Teaser of The Son Will Do Just Fine Chapter 3 - One Shot (Patreon)

Jon Snow/Cersei Lannister One Shot - The Son Will Do Just Fine Chapter 3 

The Full Version of All One Shots written so far are available for Sergeant Tier or Higher.

Cersei lounged languidly against her silk pillows, taking a slow sip of Dornish red as she admired Jon's muscled form in the early morning light. His body was a masterpiece - lean and powerful, bearing the scars of training that only enhanced his raw appeal. The knowledge that dragon's blood ran through those veins made him even more intoxicating.

"Must you dress so soon?" she purred, trailing her fingers along the rim of her wine glass. "The sun's barely risen."

Jon paused in pulling on his breeches, giving her an appreciative glance. "You know I must, Your Grace. The castle will be waking soon."

"Mmm, pity." She stretched like a cat, making no attempt to cover her naked body. The sheet draped artfully across her hips, leaving her breasts bare. She smirked as his eyes darkened with renewed desire.

"Your Grace," Jon said, forcing himself to focus as he pulled on his shirt. "How can you be so certain Lord Stark will allow me to join the royal party? He's protective, and I'm just his..."

"His bastard?" Cersei set down her wine and rose from the bed in all her golden glory. She approached him with that predatory grace that made him swallow hard. "Oh, sweet Jon. If only you knew..."

She pressed against him, running her fingers through his dark curls. The same curls that marked him as more than just Ned Stark's shame, though he didn't know it. Not yet.

"Your father will agree because I know exactly what strings to pull," she murmured against his lips. "Trust your queen in this."

Jon's hands instinctively went to her waist. "And what strings would those be?"

Cersei laughed softly. "A queen must keep some secrets." She kissed him then, slow and deep, tasting of wine and promises. "But I have ways of being... persuasive."

"I've noticed," Jon said dryly, making her chuckle.

"Cheeky boy." She nipped his lower lip. "But you'll see. When we ride south, you'll be by my side. Well..." Her smile turned wicked. "Perhaps not always by my side. That might raise... questions."

Jon's grip tightened on her waist. "And what of your husband, Your Grace? The king..."

"Robert?" Cersei's laugh was sharp and cold. "That drunken fool notices nothing beyond his wine cup and whatever whore's warming his bed that night." Her eyes gleamed as she traced Jon's jaw. "Besides, you're so much prettier than him."

"I should go," Jon said reluctantly, though he made no move to release her.

"Yes, you should." Cersei pressed one last lingering kiss to his lips. "But first..." She walked to her dressing table and retrieved a small key on a golden chain. "Take this."

Jon accepted it cautiously. "What's it for?"

"My private chambers in the Red Keep," she said with a knowing smile. "For when we reach King's Landing. I can't have my favorite bastard getting lost in those dark corridors, can I?"

Jon's eyes widened slightly as he tucked the key away. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"I always do." She ran her hands down his chest. "Now go, before someone notices you're missing. And Jon?" She caught his arm as he turned to leave. "Remember - not a word to anyone. Not even your little sister."

"Of course, Your Grace." He bowed slightly, ever proper even after what they'd shared. "I know how to keep secrets."

Cersei watched him slip out through the hidden door, admiring the view one last time. "Yes," she murmured to herself, picking up her wine again. "But not all of them, my beautiful dragon's son. Not yet."

She settled back on her bed, mind already working through the details of her plan. Getting Jon to King's Landing would be simple enough - a few careful words to Ned Stark about opportunities for advancement, perhaps a suggestion that the boy might find his place in the Kingsguard someday, and perhaps a word about Jon's true heritage. The honorable fool would never suspect her true motives.

And once she had Jon in the capital... well, the possibilities were endless. The thought of him in her bed in the Red Keep, those dark eyes burning with passion as he took her again and again...

A knock at her door interrupted her pleasant musings. "Your Grace? The king requests your presence for breakfast."

Cersei's lip curled in distaste. "Tell him I'll be there shortly." She rose gracefully, reaching for her robe. Time to play the dutiful wife again, at least for now.

But as her handmaidens helped her dress, her thoughts kept drifting to Jon Snow and the delicious games they would play in King's Landing. The wolf might think himself in control sometimes, but she would teach him what it truly meant to serve a lion.

And perhaps, when the time was right, she would tell him about the dragon's blood that made him so much more than a bastard. But for now, she would keep that particular secret close - just another piece in the grand game she was playing.

After all, a queen's most powerful weapon was knowledge. And Cersei Lannister knew how to use every weapon in her arsenal.

Ned's Solar

Cersei swept into Lord Stark's solar with all the grace and confidence of a queen who knew she held the upper hand. The Warden of the North sat behind his desk, his long face even longer with barely concealed displeasure at her presence.

"Lord Stark," she greeted warmly, her smile carrying that characteristic Lannister smugness as she settled into the chair across from him. "Such a pleasure to have a private audience."

"What can I do for you, Your Grace?" Ned asked directly, eschewing pleasantries in typical Northern fashion.

Cersei's smile widened. How refreshing, his bluntness - so different from the simpering lords of the South. "I've been fascinated by the stories of your sister lately. The legendary Lyanna Stark."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Ned's face hardened into an expressionless mask, but Cersei caught the slight tensing of his shoulders.

"Why would you be interested in Lyanna?" he asked, voice carefully controlled.

"Oh, various reasons," Cersei replied airily, examining her perfectly manicured nails. "She must have been quite extraordinary, to capture the attention of both a stag and a dragon."

Ned's knuckles whitened where they gripped his armrest. "That was a long time ago, Your Grace. Those wounds are best left unopened."

"Mmm, perhaps. Though some wounds never truly heal, do they? Especially when we're reminded of them daily." Her emerald eyes fixed on his face. "Those haunting purple eyes, for instance..."

"I don't know what you mean," Ned said stiffly, but a flicker of alarm crossed his features.

Cersei leaned forward slightly. "Come now, Lord Stark. Surely you've noticed how your... bastard's eyes catch the light sometimes? Most remarkable shade - almost... Valyrian, one might say."

"Jon has his mother's eyes," Ned stated flatly.

"Ah yes, the mysterious mother you've never named," Cersei purred. "How convenient. Though I must say, it's fascinating how those eyes match perfectly with the descriptions I've read of Prince Rhaegar's."

Ned's face remained stoic, but she could see the growing tension in his jaw. "If you have a point to make, Your Grace, make it."

"Very well." She sat back, crossing her legs elegantly. "Let's speak plainly then. Your sister disappeared with Rhaegar Targaryen. Months later, you return from war with a baby boy with purple eyes, claiming him as your bastard. Rather unusual timing, wouldn't you say?"

"You're speaking dangerous words," Ned warned quietly.

"Oh, I'm speaking truth, Lord Stark. The same truth you've guarded so carefully all these years." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "The truth about your sister's son."

Finally, understanding dawned in Ned's grey eyes, followed quickly by something approaching fear. "How..."

"How did I know?" Cersei laughed softly. "I have eyes, Lord Stark. And unlike my drunk of a husband, I actually use them. The boy may have Stark coloring, but those eyes...they are beautiful, just like his father's eyes."

Ned stood abruptly, moving to bar the door. When he turned back to her, his face was pale but determined. "If Robert learns of this..."

"Calm yourself, Lord Stark. If I wanted to tell Robert, I would have done so already." She smiled sweetly. "No, I have a different proposition in mind."

"What do you want?" he asked warily.

"I want Jon to accompany us to King's Landing," she stated simply. "The boy has potential, and the capital offers opportunities that Winterfell cannot."

Ned's eyes narrowed. "You expect me to send Lyanna's son - Rhaegar's heir - into the lion's den?"

"I expect you to give your nephew a chance at a better life than freezing at the Wall," Cersei countered. "Which is where I suspect you plan to send him, to keep him safe from Robert's wrath."

She saw the truth of it in his face and pressed her advantage. "Think, Lord Stark. In King's Landing, he would be under my protection. Robert would never suspect - he sees what he expects to see, and he expects to see nothing but your bastard."

"And why would you protect him?" Ned demanded.

Cersei's smile turned mysterious. "Let's just say I have my reasons. And unlike my husband, I bear no ill will toward dragon's blood." She followed his gaze. "Consider it, Lord Stark. Would Lyanna want her son condemned to the Wall, or given a chance to make his own way in the world?"

"It's not that simple," Ned growled, pacing his solar. "Robert may be blind to it, but others aren't. Lord Varys has eyes everywhere—"

"Oh please," Cersei waved dismissively, "that perfumed spider likely knew the truth before you even brought the babe North. He probably giggled himself to sleep knowing Robert's 'beloved Lyanna' left him a little dragon surprise."

Ned's face darkened. "And what of Littlefinger? The man thrives on secrets."

"Petyr Baelish?" Cersei's laugh was cold and sharp. "Let's just say his... usefulness is coming to an end. A shame really, what accidents can happen in such a dangerous city."

"Ser Barristan served Rhaegar closely. He'll recognize—"

"Barristan the Bold?" Cersei interrupted with a knowing smirk. "The man who would have died for his silver prince? Please. That old knight still mourns Rhaegar like a lost lover. He'd sooner fall on his sword than reveal anything that might harm Rhaegar's son."

"And your brother?" Ned pressed. "Ser Jaime spent two years guarding Rhaegar and his family. Those eyes alone—"

"Oh, we can simply tell everyone the boy got those striking purple eyes from dear Ashara Dayne," Cersei purred, watching Ned's reaction carefully. "Such a tragic tale, really. The beautiful lady of Starfall, throwing herself from that tower after you left her with child..."

Ned's glare could have frozen the seven hells. "Do not speak of her."

Cersei's smile widened, savoring his discomfort. "Why not? It's the perfect cover story. Everyone already whispers that she was Jon's mother. Those haunting purple eyes of House Dayne... who would question it?"

"You dishonor her memory," Ned said through gritted teeth.

"I'm protecting your nephew," Cersei countered smoothly. "As for my dear brother... Jaime is many things, but observant isn't one of them. He's far too preoccupied with his own reflection to notice anything about Jon beyond his skill with a sword."

She stood, moving closer to Ned. "Face it, Lord Stark. I've thought of everything. Every potential threat, every loose end. The boy will be safer in King's Landing under my protection than he would be anywhere else."

"Under your protection," Ned repeated skeptically. "And what exactly does that entail?"

"Whatever is necessary," Cersei replied simply. "You've done well keeping him safe these past years, but he's growing up. Those eyes will only become more noticeable, the resemblance more striking. At least in King's Landing, I can control the narrative."

"Like you're controlling it now?" Ned's voice was bitter. "Using this knowledge to manipulate me?"

"Consider it... gentle persuasion." Cersei's smile was anything but gentle. "Come now, Lord Stark. We both know you'll agree in the end. If not to protect Jon, then to protect your precious honor. After all, what would your dear friend Robert do if he learned you've been harboring a dragon all these years?"

Ned's shoulders slumped slightly, and Cersei knew she had won. "If any harm comes to him..."

"You'll what? Declare war on the crown?" She laughed softly. "Save your threats, Lord Stark. I have my own reasons for wanting Jon safe and close. Trust in that, if nothing else."

"I don't trust you at all," Ned stated bluntly.

"Wise man," Cersei approved. "But in this case, our interests align. You want Jon protected, I want him in King's Landing. Everyone wins."

"Except Jon," Ned muttered.

"Oh, I think you'll find Jon will be quite... satisfied with the arrangement," Cersei said with a secretive smile. "Now, shall we discuss the details of his journey south? I'm thinking we should have him ride with the royal party, don't you?"

As she laid out her plans, Cersei could barely contain her triumph. Soon, she would have her dragon prince all to herself in King's Landing. And if Ned Stark thought she would be content merely "protecting" Jon, well... he was about to learn just how thoroughly a lion could corrupt a dragon.

After ten minutes of talking, it finally ended, and Cersei could tell Lord Stark was happy that this meeting was ending. Good to know our feelings are mutual, Cersei thought because talking to Lord Stark was like talking to a grave. At least his bastard had inherited none of that dreary demeanor, she mused with a secret smile.

"If that will be all, Your Grace," Ned said stiffly.

"Yes, Lord Stark, I will leave you alone. You may tend to your... honor," she replied with a dismissive wave, enjoying how his jaw tightened at her subtle mockery. The man was so painfully predictable—all stern faces and rigid principles—that it was almost too easy to needle him.

She rose from her seat and left the room without saying another word; Cersei sipped her wine, remembering how his bastard son had proven far more entertaining company. Where Ned was cold stone, Jon was smoldering fire beneath that solemn exterior.

"Honor," she murmured to herself with a smirk. "If only the honorable Lord Stark knew what Jon Snow was doing with his Queen every night." The irony was delicious – while the uncle bored her to tears with talk of duty and propriety, the son was breaking every sacred vow between their houses in the most delightful ways.

She wondered if Jon had inherited all the fire from Rhaegar. Certainly not from Ned, who seemed about as passionate as the stone direwolves decorating his castle. Though she had to admit, there was something almost amusing about the way he clung so desperately to his principles, as if they could shield him from the real world's complexities.

"Like uncle, unlike nephew," she mused, finishing her wine. She had another meeting with young Jon arranged for tonight, and unlike this tedious audience with his uncle, she was very much looking forward to it. Let Lord Stark keep his honor – she much preferred his nephew's brand of northern hospitality.

Tomorrow - Jon Snow

Jon picked at his breakfast, memories of last night's activities with the Queen making it difficult to focus on his porridge. Her golden hair splayed across his pillow, those emerald eyes darkened with desire... He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The Wall had seemed such a clear path before he had started visiting her chambers at night. "Only rapists, murderers, and thieves take the black now," she'd whispered against his skin. "Is that what you want, Jon Snow? To freeze your life away with the dregs of society?"

The sounds of his sisters' bickering pulled him from his thoughts.

"She's horrible!" Arya declared, her face scrunched up in disgust. "Did you see how she looked at Old Nan yesterday? Like she was something stuck to her shoe!"

"Arya!" Sansa gasped, looking around frantically to ensure no one had heard. "She's the Queen! You can't say such things!"

"I can and I will," Arya crossed her arms stubbornly. "She walks around like she owns Winterfell, turning up her nose at everything. Even the way she eats is smug!"

Jon couldn't help but smile, remembering how those 'smug' lips had traced down his chest just hours ago.

"What's all this about?" he asked, approaching their table.

"Jon!" Arya brightened immediately. "Tell Sansa I'm right about the Queen. She's cold and awful and thinks she's better than everyone else!"

Sansa's face reddened. "She's graceful and refined! Just because you don't understand proper behavior—"

"Proper behavior?" Arya scoffed. "Is that what you call treating everyone like they're beneath you?"

Both sisters turned to Jon expectantly. Usually, this was where he'd side with Arya, make some jest about southern propriety that would have his little sister grinning triumphantly.

But all he could think about was how Cersei's mask of cold dignity melted away in private, how she'd shown him a different side of herself entirely. The way she'd laugh, genuinely laugh, when he said something clever.

"Actually," Jon found himself saying, "I think Her Grace is... not that bad."

Sansa's jaw dropped in surprise before a smug smile spread across her face. Arya looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"What?" Arya sputtered. "Jon, are you ill? Did you hit your head during training?"

"I just mean," Jon continued carefully, "that perhaps there's more to her than we see. Being Queen can't be easy. She has to maintain a certain... image."

"See?" Sansa preened. "Jon understands. The Queen carries herself exactly as she should."

"But you always take my side!" Arya protested, looking betrayed. "Since when do you care about how queens should behave?"

Jon shifted uncomfortably, very aware of the marks Cersei's nails had left on his back beneath his tunic. "People can surprise you, that's all. Sometimes they're not what they seem at first glance."

"You're acting strange," Arya narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "First you start taking care more of your hair, then you skip training to go 'riding' alone, and now you're defending the Queen?"

"I haven't been acting strange," Jon protested, perhaps too quickly. "And what's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," Sansa interjected. "It looks much nicer like this. More... refined."

"See?" Arya pointed accusingly at Jon's red face. "You're even blushing! Something's different about you."

"Nothing's different," Jon insisted, though he could feel the heat in his cheeks. "I just think we should show proper respect to our guests. That's all."

"Proper respect?" Arya made a gagging sound. "Now you sound like Septa Mordane. Next you'll be telling me to walk like a lady and practice my needlework."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt," Sansa muttered.

"I'm going to find Nymeria," Arya announced, standing abruptly. "At least she hasn't gone mad." She shot Jon one last suspicious look before storming off.

"Don't mind her," Sansa said primly. "I think it's wonderful that you're finally showing some refinement. Perhaps you could join us when the Queen holds court today? I'm sure she'd appreciate having someone else there who understands proper etiquette."

Jon nearly choked on his tea, remembering exactly what he and the Queen had done last night.

"I, uh, have training with Ser Rodrik," he managed.

"Oh." Sansa looked disappointed. "Well, another time perhaps."

Jon nodded noncommittally and excused himself, needing to escape before he gave anything away. As he hurried away from the hall, he knew he needed to talk with Arya. He always took her side, and he didn't want her to feel like he was no longer like he was before.

Later

Jon found Nymeria sitting outside Arya's chamber like a sentinel, her yellow eyes following him as he approached. The direwolf's tail wagged once in recognition before she resumed her guard duty.

"Arya?" Jon called softly, pushing open the door. His little sister sat on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, looking smaller than usual.

When she turned to face him, the betrayal in her eyes hit him like a punch in the face. Her bottom lip trembled slightly, and Jon felt like the worst person in the seven kingdoms.

"Little sister..." he started, quickly crossing the room to sit beside her.

"No one ever takes my side," Arya's voice cracked. "Mother wants me to be something I'm not, Septa Mordane is a complete bi—"

"Arya," Jon warned gently, though he couldn't completely hide his smile.

"Well, she is!" Arya insisted, wiping furiously at her eyes. "And now you're different too. You always understood me, Jon. Always. Until today."

The guilt twisted in his gut like a knife. Here he was, betraying his closest confidante because he couldn't admit the real reason he'd defended Cersei.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I shouldn't have... I mean, I should have..."

"Chosen your favorite sister?" Arya supplied, but there was a hint of humor returning to her voice.

"You'll always be my favorite," Jon assured her, ruffling her hair. "Even when you're being a little terror."

"I'm not a terror," she protested, jabbing him in the ribs. "And at least I don't brood all day like some people I know."

"I don't brood," Jon defended, trying to dodge her poking finger.

"Oh really?" Arya raised an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of his serious expression. "'Oh, I'm Jon Snow, and I'm so tortured and mysterious. I must stand on the battlements looking dramatic while my magnificent hair blows in the wind.'"

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "I do not sound like that!"

"Yes, you do! And lately you've been even worse. All secretive and proper." She wrinkled her nose. "Next thing you know, you'll be wearing those fancy southern clothes and talking about proper etiquette like Sansa."

"Now that's just cruel," Jon clutched his chest in mock offense. "I may have defended the Queen, but I'm not completely lost to the South yet."

"Speaking of the Queen," Arya narrowed her eyes, "why are you suddenly so interested in defending her? You usually hate people who look down on others."

Jon felt heat creep up his neck. "I told you, I just think we should try to understand—"

"And your hair!" Arya continued, reaching up to tug at his pulled-back curls. "Since when do you care about looking 'refined'?"

"Maybe I'm just tired of looking like a wild northerner," he deflected, catching her hand before she could mess up his carefully arranged style.

"You're acting strange," she insisted. "First the hair, then defending the Queen, and now you're taking Sansa's side? Next you'll be telling me you want to become a southern knight and marry some prissy lady."

"Better than becoming a wildling like you," he teased, poking her side where he knew she was ticklish.

Arya squealed and tried to squirm away. "At least I'm not the one pretending to be something I'm not!"

"No, you're just the one who puts mud in Sansa's bed and blames it on the dogs."

"That was one time!" Arya protested. "And she deserved it. She called me Arya Horseface in front of everyone."

Jon's expression softened. "You know you're not—"

"I know," she cut him off. "And anyway, I'd rather look like a horse than a proper southern lady. At least horses are useful."

Jon chuckled and pulled her into a hug. "There's my wild little sister. I was worried I'd lost you to tears for a moment there."

"I wasn't crying," she mumbled against his chest. "I had something in my eye."

"Of course you did. Must have been the same thing that's been making you skip your lessons and disappear for hours lately. Listen Arya, you should try to find some common ground with Sansa, she is your sister."

Arya snorted so hard it almost sounded painful. "Common ground? With Sansa? The only thing we have in common is that we both think the other one is completely wrong about everything."

Jon chuckled. "There must be something. You both love lemon cakes?"

"She loves them because they're 'refined,'" Arya mimicked Sansa's voice. "I love them because they're sweet and messy and proper ladies aren't supposed to lick their fingers."

"See? Common ground, even if the reasons are different." Jon squeezed her shoulder. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

Arya pretended to consider it. "I suppose. But only because you're my favorite brother."

"Even counting Robb," Jon reminded her, relieved to see her smile returning.

"Even counting Robb." She suddenly sat up straighter, her eyes brightening with that familiar mischievous gleam that usually meant trouble. "Actually... I want to show you something. But you have to swear not to tell anyone."

"Arya..." Jon said warily. "What have you done?"

"Nothing!" she protested. "Well, nothing bad. I just... found something. In the crypts."

Jon's eyebrows rose. "The crypts? What were you doing down there?"

"Exploring," she said, as if it should be obvious. "I found this passage I'd never noticed before, behind Lyanna Stark's tomb. And then..." She bounced off the bed and went to her wardrobe, reaching deep into the back.

"Then what?" Jon prompted, curious despite his misgivings.

Arya emerged with a bundle wrapped in what appeared to be one of her dress cloaks. "Promise you won't tell. Not even Robb. Especially not Father."

"Arya, if you've found something dangerous—"

"Just promise!" she insisted.

Jon sighed. "I promise. Now what's so important that you're hiding it in your—"

The words died in his throat as Arya carefully unwrapped the bundle. There, nestled in the folds of fabric, were two eggs unlike anything Jon had ever seen. One was deep purple with silver swirls, the other black as night with veins of scarlet running through its surface.

"Dragon eggs," Arya whispered excitedly. "I found them two days ago. They were just... sitting there behind the tomb, like they were waiting to be found."

The Full Version of All One Shots written so far are available for Sergeant Tier or Higher.