Chapter Text
The third Lannister child was born in the midst of a great storm. The year is mentioned in the tomes, but never the storm. Such things are almost always forgotten, but that isn't surprising - most things are. Entire lives are reduced to one line of text, most likely in a dusty old book that nobody will ever read. Most won't even receive so much as that. And so people forget, because there is simply no room to remember. They'll forget more than the storm, though. They'll forget the way her eyes crinkled around the edges when she smiled, or the gentle touch of her hand on the shoulders of her children. The fervor with which she prayed to the seven will be lost to history, as will as her determination to protect those she loved.
She will be written about in the great stories of history, remembered in the hearts of her people as one of the best queens Westeros would ever have. But nobody will remember her, not really. The minstrels will sing about how she was fair of face and kind of heart, but there are only a select few who will ever know about the iron underneath. Her husband may have worn the crown, but it was his wife that ruled every one of his seven kingdoms. Nobody will forget that, but only because it's impossible to forget something that was never known.
Of course, it is not just her good qualities that will be forgotten. Although most traces of Cersei Lannister will be lost to time, her memory reduced to nothing more than the daughter of a Lord who died before her time. It was a tragedy, but nothing notable. But there was once a time when her younger sister was completely eclipsed by her, doomed to forever be second best to and less important than her sister who was destined to be a queen. But the gods have a twisted sense of humor, and destiny is rarely what it is predicted to be. It shouldn't be surprising, really, when second daughters become queens. They say that whenever a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin, but in truth, it is nothing special - it seems to be the only way they make decisions. Heads, tails, queens, kings, they are all the same. All there is left to do is to pray it lands on the right side. The Lannisters have never been known for being particularly devout, but it is not difficult to understand why the Queen spent so much time at the sept.
She was selfish, too, in a way that only a Lannister could be. It was the inevitable byproduct of being raised by Tywin Lannister, and it plagued her throughout her entire life. Selfish motives resulted in selfless actions, in her case, but the tomes will not mention that. She will be remembered as the wife of one king and the mother of another, as the sister of Jaime Lannister and the daughter of Tywin. Even she was guilty of tying her existence to someone else, claiming that she never mattered until her little brother, Tyrion, was born. She raised him in her mother's absence, beginning her career in motherhood at all of four years old. It was the first time she had a purpose, but that is not to say that she never mattered beforehand. She was valuable solely by the virtue of being herself. So you see, it is important that her story begins here, on a stormy night on the shores of Casterly Rock. To tell the full account of her life, one must go back to the moment that established her significance. Contrary to what you would believe, it was not the birth of her brother, nor was it the day Cersei died. it wasn't her wedding, nor was it when she gave birth to her first child. It wasn't when Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons returned home to Westeros, nor was it the day she brought peace back to the realm. The maesters might pick any of those moments to serve as her first of great historical meaning, but this is not one of their tomes. This is a song. It is difficult to believe, but oftentimes there is far more truth in songs than in the maesters' tomes.
It starts as waves crash onto the rocky shore of her home, sea salt spraying far beyond the beach. It stung the peasants' eyes as they pulled their battered cloaks tighter around their backs, shivering as they hurried to find shelter. The market was closing, merchants frantically attempting to salvage their goods from the rain overhead. Farther away, high up in the castle, a little girl is born, with hair like cornsilk and eyes greener than the sea. The baby will have many titles in her life, but only one name. It is Jeyne, and this is her story.