Author's Notes: I got a prompt on tumblr to write about the twins getting together as kids/how their relationship came to be at all and come to think of it, I couldn't believe I've never written anything of the sort before, so here's my go at it! As light and fluffy as I can ever make it.
It had been only a game at first; an exercise in satisfying curiosity. Since the moment they'd been cognisant enough to be aware of their own bodies, Cersei and her brother had done their damnedest to get as close to passing the barrier said bodies had made so that they could be one again, like they had before they'd been born. Touching Jaime is the most natural thing in her world. At first, their parents had been delighted, especially their lady mother, and the Rock's help and inhabitants had followed their every move with unbridled joy, and in retrospect, she suspects that perhaps that had been precisely the thing that had fuelled the fire.
The first time they had kissed, it had been in imitation to what they'd seen Mother and Father do, and it had been pleasurable enough to do it again. Jaime had made a game out of that, too – he'd started from her lips, but then he'd kissed her everywhere he could reach, and she'd laughed until she'd been breathless when he'd reached her stomach, with the way it had tickled. It hadn't taken her long to want to return the favour, and that had been exactly how that cursed maid had caught them, startling them both out of their new discovery with the loudest scream Cersei had ever heard.
Mother, unlike her and Jaime, had been less than pleased. She had separated them to the best of her ability and had instated guards in front of Cersei's door, and it had been about more than just her twin – all of a sudden, she had been forced to explain herself every time she'd wanted to leave. All of a sudden, she had been an object to be protected rather than a child, as if Jaime's touch had had the ability to shame and dirty her in a way that nothing else had. It had been unfair and unjust and outrageous to a mind not yet used to meeting resistance, and it had been the only thing Cersei had ever resented her mother for.
But that had been years ago, now. She had been explained in no uncertain terms that the most precious thing about her is that she remains ready but untouched for the hands of someone else to eventually have the privilege to be the first to change that, and her septa had not appreciated it when she had asked why she would allow such a thing from her potential husband if she would allow it from no one else.
The answer she'd received had not been appreciated in turn, either. The idea that a stranger could appreciate what she wants to give to none but one is ridiculous. Unthinkable. After her mother's dismay at that sentiment – and Joanna's death that had followed soon after – Cersei had burrowed it all so far down below the surface that she had hoped that eventually, she would forget about. Jaime had followed her in that, if only for a time, and soon enough, they'd returned to their games, but she hadn't kissed him again. For a while, she had thought that he'd understood.
As it turns out, he'd just been biding his time.
"Save me, brother," she pleads, though a smile bellies her seeming desperation. "That cursed woman threatened us with cross stitches today, and I don't have the slightest idea how they're done."
Jaime's arms wrap around her in welcome as she throws herself into his embrace and he grins back. Their hair is the same length now, had been for a while; all she has to do is braid it back, and no one would know. There are older boys in the castle, both relatives and the occasional squire, and older girls, too, so they know that this particular game of theirs is running out of time. Jaime cannot wait to be a man, and she wouldn't mind being a woman – from what she can tell, it helps more with getting things done than being a girl does – but still, she would miss it beyond words. "And you think I do?"
"I know you do, because you were there when she was supposed to teach me that."
"All right," Jaime allows, with the air of someone proud to offer his bottomless generosity. The glee written all over his face turns calculating. "But it'll cost you."
If he had been anyone lowborn, she would have made him pay for the audacity; if he had been one of the noble girls from a poorer house that Father seems to think make good companions for her, she might have offered him one of her bracelets in a show of good faith. It's Jaime, though, so all she says is, "Name your price."
Her brother's hold on her shoulder tightens, as if he thinks she might bolt. "A kiss."
He had been right in his assessment, after all. Cersei steps away, the giddiness reigning over her evaporating in an instant. "Jaime—"
"Only one!" Jaime follows her when she tries to move out of his grip, just how she had known he would, and a part of her is happy for it; more than she has words to express. There's an air of challenge to it when he speaks again. "You're not afraid, are you?"
"Why would I be afraid? It's only a kiss." It's only a kiss. And it's a price she's willingly paid before, but that had been years ago, and Mother had said— "It's wrong. It's wrong, what we feel." She feels exhausted, now, most of all. She hadn't understood the problem to begin with – they had only ever wanted to be close, and it had been innocent, no matter what anyone had thought at the time. It couldn't be wrong, but she had been thoroughly lectured on it when her mother had dragged her back to her room years ago. It feels almost as if it had been in a different life, though it had been only six years – six years of carefully uncrossed borders and self-doubt. "If anyone sees, they might tell Father." And who knows what Father might do? She still doesn't understand what had made any of it so wrong and clearly, neither does Jaime, but that doesn't mean that they don't have to be careful anymore.
"No one will see, look." Her twin gestures around the deserted courtyard, as if he'd forgotten that the kiss is what she's supposed to pay in return for putting him into a gown and sending him off to her lessons while she goes to his, sword in hand. Perhaps he had forgotten. The idea that he had been looking for an excuse to do this thrills her in a way she can't quite comprehend. "There's no one here but us. You'll put your hand in a lion's cage but won't kiss me?"
"No one's told me not to put my hand in the lions's cages!"
"Father did tell you to stop doing that." His tone turns accusatory when she doesn't deny it. Father's word is law, but it doesn't weigh quite as much as their mother's had, and deep down, Cersei suspects that it must be because of how troubled she had looked when she had told her off. It's one thing to be reprimanded for misbehaving for something that endangers her life, which Lord Tywin had done with a sentiment somewhere between annoyance and thorough disinterest. He had called her reckless, not wrong. "I don't care what anyone says," Jaime declares, catching her by the wrist when she makes to take another step back. It's a bold statement to make in front of her given that he knows precisely what the source of her doubt is, but he says it all the same. "It couldn't be wrong. It's only one kiss."
She would have always relented in the end, Cersei admits to herself, resigned, and then nods with a sigh. "Only one. And then you'll go cross-stitching and play the harp tomorrow."
"But—"
"Do you agree or not?"
"All right," Jaime says, too quickly, and she suspects that he has no clue just how dull playing the harp is. Or perhaps he really just wants to kiss her, and that thrill runs through her again, delighted at the idea. "Have it your way."
She feels defeated and victorious all at once when she invites him closer, stepping back into his space, and closes her eyes when Jaime hauls her closer with a hand on his waist, pressing her against himself with an impatience that she hadn't seen coming.
His kiss is unexpected, too; firm and almost vengeful, as if he wants to reprimand her for all the time they'd spent depriving each other from it, and Cersei understands – allows him his righteous indignation. Her lips open under the pressure from his on nothing but instinct and her arms wrap around him to keep him near and for a single, golden moment, they're the only thing that exists in the world.
They only part when the need for air becomes too great and her brother looks about astonished as she feels, Cersei is pleased to note. It's a first for him, too, then. Good. There's something terribly possessive coiling around her insides, tightening its grip on her heart at the prospect. None of us should ever have to be touched by someone else.
Jaime's breathing is still ragged when he speaks again. "Another," he says imperiously, mellowing when she only raises an eyebrow in response. "Another, and I'll go to your singing lessons, too."
She doesn't need him to, Cersei thinks – she does feel a little like singing just now. Still, she's not about to miss out on the opportunity to swing a sword if he offers it.
"Just one more, then."
~.~
The capital is, Jaime had discovered over his short stay there, an endlessly boring place.
Father had taken him instead of Cersei – or, really, hadn't taken them both – only to spite his sister, he's quite sure; her insistence had only made his refusal stronger. It's childish, really, and it only serves to make her all the more wilful, not that their father seems to comprehend that at all. Jaime likes her wilful – there's nothing as becoming as Cersei when she's set her mind on something, her entire being shining with determination – but the same cannot be said about Lord Tywin on his best day. It's one of the great mysteries in life. His sister's temperament is glorious to behold even when it scares him half to death and he doubts that he would ever want her any other day.
And still, it's Cersei that truly blossoms in King's Landing, among all the other highborn lords and ladies fawning over her, to his great irritation. Jaime has no place there without her. The nobles and the royals alike are fickle creatures with all their age-old customs and easily offended sensibilities. He'd loved the knights he'd met, and had loved their lessons even more, but they have famed knights in the Westerlands, too.
He's relieved to be on his way home, and yet, a twinge of worry remains – he and Cersei are not the same in mind in the way they are identical in their looks, and yet, he cannot imagine Aerys's court as a good place for her. If it had already become so mind-numbingly boring for him at the age of twelve, how is she meant to spend her entire life there, even as a queen?
Thankfully, that's still years in the future, if it ever does happen. For now, Cersei is waiting for him back home after almost a year of absence due to their father's business in the capital being delayed, as per usual, and he wants nothing more than to be in her arms again.
By the time they're back in the heart of the Rock and Jaime climbs out of the carriage, clumsy and stiff from the long ride, he gets his wish before he'd even managed to take a single look at his surroundings and he yelps as the breath is knocked out of him, an embrace he would know anywhere in the world.
"Jaime!"
For a moment, delighted laughter is the only response he can manage, as well as his arms wrapping around her, pressing her against him tight enough to hurt. "Hello, sweet sister."
For a moment, all he can do is hold her and bury his face in her hair, taking in the sweet fragrance that comes to him in waves, eyes squeezed shut as if he can preserve this moment forever. There's no knowing what the future – their father, more likely – has in mind for them, but this – this, no one can take away from him.
When he finally pulls away enough to be able to look her in the eye, it's a strangely disorienting experience – for the first time, he has to look down, and he grins at the realisation that he had grown taller than her at some point in the last year. She doesn't seem to mind terribly, or at least, it doesn't show; she's as preoccupied with the differences between them as he is. And what differences they are – she had been a tall, scrawny little thing when they'd parted, just like him, and looking at her had felt like looking into a mirror. He couldn't say she's much different now, but she fits differently in his arms, her body taking on a woman's shape and her features are sharper, somehow, just as beautiful but changed. She seems even more graceful than before. He hadn't thought it possible.
Stuck as they are in their silent exploration, the rest of the world fades somewhere behind them, as unimportant as everything is where Cersei is concerned. Once the world in question decides to force its way back into their small, isolated piece of it, Jaime startles out of his reverie when his uncle Tygett passes them by, patting him on the shoulder in a rough welcome.
"Look at you!" By now, he's used to praise from family when it comes to the fact that he's slowly starting to resemble the knight that he's supposed to be one day and is not particularly impressed with it – none of it is under his control, after all – but he can't help but preen now that it's said in front of Cersei. It's not like she can't see for herself, but it's different when it's pointed out; like an additional bit of validation on his behalf. "You're almost a man grown!"
His sister laughs but doesn't look away, her eyes still locked with his, as her smile blossoms into something far too fond for company. They had always been close, but this is skirting into territory that Jaime doesn't quite know what to do with just yet, and she disentangles herself from him before he can decide.
"Quite," Cersei agrees before she saunters off – his sister had never done anything of the sort before – and Jaime, as always, follows right in her footsteps, still too enthralled by her presence for his own good.
This is a game, too, like the ones they'd played as children – only now the stakes are much higher than trying to figure out who would blink first. It's all right, though; as far as such games go, Jaime is rather dedicated to the art of losing them, given the rewards Cersei tends to want.
~.~
"—and that's how the Doctrine of Exceptionalism came to be," Cersei explains, playing with a wreath of flowers she'd been absently vowing together while she watches her twin whack at the wooden soldier of a figure placed there for training with more violence than strictly necessary.
"That's horseshit."
"I certainly hope you didn't tell the King that."
His wooden sword falls to the ground with a dull noise and Jaime wanders closer to her, leaning on the small, decorative fence that makes the only boundary between the training grounds and the small field stretching right behind her. This deep into the Rock's endless balconies, she feels as if she's on top of the world, among the wildflowers springing up from the immovable mass of the cliff below them. Up here, she thinks, anything could happen. Life could squeeze itself out of stone; love could find a way to live even when it had never been meant to.
Her brother had come back from the capital a changed man. She had heard others say it, but the proof is right in front of her either way and, while she hadn't felt quite so different, she can tell that he thinks the same of her – there's something in the way he looks at her that makes her almost bashful, or it would have, if she'd ever had any shame in her. As it is, it feels more like a challenge. They no longer feel the need to find excuses in order to grant each other the privilege of a kiss, but she wants more than that, to her horror. She wants his attention and his admiration and anything else he's willing to give. She wants his devotion, in the same way she'd offered him her own. She wants him, truth be told; all of him at once.
And whatever she asks for, he gives – even just now, as she leans towards, he steps closer still, one hand cupping her face while he leans in to steal a kiss for what has to be the tenth time today. She doesn't blame him – she can't get her fill either, after his absence. It's the longest time they'd ever spent apart and she never wants to do it again.
"But it is horseshit, isn't it?" Jaime insists, only a breath away from her, and she can see the echo of that same sentiment on his uncertain face, like the sort of reflection she'd get in a river – twisted through a different surface, but just the same at its core. "Are we just supposed to accept it because they're Valyrians? And we are, what? Andals? First Men?"
"Both," Cersei supplies, and that only seems to agitate him further.
"Both. Who says that we cannot have the same practices? They're human just like us."
If she hadn't been as frustrated by the state of the world as he evidently is, she might have found his outrage amusing. Had she not known him better, she might have mistaken him for a septon, with the way he's suddenly oh so eager to see true harmony in the world. "Neither the Andals nor the First Men bedded their sisters."
The mask of propriety falls apart as startlingly quickly as it had come and Jaime grins back at her, wicked in a way that always leaves her in quiet awe for a moment and quickens her breathing. "I've yet to bed my sister, so I suppose we've been exemplary so far."
"Jaime!" It's a reprimand, but she cannot stop herself from laughing this time, both helpless and gleeful. It's infectious, it seems – a moment later, her brother descends into the same amusement, clearly pleased with himself. Cersei draws him nearer, inviting him in her space on the other side of the fence, and he climbs past that last border keeping them apart with ease, lips quickly finding hers once again as she pulls him down on the grass alongside with her.
Up here, Cersei reminds herself again, anything could happen. If the Rock can make flowers out of nothing, then they could make a life out of the same. For now, she finds, that's all the reassurance she could need in the world.