joffrey baratheon
He was a grotesque thing at birth: a wrinkled, pink mess slathered in blood with a pinched, wailing face. Robert insisted his name be Eddard or Jon, but it was Cersei who, moments after they pulled the child, named him. He was Joffrey of House Baratheon, and even with a cursory glance, Jaime saw the insolence of himself and of House Lannister etched on the child's face.
Jaime leaned lazily against the wall near his sister. Cersei kept her head high and eyes alert, but he could sense her exhaustion. Jaime had seen less painful deaths in battle than a woman giving birth, but Cersei bore it with beauty and grace. Her forehead was matted with sweat and golden hair, her cheeks flushed, eyes a bright, threatening green, but she was all pride and finesse. If she felt pain, no one but he would know it.
She looked at him from her periphery as the women bustled and cleaned her, expression impatient and agitated. He grinned back at her. He watched the women clean and swaddle the child, even as his wailing became louder and more insistent. He broke his stare.
"I see he takes after his father," said Jaime dryly.
Cersei's brow furrowed and jaw clenched, though for entirely different reasons than the other women in the room. The women stopped to look at each other, all riddled with shock and a hint of resentment, before returning to their duties in silence. The crying persisted.
He continued: "It's incredibly loud, isn't it?"
"He's a child, Jaime. What did you expect?"
He was already bored with the tension of birthing.
A portly midwife with greying yellow hair and leather skin handed Cersei the newborn. She held it awkwardly at first, but when the child's squalls subsided into sleep, his sister relaxed. She rocked the child slowly and watched him, a small smile playing her lips. It was a foreign, yet familiar look – Cersei often looked at him similarly, but this was tinged with something purer, more selfless. He felt his heart beat faster. All eyes were on his sister and her child. Robert's child, too, for all intents and purposes.
"He'll be a great king like his father," said the old woman.
Jaime snorted.
Cersei realised she had lost herself. The handmaids and midwives were all watching her, hands clasped over their chests and nodding, smiling. She looked up at Jaime and then at the women in the room. She must hate this, being ogled over by other women.
"Get out, all of you. I need to speak with my brother alone."
They all hesitated and one almost protested—something about milk of the poppy and rest. With a final, exasperated out the women left, leaving the two alone.
"Does the uncle get to hold his new nephew at least?" he asked when they were finally gone.
"You are an utter fool, brother," Cersei oftentimes spoke like she knew more than Jaime, her voice full of self-assured wisdom and feigned disapproval. "Think: how would it look? Bad enough Joff looks like you without you mooning over him."
He had asked in jest—Jaime had no affection for the boy even now. But where there was indifference for him, Cersei was all light and beauty— he watched her pale wrist arch as the child held a slender finger, he took in her graceful neck as she leaned to kiss his forehead, as her chest rose and fell in a gentle swell with the bundle resting against it. And of course, that ghost of a smile still painted on her face, the look Jaime knew would never be for him. He felt a pinch of jealousy and yielded the child to House Baratheon.
Jaime bent to face her and braced himself on either side of Cersei's legs. When she began to protest, he leaned in to kiss her deeply; she fell into it, tired, lazy, and hungry for more. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, tugged gently, and pulled away with a grin. She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
"Motherhood suits you well, sweet sister."
myrcella baratheon
Godsdammit, woman, it'll be Lyanna or Ned and that's the end of it.
She knew he did not mean it and come morning the icy silence, the anger, the resentments, they would all resume. No talk of names would happen, no mention of Lyanna or Ned Stark; all would be forgotten and shoved back into memory. Perhaps, even, he would lumber into her bed and grope her breasts as a feigned apology, communicating his remorse the only way Robert knew. A disgusting human, she thought, but her king and her husband nonetheless.
Her voice when she cackled processed as an echo now. She was clutching the edge of her small study, tight-gripped with blood flushing through her body like freezing water. He staggered in and stood swaying in front of her bedposts, eyes red and drawn, face hard and hostile. His once muscled body had grown soft and his hair was a greasy black. He looked more a thieving peasant than a king.
The Others take you and your pathetic tributes, you fat fool. You'll name it when you watch your child cut from me, as Jaime did with Joff.
Cersei's heart pounded as she controlled her breathing. She had lately woken to nightmares of miscarriage, of blood splattered across her thighs, dark and black on her cunt. She would wake to being cut open as Joff did his kitten, but instead of a child there would be a bloated sack of maggots wriggling in her gut. Robert would laugh, holding Jaime and their son's head on a spike, all while her father moved to kill her. There was fear each morning that her nocturnal premonitions would prove true in some way, fear that Robert would kill her, her son, Jaime. But the lioness does not fear the stag.
Her words were venom that poured from each lung and left her winded. She would not stutter or fumble on her words. She would not show fear. She would not beg. Cersei clutched her stomach and stood tall, matching his stare even as he approached. Cersei would be proud defiance and would not fall for him.
But he was bigger than she and even while drunk, much stronger. He gripped her by one arm and twisted the other until she gasped out in pain.
"You're disgusting," she choked out.
He growled something inaudibly, his grip tightening as he looked onto her face. And almost as soon as it started, he let go, as if his drunkenness caused him to forget his anger, the reason he was here.
She regained composure and caught her balance once more. She felt poised for the hunt, ready to pounce and to slaughter her prey.
"It will be Myrcella or Tommen."
She said it with finality, defiance. Hatred oozed with every syllable. He will not overpower her.
"Damn you, you stubborn cunt. Have your blasted names."
Robert turned to go and she knew tomorrow this would not have happened— it would only be a dream, some alternate reality for him. She was not so fortunate as to choose her memories. At the door he turned and looked at her, the spot he stood, replaying what had happened once more before he would forget.
"That… that was not very kingly of me, was it?" His words slurred both with inebriation and exhaustion. It was never an apology and only the observation, as if saying so would erase the need for atonement.
When he opened the door, she saw Jaime had arrived while the new member of the Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakhart, stood guard. Jaime's hand was on the hilt of his sword as he watched Robert leave, knuckles white and eyes wide with disgust and anger. Robert called back to him as he left: Leave me be, Kingslayer. Go tend to your sister.
She watched her arms as they purpled.
tommen baratheon
For weeks they were only allowed brief, passing looks or small affections: a hand on the small of Cersei's back or arm-in-arm in escort to feasts—nothing more. Jaime would watch as she sat dignified next to the King, long hair tumbling over her shoulders in lazy waves, dresses of Myrish lace cut teasingly low, and using all of her graces to leave men sick with want after she moved on.
Jaime ached for her with each passing day and grew jealous of those who could have her in even the most insignificant ways. No sooner had the king left for the hunt did Jaime find himself at her bedchamber notifying her of the king's absence. When he placed a hand on the door to enter, he gave the man standing guard a sidelong look.
"No one enters unless they want to lose a head. Is that clear?"
The guard stiffened and stuttered, taking a step away from the door.
Jaime turned to face the man fully. "I asked you a question. Do you understand?"
"R-Right, Ser Jaime. Yes, I understand."
Jaime nodded a mock kindness and entered.
One of Cersei's handmaids noticed him first. She curtsied meekly, skin tinged red as she looked at the ground, "Good afternoon, Ser Jaime."
Cersei's head snapped toward the entryway, adrenaline surging through her body, and her heart pounding in her ears. She wore a short thinly cut cotton dress, her hair pushed over her right shoulder and her neck adorned with a simple gold necklace.
"Brother." She looked perplexed, but Jaime sensed her pleasure.
"King Robert has left for the hunt," he eyed her handmaid who watched him excitedly, "And has asked me to notify you of his absence."
Robert had mentioned going to hunt soon. She weighed this information with mild irritation before shutting it away. She noted her handmaid's giddy bashfulness with disgust and waved her off.
"You can leave."
The girl curtsied again, eyed Jaime as she left, and hurried out. While Cersei was used to young girls fawning over her brother, it did not make her any less resentful even now.
"Jaime," was all she managed before reaching behind his neck and pulling him in to a hard kiss. He let out a soft moan, taking her bottom lip between his and sucking gently. Her fingers twined into his gold hair and tugged as she moved her tongue against his.
Jaime slid off her dress, her body pressed between his and a small table. His hands trailed along her sides and the body she had developed into—at twenty-five, Cersei had outgrown her thinness for the curves he felt above her hips, on her stomach, in the fullness of her breasts and thighs. He trailed his mouth down her throat, kissed her clavicles. He kissed the places she enjoyed most and hummed pleasurably when she moaned. He trailed his mouth where Robert had hurt her, bruised her, drunkenly groped her. He kissed her behind her ear, along her neck, on her mouth. He bit her shoulder when she took him full in her hand and teased him. He groaned her name again and again in hoarse whispers.
They had moved to her bed, both collapsing with Cersei underneath him. He ground his hips against hers as she panted into his ear, nails digging into his back. When he pulled back on his haunches, she was before him, wearing nothing but a heated flush on her cheeks. Her chest heaved and she licked her swollen lips. She had love-marks on the inside of her shoulder, above her hip, and both her breasts were wet from his mouth. He quickly finished undressing and threw his small clothes over the bannister, watching Cersei hungrily all the while. She moved toward him on her hands and knees, a smirk playing her lips and hair falling loosely around her.
Cersei had wanted Jaime as much as he had wanted her in their time separated, but it was a different type of desire. Cersei wanted how he worshiped her body, how she found an extension of herself in him. She loved knowing that Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer would fall before her and beg, want, groan at her slightest touch. She loved knowing that Jaime was more hers than he was their father's, their brother's, the king's, even to the kingdom itself. And even moreso than that, she loved when Jaime allowed her to press the cold edge of his sword to his body and watch the gooseprickles erupt on his skin while she moved her hips along his length. Cersei knew only she could bring a blade so close to Jaime, to draw the lightest bit of blood and watch it trickle down his chest. In their private moments, Jaime completely surrendered himself to her and they would have each other fully, entirely, in ways that no one else could.
Cersei pressed her fingers lightly against his chest and straddled his hips when he lay down. He looked up at her, admiring the hunger in her eyes, how Cersei was wholly his. She grabbed his wrists and extended his arms above his head and reached underneath a pillow. Jaime could not see what she grabbed, but he felt smooth leather tie his wrists together and a tug connecting him to the bedpost. He eyed her roguishly.
"A new trick learned from your dear husband, sister?"
Cersei slapped him and looked at her brother's handsome face, how his body was toned and slender in ways Robert's was not. She let her fingers run through his long hair once more as she leaned down to kiss him.
She teased Jaime at her entrance, tongue grazing faded scars on his chest. She bit his shoulder, his ear lobe, and allowed her hand to rest lightly on his neck. And then Jaime was inside her. She worked her hips, one hand propping her up from behind and the other's fingers grazing the skin of Jaime's stomach. She was dizzy from pleasure, the feel of Jaime, his slowly-deteriorating controlled groans, the fullness of it all. She did not want it to stop.
And too soon, with a choked out My gods, Cersei, she felt Jaime's climax. When he finished, they stopped and watched each other. Her body was hot with a thin film of sweat coating her skin from the effort. He was trembling slightly, eyes closed and neck craned back, smiling. They often would stay with Jaime inside her for a time, both taking it in, unsure of when the next time they could be together again. But she leaned forward and unbound him. Cersei kissed each wrist, both red from the abrasion.
Jaime ran his hands up and down her sides to rest them on her hips. After a pause, he pulled her forward, thighs on either side of his face, and craned his neck up. She began to object, to ask him what he was doing—and then she felt his tongue. She gasped, blinked, and relaxed into it, her hands finding their way back into his hair. He slid his tongue along her length, experimenting with each stroke, tasting her, taking her in fully. There was a swollen, dull throb where Jaime focused his attention and with each groan, each haggard Jaime, he worked more enthusiastically.
It was not long before she felt a build-up of heat surge through her body and wrap itself around her torso. She ground her hips back down to meet the pressure, rolling herself in circular motions where it was most sensitive. He lapped wetly in response and pulled down to suck and tongue her in quick successive strokes. Jaime's mouth met her entrance eagerly when she climaxed. And with one final and feeble exhale, her body felt a gentle calm, a serene exhaustion.
Jaime sat up with Cersei still in his lap. She examined his face, brushed the hair from his green eyes, and kissed him once more, tasting herself on his tongue.
"My sweet brother," she said in a whisper barely audible.