Fic: Golden Child, for violaswamp
Recipient: violaswamp
Title: Golden Child
Author: coaldustcanary
Rating: Teen (Adult Themes)
Characters: Cersei, Myrcella, minor OCs
Word Count: 2172
Summary: Cersei comes to terms with the birth of her daughter, and reassesses her goals.
Warnings: None
Author's Note: based off of the prompt for Cersei, "raising Myrcella". A story in two parts, in two styles, in two times, as Cersei lays a lioness's protective claim on her girl-child in addition to the eldest we see her dote on repeatedly.
For all of its pain, and blood, and grunting, sweaty exertion, Joffrey’s birth had been like unto a sacrament. Cersei gave little more than the most cursory of lip service to the Faith, and had no need for belief in a higher power - not when all that she could desire was laid out before her along a future that glowed with promise. But when they laid the wailing, wrinkled boy child in her arms, even as her muscles still trembled with fatigue and her womb had only just finished ridding itself of the gory wrappings that had attended the Prince of Westeros while he grew within her, Cersei exulted, and longed to cry out along with the infant’s screams; a victory yell, a battle cry. Her blood ran in his veins - so close to the surface of delicate, papery skin - and twice over at that, because sweet Jaime’s blood was her blood, too. Robert could fuck his whores as he pleased, and plant the seeds of bastards in baseborn bellies in every hamlet from King’s Landing to the very Wall itself, but this tiny thing in her arms would rule Westeros when he rotted.
Joyously celebrating the birth and official naming of his heir, Robert passed out dead drunk at his table a fortnight later. Grim and fastidiously polite as always, the Hand of the King complimented the Queen on her look of health and freshness so soon after her son’s birth, and his sober wish for further heris in due time to strengthen Robert’s line. Cersei’s emerald eyes shone as she imagined strangling Robert with his own wine-soaked napkin and thanked old Jon Arryn demurely for his thoughtful comment. More heirs, indeed, old man, she thought. Even her impatience for power was tempered by the promise of settling the cuckold’s horns firmly onto Robert’s head again and again. Across the table, smirking into his wine glass, Jaime could manage to be resplendent even in unadorned white. And while Joffrey - a fine name, a regal name, and Robert would only raise his suggestion to name the boy after that cold northern stick of a Stark again over her dead body, whatever fetish the Stark had for naming his own sons after the fools he followed - would rule Westeros, he would need siblings to rely upon and trust without question in his rule. Just as she had Jaime, Joffrey needed strong brothers whom he could love, one to serve as his Hand, others in his Kingsguard, all to guard him against treachery.
What had happened so easily the first time became a challenge the second. Sweet, devoted Jaime also had his duties, and as jealous of his time as she was, he still could not be with her always. Robert managed to spill his seed inside her instead of a whore, for once, and the damned thing took root, forcing her to writhe and bleed and expel flesh from her womb once again. Different this time, but still with a sense of exultation, she helped the bitter herb do its work, washing it down with a glass of sweet wine later as her women took the messy, jumbled remains of Robert’s offspring away. Victory never tasted sweeter. Golden Joff was running and laughing, already the image of his forebears, by the time she was pregnant again, this time assuredly by her twin. Robert, once or twice, was even tender, stroking her hair drunkenly before stumbling away from her, assuring her with slurred sweetness that he would not risk this child by bedding her now, and that she should take care. Jaime took very good care of her, that night, while Robert fornicated with the newest exotic whore the city’s brothels had to offer. And yet, she was careful. This child would be Joffrey’s own devoted knight, as Jaime was to her. Years rather than minutes would separate them, but it would be no different.
When the midwife cried out, over the newborn’s complaint, that the child was a girl, the words failed to penetrate Cersei’s hazy consciousness for a long moment. That her son’s supporter and ally would be a girl-child was unthinkable. Even as the swaddled infant was settled in her arms, making tiny, mewling noises, Cersei felt only a grim disappointment. Her blood, to be sure, ran through those tiny veins, but in the form entirely unsuited to her eldest son’s best interests. Robert’s booming laugh and merry promises to wed Myrcella well and to a handsome lord near her own age at the feast in her honor a fortnight after her birth did little to mollify Cersei’s temper. (To be sure, his suggestion to name his own daughter a name he cried as he came, after that impudent Stark whore who had seduced and run off with the Dragon Prince still had her seething.) When Jon Arryn cautioned his King against such promises, reminding him delicately of the need to sometimes buy peace or alliance through marriage in his ever-prudent and distressingly dry manner, Cersei stood from the table and retired for the evening, eyes glittering with malice from which even her twin averted his eyes. Her golden son would never need to buy alliances with his sister’s maidenhead. But if there was one thing Cersei knew well, it was that a woman could do much with her beauty and her wits, and the daughter of her blood was sure to have her generous share of both. Myrcella would be able to find her way in this world and, like her mother, make the most of every opportunity.
*****
“Lady Mother, may I show you what I finished today?” Myrcella’s sweet, high voice drew Cersei’s attention from her ladies, who were briskly but ever-so-carefully packing the queen’s wardrobe for the procession to the North. Her features set into a mask of chill impassivity at overseeing the task, she forced a modicum of warmth into the curve of her lips as she looked down at her daughter, standing just before the matronly septa who tutored the girl in her needlework.
“Of course, my darling,” Cersei said, settling herself atop a packed trunk, even as a maid hastened to slip a cushion below her as she sat, and another offered a chilled cup of wine to the queen’s grateful open hand. Myrcella stood with her eyes down, a touch of color in her cheeks from excitement and her hands clasped behind her back, before looking up and bringing forth her work with a child’s full sense of gravity. With every bit of the self-control Cersei possessed, she forced her smile to widen at the sight of the careful, albeit slightly clumsy effort - the crowned Baratheon stag in fine gold and black thread, stretched across the frame. Sipping her wine, she then set it down and exclaimed over the work, reaching out to take it in her hands, repressing the urge - as she had for well over a dozen years, now - to destroy the image in some way, cracking the delicate frame in her hands and ripping the fabric into strips.
“It is very fine work, Myrcella. I am sure no other young lady can match you.” As the tiny, heart-shaped face glowed with a pleased smile, Cersei stroked the edge of the frame with her fingertips, itching to pull at the delicate threads with her fingernails. “A queen must always be confident of her skill, but allow another to say it, my dear,” she said smoothly as she held out the needlework to her daughter, whose brow furrowed slightly with perplexity.
“What do you mean, mother?” Her arms closed around the framed, stretched fabric, hugging it to her chest, pressing the stag into the fine red fabric of her dress.
“Only that men and boys may boast of their ability to beat another at war, or drink a great casket of wine, or master a who…a horse, but a lady must never be so uncouth. Instead, she must make anyone who might think they are better doubt themselves deeply, and convince them that she is more skilled, more beautiful, or more clever.” She reached out and stroked a curling tendril of golden hair from Myrcella’s cheek. “Tell me true, now, dearest - of your friends, are any as good as you with embroidery?” she coaxed, sipping again from her wine cup.
“I…” Myrcella hesitated, but then straightened, lifting her chin to answer with a child’s confidence. “Alys is very good,” she admitted. “And Thelora has such even stitches, but she is older, too.” She chewed at her lower lip as she considered the gravity of her mother’s questions. Cersei reached out and tapped the bow of her lip with an admonishing finger.
“Thelora is older…what girl of her age would still measure herself against young ladies such as yourself, hmm? Do you know what I think, Myrcella?” Cersei said smoothly, shifting atop her chest, flicking her fingers dismissively as her ladies sought silent approval to pack a gown of deepest sapphire blue. As her daughter’s brow remained furrowed and she shook her head, her waves of hair rippling in the late morning light, Cersei drained the last of her wine from her cup, smiling at the sweetness on her tongue, and the rich taste of another small victory.
“You should tell Alys how sad you are that Thelora lords her skill over ladies who are years her junior, and how such pride is unbecoming a true lady of breeding,” she continued smoothly, delicately lacing her fingers together in her lap and effecting a look of sober reflection in her emerald eyes, nodding sympathetically at her daughter. Myrcella listened to this suggestion and inclined her head in acquiescence, though remaining apparently unsure. Finally, she softly questioned, pitching her voice only for her mother’s ears, ignoring the bustling ladies-in-waiting and maids, as well as the fretfully waiting septa behind her.
“But, Mother…what if Thelora does not boast? Her stitches are good, but she only smiles when the septa approves of her work.” The girl tossed her hair, frustrated at not being able to please her mother by simply doing as she asked in this thing, but as literal as a master in her child’s innocence. Cersei let out a soft snort of disbelief. No girl on the edge of womanhood would fail to make whatever hay she could of anything she could hold over or against her peers, she was certain. Thelora would need to learn her place, and the judgment to never outstrip her betters, an example to set for the rest, including little Alys.
“Septa Wallan, I think it would be most educational for the princess and her companions to hear a tale of the dangers of false pride. The Faith certainly has many tales of a fitting nature, to remind them to be humble before the powers above, does it not?” Cersei’s voice was smooth as she raised her eyes to the timid, motherly woman standing back a few paces behind her daughter. The septa bowed her head, curling her hands together at her waist.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, of course. I will make sure the girls hear of the follies of sin during their lessons,” the woman piped up in a thin, reedy voice at odds with her thick, shapeless figure. “It would be most appropriate, for them to be warned against sin as they create such beauty,” she babbled on.
“Thelora will learn, my darling. And Alys will admire a princess’ sweet, quiet pride, and think the better of you for it.” Cersei leaned in and kissed her daughter’s cheek as the girl smiled, content with her mother’s suggestion, already enjoying the thought of Alys’s admiration. “What will you make next, for them to admire?” Myrcella brightened at the question, still clutching the Baratheon sigil to her chest.
“I thought, since we are visiting Lord Stark and his family, I would stitch a great direwolf. Septa Wallan has helped me find lovely silver-gray thread, and I think Father would…”
“No, no, no, absolutely not,” Cersei interrupted, cutting off the child’s excited ramble mid-sentence. “Wolves, my dear, are not appropriate for a delicate, lovely young lady. Flowers, darling. Make a pattern of flowers. In the cold north, they hardly know such beauty, and then when we visit, Lord and Lady Stark’s children can admire your work as well,” Cersei said firmly, carefully nipping that idea in the bud. As Myrcella smiled at her mother’s reassurance of her own capabilities and trailed off after the septa’s swishing robes, the queen congratulated herself on cutting down that idea before it had been planned out in a child’s careful stitchery. Knowing Robert, he would have made his daughter’s fine work some excuse to promise her to his northern namesake, Ned Stark’s heir, and nephew to the mad widow woman holed up in her eyrie. But her golden daughter would have more than distant, cold and backwards lands and husband for her own. Joffrey was her golden boy, the future King in place of the gross degenerate to whom she was shackled, but Myrcella shined as bright in Lannister gold. So, too, was her bright promise to her daughter - the power the queen had fought for, tooth and nail, given to her on a golden platter.
Title: Golden Child
Author: coaldustcanary
Rating: Teen (Adult Themes)
Characters: Cersei, Myrcella, minor OCs
Word Count: 2172
Summary: Cersei comes to terms with the birth of her daughter, and reassesses her goals.
Warnings: None
Author's Note: based off of the prompt for Cersei, "raising Myrcella". A story in two parts, in two styles, in two times, as Cersei lays a lioness's protective claim on her girl-child in addition to the eldest we see her dote on repeatedly.
For all of its pain, and blood, and grunting, sweaty exertion, Joffrey’s birth had been like unto a sacrament. Cersei gave little more than the most cursory of lip service to the Faith, and had no need for belief in a higher power - not when all that she could desire was laid out before her along a future that glowed with promise. But when they laid the wailing, wrinkled boy child in her arms, even as her muscles still trembled with fatigue and her womb had only just finished ridding itself of the gory wrappings that had attended the Prince of Westeros while he grew within her, Cersei exulted, and longed to cry out along with the infant’s screams; a victory yell, a battle cry. Her blood ran in his veins - so close to the surface of delicate, papery skin - and twice over at that, because sweet Jaime’s blood was her blood, too. Robert could fuck his whores as he pleased, and plant the seeds of bastards in baseborn bellies in every hamlet from King’s Landing to the very Wall itself, but this tiny thing in her arms would rule Westeros when he rotted.
Joyously celebrating the birth and official naming of his heir, Robert passed out dead drunk at his table a fortnight later. Grim and fastidiously polite as always, the Hand of the King complimented the Queen on her look of health and freshness so soon after her son’s birth, and his sober wish for further heris in due time to strengthen Robert’s line. Cersei’s emerald eyes shone as she imagined strangling Robert with his own wine-soaked napkin and thanked old Jon Arryn demurely for his thoughtful comment. More heirs, indeed, old man, she thought. Even her impatience for power was tempered by the promise of settling the cuckold’s horns firmly onto Robert’s head again and again. Across the table, smirking into his wine glass, Jaime could manage to be resplendent even in unadorned white. And while Joffrey - a fine name, a regal name, and Robert would only raise his suggestion to name the boy after that cold northern stick of a Stark again over her dead body, whatever fetish the Stark had for naming his own sons after the fools he followed - would rule Westeros, he would need siblings to rely upon and trust without question in his rule. Just as she had Jaime, Joffrey needed strong brothers whom he could love, one to serve as his Hand, others in his Kingsguard, all to guard him against treachery.
What had happened so easily the first time became a challenge the second. Sweet, devoted Jaime also had his duties, and as jealous of his time as she was, he still could not be with her always. Robert managed to spill his seed inside her instead of a whore, for once, and the damned thing took root, forcing her to writhe and bleed and expel flesh from her womb once again. Different this time, but still with a sense of exultation, she helped the bitter herb do its work, washing it down with a glass of sweet wine later as her women took the messy, jumbled remains of Robert’s offspring away. Victory never tasted sweeter. Golden Joff was running and laughing, already the image of his forebears, by the time she was pregnant again, this time assuredly by her twin. Robert, once or twice, was even tender, stroking her hair drunkenly before stumbling away from her, assuring her with slurred sweetness that he would not risk this child by bedding her now, and that she should take care. Jaime took very good care of her, that night, while Robert fornicated with the newest exotic whore the city’s brothels had to offer. And yet, she was careful. This child would be Joffrey’s own devoted knight, as Jaime was to her. Years rather than minutes would separate them, but it would be no different.
When the midwife cried out, over the newborn’s complaint, that the child was a girl, the words failed to penetrate Cersei’s hazy consciousness for a long moment. That her son’s supporter and ally would be a girl-child was unthinkable. Even as the swaddled infant was settled in her arms, making tiny, mewling noises, Cersei felt only a grim disappointment. Her blood, to be sure, ran through those tiny veins, but in the form entirely unsuited to her eldest son’s best interests. Robert’s booming laugh and merry promises to wed Myrcella well and to a handsome lord near her own age at the feast in her honor a fortnight after her birth did little to mollify Cersei’s temper. (To be sure, his suggestion to name his own daughter a name he cried as he came, after that impudent Stark whore who had seduced and run off with the Dragon Prince still had her seething.) When Jon Arryn cautioned his King against such promises, reminding him delicately of the need to sometimes buy peace or alliance through marriage in his ever-prudent and distressingly dry manner, Cersei stood from the table and retired for the evening, eyes glittering with malice from which even her twin averted his eyes. Her golden son would never need to buy alliances with his sister’s maidenhead. But if there was one thing Cersei knew well, it was that a woman could do much with her beauty and her wits, and the daughter of her blood was sure to have her generous share of both. Myrcella would be able to find her way in this world and, like her mother, make the most of every opportunity.
*****
“Lady Mother, may I show you what I finished today?” Myrcella’s sweet, high voice drew Cersei’s attention from her ladies, who were briskly but ever-so-carefully packing the queen’s wardrobe for the procession to the North. Her features set into a mask of chill impassivity at overseeing the task, she forced a modicum of warmth into the curve of her lips as she looked down at her daughter, standing just before the matronly septa who tutored the girl in her needlework.
“Of course, my darling,” Cersei said, settling herself atop a packed trunk, even as a maid hastened to slip a cushion below her as she sat, and another offered a chilled cup of wine to the queen’s grateful open hand. Myrcella stood with her eyes down, a touch of color in her cheeks from excitement and her hands clasped behind her back, before looking up and bringing forth her work with a child’s full sense of gravity. With every bit of the self-control Cersei possessed, she forced her smile to widen at the sight of the careful, albeit slightly clumsy effort - the crowned Baratheon stag in fine gold and black thread, stretched across the frame. Sipping her wine, she then set it down and exclaimed over the work, reaching out to take it in her hands, repressing the urge - as she had for well over a dozen years, now - to destroy the image in some way, cracking the delicate frame in her hands and ripping the fabric into strips.
“It is very fine work, Myrcella. I am sure no other young lady can match you.” As the tiny, heart-shaped face glowed with a pleased smile, Cersei stroked the edge of the frame with her fingertips, itching to pull at the delicate threads with her fingernails. “A queen must always be confident of her skill, but allow another to say it, my dear,” she said smoothly as she held out the needlework to her daughter, whose brow furrowed slightly with perplexity.
“What do you mean, mother?” Her arms closed around the framed, stretched fabric, hugging it to her chest, pressing the stag into the fine red fabric of her dress.
“Only that men and boys may boast of their ability to beat another at war, or drink a great casket of wine, or master a who…a horse, but a lady must never be so uncouth. Instead, she must make anyone who might think they are better doubt themselves deeply, and convince them that she is more skilled, more beautiful, or more clever.” She reached out and stroked a curling tendril of golden hair from Myrcella’s cheek. “Tell me true, now, dearest - of your friends, are any as good as you with embroidery?” she coaxed, sipping again from her wine cup.
“I…” Myrcella hesitated, but then straightened, lifting her chin to answer with a child’s confidence. “Alys is very good,” she admitted. “And Thelora has such even stitches, but she is older, too.” She chewed at her lower lip as she considered the gravity of her mother’s questions. Cersei reached out and tapped the bow of her lip with an admonishing finger.
“Thelora is older…what girl of her age would still measure herself against young ladies such as yourself, hmm? Do you know what I think, Myrcella?” Cersei said smoothly, shifting atop her chest, flicking her fingers dismissively as her ladies sought silent approval to pack a gown of deepest sapphire blue. As her daughter’s brow remained furrowed and she shook her head, her waves of hair rippling in the late morning light, Cersei drained the last of her wine from her cup, smiling at the sweetness on her tongue, and the rich taste of another small victory.
“You should tell Alys how sad you are that Thelora lords her skill over ladies who are years her junior, and how such pride is unbecoming a true lady of breeding,” she continued smoothly, delicately lacing her fingers together in her lap and effecting a look of sober reflection in her emerald eyes, nodding sympathetically at her daughter. Myrcella listened to this suggestion and inclined her head in acquiescence, though remaining apparently unsure. Finally, she softly questioned, pitching her voice only for her mother’s ears, ignoring the bustling ladies-in-waiting and maids, as well as the fretfully waiting septa behind her.
“But, Mother…what if Thelora does not boast? Her stitches are good, but she only smiles when the septa approves of her work.” The girl tossed her hair, frustrated at not being able to please her mother by simply doing as she asked in this thing, but as literal as a master in her child’s innocence. Cersei let out a soft snort of disbelief. No girl on the edge of womanhood would fail to make whatever hay she could of anything she could hold over or against her peers, she was certain. Thelora would need to learn her place, and the judgment to never outstrip her betters, an example to set for the rest, including little Alys.
“Septa Wallan, I think it would be most educational for the princess and her companions to hear a tale of the dangers of false pride. The Faith certainly has many tales of a fitting nature, to remind them to be humble before the powers above, does it not?” Cersei’s voice was smooth as she raised her eyes to the timid, motherly woman standing back a few paces behind her daughter. The septa bowed her head, curling her hands together at her waist.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, of course. I will make sure the girls hear of the follies of sin during their lessons,” the woman piped up in a thin, reedy voice at odds with her thick, shapeless figure. “It would be most appropriate, for them to be warned against sin as they create such beauty,” she babbled on.
“Thelora will learn, my darling. And Alys will admire a princess’ sweet, quiet pride, and think the better of you for it.” Cersei leaned in and kissed her daughter’s cheek as the girl smiled, content with her mother’s suggestion, already enjoying the thought of Alys’s admiration. “What will you make next, for them to admire?” Myrcella brightened at the question, still clutching the Baratheon sigil to her chest.
“I thought, since we are visiting Lord Stark and his family, I would stitch a great direwolf. Septa Wallan has helped me find lovely silver-gray thread, and I think Father would…”
“No, no, no, absolutely not,” Cersei interrupted, cutting off the child’s excited ramble mid-sentence. “Wolves, my dear, are not appropriate for a delicate, lovely young lady. Flowers, darling. Make a pattern of flowers. In the cold north, they hardly know such beauty, and then when we visit, Lord and Lady Stark’s children can admire your work as well,” Cersei said firmly, carefully nipping that idea in the bud. As Myrcella smiled at her mother’s reassurance of her own capabilities and trailed off after the septa’s swishing robes, the queen congratulated herself on cutting down that idea before it had been planned out in a child’s careful stitchery. Knowing Robert, he would have made his daughter’s fine work some excuse to promise her to his northern namesake, Ned Stark’s heir, and nephew to the mad widow woman holed up in her eyrie. But her golden daughter would have more than distant, cold and backwards lands and husband for her own. Joffrey was her golden boy, the future King in place of the gross degenerate to whom she was shackled, but Myrcella shined as bright in Lannister gold. So, too, was her bright promise to her daughter - the power the queen had fought for, tooth and nail, given to her on a golden platter.