A/N: Disclaimer: I do not own A Song Of Ice And Fire. This applies for all chapters.

Chapter 1

For as long as she could remember, there had always been two of them in front of that mirror.

Tall blond reflections, it had once been the best part of the day, slowly drinking into their mutual perfection, their identical looks. Cersei and Jaime had always been a package deal. Cersei couldn't remember a single moment they had spent apart, not even in their dreams.

Their late mother had told them that they had come into the world together, Jaime's tiny hand gripping Cersei's foot as the midwife pulled them out. She loved it when he brought that up in bed, their sweaty skin rubbing against each other as he pulled at her foot, laughing breathily. "I have always been a step behind you, Cersei." He would joke as she screamed with laughter. "Everyone knows that."

The worst part was, everyone did know that. Cersei was genuinely one step before her brother in every field. Reading, writing, horse-riding, politics, even just raw courage. She was the one brave enough to touch the Lannister lions her lord father had brought home one day from a hunt. She was the one smart enough to understand her father's political position and worries. She was graceful, beautiful and regal. She was courageous, fierce and strong. Jaime was a weakling compared to her, and yet, she was always the one feeling jealous.

Something went wrong with her, after her breasts began to grow, after her maids began forcing her into dresses tying her shiny blond hair back so she was forced to let it grow in. Jaime became the confident one, with the swagger and the charm. He started to overtake her, falling in step with her until she stumbled and he went on forward.

He would hold up a shining sword and scream a war cry to his men with his hair streaming behind him while she would lay back on her bed with her hands on her breasts, trying to squeeze them back into her body.

But why was she even thinking these thoughts now? None of it mattered anymore.

None of it mattered with only one reflection staring back at her, the spot beside her empty, her bed cold and smelling like mothballs instead of sweat. Her brother's sword was strapped to his waist as he waited with stones over his eyes in the cold marble of the Sept of Casterly Rock.

It had been at least a month since the fifteen-year-old had left her room. She had refused to attend the burial of her twin brother. She was still angry with him, after all. She knew that he was stupid, but she had not known the extent to which he would risk his life for the worst of reasons.

Her maidservants, obviously forced into it by her brother, Tyrion, had sat beside her bed and quietly asked her if she needed anything, if she was feeling all right, if she blamed anyone for the death. She hoped that the vases she had thrown at their faces had broken their noses. She had definitely seen the one in the faded lavender bleed.

What exactly did Tyrion expect her to be feeling? It was obvious that she was miserable. Or was she?

Surprisingly, when she thought about it, the main feeling behind the twinge in her heart was not misery. It was anger. It was Jaime's stupidity that got him killed. If only they had switched places, if Cersei had been the one practicing her archery as Jaime sewed in his bedroom, they would both be alive.

A riding accident, they said. He had been out hunting with the sons of the banner men and Tyrion when he hit his head on a tree branch. The loss of balance made his horse buck and throw him into the air. He snapped his neck when he fell. Tyrion gave them the whole story, with all the details, and Cersei had been tempted to blame him for the whole tragedy. She would have, just as she blamed him for her mother's death, but when she looked at the grief-stricken dwarf and his ugly face soaked in tears, she knew he would never harm his beloved brother. It was only Jaime who could harm himself. Jaime, and his incompetence. If he had been born the girl and she the boy, they would both be alive.

Cersei sat up in bed as her door inched open. A maidservant poked her head in, dressed in pale brown, her dark hair bundled up over her head in a style very similar to what Cersei had been wearing one month ago. Empty flattery, this reeked of Tyrion. She briefly wondered why the dwarf was so concerned with her mental well-being, but she let it pass.

"Milady, I have been ordered by-"

"Tyrion, I presume? You have been ordered to ask me how I am feeling."

The poor damsel nodded helplessly, wringing her hands in front of her. She was quite pretty, worthy of being one of her handmaids, though she did not know her lineage. Cersei glared at the woman for a long while, making her fidget and squirm. She was glad she still had the power to do that, even after all of this grief.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me?"

The maidservant swallowed, eyeing the brass cup that was already in Cersei's hands. She stuttered for a second and fell silent, her face white with fear.

Cersei sighed. "This is what Tyrion gets for meddling in affairs that are not his." She nearly chucked the cup at the woman filled a healthy dose of loathing, but stilled her hand when the woman raised her head to meet her eyes again.

"You have not left your bedroom in one month, Lady Cersei. Your Lord brother misses his brother, it is natural that he would try his best to look after his sister. Especially when his sister resembles the late Lord Jaime so well. These are very much Lord Tyrion's affairs, milady."

The maidservant was stammering and pale, but Cersei had been reduced to silence. Neither of the women made a sound. Cersei felt herself getting angry, but the anger dissipated easily. She had spent one month getting angry at nothing, throwing things around and having the servants clean them up. She had spent a month in bed for her idiotic twin.

An idea struck her, an idea that would never have crossed her mind if she hadn't already been nearly mad with grief. Her smile began to grow back. The maidservant did not take that as a good sign, inching towards the door.

"Where is my Lord father at this time?" Cersei asked flippantly, swinging her legs off of the bed, arranging her bedclothes neatly around her, running her fingers through her messy hair.

The maidservant eyed her suspiciously. "Lord Tywin is in King's Landing, milady. He has resumed his duty as Hand of the King."

Her grin widened. Her smiles always looked so innocent to someone who didn't know her, but the maidservant had obviously been warned about this. She clasped her hands in front of herself nervously as Cersei flounced over to her dressing chest, flinging it open and digging through it.

"Milady? May I…assist you?"

Cersei laughed her breathy laugh, making the other woman flinch. "Of course. Find me a pair of Jaime's breeches from in here. I'm sure they're in there somewhere."

The maidservant complied, kneeling beside her and digging through the mounds of satin. "May I…inquire why we are looking for the late Lord's breeches, milady?"

Cersei laughed again. "Talkative one, aren't you? But you'll like this answer. We are finally giving Lord Tyrion what he wants."

The maidservant sat up, her face a picture of childish glee. "You're going to leave your room, milady?"

Cersei shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm not leaving this room." The maidservant looked puzzled until Cersei threw back her head and laughed.

"I'm never leaving this room. But Jaime will."

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