The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.
Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep. "I do not know which of you I pitymost."
The queen seemed amused by that. "Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it."
You know what I must do.
Must? She put her hand on his good leg, just above the knee. "A true man does what he will, not what he must." Her fingers brushed lightly against his thigh, the gentlest of promises. "The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of age for years. No one wants war again, least of all me." Her hand touched his face, his hair. "If friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Your wife is a thousand leagues away, and my brother has fled. Be kind to me, Ned. I swear to you, you shall never regret it."
Did you make the same offer to Jon Arryn?
She slapped him.
I shall wear that as a badge of honor, Ned said dryly.
Honor, she spat. "How dare you play the noble lord with me! What do you take me for? You've a bastard of your own, I've seen him. Who was the mother, I wonder? Some Dornish peasant you raped while her holdfast burned? A whore?