Chapter Text
By all accounts it was supposed to be a difficult day, even though it was sunny, there was a light wind, and the little birds on the trees were singing as if from some Sansa's fairy tale. But it was supposed to be difficult because Ned Stark had to tell his best friend, his friend on his deathbed, that all his children were bastards. He was spinning all the variants of the speech in his head as he headed for his study.
Littlefinger intercepted him on the stairs. He couldn't stand the man, Cat assured him that he could be trusted. Dressed in a bluish suit, with a red scarf, which vaguely resembled the colors of his beloved wife's house; he clenched his fists as he expected the crooked, fake smile on Petyr Baelish's face. But he was absent. On the contrary, Petyr took him by the elbow and quietly instructed them to go to his Inn of the Three Maidens. "I must tell you something in confidence, my lord," he said. They walked in silence. Ned was still replaying his speech to Robert in his head. Robert was very bad, but when he got angry, he would get supernatural strength, so it wouldn't be surprising if he decided to kill his wife and children. Cersei… Beautiful without a soul.
They sat down in a corner of the stuffy inn, and Littlefinger ordered a bottle of Dornish red for both of them, from the year of Robert's rebellion. He also remembered that, in the inns, Ned always sat in the corners, so he chose an appropriate seat. The fear that someone would attack him from behind still haunted Ned, of course, because he did it himself.
"Lord Baelish, I really don't have time," he crossed his arms over his chest. And he didn't have time, though Baelish was bad company. Even if Baelish was the most interesting man in Westeros, which he wasn't, Ned didn't like hanging out in inns, it never entertained him like, say, Brandon or Robert. So he quickly drank his chalice as they were served by a girl who could have been younger than Arya.
"My lord," Pyter placed a letter in front of him, on the table covered with a stained red tablecloth. Remembering that moment, it must have been clear to him that he wasn't getting good news, he should have gone out, and not acted like an animal to tear off the wax seal of House Stark and read the letter:
Dear Father,
It is with deep regret that I am informing you that Bran and Rickon succumbed to the fever, as did seven more children from Winterfell, unfortunately the youngest, just as Maester Luwin had expected. I engaged a stonemason, as you thought me. I also did everything to make life easier for our people, and they were invited to our table. I am sorry. I am obliged to inform you that during the last night Bran was raving about the name "Euron", which I do not know. I asked Mother, but she doesn't talk to anyone.
Robb Stark
For a moment, Ned stopped breathing. The information shocked him. Was it really true? The second letter, which he quickly opened, thinking even that Robb may have played a prank on him, came from Catelyn: he recognized it by the handwriting even though his eyes were watering and his throat was so tight he could hardly swallow.
"I believe you have more important work to do in King's Landing, but I am telling you that our sons Bran and Rickon died.
Catelyn Tully"
Out of rage that took over him, he tore up Catelyn's letter, which Littlefinger noticed as well: "Please accept my condolences, my lord. Please, Catelyn is suffering too, she misses you. Please accept my condolences, again."
"Did she tell you too?" he asked looking at Littlefinger.
"We've been friends since childhood," Petyr Baelish said and reached for the chalice, hiding a fake smile. However, Ned saw right through his mendacity. "Here, she also sent me a letter, that's why I knew I had to inform you somewhere... somewhere where it's so noisy that nothing can be heard."
He took the letter out of the inside pocket of his suit.
He suddenly grabbed it, almost tearing the thin paper, and unfolded it:
"My dear friend Petyr,
My sons Bran and Rickon died of some northern fever. If only I had transferred them to Riverrun. I am convinced that the warmer air, the river and gentle wind would do them good. Even Master Luwin mentioned it, but I couldn't decide, I was afraid they wouldn't be able to take the trip. I didn't realize how serious it was. I didn't listen carefully to the maester's words.
Petyr, the gods are punishing me. I know why, but I think the punishment is too heavy, I am filled with anger against Them: Jon Snow lives, and my sons are dead, and I will have to watch it for the rest of my life. If only he had died.
What did I do to deserve that fate? Why is my husband not an ordinary man, like everyone else? Like his best friend King Robert? Does King Robert care about his bastards. Did he put them under Queen Cersei's nose? No. He valued her enough that he didn't do it, and I'm embarrassed in front of the entire Realm..."
He didn't even read further, there three more paragraphs, he just took the letter, crumpled it up and threw it into the fire, into the hearth that was right next to them, to his right.
She wrote more to this rotten pervert than to him as a husband. She accused him of not being there, that Robert was more important to him... And Jon again! Did Jon have to be a part of it all? Did their entire family boil down to Jon? Were all their marital problems still down to Jon? How could he not see how evil she was? How blinded is she by hate? Wasn't she able to see from the example of her own sister what it means to lose children and how happy they were. She herself lost brothers, stillbirths, just like him. But no, she was the only one who was always good, always a victim, always the one who sacrifices herself.
Should he have trusted her with the truth about Jon? How would she handle it?
She wanted an ordinary husband, one who cheats because he can't help himself, because he can't control his urges, who leaves his own blood at the mercy of the Gods.
He got up from the table: "I'm going," said Littlefinger and put a few coins on the table. Littlefinger immediately responded: "It's out of the question. This is on me."
"I don't care. Give them to your whores," he retorted.
For so long, he did his best to please her, to apologize, only for her to answer him arrogantly and cynically, crying with Littlefinger on her shoulder. Maybe it was really true that he was her great love. Did it matter?
He rubbed his eyes, wiping away the tears. The tears that came to him because of Bran and Rickon. Just for them. Although he should have been prepared, young children often died, especially in the North.
He was surprised when he entered Cersei's chambers and found her praying at the altar. Two burning candles. And he knew that it was a prayer to the Mother.
She was surprised to see him, immediately standing up, "Lord Stark?" Her voice was shaky, but as always proud. He approached her and caught the ribbons that held the corset of the blood-colored dress from the hem. She had large breasts, soft, he felt under his fingers, while she grabbed his hands, first looking at what he was looking at, then looking up to his eyes.
"Do we have a deal then?" she spread her lips in a sincere smile.
"Oh, just, shut up!" he didn't want to listen to her when he embraced her, kissed her. She had such soft lips, big, loving, and warm, just like her breasts were bubbling over his shirt. She helped him take off his shirt and then paused to unfasten her corset. He was watching her sitting on her bed. Goddess. How stupid Robert was. How could he not see the ruby in front of him.
"Come," he called her and she obediently started, managing to untangle one part of the corset. "Let me help you," he sat down on his lap. She was actually that small. Except that she had a big bum, and, large, heavy breasts, which he pushed out of something else that resembled another corset. She grabbed his hair, pointing to his neck. She started fidgeting, twitching, when he started kissing her neck.
"My puss is dripping wet, Ned", she purred like a cat, and whispered to him: "You can slide right in, spread me, or fuck me in any hole you want..."
He could hardly wait to free her from all the shackles he had thrown on the floor. He turned her around and without waiting began to kiss her from the face, over the chest. Then she grabbed his head and readily lowered it towards her wet pussy. Not a hair on her puss. It smelled of arousal. He never inhaled something that intoxicating. He started sucking her as if his life depended on it. And he was already too hard.
"No..." she tried to stop him, when he leaned on her, holding onto her upper arms so that he wouldn't be too heavy for her. She laughed when she felt his cock against her pussy.
"Do you want me?" he asked. Gods, she was beautiful. Green eyes that were almost closed with pleasure. She nodded her head and hugged him with her strong thighs. He didn't have to be told twice.