A Song of Ice & Fire. Jaime/Cersei
Pre-series, set somewhere in their teen years at Casterly Rock.
Disclaimer: So, GRRM is fic-averse, I have heard since writing this. I have also heard that he has thrown up his hands re. fic written for the show. Say I to this, I wouldn't have been prompted to read these books if the show hadn't come into my life—so I figure this fits the parameters, in its roundabout way. Thus, I'm carrying on. Bless 'im.
The steel of his armor is freshly gilded, hard but shining, lain at the foot of his bed to be wrested onto his body later. There is a tournament tomorrow—no, today; the sky has begun to break, pale gold limning the horizon like a Lannister tribute. The castle is abed; Jaime, unaccountably, is awake. He stretches, props himself up in bed, and outside his door he feels more than hears the whisper of footsteps. When the door pushes open some seconds later, he has lain back against the mattress, his mouth in a peremptory grin already. Barely cracking the door ajar, his sister slips inside, stepping into the room in a twist of hips and slim waist. He smiles, lays back.
“Cersei,” he greets her. “You’re up early.”
“I didn’t wake you.”
It’s not a question. “No.”
“You’ll be on the field today.”
“And you couldn’t wait until then to see me.”
It hadn’t been a question either—there are few things they must ask each other whose answers they do not know. She steps in, walks to the edge of the bed. He props himself up on an elbow that he might better admire her: his pretty sister in a loose morning gown that fails to hide the way her breasts move, pale green samite brightening her already bright eyes, so like his own. Kneeling by the suit of armor, she casts a swift look back at him, running a slow, covetous finger over the curves of metal. “It’s handsome,” she says.
“More than that, I should think.”
“Father had it commissioned for me.”
“For us, I think.”
He cocks an eyebrow, and she lifts the helm in her hands. “For the house, I mean. Think of how fine you will look in this—finer than anyone else in the field.”
“Only the field?” he asks casually, and she smiles, sly and sweet, stroking the engraved lion atop the helmet.
“In the world.”
They are creatures of Casterly Rock—stone and gold—yet Casterly Rock is silent as if the castle itself sleeps, or perhaps it’s just a matter of thick walls; in any case, Jaime can easily imagine the castle as belonging to them and them alone, the world. The two of them, reflecting the same plane of beauty back and forth, and she looks him full in the face and he swallows at the sheer force of that beauty, hands curling in on empty palms. “Come here, you.”
“A moment,” she says, casting her eyes back to the suit of armor. “I’d like a look—”
“Well, do better than that.” He jerks his chin toward the helm. “Show me how it looks. I know you want to.”
Her smile is bright, blazing instantaneously across her face. She slides the helmet over her head, pushes up the helm: bright green eyes and bright white teeth dazzle out. “Well, brother?”
He cocks his head. “Yes,” he says casually. “I’ll look excellent.”
“You look—” His eyes flick over her, over the wrought metal of the lion, over her dress and delicate hands. “Very silly.”
“Silly, is it?” she blazes at him.
“Silly, and very beautiful.”
She wrenches the helmet off her head rather gracelessly, catching her hair in it. “You just missed my face when you couldn’t see it.”
“That’s not all I miss. Come here,” he says again, and she lays the lion helm down.
“They did such good work.” Her hands stroke once more over the metal shape of his body, an empty gilded husk of him on the floor, watching him with teasing, deliberate eyes. “My twin brother, all cast in gold.”
She plucks up a greave, and the golden cage of the armor rattles and clanks. Sitting herself on the edge of the bed, she pushes her skirt up over her knee—the familiar curve of ankle to calf to thigh bare; he could trace it in the air but he’d rather take it in hand. Slipping her ankle into the encasement of armor, she points her foot toward him. It’s too big for her—of course it is; while their faces have kept themselves matched, their bodies have grown in opposition—but it sets off the curve of her white leg perfectly. She tilts up her chin: a champion, herself, already. Grinning to himself, he reaches out and takes her ankle in his hand, pulls her in, and she gives a little scream of surprised laughter, sliding in with skirts tangled up around her thighs to meet him. The position has been familiar since before either of them remember, and their bones slide into patterns of motion with each other.
She reaches out and knots her pale, perfumed fingers in his hair. Shifting his face, he bites a small, soft kiss against her wrist; her skin is bittersweet with flower-scent and her fingers tighten against his scalp, pulling his hair back as she leans in to kiss him full on the mouth. Her mouth is lush and hungry over his—if ever his sister is graceless, it is now, in the clumsy bridge of night and morning, in the privacy of his room and his bed. They have never been artful with each other; they have never had to be. She leans into him, the whole weight of her pressing breathless against him, and he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her between his thighs, pinioning her there. Sliding his broad hands up her narrow back, he pulls her against him and revels in the way they fit, their asymmetries enjoined: their bodies have grown separate over the years, and now they meet like missing pieces, two halves of a whole filling in the things the other lacks. Her legs are hooked against his waist, cunt pressing to cock through layers of sheets and skirts; he swears he can feel the heat of her in spite of them. She rests her forehead against his, breathing hard into the scant space between them. “Do you feel like a champion this morning? You shall look like one”
“I woke like one,” he says, tipping up his mouth to catch hers again. He tracks a hand up her skirt, beneath smallclothes and samite up to the heat between her legs, and she sucks a sigh into his mouth against his upper lip. Victory’s already in the air, he thinks. Casterly Rock offers victory on a golden platter every day—a tribute to the Lannister line, to them—he slips a finger into her, two, fingertips wet at first brush, and she throws her head back and that is victory, too, the curl of his fingers in the slick heat of his sister and the way she swallows down that long pale column of her throat at it. His thumb brushes across the top of her cunt and he feels her clench in around the stroke of his fingers, the toss of her hips against his hand knocking against his own. His breath catches; she smiles, a pert, wry expression that quickly dissolves at the next stroke of his fingers. One last shudder, and she murmurs something incoherent, shivering with pleasure in her skin, the motion catching the sunlight that refracts gold in her loose, fair hair. She lays against him, pulling her skirts in a tousled heap atop the bedsheets and draping her legs over his, her head crooking in against his chest.
“Of course you’ll win in the field.” She tracks a finger over his abdomen. “If I was a boy, you know—all I’d ever do is win at tourney.”
Win, he thinks, not fight. He smirks. “If you were a boy, you’d probably be king.”
She shakes her head. “If I were a boy, I’d be you,” she says, and pulls the sheets aside. No fabric between them when her hand reaches between his legs, and he groans like he’s already been wounded. Not for battle. Only for her.
As she takes his cock in her hand, her legs wrap around him, and as she slides atop him, a slow drowning in a Cersei sea, he keeps his hand wrapped around her foot like a familiar anchor. Her ankle in his hand, thumb in the delicate bone hollow: they were born this way.