Work Text:
He’s not Jaime, but he’s pretty in his own way, this king in the north. Indeed, his beauty is of a northern kind: his dark eyes and hair contrast sharply with the pale expanse of his skin, and his mouth is full and red. Jaime was golden, like her; like their children. His eyes were green and sharp, brimming with wondrous wickedness and the promise of love he shared with her alone.
Or so it was, once.
Now he has betrayed her. Run north with the Tarth bitch. No doubt he intends to try to free Arya Stark and release Jon Snow from his bondage.
He will not succeed. And this one – this bastard who lies before her – he will do his duty.
She enjoys the way his eyes widen at her touch. He’s a man grown, though he could be her son and is still a green boy in some ways. Certainly he has little experience in this, the intimate acts a man must perform with his wife. He’s had but one lover, Qyburn told her. His little birds even whispered that the lad had been a virgin well into his nineteenth year. It gives him a kind of sweet innocence that she longs to ruin. He’s so honourable. Corruptible. That alone is enough to stoke her lust. Stretched out here under her, silent and unmoving, he reminds her of the pious septa who imprisoned her, the one she bid Ser Gregor to defile and destroy. It pleased her then, as it does now.
He’s restrained not by chains as that woman was, but by the threat of death to his kin, and in a way, this is almost more satisfying. Men have controlled her all her life; dismissed her, defiled her. And now, she has a king at her mercy. A man who rose beyond his bastard birth to become the leader of the north, and surely no girl could ever have done the same, no matter her merits.
Such was the way of the world, before Cersei's reign. No longer.
She relishes the chance to break him apart. Anger wars with that passion, though, for the fact that she has to demean herself to lie with him. He’s beneath her in more ways than one, inferior by his lower birth and by his youth; by his lesser intellect and lack of experience. She will make very sure he knows it. He will submit to her will, obey her every command. The thought sends a thrill through her, warming her blood and wetting her sex.
He flinches when she traces his full lips with her fingers, and Cersei smiles.
She glides her hands down his body. He’s lean and pleasingly muscled, though shorter than Jaime, and not nearly so bold. He's flushed and covering himself like a maid. She brushes his hands aside and very nearly laughs at his offended growl. In truth, he needn’t be ashamed. He’s more than adequate there. He’ll get a son on her, if the Gods are good.
No, not the Gods. Fuck the Gods. They’ve given her nothing. All that she has become is of her own doing and desire.
He closes his eyes when she clasps his manhood, a tremor besetting his straining muscles. She releases him, reaching to cup his cheek. His neck is long, his head tilted back in an attempt to pull away from her. It only makes him look more vulnerable.
“Open your eyes, Jon Snow.” She will not call him husband. Nor King. No, here in her chamber, she will call him by his true name. His bastard name. He will not forget who he is.
He does so, looking at her through black lashes, and it sends another wave of heat through her belly. She presses herself to him, sex to sex, breast to breast. Her body, Cersei knows, is still beautiful. Her breasts are full and high, her belly flat, her legs long and shapely. No man has ever been able to resist her advances, and this youth, no matter his reluctance, will be no different.
Sure enough, as she starts to rock herself gently against him, his cock stirs.
He gasps, bringing his hands up to her shoulders to push her away.
“I can’t –” he begins hoarsely. She cuts him off by placing a palm over his mouth.
“You will. We two will unite the kingdoms with our joining. Surely for peace, your honour will let you fuck your own wife?” She punctuates the obscenity with a tilt of her hips. He’s at her entrance now. He must feel how wet she is, how warm.
But when they lock eyes, she sees only disdain.
It stings. Who is this boy that he dares to look down upon her?
“Your sister will die. The north will fall,” she hisses.
At that, his breath hitches. Above her hand, the dark eyes grow huge.
“Do not mistake me. I do not make idle threats. Now get your hands off me, bastard. Keep them high above your head. Do not touch me unless I ask it.”
She snarls the order, fury still firing her blood. He has a Stark's pride, if not the name. It only means he will fall harder. And he will fall.
"Do it. Or should I send Ser Gregor to Riverrun to toy with your sister?" With her free hand, she winds her fingers in his dark curls, yanking tight.
His throat works, and for a moment, his nails dig into her shoulders.
Then he obeys. And oh, he’s so beautiful as he submits, reluctance pulling at every muscle, eyes screaming his shame. It's as if the north itself is surrendering for her. And it is, she thinks. He is the north: a wolf's blood in his veins and winter in his core, a swordsman to match her brother when he had two hands. A leader loved by his people.
Where he goes, they will follow. With Jon Snow at her feet, the north is hers.
She keeps her hand on his mouth as she rides him, his muffled moans heightening her pleasure. He moves in her, unwillingly at first, then with increasing urgency, arching up to meet her as she rhythmically lifts and descends, driving him deep within. When she crests, she clamps down hard around him, free to give voice to her ecstasy while he cannot.
After her breath returns, impatience pricks at her senses. She picks up the pace and tightens her grip in his hair, catching his pained groan between her fingers. Another groan follows soon after, more anguished than the first.
He spends.
She keeps hold of him there for a while to ensure the seed stays inside her. Once satisfied, she lifts away from him, allowing a small amount to leak from her onto the bed. Coolly, she gathers her robe about her. From the corner of her eye, she can see him, panting between bruised lips, his arms down at his sides now, fists clenched.
"Clean yourself up, bastard. They are waiting to enter and inspect the sheets."
He sits up to face her. In the flickering candlelight, his gaze glitters with anger.
She stands, laughing.
"Oh, Jon Snow. So like your father and brother. You know how they met their ends - at Lannister hands. And yet you think to challenge me?"
She pours herself a cup of wine, pausing before she sips."The lion eats the wolf, boy. It always has."
"What about a dragon?" is the low response.
"What?" She turns sharply to him, unable to cover her surprise. He hasn't moved. He's still naked, the sheets tangled around his hips. However, there's something different about him - a new heat, a quiet sureness. In the dimness of the room, he seems to glow.
"House Targaryen comes to claim the throne," he intones. It's almost as if someone else is speaking; his eyes are black and deep. "Your reign is nearly at an end, Cersei Lannister. You may have me, but my pack will survive."
The words freeze her blood. She swallows her wine, not allowing her fright to show. He thinks to scare me with false witchcraft. A witch has cursed her once before, and the prophecy led House Lannister to near ruin. This bastard has no such power. She will not let him rattle her so.
Still he affixes her with that unsettling stare. Trembling, she sets the cup down and smoothes her robe.
"You'll regret those words," she tells him evenly. "Or at least your sister will. Now, get up. I shall fetch the small council to the chamber."
She makes haste to the door, acutely aware of his eyes boring into her back.
"Lannister," he calls. The insolence that would normally spark her wrath only sends a shiver down her spine. "Danaerys comes. As does your brother. They come for me."
Her heart lurches. She turns back to him, jaw tight with fear. He looks at her through a tumble of black curls, a grim smile upon his lips.
"Because the dragon has three heads."
Cersei flees.
***
fin