ੈ✩‧₊˚ In which Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon did have a daughter; Nadia Baratheon. But bastards don't hold a claim to the throne. Especially when they're born a woman.
And now that her father is gone and the problematic family that is the L...
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𓆩∘ ₊˚ˑ𐂂༄ؘ꙳𓆪 Chapter 2: The wrongfully accused ────────────────
NADIA BARATHEON
━━━ I'VE NEVER truly witnessed the love of a mother myself. For my own, Lyanna Stark, passed away when I was merely a year old. The only knowledge I had acquired about how it should be was the way Cersei treated her own children.
The way she'd fondled their golden locks with a dear smile, how she wept when Myrcella was sent over to Dorne, and how she still managed to love Joffrey even when called the epitome of evil. It's because of her that I knew from an early age that no love compared to a mother's.
I've been hearing her sniffles and whimpers of grief for a while now. Her hands resting right beside Joffrey's pale corpse as mine stay folded on my back. I'm scared to even move when she could easily take her anger out on me. The way she's done it on various occasions.
As I plan on leaving after growing uncomfortable from staring at the stones covering Joffrey's eyes, Cersei finally decides to say something. "You despised him."
I slowly turn my head to stare at her wilted features. Swollen red eyes, hair not brushed properly and lips frowning. "You all despised him."
"That's not true." I lie instinctively.
"Oh, do not patronize me," Cersei spat at me. "I'm not an imbecile. I know the way everyone looked at him. The way they spoke about him behind my back."
Not once did she turn her head and look at me as she continued. "He was no perfect king, but nothing he did could sever the bond of a mother's love for her child. You'll understand when you have your own."
A mother, is that something I hoped to be? It had never truly crossed my mind for I could never see myself betrothed to a man and bear him children. Much less a man twice my years. To share children with Walder Frey? Never.
"Death can." The words fall so fast from my lips. As if I've planned their delivery for hours. It should be true though, shouldn't it? The dead have no feeling.
"Not even that."
There's a weird look in her emerald eyes that I rarely ever get to see. It can't be defined as warmth, but it's not exactly loathing either. It's a gaze I don't wish to stray away from, but am forced to by the sound of footsteps.
"Please give the queen a moment alone with her son." I hear Jaime tell some of the remaining attendees as he walks over to us.
