Thrice; Stranger
"Hold still, Cella!" Cersei chastises, scowling down at her daughter as she sprawls across her lap. "You're going to mess it all up, sweetling."
"I've been sitting foreeeeeever," Myrcella whines, balling her hands into fists. Cersei smiles just a little at that. She can hardly take a display of anger seriously when it consists of teeny fingers painted maroon and gold that span the length of her palm at best.
"The Festival only comes once a year, do you want to look perfect or not?"
"...Alright, fine," the little one acquiesces with a huff, closing her eyes again.
Satisfied, Cersei picks up the eyeliner pencil again and starts back on Myrcella's makeup. She dabs at the smudge she's made, finishing up outlining her eyes in a dark purple. "There," she announces finally, passing Myrcella a golden hand mirror. "Do you like it?"
"I look so pretty, Mama!" she exclaims. "But... do you think everyone will know who I am?"
"Of course they will, my love," Cersei replies, although she honestly isn't sure. It should be quite obvious to most everyone that Myrcella's dressed as a princess. She's probably the only five-year-old girl in all of Westeros that would choose to emulate one like Rhaenyra Targaryen so accurately, though. Cersei has commissioned a dress of maroon velvet decorated with pearls and gold lace, as close to the finery of the real Half-Year Queen from the Dance as history books described. Cella insists on wearing a pair of shoulder strapped dragon wings along with the crown so that she won't look like "a normal princess, because they're boring." Even at this age, she's shaping up to be mischievous and precocious, stubborn just like her father. "You could bring Balerion with you if you're that worried about it." The little lioness very well may insist on bringing the toy dragon with her, suggestion or none: She clings to the thing the way that many children belove their security blankets. She scarcely sleeps without him these days.
I wonder if she remembers that Jaime got him for her.
Closing her eyes, she can still see it, the smashed cake, ribbons hanging from the ceiling, relatives crowding around little Cella in the midst of the blinding camera flashes. Only he would win the competition for her attentions, though; the toy has always been her favorite, a marking to the ending of her infancy.
Sometimes, Cersei wonders how she's managed to spend the first year of her life without Balerion, for they've been attached at the hip ever since.
"But what about my hair?" Myrcella worries, interrupting her mother's thoughts. "Rhaenyra doesn't have purple hair..."
It's no secret that the lioness' eldest child, because she must be now, is vastly particular. It will certainly be an asset to her when she was older, but at the moment, the things that she was so concerned about don't truly matter, though you couldn't begin to tell her that. Cersei reaches out, affectionately stroking her daughter's waist-length blonde braid. The ends of it, usually tipped pink, have been dyed purple instead, to match her costume. "Well, I'm sure she might have if she lived in our time, where people do that sort of thing, hm?" She reaches out to interlace their fingers. "Besides, I'm sure she wasn't half as beautiful as you are."
Just then, a rap comes at the children's bedroom door. "Come," Cersei directs. She already knows who waits on the other side.
"Level three emergency," Jaime murmurs as the door swung open. Exasperation is written on his face. "Tommen messed up one of his whiskers. Again."
Cersei rolls her eyes, obviously annoyed with her brother's japes at a time like this. "I thought you were keeping him occupied!"
Jaime steps into the room, his stride graceful yet exuding exhaustion. "I tried," he protests. "You don't know how he is."
She cocks an brow in response, murder burning in her eyes. "I only birthed him."
Ignoring her indignation, Jaime leans down to survey their daughter sat on Cersei's own lap. "Gods be good, Cersei, you didn't tell me that we were entertaining royalty!" He bends to kneel in front of Myrcella, taking her hand and kissing it. "Princess, it is an honor." He smiles, playing coy. "I'd swear you my sword, but... You must let me wear your favor at the next tourney." He gestures with grandeur all about the air, his open arms amplifying the emptiness of his hands. "Have you seen my niece, Your Grace? Why, I thought she was here..."
Myrcella giggles, shielding her face with her tiny hands. "It's me, Uncle Jaime!"
He flies back to his feet, face consumed with false shock. Jaime overacts his surprise, though, and soon enough he's joining her in the laugh. "Well, so it is. You were born to be a princess. You wear it well."
"Princess," she agrees, Lannister greens gleaming. "But you? Where's your costume?"
Jaime turns to look at Cersei with trepidation. "Well, do you want me to come?" he asks gingerly. Cersei knows how greatly brother worries about crossing lines with the children, that a major part of it stems from her own apprehensions. Cersei can't tell whether he means to address the child or her, but before she can be sure, their girl broaches the subject on her own.
"Please?" She hops from her perch, shoving her weight into brother's sinewy arms. Myrcella nuzzles her head into Jaime as he catches her, seamless. "It would make me so happy."
"Well," he answers with a wide grin. "In the olden days, you know, if a Targaryen bid you do something, and you didn't... Someone would have your head for that. S'pose I must."
"But Jayjay! You don't have a costume!"
Suddenly, Tommen comes clambering into the room. Cersei can't help but delight in the sight of her little cub in the doorway. He's actually a little cub tonight, too, dressed in his favorite little lion union suit. He begs her to let him wear the pajamas outside most every day, and so tonight he finally has his wish. He fidgets with the mane hat surrounding his head, itching at the skin under it. One of the whiskers she's drawn on his face has smeared as Jaime's said, but not too badly. "Mommy, are we going now?"
"In a minute, darling. I promise," she answers, nodding in his direction. "You know, Cella," she continues, "I know what we'll do. You stay here with your brother." She rises from the floor, smoothing her dress as she stands. "And no more touching your faces! You both look perfect." She grasps Jaime's hand and leads him from the room, closing the door behind them. They swiftly make their way upstairs to the bedroom they've come to share
"What are you doing?" he demands, pulling her 'round to face him.
"Helping you make your daughter happy," she says absently, tearing through the walk in closet in search of accessories.
"Keep your voice down," he bites back, lowering his own to a husky whisper.
"Oh, stop," she returns, never turning away from her task. He should know better than to think she'd say such a thing in earshot of the children. Every little indiscretion of theirs has always been far more calculated than he seems to realize. "They can't hear us up here. Do you still have your things from college?"
"What things?" he challenges, aggravated. "And why do you want to do this now?"
"Your jousting things. Your sword and armor." During their four years in university, and beyond, Jaime had been renowned throughout Westeros for his prowess in the old arts of combat. He had even been captain of the jousting team at their college, and theoretically still owns a since-unused suit of armor, lance, and sword with the old heraldry.
He guffaws in earnest as he realizes what she is playing at. "You think I keep a suit of defunct armor at the back of my bedroom closet."
"I don't know the first thing about your armor," she quips in annoyance, turning to look at him finally. "I only know that I need it. Do you know where they are or not?"
"In the basement," he murmurs hesitantly, "but why?"
"You, Ser Jaime," she starts, "are going to be the first of Rhaenyra Targaryen's Queensguard."
He freezes. "Oh, no. No way."
"No?" She conceals it with practiced ease, but a small pang of disappointment strikes her. He should want to make Cella happy, shouldn't he?
"I'll look ridiculous," he protests, green eyes growing a tad guilty.
"So will everyone else," she assures, nearly smiling. "That's what Stranger's Day is for, isn't it? Surely no one left living dresses up in these hokey costumes to stave off the Stranger and his dead. No one believes in demons and spirits and imps anymore." She blanches at the the name the world has given their brother. "We don't leave treats at our doors to appease them. We do it for for the children." She twines their fingers together, her free hand grasping at his chin, turning his face down to look at her. "And children are ridiculous."
"I don't know about this, Cersei. Didn't Rhaenyra Targaryen marry her uncle?"
"All the better that you're Myrcella's father, then," she supplies.
Jaime blinks slowly, twice, three times, all the while staying silent.
Her voice is barely a whisper against him when she speaks again. "You have professed to me on many occasions how bitter and angry you are that I have kept you from being a father to these children. This is what fathers do, Jaime." He can't possibly say no to that.
She's right, of course. He can't.
"I have some demands," he agrees roughly, brows furrowed. "I get to bring my own candy sack."
It takes everything that Cersei has not to burst out into incredulous laughter at a statement like that. Sometimes, Jaime and Tommen are not so unalike in their priorities, their silly mannerisms. "That is one demand."
"And," he continues, grinning wantonly, "you must refer to me as Ser Jaime all night." His fingers brush her cheek, tucking a short lock of pixie hair behind her ear. "Even after the kids head to bed. Even after I take off the armor." His thumb traces the curve of her bottom lip as their faces draw closer together. "And everything under it."
"I think that could be arranged," she giggles as their breath blends in the slit of space still left between them, a space that is quickly disappearing. "Ser Jaime," she finishes against his lips.
"You're off to a good start," he murmurs back, deepening the kiss. She loses herself in him for a moment as they exchange moans, and then she pulls away.
"Hold that thought," she teases, pressing a finger to his lips. "There will be time for that later." She snakes her arms around his waist, savoring his touch for just one more moment. "Right now, you need to go and get that armor. Just the breastplate is fine, I think." She waves him off, beginning a raid of his drawers for suitable clothing as he leaves the room, settling on a plain white T shirt and a pair of heather grey joggers. Sifting through the basket that holds their bed linens, she finds a plain white sheet, reserved for guests and scantily used.
Perfect.
She whirls from the room in search of a box of pins. The quiet of the hall startles her though, and she pauses, sinking her bare toes into the carpet. Tommen and Myrcella are still just as she left them, in their room with the door cracked, calmly sitting on the carpet, enjoying a cartoon. A miracle. Maybe they think they won't get any candy unless they are good. She doesn't dare to swing the door open, to disturb their peace. For a minute or two, a break from the giggles and wrestles is quite desirable.
With the way their lives have been these past few months, she isn't sure when she might find another moment so still as this.
Tearing herself away, she makes her way back into the kitchen, rummaging through the utility drawers until she comes upon the safety pins she needs. She turns around to meet with a confused Jaime, donning the armor just as she's requested, the breastplate, and a fine set of shoulder pads, too. I mustn't forget those. The mail is gilded rather than white, but that makes no matter. Hang tradition. A quizzical, crooked smile adorns his face. He holds up the flat sheet, balled in a strong fist.
"What's this for, sister?"
She smirks at his lack of perception, making a little motion for him to turn around with her index finger. "Every brother of the Kingsguard needs a white cloak."
"If you stick me," he says with his back to her, "I am not responsible for your injuries." He gestures to the sword fastened around him, jutting out his hip in demonstration.
"Love bites don't count as injuries," she retorts into the golden curtain of his hair. "Now, hold still." She fastens the sheet with care to the fabric of his shirt, folding over excess so that it will not drag the ground. "Perfect. You look splendid."
"You have to say that," he answers, spinning on his heel to face her, the cloak billowing around them in his wake. "Elsewise, I'll stay inside..."
"No," she insists, "come and see." She pulls him along to the full-length mirror that graces the entry hall of their bungalow, covering the wall from floor to ceiling. For the first time that evening, she takes the time to fully survey her own appearance.
Choppy golden hair encircles her face from beneath a crown of bones. The green orbs of her eyes jutted menacingly out of her face, encircled in stark kohl. High cheekbones highlighted in gleaming gold and black glitter cut the atmosphere around her like a knife, and her overlined lips pucker, mending the wounded air with a sweet pink kiss. Raven black silk clings to her white skin from bust to waist, turning to tattered tulle and flaring out at her hips, tapering down and ending mid-thigh. Her legs are decorated in skeleton printed black mesh, full of rips: The tights had been whole up until Myrcella's talons had bitten into them as she'd struggled to keep her still in the bedroom some minutes ago, and then Cersei had embraced it, continuing the pattern.
The claws and mane of the lion emblazoned on her right foot can be seen peering from beneath the holes, and the spokes of the iron throne etched into her right thigh. In just a moment, the outfit will be complete, finished with leather boots elegant enough for her regal feet yet rugged enough for Northern terrain. It's only suitable that she's chosen to emulate a queen on a night like this, particularly one that has stolen the honor of a knight with her charms... If their daughter is the rebellious Half-Year Queen, surely Cersei as the Night's Queen is equitable appropriate.
Cersei means "bewitching woman" in one of the old languages that only the Maesters know.
It's only when he speaks that Cersei notices how Jaime has been paying far closer attention to her reflection than his own. He inches closer to her. "Mother named you well."
"And you. Anklegrabber." She laughed a little, nudging his advances away with a bare foot.
And Jaime means "to seize by the heel."
"That's Ser to you, witch," he chides, reaching to flick her on the nose.
"I'll show you a witch, ser knight," she sneers, baring her teeth and wrapping clawed fingers into his wear menacingly. They gravitate together, pushing and grasping and laughing, her teeth only a moment from his throat, just the way he likes.
Perhaps fangs would have been more appropriate tonight.
The pitter patter of feet on the tile comes to interrupt what would have doubtless turned into a romp otherwise. The twins turn to see Tommen and Myrcella stood before them, looking on in pregnant silence. They break apart, movements quick and awkward, seeming as innocent as they may, though the two don't seem to think anything of it. Wrestling is hardly out of place in this house.
"What's Uncle Jaime s'posed to be?" Tommen asks, cocking his head.
"That's Ser Uncle Jaime to you," he grinned, ruffling the russet polyester mane atop the boy's head.
"Ser Uncle makes more sense," Tommen pouts back.
Myrcella clamps around her brother's shoulder, pointing up at their uncle. "He's my knight, Tommy! My shining knight!"
"That's right," Cersei interjects with a knowing smile. "Every queen needs a knight."
"Are we ready now?" Jaime asks quietly next to her.
She nods briskly, turning to grab her shoes, fastening them to her feet. The two little Lannisters rush off, collecting flashlights, glow sticks, and plastic pumpkins from the kitchen counter. They barge through the front door on a bound for the waiting car, and Cersei closes it, ever the last one out. She turns back to her brother. The corners of her mouth dance into a wicked grin. "Come."
He's aggressive as their bodies form back together. His hands trace the cutting outline of her hips, gripping them hard as he captures her lips in a slow kiss. Jaime arches closer to Cersei, moaning as her hand molds to the growing shape of his cock, stroking it through the too-thin fabric. "Don't tell me you mean to steal my honor so soon after making me a Sworn Brother, my queen."
"No," she breathes, squeezing him even tighter. "Your honor, never that." Their lungs move into sync, as do their hips, hands, as they explore each other. Gall grows on her face as she jerks away, turning in the other direction. "I plan to let you keep it a bit longer."
Her eyes flutter shut. She treats herself to the labor of his breathing, the soft rustle of fabric as he gets himself back in order, recovers from her cruel embrace. He sidles up behind her, then, and perhaps his footsteps are the sweetest sound of all. "If you do this," he assures, taking soft control as he grasps her breast, "I'm going to pay you back for it later. You understand, little sister?"
Visions snaps back, abrupt. She stares straight ahead as it dawns on her just why he's ordered her to call him Ser in the first place. His fingers daren't relent as he finds her nipple in an instant through the fabric. As he initiates that sweet torture that has her stirring in his hands, she dips her head back, bumping their noses together. They share in greedy chestfuls of the atmosphere as her pulse quickens, faster, faster, until he pulls back. "I asked you a question, Cersei, and I expect you to answer. Or didn't you hear me?"
"I..." She hates herself for hesitating. Why shouldn't they enjoy a little game tonight? In the months since coming here, she's found this sort of play so freeing, therapeutic. Only Jaime, she reminds herself, soothing the panic seeping into her breathing. "Yes, big brother."
"That's not what you agreed to call me." His hand slips under her skirt, grabbing a handful of her ass at his leisure. "Do you remember what happens when you break rules that you've agreed to follow?"
Knowing full well that he intends to give her a sweet smack or two, she lingers in the touch anyway. She swells with power at the firmness of his hold, and it's only when he swings his arm back that she spins away, winning. For now. "If you want to do something about it... You'll have to catch me." She bounds for the door, taking her clutch from the davenport just adjacent to it and stumbling outside. Just as he should, Sandor already has the children ready to embark on a their trip across town to the Keep. Our home. It was our home.
...Is.
Brushing the thought away, she surveys the house from the opposite end of the circular driveway, finding his silhouette alight in the doorway. Even amidst the creeping dark of Stranger's Day night, she can see the gleam of his smile.
The car is running, and the game is afoot.