a woman grown and flowered, and a Lannister besides. She is not afraid of her father.

Lord Tywin regards her and Ned, side by side, united in their efforts. The light is low in his solar. Cersei had insisted on coming to him right away, knowing that her father would be cross if Ned hid his intentions until the second day of his visit. She has brushed her hair, called in her maids to change her into a red and gold gown that had once belonged to her own lady mother, and a gold necklace inlaid with rubies. It would be good, on this day, to remind Lord Tywin that she is a Lannister as well. She looks regal, Cersei tells herself, even though in reality she feels ill to her stomach, and quite like a child playing in her mother’s clothing.

It is almost too late to ask for an audience with her father, but Cersei demanded it nonetheless.

“You called us here, Cersei,” Tywin says at last, his eyes narrowed. “What was so important it could not wait for the light of day?”

There’s no use dancing around it. Cersei must get the words out of her mouth. “Lord Stark has asked for my hand,” she draws herself up, prepared for a fight. “I have accepted, father.”

There is silence in the room. Only the cracking and snap of wood in the hearth as it burns reaches Cersei’s ears. Finally her father speaks.

“And what foolishness,” Lord Tywin says carefully, eyes moving slowly to Ned, “has made Lord Stark believe that he could go to my daughter for this right before her father? What foolishness has possessed my daughter to make her believe she can accept such a proposal without my consent?”

“Do not blame Ned, father. It was I who accepted the proposal,” Cersei’s arms want to move to her chest, to hide herself from his piercing gaze. She clenches her gown to stop them. “He just wanted to know that I was not averse to the match before he came to you.”

“Well I am averse to the match,” her father hisses. “You should not have accepted Cersei. You will not be married to Lord Stark.”

Ned, besides Cersei and tight-lipped, speaks. “My Lord, you are not blind, nor deaf to the word spreading from the battlefield and the capitol. King Aerys is mad. By doing nothing, you are turning your back to the realm begging at your feet for help. Do you believe he will look well upon you once this war is finished? You, who have stayed out of the fray, out of favor and out of danger, protected here in the Westerlands?” His voice is coldly courteous. “I have said it before to you and I will say it again, my lord. You must join now, or fight later, should Aerys retain the throne and turn his eyes to you. I propose that we join our houses. I say that Stark and Lannister unite as one, overthrow this mad king and bring peace to the realm once again.”

“Cersei will not marry into Winterfell,” her father says. “I will not send her so far, to a land that freezes even in the heat of summer.”

“That is my choice, father, not yours,” Cersei interrupts. “I’ve come to terms with it. The North is cold, yes, and far. But I will go, and not complain.”

“This is not your decision!” Lord Tywin snaps. “This alliance does us no good, Cersei, and I will not have it, nor hear more about it. There are more prosperous marriages—”

“Like what?” Ned asks. A glance at him tells Cersei that he is stiff but cooled, not letting his anger rise. “Robert, when he is king? Robert is betrothed to my sister Lyanna, Lord Tywin, and he means to marry her, make no mistake.”

“With respect, Lord Stark, no one has seen your sister, nor heard from her in nearly a year. She may be dead, and it may be that Robert finds himself in need of a new bride.” Tywin’s voice is sharp as a sword, edged and meant to hurt.

In the silence that follows, it is Cersei who declares, “I’ll not marry him.”

At their startled looks, she continues on, face blazing with anger, her pride clawing its way up her throat. “I’ll not marry Robert, father. Even if he is king of these Seven Bloody Kingdoms. I do not like the man, nor will I marry him for some crown I have never particularly cared for.” Furiously, she twists her hands in her skirts so she doesn’t turn and stalk from the room like she wishes to. “You’ve wanted me to be queen since I was a child, father. I tell you now: I’ve no desire for it, I’ve no taste for the throne. All I want is an end to the war, and peace. You say you want only what is best for me. I say this is what is best for me.”

“You do not know,” her father says, his face twisted, as if he has swallowed a lemon. “You do not know what I have done to bring the Lannister name to where it is today, Cersei. My father was a weak man. I refuse to allow his legacy to pass on to my heirs. My children’s children will be kings, I swore. I swear it still.”

Cersei releases her anger, and it flows from her body like a wave. She makes her way across the floor to kneel at her father’s feet. Her knees to not want to bend, but she makes them. I am a lion of the rock, she tells herself determinedly. I am strong enough to kneel. “They may still be kings,” she tells him. “Ned and Robert are good friends, and love each other well. It may be that my children will one day sit the Iron Throne. But that is for the future. Today, there is war. There are men dying for their kings. What of your legacy now? Will it be said, years from now, that while the realm bled for justice, Tywin Lannister hid in his keep and did nothing? Your very blood will be cursed as cravens, and you will be spit at and laughed at and defied as lord, just as the Reynes and Tarbecks once defied and laughed.”

“Do not speak to me in such a way,” Lord Tywin tells her, but his voice is soft once again. “Rise, Cersei. You do not belong on your knees.”

Good. The floor was hard and cold, and Cersei did not like it. She takes his hand and allows him to help her rise.

“You are not blind, Father,” she says. “You are not a craven, I know that. You are brave and ambitious and thrive despite your father’s weakness. Do not make this harder than it needs to be. Say yes.”

“Why should you want this?” he asks. “We can reach an arrangement without a marriage.”

Cersei’s laugh surprises them both. She doesn’t look back at Ned to see if he’s surprised as well. “Father, Ned and I have been writing each other since Harrenhall. You can ask aunt Genna.”

Her father’s spine stiffens, and he turns to glare at Ned. “You two do seem very familiar with one another. It’s not proper,” he tells Ned.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” Ned says, sounding contrite.

When her father turns back to Cersei, the softness is gone. “Go up to the rookery, wake the maester. Tell him to call my bannermen to me, those who have not already come. We shall have a wedding befitting the Lady of Casterly Rock and the Lord of Winterfell before we march to war.”

He sends her off, and stays in his solar with Lord Stark for until the dawn preparing to go to war.

 

 

Cersei’s wedding takes place a sennight later. The closest bannermen are in attendance. Even more are not, and as her father marches east, they will join his host. Still, the hall is warm and loud once they make their way, and the feast is heady and filling. Cersei’s cloak is white and grey now, her gown is golden as her hair, and her jewels are green as her eyes. Although she shines under the lights of the hall, her uncle Gerion, taking her for a turn on the dance floor, declares that nothing shines so bright as her smile.

It may well be true, Cersei allows. She smiles so widely her cheeks have begun to hurt, but she still cannot stop, nor does she wish to. The Northmen that Ned has brought, near one hundred men, laugh so loudly and often that the hall is always booming with sound, and it seems to her that the winter snows and the battles that may be raging at this very instant matter little or not at all, not with Ned, her husband now, grinning down at her like a lovestruck fool. She is no better, and catches herself staring at him, wide eyed, touching his arm as if to remind herself that he is here, he has come to marry her.

Even the missing part of her heart cannot slow her down. There seems to be a part of it that seems happy for her.

Her uncles give her no time to rest. Kevan barely allows her a bite of food before he has her out of her seat and dancing with him. Right after comes Tygett, swirling her with one hand and balancing his near-empty goblet with his other. Gerion makes bawdy jokes to her husband about the wedding night that have Ned shifting in his seat trying not to blush. Cersei feels lightheaded, in the best and worst of ways, for it is her father she wants to dance with, but Lord Tywin sits at the high table, watching it all with narrowed eyes.

“You must not blame your father,” Genna says, during a quieter moment of the feast. “He has had to give up all his dreams for you.”

Cersei wants to scream, she wants to shake him, but most of all when her aunt tells her this, she wants to cry. “Have I disappointed him so?” she asks, meaning to sound haughty and unhurt. Her voice comes out small instead, unsure and unconfident.

Genna pats her cheek, straightens her dress, fusses with Cersei’s hair. “No,” she says finally. “He is disappointed only in himself. He is proud of you.”

If tears of frustration slip from Cersei’s eyes, they are hidden in Genna’s shoulders when she embraces her niece.

“Don’t cry, my little lion,” her aunt whispers into her ears. “For you are surely the most beautiful bride I have ever seen.”

Cersei dries her eyes and squares her shoulders. “I am a lion,” she tells her aunt. “Thank you for reminding me.” Chin high, she nearly marches over to Ned to demand another dance.

Addam Marbrand’s voice rings at the end of the dance. “The Bedding!” he shouts, and Cersei finds herself torn from Ned’s arms by him, sees Ned disappear behind a sea of ladies led by her aunt and, interestingly enough, Jeyne Farman.

“Do not ruin my dress,” she hisses at Addam, batting his hands away. “I spent hours getting it fitted.” If Cersei has her way, all her daughters will be married in this beautiful dress.

Addam may be too drunk for sense, but even he understands that Cersei will hunt him down in the seven hells if he tears her dress. He backs away slowly, only to be surrounded by Cersei’s uncles and the sons of her father’s bannermen, determined to protect their lord’s daughter from the savagely drunk Northmen and have a proper bedding. It is not long before Cersei is deposited in her room dressed only in her shift, the closing door followed by the laughter of merry, drunk men. She prays that Kevan saves the dress.

Ned is followed into the chamber by Sybil Westerling, who seems to be trying to get at his smallclothes before Genna yanks her out of the room, giggling like a girl and waving at Cersei.

A quick look to Ned shows Cersei his embarrassment. There is something else there too, she thinks, as he takes her in, just in her shift.

“My wife,” he says, his lips twitching with laughter. “It’s strange to say so.”

Cersei meets him halfway, and even though her knees are shaking, she takes comfort in the strong cage of his arms. “Is it?” she murmurs against his chest. “My husband, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I think it rolls well off the tongue.”

Her hands are trembling as well, when they touch his face. There is something in his eyes, a tenderness that Cersei wants to smooth over with her fingertips to see if his expression is as soft as it looks. “Cersei,” his lips seem to sigh, but she cannot hear anything but the pounding in her ears.

“Will it hurt?” she asks. “Does it have to hurt?”

Ned’s kiss tastes like Dornish red. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “Do you want—” he breaks off, clears his throat. “Do you want to find out?” he asks.

Cersei looks into the grey of his eyes, and they look so warm to her in this light, so welcoming. Mutely, she nods.

 

 

 

When Cersei awakens the next morning, she is sore and her thighs are hurting, but she feels clean, at the least, since Ned had helped her clean up the blood almost immediately afterwards. He’d kissed her sweetly as well, and called her beautiful. That had sent warm tingles into Cersei’s spine, and after that it hadn’t seemed to hurt so badly.

Her husband is a different man when he sleeps. She sees that now. He is younger when no worries mar his face. She has not realized how much this war, Brandon’s death, and Lyanna’s abduction have weighed on him until she sees his face relaxed while sleeping in a way it never is when he is awake.

Cersei studies him for a moment more before seeking out her shift.

They are in the room she’s slept in ever since she was a child. There were no bigger chambers to be had with all their guests, and Cersei suspects that her father hadn’t wanted newlyweds down the hall from him. But her bed was large enough and her husband was warm in the cold of the night. He’d tended to the fire when it burned low, and Cersei had laughed and rewarded him with a kiss.

This is the room she’s laughed in, the room she wept in when she felt that bone crushing emptiness. This is the room where she and Jeyne and Melara had played Come into my Castle, and in a chest somewhere she knows there is a doll that she’d once called Joanna and her mother before had called Visenya. This is the room where her husband now sleeps, and she regards him from the foot of the bed once she has finished making water. She nudges his foot with her hand.

“Cersei?” he whispers, and when he opens his eyes she raises a brow at him, biting back a smile and not quite succeeding. “Why have you gone so far? Come back to me.”

Cersei climbs quite gracelessly on the bed, sits primly a foot or so away from him. “I did not intend to go far, my Lord,” she tells him. “Never far.”

Notes:

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