CERSEI LANNISTER

Written by MILLA (SHE/HER), 30 years old. I don’t interact with minors, due to the nature of this blog. Also I’m a little too old for that. I’m from FINLAND so English is not my first language and I apologise for the grammatical errors bound to happen.

The words seem to flow past, carried by a breeze and thrown from lips he’s so often traced with his own only to be crushed underneath the weight of waves that throw themselves against the shore. For the briefest of moments Jaime longs to follow them, to vault over the walls of their summer prison until the tumult of water and salt steals the breath from tired lungs … but instead he only offers a scoff in response, a huff of breath meant to offer neither agreement nor a comment to invoke his sweet sister’s wrath. 

“You sound like father.” Fingers tighten on the sun warmed railing, relishing in the burning of metal against palm that reminds him he is alive, that Lannister or no, he can still feel pain. It’s comforting, he thinks, to know you can still bleed. Golden haired and golden son, his father had once spoken of their family being akin to Gods and Jaime had poured over countless tales of Greek deities and hopeful heroes that they had sent to their deaths. Tywin Lannister presumed himself Zeus and Casterly Rock was their Olympus. It would be better, the lion of lannister imagined, to be one of the heroes - welcomed to rest in a crash of war and glory. 

Now, green eyes flick in Cersei’s direction and Jaime shifts his weight, straightening once more as she comes to stand beside him. A spell of ill health, the papers had claimed. An entire column in the city papers devoted to why Robert Baratheon’s wife had disappeared so unexpectedly and a carefully constructed letter of ill intent that had led to the order of her twin being sent to accompany her. Someone they could trust. A laugh bubbles out of his chest at that ridiculous notion, at the imagined expression on that fat oaf’s face if he ever learned the truth of how much his sister trusted him - but that hollow ache soon returns, that remembrance that she would always be Jaime’s sun, while he remained nothing but a shadow in the corner of her painting.

“I met someone.” There. It’s out before he can stop it, and the lannister can all but feel the slide of steel between his ribs, that icy stare of his twin’s gaze. He moves, turns until they’re face to face and green gaze can hold one so alike in color to it’s own, sets his jaw against any insult or curse she might throw at him. “You can’t expect me to stand at your whim forever.” The die is cast, though to what end he can’t begin to hope. Fuck power, he wants to scream. Fuck father, fuck Robert Baratheon, fuck those golden haired brats that will never truly his or mine. But instead he takes a breath, feels that steady beat of the heart beneath his ribs - one, two - and throws her words carelessly back at her.

“We make the rules…and we can always change them.”

     She is all alone now, only an imprint of a wedding band that had corroded skin. It still weighed on her, the pressure of Robert Baratheon had never truly been lifted. She’d hoped Jaime would have made her forget– but instead he comes to her all fire and no familiar comfort. It’s like something has been shattered and the pieces of what had been were scattered across just out of reach. There’s silence, save for the sound of ocean that lulled her into a false sense of security. Before she can even approach, he spills his poison.

     You sound like father, her mirror image says like he despises the thought. But Cersei has always aimed for greatness, yearned for the same stature only a patriarch could achieve. If it took walking through barbed wire, required filing your fangs and sacrificing all that was human, she was a willing to be maimed. She was willing so jeopardise so much of herself, and her concern for those surrounding her had always paled in comparison. Robert had been what father wanted, what she needed in the moment. All she wanted was Jaime, golden haired and bathing in sun’s rays– beautiful with his locks stiffened by the ocean. 

     But he looked cold, his words continuing to fall like raining daggers, sharp and cutting through flesh and all hope yet instilled inside her bones. He’s met someone, the audacity of the statement is enough to still her in place. The nails previously gracing along her bare arms now dig into flesh, crescent markings quickly forming under pressure. He must be lying, how could he  when all they had were each other? How could anyone understand him the way way Cersei could. How could one see the darkness that lay waiting underneath well constructed facade she’d been designer to? No, he was lying. He’d smile, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards and curling– but only when she’d react like the caged beast– he wanted to fight– to tame the lioness only he knew how to handle. Does he give in, grant him the pleasure of being right?

     “Is she beautiful?”

@matchedrage· liked for a tiny starter and asked for james c:

          “He was an assassin. He wouldn’t have taken it personally.” COMES THE DRY REMARK FROM BOND , the nudge of his foot against the body he’d dropped onto the floor moments ago. “He did seem quiet intent on killing you and i cannot help but wonder why.”

She’s quite sure her heart is beating out of her chest, and he would take note of it. An assassin was only an extension of Tyrion, she was sure of it and racing heart sets itself ablaze out of sheer anger. Hand falls from chest where it had clung to neckline of her dress, smooths out nonexistent wrinkle across stomach. She's only buying herself more time for her throat feels too dry to speak out, or perhaps it is the fury that clogs her windpipe. She clears her throat before speaking.

“I fear the actual story might not be half as interesting as the theories.”

She won’t elaborate, not when the man standing before her is cold as ice, blood on his hands. Would he take a knife to her neck too, should he learn of her sins?

Wine dulls her, reinforces the steel barriers that keep the lioness inside her caged in. And the queen cannot afford to lose her temper, not when her king– no, the king– is still a cask from drooling over his night gown would he have the stamina to drape himself with one. She is nauseous from the thought, her frown forming deep ridges across forehead. So she buries herself in the goblet, hope yet lingering that he may yet surprise her and save her the embarrassment of song and dance. If you could call drunken swaying dance, as eager hands grip maidens too young for his years. He'd always had the hunger– in their later years she'd learned his wandering gaze saved her from unwelcome advances.

The Lannister queen had never been one to share– not the admiration ( laced with terror ) trickling from awed lips of those below her– not the worldly possessions– nor name she thought only a true born Lannister ought to carry. But never the less, she’d learned those she cannot strike down with a sword were best kept close. She clenches her jaw tight, the babe in her belly still causes sickness thoughts like these did not ease. She must look so very pale. The opening of her green gown reveals the white silk dress underneath that accentuates the roundness. Where the two fabrics meet, her hand now caresses unborn child.

Forgive me– She almost asks for forgiveness before teeth catch the phrase before it can escape her. But that would only reveal the weakness she can feel hiding deep inside her bones. There’s tease in her voice when she speaks, a rare display of her humanity.

SPICE:  ginger for the slight spice and bitterness WEATHER:  a storm that shakes the castle walls. pouring rain and thunder. PRIMARY COLOUR:  red. COLOUR OF THE SKY:  sunset, reds and oranges, when the sky appears to be bleeding into the night. MAGICAL POWER: mindcontrol  SHOE: louboutin pumps HOUSEPLANT: a deep red cardinal flower BLADE WEAPON: dagger  SCHOOL SUBJECT: english and history SOCIAL MEDIA: telegram for the sole reason you can set expiration dates for messages MAKEUP PRODUCT: a red lip. CANDY: dark chocolate. TANGIBLE FEAR: abandonment.  ICE CUBE SHAPE: crushed ice METHOD OF LONG-DISTANCE TRAVEL: a jet. ART STYLE: impressionist. HISTORICAL PERIOD: n/a– 298 AC MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: a chimera. PIECE OF STATIONARY: a quill. THREE EMOJIS:  👄👸🏼🦁 CELESTIAL BODY:  venus ROM COM ARCHETYPE:  the tough cookie.

“Keep talking like that, love .. and a person ‘ll start to think its that brother of yours that keeps your engine running or whatever the fuck people say.”

A glance her way and a single brow quirks upwards, weight shifting as the Irishman slouches further in his seat and ringed fingers dig into his jacket pocket for a package of cigarettes. Aye… that’s awkward.

“And to think the great people of London claim that me handsome Irish self is the one whos fucked up…” Aye, maybe if he fills the car with smoke they’ll both suffocate and he’ll never have to think of this conversation again… A man can dream, yeah? “You’re paying me enough to off that fuckin’ husband of yours, aye … but me revelation just now is gonna lead to a whole weight of therapy in the near future.. and unlucky for you .. I can’t afford it. The meaning is clear: pay up.

Lions have their pride and so does she – and that is all she is the willing protector of. She’ll defend with teeth (whitened) and nail (manicured), smoking guns and deals born in alleyways. Perhaps there in lie the reason she has forsaken her pride and swallowed the evident distaste for strangers.

She has drenched herself in perfume to mask the stench of cigarettes that clung to her. It doesn’t fool him,  she understands that much, but she too is a creature of habit. Cigarettes may sign her ending but death by boredom is what Cersei fears more so. The cigarettes replicate fingers curled around her throat, the slow high of suffocation.  He’s speaking nonsense and that makes her blood boil. So fucking cryptic as if they were not already past the point of pleasantries and empty words. In truth all she wanted to roll off his tongue was a yes ma’am. And instead she is met with slander- the truth, yes- but does money not buy silence any longer?

Must she prove herself? Fingernails dig into the palms of her hands out of sheer frustration. Yet the soothing thought of Robert choking on his own tongue,  gurgling and pleading for someone, for her to help is enough to calm her. Now this stranger dares speak of Jaime in such light and hold this over her head, dangling her secret like he was so goddamn proud of himself. As if she wasn’t already hanging on by a thread. He adds to her suffering. 

@piraticalwit

I'm like wildly average

     ❛To do so and opt for a lifetime of suffering and misery would make me the crown’s fool.❜

     She's offended but not surprised that Jaime would think her cruel enough to part them from what was fated. It had always been him who had left– to squire, to spill blood and wage war. It had always been Jaime tearing out her beating heart and sewing it back inside– always a few carats lighter. Would the shrivelled thing hold any warmth so should he part again? Why put on fires for dead men? They would not care for celebration, no, all they knew was rot climbing up severed limbs until they too had dissolved into black ichor. And Tyrion was laughing. When she blinked he was there instead of Jaime, grinning widely and mischief glinting in mismatched eyes. He was mocking her, reaching for her throat. Another blink and he had vanished. Golden hand reaching to stroke her hollowed out cheek. She swats it away as it were nothing more than a fly. That’s what King’s Landing had plenty of. Shit and flies, covered in shit, consummating in the remnants of sin.

     ❛I am no fool, Jaime.❜

     Would it kill her to smile? No. Would it kill her to cut off a limb to survive? Perhaps, even predators turn on their weakest, they sniff out the prey amongst them and bare their teeth with an ugly snarl. So while it does not kill her to smile, it tears away at her very core, she knows it signs her own execution. The familiar seashore of Casterly Rock slips away from her with each passing hour. She has nothing left to smile for, when her joy has been pried away from her hands– stone cold now. They say it took five good men of King’s Guard to move Cersei Lannister from Joffrey, her nails had dug through the front of his wedding shirt, leaving their hollow imprinting on child king. What reason does she have left for a smile? It’s more a grimace her lips curl into, if only to please Tywin Lannister– that’s all she’s ever wanted to do and still for a wise man he remains blind.

     ❛The King you gave a sacred oath to serve no longer draws breath and we are amidst a war. What reason do any of us have to smile?❜

“Since I loudly declared my arrival, I don’t see how they could’ve missed it ..” The answer to his sister’s ridiculous question is given with a grin, brow quirking as fingers pull at the tie that has spent all day choking him - much like their father’s (and the world’s) expectations. Keys are fished from his pocket and tossed atop the nearest counter, green eyes glinting with an amusement the lion can’t quite hide as they travel the length of the kitchen. It should irk him to see Cersei reduced to such chores, should flame the fire that was so well stoked upon Robert Baratheon’s death to life once more - but instead, the freedom such a thing allows sends his heart singing, a melody of absent shackles that thrums through his veins.

“You worry too much.” Arms slide around the curve of her hips, lips pressing the faintest of kisses against the shell of her ear and Jaime’s smile grows all the wider. “Just yesterday the woman with the blue door was telling me I just had to try the strawberry icing she was putting on the dessert she had for you…don’t tell me….” Brows furrow in a frown as he steps back slightly, shifting until they’re face to face and the feigned look of despair that slides so easily across golden features is more than palpable. “ .. you trashed it, didn’t you?”

Emeralds so much like his own stare back at him and the Lannister’s chest aches - both with desire to cradle his sister in his arms and the need to strangle the supposed righteousness from their father’s very shoulders. The idiot Baratheon’s death should have meant Cersei’s freedom, should have finally delivered her from every foul hand that fate had ever dealt… but Tywin Lannister was very much still alive and luck, it would seem, did not often quickly strike twice. 

Teeth catch at a plump mouth, nose brushing the barest of touches against the crown of golden curls. Suburbia is nothing more than another gilded cage when it comes to his sister and Jaime will do everything in his power to help her escape once again from another’s clutches, but the hour is already late… and murder is best planned with a warm cup of coffee. “Say what you will about the people here and the gods awful taste they have in lawn gnomes.. but there’s one good thing to come from this.” Palms press against her back, pulling them together ever closer as if in attempt to meld them into one. Both golden haired and green eyed - too much alike to possibly determine where one or the other begins… and the laugh that laces his next words is evident through ever syllable whispered into curls. “ … Father will be caught dead before he comes to visit you here.”

     Her brother was reckless, most dangerous much like a double edged sword. You worry too much, and you worry too little. Does he not see that his lack of concern only forces her hand– someone must take responsibility and where as he obeyed she had been destined to rule. And with that came frown that turned otherwise beautiful features sour. And just as easily it melts as he lays down the first touch to her skin. It feels like a lifetime ago since she’d been in his arms– but when a soul longed for its mirroring piece, a few hours could feel agonizing. 

    ❛Perhaps you might still be able to salvage it and share share it with her.❜

    There’s a certain tint to her voice as it airs, a challenge, do you dare cross her? Her judgement had never been impaired by foolish emotion, no, she wasn’t like Jaime in the sense that he was guided solely by his need for validation, following society and the expectations it bestowed upon him. To her it had always been easy, she’d been the strongest of the two, she’d been the one who listened without needless fidgeting. Men and their cocks are most easily distracted. Just now he goes to unknowingly prove her point as he craves for her. He almost bleeds into her like two splotches of ink. That’s what they were though-- a twisted, fucked up, Rorschach test. Do you see a moth or a violent crime of passion? 

    She’s responding to his kisses without much thought given to it, like an instinct it has been carved in her at birth. Tracing the path along his back, overly conscious of where each vertebrae belonged. She’d kissed them all, counted them a thousand times over, her brother was a thousand times the man her father thought him to be. His spine could not be broken even by a tyrant that forces her grip upon the fabric to tighten in anger. Her words come out with spite. 

     ❛And I will be caught dead before I let him. He’s humiliated me, Jaime, reduced me to a pitiful stereotype of a grieving widow.❜