While you're reading, I advise you to listen ''Quand on a que l'amour'' (When we only have love) by Jacques Brel(in French, but translate in English), and the Celine Dion's version.
All Game of Thrones belong to GRR Martin and DB & DW
Enjoy reading !
From their earliest childhood, Jaime and Cersei know that what they share is more than what other siblings share.
The other siblings of the same age they live with often behave as if they were best friends, at most.
But Jaime and Cersei are much more than that.
Of course they are best friends, of course they are, but not only that. They are more than soul mates, they are two sides of the same person, one flesh, one blood, one soul.
They can't explain the tear that separation causes them, especially when their mother catches them both naked in the same bed at the age of four and threatens to reveal it to their father if they ever do it again, nor the explosion of heat that, like wildfire, sets their being on fire and sets their hearts on fire when they find each other again.
This sensation is the best feeling in the world, to feel burning from the inside, a dangerously beautiful and attractive fire, whose stifling heat they can't help but want to feel. But the heat of this fire is not stifling in a bad way.
It's not like when they are thrown headfirst into the sea bordering Casterly Rock by the big breaking waves, with salt water entering their nose and mouth, irritating their throat and stinging their eyes.
No, this feeling of asphyxiation is sweet. Velvety. Pleasant. Tempting.
But they have no right. Their mother told them they have no right. That they were not allowed to touch the fire, because it was burning, and that they were not allowed to sleep in the same bed, or even in the same room, either, because what they had done was wrong. But they don't understand that. Why before, they had the right, and when they had begun to dare to touch the fire and appreciate it, they no longer had it? What was wrong with that?
Their mother refuses to answer them. She only tells them that it is wrong, that it is heresy, a sacrilege for the Seven.
But, since she only answers that, always, tirelessly, Jaime and Cersei deduce that it is because there is no real reason, no explanation.
And their mother dies.
When someone comes to announce her death, instinctively, Jaime opens her arms, and Cersei wants to run to fall into his embrace, but she is held back by her nurse. The maid who takes care of Jaime then comes to whisper in her ear that they are just two children who have just lost their mother, and who need comfort, so Cersei's nurse lets her go.
And she runs. She throws herself into Jaime's arms, who closes them around her, caressing her hair as she clings to him with all her strength, and they burst into tears, both kneeling in the same movement in the very middle of the corridor. But the flame burns brighter than ever.
Now that their mother is dead, they hardly see their father, who, as Hand of the King, spends almost all his time in King's Landing, and when he returns, he is interested only in Jaime, neglecting Cersei and completely ignoring Tyrion, his newest child, whom he has only deigned to visit once.
Cersei doesn't care, she doesn't like the baby. He took his mother from her, tearing her insides out when he came into the world. But she doesn't understand the difference between her and Jaime, when they are so much alike, from their golden hair and emerald eyes to the flame that devours them, that consumes them.
Jaime knows that it is not his fault that their mother died. He couldn't want it, he was much too small, he was only a baby. So he loves him. He loves him, but not in the same way he loves Cersei. That's when he understands that he will never love anyone the way he loves his twin sister.
Now, as soon as they finish their respective lessons, which have also started to differ, Jaime takes Cersei to the beach. They take off their shoes, lie down on the sand, the two of them alone, Cersei in Jaime's arms, and imagine what their lives will be like later.
One day, Jaime tells her that he wants to marry her later, and then blushes immediately afterwards, he who never blushes. He apologizes for what he just said. But Cersei kisses his cheek, telling him that there is nothing she would want more in the world. Because it's true. No one will ever mean as much to her as Jaime, so why marry anyone but him?
Besides, Father is bound to say yes. He hardly ever says no to Jaime.
But, since it's when you grow up that you get married, they decide to keep it a secret.
And, as if to seal the promise they have just made to each other, Jaime puts both his hands on Cersei's face, moves closer to her, until their lips make contact and kisses her. At first a little surprised, she kisses him back, even slipping the tip of her tongue between her two fleshy lips. And the fire becomes stronger than ever, and overwhelms them to such an extent that they are one, as they have never been before.
When we only have love
To give and share
On the day of the great journey
That our great love is
The years go by.
Jaime and Cersei have grown up. They stopped being as alike as they used to be.
Cersei now has feminine curves, with small breasts, well curved hips and legs, a slim waist and hair flowing in long golden waves, so similar to those that wave the sea and break on the cliff on which the castle is built, while Jaime has grown up well, protruding over her by more than a head, now becoming a strong, well built, muscular boy.
But it doesn't matter, even if they are not the same as before. The fire still burns, and gets stronger and stronger as time goes by.
It's no longer on the beach, lying on the wet sand with the salt water licking their toes, that they imagine the future, but in one of their beds, naked, after being united, that they do it.
However, both of them become more and more aware every day that they are only dreams, illusions, utopia, even if they refuse to admit it for the moment.
Cersei becomes slightly more distant, getting bored stiffly during her sewing, singing and dancing lessons, while she wishes she could ride horses, wield the sword and draw arrows, and attend their father's meetings, who only accepts Jaime and categorically refuses his daughter's presence.
And Jaime, for his part, can't help but feel his heart clenching for his sister, for the one he loves and the one who loves him, because he hates nothing more in the world than to see her hurt, even if she refuses to admit it. But he sees it. His eyes get lost staring at something invisible to his own, and his mind escapes like a bird that has been opened the door of its cage. And he can't help but hate their father, for not seeing, for not realizing the potential of his eldest daughter, much more important than that of his prodigal son, to whom honors are offered that he doesn't want.
The only thing he wants is Casterly Rock, because he knows that by becoming Lord of the Western Lands, no one will be able to stop him from marrying Cersei. No one will dare.
But, one fine day, their father summons them in his office, and announces to them the departure of Cersei for Port-Real, to become pretender of Prince Rhaegar.
At the very moment when his father says that Cersei is going to leave Casterly Rock, far away from him, he feels his heart being torn in a way he had not felt since their mother separated them when they were four years old, a tear that he would never want to feel again.
It's not fair. In their father's eyes, Jaime was all that mattered to him. The heir, the prodigal son, tall, young, handsome, an excellent swordsman. He embodied all the hopes of the richest house in Westeros. But Cersei was only a commodity, which would, if the prince did not want her, be sold to the highest bidder at the first opportunity, no more and no less than a slave. Slave of a lord who could be twice or three times her age and who would display her and exhibit her as one would display something particularly expensive, but who would never love her. Who would never feel the explosion that ravaged them, destroyed them.
Jaime had learned that slavery was a forbidden and condemned practice in Westeros. But it wasn't true. Women were slaves to their husbands. And Cersei was a woman. She was going to be forced to warm her husband's bed whenever he wanted her to, and to do what he ordered her to do when he ordered her to do it. And that made him mad. Cersei was more than just a whore. She was a lioness, Lord Tywin Lannister's own daughter. And to Jaime, she was everything.
But their father said. And when Lord Tywin Lannister said something, we listened to him, without question, and we bent over backwards to obey him, whatever it took. Cersei was going to leave Casterly Rock the next time he returned from King's Landing. And he left again.
Jaime had refused to attend his lessons. Before, he would have been forced to, but now that he was almost an adult, he was the Lord of Casterly Rock when his father was away. So no one would contradict him.
He spent his days with Cersei, lying with her on the beach, just like when they were children. But this time, they didn't say anything more. Even their utopian lies, their idylls, would not have been enough to save them from the horrible reality that was catching up to them.
They were content to take advantage of each other's presence. And their love.
They had finally managed to put a word on the fire that was burning them, even if no words would ever be strong enough to describe the power of this emotion, this passion that animated them.
But soon they would no longer be together. It would no longer be Jaime and Cersei, and Cersei and Jaime. It would be Jaime in Casterly Rock, and Cersei in King's Landing.
Jaime would no longer be able to lose himself in the emerald oceans of his sister's eyes, in the midst of which danced the inextinguishable flames, making them shimmer like wildfire, and as destructive to Jaime as the substance from which they drew their hue.
They would have nothing in common, except the flame that burned in their torn, torn hearts.
For nothing would ever be strong enough to extinguish that fire, not even their father, not even the faith that they had been taught to respect, but which they had ignored when they had been told that brothers and sisters should not be in love, that it was wrong. Not even the distance between Port-Real and Casterly Rock.
When we only have love
My love, you and me,
To make burst with joy
Every hour and every day
Cersei gets married.
When she enters the Great Sept of Baelor, dressed in gold and scarlet, dressed in Lannister glory on Lord Tywin's arm, everyone can see the fire dancing in her eyes, although they all think it is burning for her betrothed.
Robert Baratheon is beautiful. Robert Baratheon is tall. Robert Baratheon is strong. Robert Baratheon is king.
But when she looks straight into the eyes of Jaime, who is standing right in front of the altar, wearing his white cloak, he knows that this fire will never burn for Robert Baratheon, even though he is king. And it heals a little the wound caused by Cersei slipping through his fingers, that he cannot catch her, and that nothing will ever be the same again.
Everything he ever did was for Cersei, and for the twin flame that has set them ablaze every day of their lives, since birth, and even before that.
He took the white cloak, entering the Royal Guard and immolating his rights on Casterly Rock so that he could be with Cersei, and never again feel the painful tear of separation, the feeling of losing a part of himself.
He stuck his sword in Aerys' back, because he thought that by taking the throne, no one, not even their father, would be able to stop him from marrying Cersei. But it was without counting on Eddard Stark, who came with his Northmen to force him off the Iron Throne before he could assert his position on it.
And now he is forced to protect the man who stole his sister. And the only thing he can do is to swear that if he hurts her, he will kill him himself.
He didn't yet know that this was going to happen much faster than he had expected.
He had watched the new king throughout the banquet. He had been drinking and ogling all the ladies of the court and the kingdom who had come to attend the royal wedding, while the most beautiful of them sat beside him and had to be content to watch the whole scene unfold before her eyes without saying anything.
Neither could Jaime say anything. So he grabbed Cersei's right hand under the table and looked her in the eyes.
They didn't need words. Fire was enough.
When it came time for bedding, it was clear that the king, who had drunk his fill, was completely drunk. Jaime worked hard to fend off all the men who even tried to lay a hand on his sister's body and dragged her into the wing of the king's apartments, rubbing soothing circles on the back of his hand with his thumb. And he gently pushed her into the room.
He felt his heart break when, about two hours after the king was brought into the apartments, Cersei silently emerged from there, her dress torn, her eyes full of tears, and, still without a sound, threw herself into the arms of Jaime, who guarded the door.
When he asked her what had happened, she burst into tears, and told him how horrible it had been, and that Robert, drunk to death, had collapsed on her, crushing her frail figure with all his weight and blowing in her ear the name of his late lover when she reached her climax. How he had been brutal, rough, hard on her, not caring a single moment for her comfort and pleasure.
She was not used to such barbarism. Jaime had always been gentle and kind to her. He would take her in his arms, kiss her tenderly, caress her hair, hold her close to him, hug her, whisper to her how much he loved her and always cared about her pleasure before his own. But Robert was not like that.
But she begged her brother not to kill Robert, even though he would have gone straight into the royal chamber and stabbed the sleeping boar. She begged him not to do so, because then he would be the Kingslayer twice in a row, only this time the king was loved by his people. He was a war hero, a conqueror, a rebel. He would never be mad like Aerys. And Jaime, for his part, would pay the price, although he would pay anything, even willingly give his life for Cersei.
And then there would be no more fire, even though it was his familiar and reassuring warmth that had kept Cersei going throughout the whole act and not burst into tears. After all, she was a lioness, and lions bowed to no one, let alone deer, which were mere prey when they were predators. Except for Jaime.
In front of Jaime, she would let herself cry all the tears of her body. Only in front of Jaime. She knew that he would never see her as weak, and that he would never mind opening his arms and offering her his shoulder. He was the one who had told her. But he had told her when they were children, that they would lie on the wet sand, and that they still thought that when they grew up they would get married, become Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock, and have many children with golden blond hair and emerald green eyes.
But it had all been lies, and mirages of a perfect life. Was that a lie too? Was Jaime going to stop loving her?
The years went on and on. Summer followed spring.
Every once in a while, when Jaime and Cersei needed to leave this world to return to their own, they would get together to remake reality.
They were remaking the world, but nothing was the same anymore.
They were no longer children. They were no longer on the beach at Casterly Rock. They were no longer free and happy as before.
Now they were remaking the world, lying on Jaime's bed, Cersei facing the window and Jaime gently cuddling her from behind, whispering in her ear the promises of another life. And tears silently streamed down Cersei's cheeks.
They flowed, because Cersei knew she had the hope of a dream that would never come true.
But she closed her eyes and tried to believe it, even for a fraction of a second, while Jaime kissed her tears and the multiple bruises that covered her body.
Then she would open them again. She reopened them on the red roofs of King's Landing, realizing that all she had were illusions, daydreams and promises.
Illusions, daydreams, promises and flames.
When we only have love
To live our promises
With no other wealth
Than always believing in it
If Cersei had thought that nothing could ever get worse right after her disastrous marriage, she was sadly mistaken.
Sure, she had had a few moments, a few bursts of happiness, but nothing that had ever lasted. Like with her children. Her children, who had been, with the fire still burning inside her, the only light in her life of darkness, sadness and unhappiness.
She had loved them from the moment they were placed in her arms, all red and screaming, each one of them like fragments of the life she so longed for but would never have. Like pieces of a dream.
She had loved them so much that it had hurt her. She had loved them so much that it was only because of them and Jaime that she hadn't thrown herself off the top of the Red Keep. Perhaps she would have been free to live her dream then?
But they were gone.
Neither Joffrey, nor Myrcella, nor Tommen.
None of them were there anymore.
Only Jaime, who wrapped her in his protective and loving embrace as she watched the still smoking ruins of the Great Septuary of Baelor gradually appear in the dawn. As she contemplated what she had caused.
In herself, she didn't give a damn about the hundreds of people who had perished in the explosion. After all, they had come to watch her be condemned, to watch her suffer, to watch her die.
But she couldn't help thinking that if she had wanted to keep her last precious little lion cub by her side, she shouldn't have blown up the religious building. She should have gone to her son. He would never have gone out of the window if she had been with him. But she had not been there, savoring her revenge and her blood-colored wine, blood that had been shed, blood of the enemies, Lannister blood. And her last baby was dead.
The sun rose, illuminating the remnants of his cruelty, his monstrosity.
It was because of her. She had killed her son, whom she had tried so hard to protect. She was a monster.
Part of her had definitely died with Tommen. A part of her that had begun to wither with Joffrey.
But not the part that was burning, consumed by the fires of her love with Jaime. That part would never die.
It was too strong, too powerful, too big to be destroyed.
No matter what she did, no matter what she wanted, she would never be able to extinguish that immortal fire.
Especially when Jaime was there, right next to her.
So she turned around in his embrace, burying her face in his chest as he swayed gently back and forth, not caring about the tears that wet his leather jacket.
He took her face in his two hands, golden hand and flesh hand, and pressed his forehead against hers, with his nose touching hers, allowing him to feel the moisture of the tears dripping from her wildfire eyes, in the midst of which the flame of love was still floating in the shadows of sadness and suffering.
When we only have love
To furnish with wonders
And cover with sunlight
The ugliness of the suburbs
Edmure Tully was right.
Jaime was hateful.
Even he didn't know how he fell asleep.
He no longer deluded himself that what he was doing was right. He had given up on that idea a long time ago.
But he had managed to find peace, thinking about Cersei.
Thinking that everything he had done, he had done for her, and that he regretted nothing.
So he didn't regret pushing Brandon Stark off that tower during the royal visit to Winterfell that had taken place only a few years before, but a few years that now seemed like centuries.
He did not regret strangling his cousin, Alton Lannister, for it had given him hope of seeing Cersei again, and had given new life to the fire that kept him alive when he was imprisoned.
He did not regret threatening Lord Edmure to kill all the men, women and children of Riverrun. He would have done so without hesitation, if it had allowed him to return earlier to Cersei.
And now he was gone. He had gone far away from Cersei.
Of course, it was for her that he had gone. For her and for the child she was carrying in her womb.
She had refused to send her armies, but Jaime had decided to go.
He decided to go, because it was for Cersei that he had fought, that he fought, and that he would always fight, even if his death was to follow. Because he had promised to protect her.
And abandoning her had been the only way to protect her from the threat of the White Walkers coming north. So he had done it.
It tore him apart, having to make that decision. But he had no choice. But that didn't stop him from feeling his heart squeeze as Cersei's eyes darkened, as if someone had just thrown a full bucket of water on the flame that was usually present when she looked at him.
He had wanted to tell her, that it was for her that he was doing it, but before he could utter a single word, the Mountain approached him, ready to kill him on Cersei's orders.
He had not been afraid, when the immense soldier had advanced, ready to draw his gun. He had not been afraid, because he knew that Cersei could not live without him, just as he could not live without her. He knew instinctively that she would not have him killed. But he felt horribly angry.
It wasn't his sister he was angry with. He could never be angry with her. No, he was angry with himself.
He knew that Cersei tended to overreact when she was hurt. Exactly like a lioness. When lions are wounded, they turn in on themselves, so that no one can see their wounds, their vulnerability.
And Cersei was the same.
And he hated himself for generating that reaction. For being the one who had hurt her, when she had been hurt by everyone around her and he had promised her he would never do it.
He hated himself for breaking the only oath he had ever made in his life that he cared about honoring.
Although he had taken many oaths throughout his life, none would ever mean as much to him as the one he had made to Cersei.
And he had broken it.
In doing so, he had been afraid to put out some of the fire, which had never been extinguished or diminished since their birth.
And that was precisely why he was there, returning to King's Landing from Winterfell, where he had left Brienne.
Brienne.
He had made a big mistake with Brienne. He had thought that he loved her, even if there was only a little ember between them. And he was wrong.
He had hurt her, too. Of course, she didn't mean as much to him as Cersei did, but she was still a good friend, and he hadn't appreciated hurting her.
But, after touching fire, how could he be satisfied with a simple ember?
When we only have love
For single reason
For single song
And single rescue
And it was when he saw her, as the world was burning around them, that he knew he had made the right choice.
Their love had always been the only thing that had kept them alive. When they were apart, the only thing that kept them alive was fire.
The fire that burned inside them as an integral part of themselves.
And nothing could ever change that.
That they were not married, that they were forced to hide their relationship and lie about their children's filiation, all that didn't matter anymore, because their love had survived, and it had been the only thing they had ever been able to hold on to.
The explosion of fire that burst inside them had absolutely nothing to do with the explosion of wildfire that had swept away the Great Sept of Baelor, nor with the fire spattered by the dragon that had just a few hours earlier destroyed the city walls, nor even with the great flames that were dancing all around them.
It was much more than that.
And that fire, even if Daenerys Targaryen claimed to be the embodiment of fire, even she could never understand it.
No one would ever understand anything about it.
How could one explain to those people who believed as hard as iron that that fire was a heresy, a sin, when it was the most beautiful thing in the world?
That the feeling of wholeness, of fullness that resulted from it was more vital to them than air, water or food could ever be?
That they were not two people who loved each other? That they were in fact one, one being, one soul, one flesh, one flesh and blood, and, when united, one body?
And they couldn't stop thinking about that fire, which kept growing as they got closer to the exit, as they got closer to freedom, as they got closer to the life they had dreamed of all those years?
But their dream was shattered again, when they arrived in the underground of the castle, as they had been so many times.
When they had been separated as children.
When they left the beach at Castral Roc.
When Cersei had been sent to King's Landing.
When Jaime had to step down from the Iron Throne.
When Cersei was sold to Robert Baratheon.
When Cersei's eyes reopened and they rose from Jaime's bed in the White Sword Tower.
When Joffrey was dead.
When Myrcella was dead.
When Tommen was dead.
When Jaime was gone.
When Daenerys Targaryen had started burning King's Landing.
When Jaime had begun to think that he would never find Cersei.
When they came to the exit blocked by the fallen stones of the collapsed vaults of the Red Keep.
It was over.
It was the end of their dream, which had never really begun, although they had dreamed about it so much that it almost seemed real to them.
That they had touched it with their fingertips before it flew away, before it faded away for good.
But not like the fire, which burned around them and in them, and which would never fade.
When we only have love
To show the way
And change the course of fate
At every crossroad
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