& one more kiss goodnight (inthereins) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-04-17 20:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! house lannister, cersei lannister, jaime lannister |
jaime & cersei
who. the lannister twins.
where. the red keep; king's landing.
when. not long after rhaegar's betrothal to elia is announced.
what. a recognition of plans & machinations needing to change.
The crimson silk that remained wrapped around Rhaegar Targaryen’s wrist came in with the news of his betrothal to Elia Martell -- a betrothal, indeed, an act that one beating heart in the Tower of the Hand took as betrayal. That square of fabric fluttered with Lannister crimson. It should have been Cersei’s favour criss-crossed around the Prince’s wrist. It should have been House Lannister making preparations to wed her to the greatest power in Westeros (and guaranteeing her a place by Jaime’s side).
And deep within Cersei lingered this inalienable truth: her vow to Jaime would be cast aside for a Queenship to a prince full of Rhaegar’s noble nature. Her scheming may have robbed him of his birthright; but, she concluded, he ultimately consented and therefore legitimised her belief. Glory instead of riches for him, power and safety for her. Power, safety and desire …
Only the prince was to wed another.
The sun in King’s Landing shone brightly and the lace parasol twirling languidly within her hands kept the greatest part of it from the milky pallor of her skin, even if the heat did threaten to wash away the careful application of rouge to her cheeks, deflating the volume of curling and braiding that wound at the back of her head. Flanked, as ever, by an honour guard, she found herself kneeling at the base of a still pool within the keep, her eyes narrowed as she observed a fat old bee buzzing from water lily to water lily.
News of the royal betrothal sent shock waves throughout the Red Keep. Where some -- many? most? -- regarded Elia Martell’s imminent arrival as happy tidings, there were those that did not, and it was within the Tower of the Hand where the backlash struck the hardest. Twice wronged, Tywin declared himself to be (though not in so many words), for his heir had been stripped from him, and then, within a matter of days, his family’s chance to claim a stake in the blood royal had been lost. Every bit of anger that flashed in Tywin Lannister’s pale eyes was anger than Jaime keenly felt, and he would have absented himself entirely from the Keep to pursue what most boys his age were assumed to love best -- jousting, swordplay, and drinking -- save for the fact that his twin had been injured in this turn of affairs too.
The white had not been given to him, not yet -- there was protocol to follow, and it would be another three weeks before he was raised up by the commander -- which, when Dayne wasn’t drilling him in the practice yards (both in military skill and the duties of a brother) afforded him relative ease in his own comings and goings. Meeting with Cersei the way he wanted to meet her was never going to be easy while they were under the shadow of their father, but at least they had the guise of a normal sibling relationship in which to be seen together.
The red and gold cloaks of their family’s guard narrowed his eyes, which then flicked across to take in the sight of his sister. Surely the sting the knowledge that she would never be entitled to the protection of those in clad in white was great.
He drew near, offering the captain of the guard a nod. “You can go. I’ll see her back to the Tower.”
“I heard you coming,” was addressed to the water lily as she let her gaze shutter downward. Jaime’s reflection was mutedly observable, disturbed by her fingertip upon the surface of the water. “Your sword clanks. I guess knights don’t require stealth. Only the sure kiss of steel.”
“Ah.” Though his tone was flat, he wasn’t entirely successful at smoothing away the quirk of amusement from his lips. “You’re in a mood. The only sure kiss will be yours, and it will be of death.”
“Kiss of death. Is that what the prince was told?” The parasol moved a few inches aside as she left her cramping knees to perch by the edge of the pond upon a thigh. Pale samite drank the moisture from the saturated ground as her eyes found his: her other, the flesh of her flesh. Surely he too felt the sting. Father is still Hand. I am still here with you, brother. “Come and try me.”
Jaime affected a shiver, his shoulders bunching together beneath the press of his doublet. “Oh, I feel a chill, and only Dornish heat will chase it away.” And yet despite the soft mockery that laced his tone, he drew near and sat by her side, pulling one of her pale hands into his. He would not say he was sorry for her loss of opportunity -- for he wasn’t -- but Cersei’s moods were his own, and he wanted hers to improve. “He wasn’t told anything. It wasn’t up to him.”
If her hand were not in his own (the coolness from the pond giving way to the warmth of Jaime’s palms) she would have raised it to slap him soundly. “You tease boldly, darling brother.” A corner of her mouth quirked. “And lie just as boldly. I’m not blind nor unaware of the happenings at court. He just returned from Dorne. He obviously chose her. It was absolutely up to him.” You did not lie to me, Maggy. Not you.
“He could have chosen an Other’s bastard and it still wouldn’t have been his choice. Not ultimately.” That privilege rested within the king’s hands, though he knew that Cersei would not see it that way. “Besides...” A squeeze of her hand. “You would have been driven to utter desolation by the prince. Does he know how to smile?”
She could sense that her brother’s attempts at humour were meant as comfort. But it wasn’t comfort she wanted, it was revenge. Elia Martell’s skin on her bed, the (reportedly) lustrous hair woven into a rug. (Rhaegar Targaryen’s hands draping her in a cloak of crimson and black) -- These thoughts of violence brought a slow smile to her face that quickly melted as the parasol shifted to shade them both. “I will be driven to desolation if I am sold a thousand leagues from you.”
“Our lord father would not sell you that far.” But the joke fell flat -- he was all but consigned to a life of (supposed) celibacy, yet the same could not be said about Cersei. Satisfaction and fear warred within him: the former burned hot, for the thought of Rhaegar Targaryen’s hands on her was abhorrent, yet the latter maintained a sickly cool presence within his bones. Cersei Lannister would be a prize for any man -- as far as Jaime was concerned, she was very much in danger.
“No one’s selling you anywhere.”
“The Starks are two. And I look frightful in fur. I will not be a lady of a mountain, no nor a river glen. And if father thinks that Dorne might need me, I would sooner drown myself in this pond. Perhaps I yet will.” Strength, you foolish girl. Show him your strength. She squeezed his hand in return before sliding it back to her lap. “But as long as he is Hand, I am here. And so shall you be here. To watch Aerys, Rhaella, the squalling baby, the dragon prince and his sandy wife.”
Sometimes, Jaime thought, being right was punishment in itself. There was a chill, and Cersei, with her words painting scenarios he did not want to consider, was its origin. Cersei in Dorne? Cersei marrying into a Northern pack of wolves? It was not to be borne -- his hand reached for hers again, gripping the fine bones tightly as he drew her near. His words were for her ears only; let any court spider see this and wonder what secrets the siblings would share. “Lying naked on fur, no, you do not. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
The parasol, at the strength of Jaime’s grasp, fell from her fingertips and edged itself into the rippling pool, her thighs brushing at his knees as his strength brought her through the grass. “Kiss me here,” she yet whispered, the depths of her eyes darkening as her ribs heaved against the bodice that laced them in. “On the forehead like a good brother. And then I shall die.” Then, Maggy, I will have robbed you of your brutish truths. “You will never have to speak of it again.”
His eyes fell to her lips -- it was not her smooth forehead he wanted to kiss, but that sweet mouth, but for all that they took possession of his immediate attention, he shook his head. “Then I shall never kiss you again. You shall not die, by drowning or otherwise. In any case....” Jaime pulled in a breath, as though to steady himself. “Death by water isn’t for you. Too much swimming by the Rock. Your body won’t let you drown.” Neither will I.
A deep breath. Enjoy what you yet can enjoy. He will always be yours. A slow, spreading smile to belie her words formed upon her lips. “Indeed. And we all know I’m far too vain to die well.” She leaned forward, cupping her hand around his ear as if to protect the secret she would utter. Instead, her teeth found a lobe and gave a pull before she consented to speak. “No one knows this body better than Jaime Lannister.”
The sharp press of her teeth made him bold. “I’m glad the Prince has been denied the singular pleasure of coming to know you just as well as I do.”
“Oh,” was her response as she leaned back, drawing her hand down heavily upon his shoulder. “Styling yourself as his rival, are you?”
If his feelings on the matter were completely transparent in the green of his eyes, he cared not. Truth, always, with Cersei. “In this, I think, the victor.”
“To the victor, the spoils --” Until the next opponent emerges, dear brother. She leaned over, dropping her fingertips again to the still surface of the pond to flick the moisture that clung there at her brother’s face.
The flick of water brought a welcome coolness, albeit all too briefly as the oppressively hot humidity of King’s Landing bore down on them. “Seven hells,” he said quietly, “what I wouldn’t give to be back at the Rock right now. Just us and the cliffside. It’s no wonder they all go mad here.”
All too often had Cersei beheld his brother mid-dive; a graceful, golden arc splitting a seam between sea and sky. She missed it too. “Mad or otherwise with their secret haunts they tell to nothing. Wishing and seeking, however. Which do you think is more capable of producing results?”
Dragging the back of his hand across his brow, Jaime arched a brow at her. “What sort of question is that? Seeking, of course. Those who merely dream are not worth the air they breathe.”
“Find us our own secret haunt.” Her brow arched high over the widening of her eye. Such meanderings with Jaime would be seen as nothing more than a closeness between a spurned sister and her dutiful brother. “One that does not stink of shit and threaten lice.”
His laughter was abrupt and full-throated. The inn had been an adventure, and so had the empty stall in the Red Keep’s sprawling stables, but their recklessness with each other had already cost them dear. “What think you of the godswood? Or--” Another laugh. “Father’s room?”
His laughter gave rise to a snort made in the back of her throat. “Naked? On a pile of furs?”
“Cloth-of-gold.” He studied her for a long moment, the intensity of the sunshine constricting his pupils into small points of black within the green. Their father’s room had been a jest, but the more he thought about it, the more it appealed -- Tywin Lannister barely had the time to discipline his children, let alone asleep in his sprawling bed...
“The Hand’s bed, Cersei. Almost as good a place to fuck as the heir apparent’s.”
“ -- don’t bring him up again. Not unless Elia of Dorne’s head is mounted above the Hand’s bed while you’re fucking me.” A breath. She would simply have to discourage her father from offering her in marriage for the time being, until a suitable replacement was found. Not for the first time have I wished for silver instead of gold; the Valyrian blood that allows the Targaryens to marry sister and brother in full knowledge of the kingdom. “Understood?”
“Hungry for revenge. Now there’s the Cersei I know to fear -- none of that drowning cack.” He leaned in, brushing his lips across her cheek as one hand fell upon her lap. “His bed or the godswood.” Pause. “The King has promised a feast in Harrenhal in my honour.”
Her hand made a spasmodic grasp for his, gripping him tightly before both of her brows rose. A feast in Jaime’s honour at the old site of power and rebellion. “For the defeat of the Kingswood Brotherhood? Or your ascension to the white? Shall I wear white to match you?”
His answer was instantly given -- “Yes.” Neither of them were made for such an unforgiving lack of colour, but better that they were together in this, better that they were as one. “For my ascension. The victory over the Brotherhood is Arthur Dayne’s, and he will be honoured too, but His Grace holds it, in part, for me. And there will be a joust, Cersei, and our father will be too blind with anger to notice us.”
“All for your honour, Jaime. My own brother. And our father’s rage.” The rift between King and Hand was too apparent to not manipulate. “You will win the joust.” The tips of her fingers crawled over his forearm, nails easing across his bicep before falling into his lap. With a press of her palm. “What do you wish from me, Ser?”
Never look at another. Never leave me. But Jaime merely smiled, his eyelids briefly lowering at the weight of her hand. “Just you.”
“You already have me.” She was being coy, she knew. In the face of her previous weakness, it was his weakness she now sought. To have him pliable beneath her. Even within the Keep, even in the sight of Rhaegar Targaryen. Someone wants me.
Testing her, even as his throat grew dry under the heat of the day and the heat of her hand -- “I have you as long as you’ll allow.” A nod. “Regardless, sis, you’ll always have me.”
Her slender fingertips sought the laces tucked beneath Jaime’s doublet. “In the eyes of spiders and birds alike, dear brother?” She smiled. “You find me fickle.”
“Fickle? No.” He tilted his head, watching the progress of her fingers before his gaze swung back up to meet hers. “Flexible. Adaptable, if you will.”
“And so must a woman be, dear brother, who is sold for the value of her blood. Of her cunt and her womb. You may have your feast and honour at sword-point. I earn mine on my back.” Rising to her knees, she withdrew her hand and slowly stood, flexing each long leg before turning back to him with a grin. “So, thank you for the compliment. But as long as this flesh is your flesh, I am loyal.” For as long as I can be.
Her grin was his own, only tinged with a hint of wry chagrin. A lock of golden blond hair fell into his eyes as he bowed from his perch by the pool, arms spread wide before he straightened and planted his hands upon his knees. “I stand corrected. You have the sweetest way of showing me my errors.” Pause. “You have nothing to earn from me.”
“And it is why I love you best,” she said simply, her palm an arch over her brow to shield her gaze from the sun as it glinted off of his golden hair. “Ser Jaime.”
“My lady.” Twisting at the waist, he reached across to retrieve the parasol from where Cersei had dropped it, pulling it, clear droplets of water dripping from its lace webbing, from the pool. He gave it a shake, then rose and offered it to her. “Lest you burn.”
She took it from him with a bob of her head and spun the parasol in the tips of her fingers. “ … I don’t want to go back to that wretched tower. I don’t want to see anything or anyone. Jaime.” A breath. “I intend to stay here until well past supper before I slip unbidden into my damnable bedchamber, verbally abusing all of my maids as I go. You are free to stay or go.”
He reached for her hand, lifting it to press a quickly glancing kiss upon the soft white skin. “I’ll go. I was thinking a picnic in the godswood. You are free to come or...” With a shrug to encapsulate their surroundings. “Stay here.”
He tries so valiantly. A nod. “Are you bringing a cloth-of-gold blanket upon which you might rest your honourable arse, Ser?”
“Lady, if you’re so curious to know about how I intend to rest my arse,” he replied with an easy smile, “you’ll just have to come and find out.”