A Life in Westeros
Chapter 8 - Part 1
Cersei Lannister woke slowly, the heavy curtains in her Red Keep chambers filtering the morning light into soft gold stripes across the bed. She lay there for a long moment, naked under the silk sheets, staring at the ceiling. The room was still cool from the night, the air carrying the faint smell of beeswax candles burned down to stubs and the distant salt-tang of Blackwater Bay drifting through the high windows. Today was the day. The wedding. Robert Baratheon's queen. The words sat in her mind like lead weights—heavy, cold, final. They pressed against her ribs until it almost hurt to breathe.
But underneath the dread, coiled tight and waiting, was something else. Something sharper. Hotter. A secret thrill that made her pulse kick against her throat and sent a slow, liquid warmth spreading low in her belly. She shifted her thighs together beneath the sheet and felt the slick slide of her own arousal. Already. Before she'd even opened her eyes properly.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, golden hair tumbling in a messy cascade over her bare shoulders and brushing the tops of her breasts. The movement made the sheet slip lower, pooling around her waist. She didn't bother pulling it back up. Let the morning light touch her skin. Let it see what Robert never would—not really.
Across the room, the wedding gown hung on its carved wooden stand near the window like a ghost made of silk and ambition. White samite shot through with gold thread, the bodice embroidered with prancing lions on one side and rearing stags on the other, twined together in a mockery of harmony. The long sleeves would trail behind her like banners when she walked. The neckline dipped just low enough to display the famous Lannister décolletage without ever crossing into scandal. It was perfect. Regal. Untouchable.
And she was going to wear it to another man's room first.
The thought alone sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs. She pressed her thighs together harder, trapping the ache there.
The whispers had been everywhere all week, slithering through corridors like smoke. Servants giggling behind their hands when they thought no one could hear. Smallfolk laughing outright in the streets below the keep when the wine loosened their tongues. Robert had spent every night since his retinue clattered through the Lion Gate buried between whores' legs—drunk, loud, and shameless. The stories were too consistent to be lies: he'd stagger into some tavern or pleasure house, already half-undressed, bellowing for the prettiest girls. Then he'd make them play at being Lyanna Stark.
"Say it like she would," he'd slur, according to the kitchen maids who'd heard it from the stable boys who'd heard it from the guards who'd stood outside the doors. "Call me your wolf. Tell me you love me. Tell me you'll run away with me again." And the girls—paid in silver and fear—would parrot the words while he rutted into them like a boar in heat, grunting that dead northern girl's name with every clumsy thrust.
Cersei could picture it too clearly. Robert's thick, red hands groping at painted thighs. His sweaty bulk pinning some frightened girl to a straw mattress while he panted Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna like a prayer to a god who'd long since stopped listening. The fat stag. The drunk. The man who thought a crown and a stag on his surcoat made him worthy of her body, her name, her future.
Rage flared in her chest, sudden and white-hot. Her fingers curled into the sheet until her knuckles blanched. She wanted to scream. Wanted to storm into whatever sty he was still snoring in and claw his eyes out. Wanted to make him choke on the name Lyanna until he understood what it felt like to be nothing but a ghost in someone else's bed.
Then her gaze drifted back to the gown—white and gold, lions and stags forever entwined—and the rage didn't disappear so much as change shape. It melted, softened at the edges, poured itself into something darker. Something liquid and urgent and hungry.
Adian's face rose in her mind without warning. Calm. Knowing. That small, private half-smile he wore when he was already deciding exactly how he was going to ruin someone—slowly, thoroughly, until they begged for more.
She remembered the storeroom at Casterly Rock two years ago. Aunt Genna—proud, pregnant, imperious Genna—bent over a crate of wine casks with her skirts rucked up around her hips. Adian behind her, slow and deliberate, one hand fisted in her hair, the other braced on her swollen belly as he fucked her like he owned every inch of her. Genna hadn't fought. She'd moaned—low, broken, grateful—while her unborn child kicked against the rhythm of his thrusts.
She remembered last night in the moonlit garden. Barbrey Dustin on her knees first, lips stretched wide around him, then bent over the stone wall with her hands braced and her ass high while he took her from behind. The wet slap of flesh. The choked sobs of pleasure. The way Barbrey had screamed his name when he finally buried himself in her ass and filled her until she collapsed.
Cersei wanted that.
She wanted to be the one he looked at with that calm, predatory certainty. The one he broke open until she was sobbing his name. The one he filled until she could feel him for days.
Her hand slid down her body without conscious thought. Skin already fever-warm. Nipples tight and aching. When her fingers reached the slick heat between her thighs she bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. She was soaked—had been since the moment she woke and remembered what day it was.
She started slow. Just the pad of one finger circling her clit in lazy loops. Hips lifting off the mattress in tiny, helpless jerks. Then faster. Harder. Two fingers slipping inside, curling against that spot that made her vision spark. She pictured Adian's thick cock stretching her mouth instead—hot, heavy, the salty taste of him flooding her tongue while his hand tightened in her golden hair.
"While Robert's busy fucking ghosts," she imagined him murmuring, voice low and filthy against her ear, "you're down here on your knees in your wedding dress, swallowing a real man's load like the greedy little queen you are."
The image was so vivid she could almost feel the stretch of her jaw, the weight on her tongue, the hot pulse of him spilling down her throat. Her fingers moved frantically now—rubbing, thrusting, chasing. Her other hand came up to pinch her nipple, twisting until the sting blurred into pleasure.
The orgasm hit fast and vicious. Sharp. Bright. Her back arched off the bed, a choked cry tearing from her throat as her cunt clamped down around her own fingers. Slick heat pulsed out, soaking her palm, dripping onto the sheets. She rode it out in trembling waves, gasping against the pillow.
But when the tremors finally eased, the ache didn't leave.
It got worse.
Her cunt throbbed—empty, greedy, unsatisfied. One quick, frantic release had done nothing but pour oil on the fire. If anything, she felt hungrier now. Wetter. More desperate.
She needed more.
She needed him.
Cersei stood on legs that still shook. Crossed the room barefoot, the cool flagstones a shock against her overheated skin. She lifted the gown from its stand. No smallclothes. No chemise. Just the dress. She stepped into it slowly, letting the heavy silk slide up her legs like cool water. The bodice hugged her full breasts, the embroidered lions pressing against her still-sensitive nipples. The skirts whispered against her bare thighs with every movement.
She turned to the tall silver mirror.
Golden hair loose and wild around her shoulders. Green eyes fever-bright with nerves and hunger. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen from biting them. The white-and-gold gown clung to every curve, making her look every inch the radiant bride the realm expected.
And underneath it all, she was already dripping again—slow, warm trickles sliding down the insides of her thighs.
She met her own gaze in the mirror and smiled.
A small, secret, dangerous smile.
Then she turned toward the door.
The corridors were still quiet this early. Most of the keep was sleeping off last night's revels. She moved quickly, heart hammering, the heavy skirts swaying with every step. Every shadow made her pulse jump. If anyone saw the future queen sneaking through the Red Keep in her wedding gown… the thought only made her wetter.
She reached his door and paused, breath shallow. Her knuckles rapped softly.
"It's not locked," Adian called from inside, voice low and amused, like he'd been waiting. "Come in, Cersei."
She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke and him—clean sweat and something darker, masculine. Adian sat on the edge of the bed in just breeches and a loose shirt, dark hair tousled, watching her with that same half-smile.
"Better lock it," he said, tilting his head toward the door. "Wouldn't want some nosy servant wandering in and seeing the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms getting fucked on the morning of her wedding. Imagine the stories."
Cersei's cheeks burned, but she turned and slid the heavy bolt home with a solid click. The sound sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs.
Adian leaned back on his hands, the mattress dipping under his weight, eyes raking over her in slow, deliberate sweeps. The white-and-gold gown caught the morning light like fresh snow on Lannister gold, hugging the heavy swell of her breasts, cinching tight at her waist, flaring out over hips that had already borne the imprint of his fingers last night in the garden shadows. He took his time looking—unhurried, possessive—letting her feel every second of his gaze dragging from the delicate gold embroidery at her throat down to where the skirts brushed the tops of her bare feet.
"On your knees."
The command was quiet, almost conversational, but it landed like a hand around her throat. Cersei sank down without a flicker of hesitation. The thick samite pooled around her in soft, heavy waves, like spilled cream on the stone floor. Her knees met the cool flagstones through the layers of silk; the slight chill only sharpened the heat already throbbing between her thighs. She settled there, posture straight, chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes—defiant and needy all at once.
Her hands were steady now. No tremble. No second-guessing. She reached for the laces of his breeches with the same calm precision she'd use to pour wine at a feast. The cords gave under her fingers easily. She tugged them open, parted the fabric, and his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already half-hard and thickening visibly under her stare. The veined shaft curved upward in a gentle arc, the skin flushed a deep, ruddy pink, the broad head darker still, already glistening at the slit. It looked obscene framed against the pristine white of her wedding gown—raw, animal, utterly out of place and exactly where it belonged.
{R-18 Scene Adian x Cersei Lannister 5843 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Cersei lingered a moment longer than she should have.
She stayed draped across Adian's chest, one leg hooked over his hip, feeling the slow, sticky slide of his seed leaking out of her with every small shift of her body. The sheets beneath them were ruined—damp patches spreading outward like ink on parchment. Her thighs glistened. Her ass ached in the best way, a dull throb that reminded her exactly where he'd been. Every breath pulled the scent of sex deeper into her lungs: sweat, musk, the faint metallic tang of spent arousal.
She should have left already.
The sept would be stirring soon. Septas would come knocking with scented oils and nervous chatter about hair and veils. The court would begin its slow, ceremonial crawl toward the Great Sept of Baelor. Robert would be dragged from whatever bed he'd fallen into—probably still reeking of cheap wine and cheaper perfume—and propped up like a prize boar for slaughter.
And she would walk to him in white and gold.
With another man's cum still warm inside her.
The thought sent a fresh, lazy pulse through her core. She clenched around nothing and felt more of him trickle out. A soft, involuntary sound slipped from her throat.
Adian's hand moved lazily down her spine, fingers tracing the faint red lines his grip had left earlier.
"Still thinking about bolting?" he murmured. His voice was rough from use, amused.
"No." She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes. "I'm thinking about how I'm going to stand beside him at the altar and feel you dripping down my leg the entire time."
His smile was slow. Predatory. Satisfied.
"Good." His thumb brushed the curve of her lower lip.
Cersei leaned down and kissed him—slow, filthy, tasting herself and him on his tongue. When she pulled back a thin string of saliva connected their mouths for a heartbeat before snapping.
"I need to go," she said, though she made no move to leave.
"You do." He squeezed her ass once, firm enough to make her hiss at the fresh sting. "But before you do…"
He rolled them so she was beneath him again. Not urgent this time. Lazy. Possessive.
One hand slid between her thighs, fingers gliding through the slick mess he'd left. Two fingers slipped inside her easily—far too easily—and curled. She arched with a soft cry.
"Just a little reminder," he whispered against her throat. "Something to carry with you through the vows."
He worked her slowly, almost gently, thumb circling her clit while his fingers stroked that sensitive place inside. It wasn't about making her come again—not really. It was about keeping her on edge. Keeping her swollen. Keeping his scent on her skin, in her hair, between her legs.
Cersei's hips rocked in tiny helpless motions. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Adian…"
"Shh." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Just feel it. Feel how open you are for me. How ready."
She was close again—impossibly close after everything—but he stopped just short, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to her lips.
"Clean them."
She opened without hesitation. Sucked his fingers into her mouth, tasting the bitter-salt mix of both of them. Her eyes never left his.
When he finally pulled free she was trembling, unsatisfied, aching all over again.
"Perfect," he said quietly. "Now go be a queen."
He helped her up. Watched while she retrieved the gown from the floor. The silk was hopelessly wrinkled now, the hem stained in places, but the damage was subtle enough that only someone looking very closely would notice.
She didn't bother with smallclothes. Why would she? There was no point pretending anymore.
Adian stayed seated on the edge of the bed, legs spread, cock still half-hard and shining against his thigh. He made no move to cover himself. Why would he? He'd already had her in every way that mattered this morning.
When the last lace was tied he stood and crossed to her. Cupped her face in both hands.
"Tonight," he said. Low. Certain. "After the feast. After he's drunk himself stupid and passed out. You come back here. You bring that same dress—stained, smelling of me—and you let me take it off you again. Slowly. While you tell me every detail of how it felt to stand beside him knowing what we did."
Cersei's breath caught.
"Promise me."
"I promise," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead—almost tender—then released her.
"Go."
She slipped out into the corridor.
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