the light of the west

"Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released."

A Cersei Lannister writing blog, a roleplay blog, mindless musings. Don't follow, you won't care half a jod about the content. xo
—POSTED 13 Sep 13  AT 22:01

|1| if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves


When Jaime was little, after the first time he and Cersei had kissed (the first time he had felt that spark of what it was to be whole), Joanna had him sent to the sept for a lesson on decorum.  The solemn septon took him from altar to altar, explaining the purity of each symbol, the sanctity.  It had been all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes.  Only two symbols had meant anything, the maiden that his fair sister would become, and the warrior he already was, sword in miniature strapped to his belt.  (Lions, Tywin had explained, did not bite with wooden teeth, and Lannisters would not fight with wooden blades.)

Joanna had sent him there to make him see that there was something wrong about him and Cersei, he knew that, but how could there be, when they were all part of a greater whole?  Was he meant to think the warrior could stand to be without his maiden?  The gods had fashioned Cersei to be his double, his equal, his missing half.  When he was inside of her, there was nothing else in the universe but her, surrounding him, completing him, filling in his empty space.

"Cersei," he moaned, as he entered her, and then could say no more.  She swallowed him, engulfed him, took him in, inch by inch, until there was nothing between them, not even air.

This was how it was, how it was meant to be.They fit together like a sword in a sheath, more perfectly than should be possible. The hurried thrusts of their sweat-streaked bodies were obscenely loud, nearly drowning out the snores of their new king, but Jaime didn’t care.  If Robert dared wake, Jaime would kill him as he did, with a single thrust of his still-sheathed sword lying only a few paces away.

Jaime pressed close to Cersei as he could, his bare chest hugging the prick of her nipples, his eyes wide open so he could drink in the glory of her face as he thrust into her again and again.  She was close now, she must be, he could feel her tightening around him, her lips perched in a lion’s smile, ready to let loose with a roar.

Briefly Cersei prayed to the Gods that Robert Baratheon would wake. Jaime’s sword was at hand, and she figured it would be rather easy for her brother to reach for it and shove it through the king’s belly. It would be rather easy even for her, were the sword less heavy, and her body stronger. With the wine still in him she knew her new husband was naught but a shadow of the fury that had murdered Rhaegar Targaryen on the trident: even a woman, such as her, could have the better on him.

What would Robert’s death gain her, however? Without an heir, Cersei was as good as nothing. Her crown and her title depended entirely on the man she had wed, and without him the throne would most certainly not be hers. She would lose all chances of wearing the golden ringlet, and she would not be queen much longer. The old maester had taught her of succession, and just thinking of Stannis Baratheon holding the power which should be hers made her stomach turn.

Worry washed over her, and she pulled Jaime’s head into the crook of her neck; she watched Robert, studied as his chest rose and fell, with an almost surreal amusement. Jaime latched onto the skin of her neck, biting and soothing with his tongue, sending shivers up her arms and jolts all the way down to her navel. Cersei could feel herself unraveling in his hands with every thrust.

"Is this what our lives will be like from now on?" she whispered, panting heavily, barely managing the words. "You coming into my bed to—" a gasp, when he drove into her faster and harder, "—to fulfill my husband’s duty?" A familiar warmth rose to her cheeks, a numbness that enveloped her head like a cushion pressed against her ears; the muscles in her legs tensed and her abdomen quivered under Jaime’s unrelenting eagerness.

"Stay inside me," she whispered, pressing quick kisses against the shell of his ear, sucking the earlobe between her teeth. They had been forced to be careful during the years, to avoid Cersei growing with child. But that time was gone now: Cersei was a woman wed and bedded, and should the Gods bless her with a child no one would blink. "Stay inside me," she repeated, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her breasts into his chest. Her climax almost made her call out his name, as loud as her lungs would have permitted her. Instead she bit down on his shoulder, tasting the salty of his sweaty skin on her tongue.

—POSTED 10 Sep 13  AT 21:02

|1| if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves


Jaime had seen the smile that tugged at his sisters lips, had not missed the near imperceptible sigh of disappointment as he left her side. The relief that flooded into his smile he hid well as he tucked his head between her thighs.

He had been a fool to think this changed anything. This was merely what Cersei wanted, what she’d wanted all along; a king to wed and him to bed. Why would it be any different? The white cloak lay heavy on Jaime’s shoulders as he lapped at his sister’s cunt, feeling her squirm beneath him. It was the weight of her love that guided him, the reason he joined the kingsguard.

The taste of Cersei made Jaime insatiable as always; there was nothing sweeter than her, and nothing crueler either. He needed to be in her, to be one with her, to be whole again. Suddenly, Jaime was acutely aware of how painfully hard he was beneath his leathers and gilded armor. She must be close now too, and he couldn’t bear the thought of being without her much longer.

"Cersei," he moaned, lifting his lips from her cunt. White was the cloak that fell to the floor, thankfully cloaking the clattering of his metal breastplate. As Robert snored beside them, Jaime stripped his clothing from his body, caring not what he ripped or disheveled. He knew nothing but his need to be naked beside his sister once more, as they were meant to be.

"I need you," his skin was glistening with sweat, his hard cock already twixt her thighs, "I need—" but any other word was quelled by the crash of Cersei’s lips against his, open, and hungry for a taste of herself.

It was a shame, truth be told, that her brother could never be king, that she’d had to marry into another family — undoubtedly inferior to her own — to don that crown; Jaime looked like a king, and acted like a king, and oh God, he fucked like a king. Where he lacked in thinking like a king, she would have sufficed: her shoulders were strong enough to carry the weight of Seven Kingdoms. As Jaime’s tongue moved unrelentlessly against her core, she almost forgot the black-bearded man who slept soundedly beside them. Almost. When a moan threatened to escape too loudly she bit her lip as hard as she could, arching her back. The mattress shifted, and in the fog of such pleasure she glanced at Robert.

He was blissfully oblivious.

Jaime called out her name, and that brought her back to him, almost startled; when she saw him tear the cloak off his shoulder and unclasp the metal breastplate, she opened her mouth to protest. There was no time for that, and surely even Robert could not sleep right through it. Surely. But with every piece of clothing that her brother would fling over his head and to the ground, she found her voice less and less willing to cooperate, until she was thinking yes, yes, yes.

I need you, he said, and she almost replied that she needed him way more than he would ever need her. But instead she silenced him, crashing her lips against his when she felt his cock against her thighs. She drank in her own taste mingled with his, and she would rather pledge temporary insanity, but her hand wrapped around the length of him eager, guiding him to her opening, feeling him as he stretched her inner muscles as he entered her.

Such a pale comparison, she thought, thinking of how Robert Baratheon had felt inside her — Robert had been a stranger, but Jaime was part of her. Robert’s cock had felt like a sword, stabbing repeatedly at her pride. Jaime was the missing piece she had lost at birth.

Jaime swallowed her whimpering with his mouth over hers, possessive and territorial over something that was his by nature and Robert’s by law. His hands held her grounded to him to remind her that the cloak that had been swung over her shoulders hours earlier meant nothing: she would always be his as he would always be hers, and nothing could come between them, just as nothing could come between their naked bodies as they rocked against each other, slow and overpowering.

Cersei broke the kiss grasping for hair, but found a sadistic pleasure as she listened to her husband’s heavy breathing on her right just as her brother panted into her ear, driving into her over and over again. As she looked to the side again, she felt the boiling feeling of vindication move beneath her skin, and she smirked. Small, almost invisible. A mockery of the man who lay beside her, a worship of the man inside her instead.

—POSTED 08 Sep 13  AT 18:05

|1| if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves


A grin tore at Jaime’s lips as Cersei jerked his hand up, her fingers tangling in his hair, his scalp stinging softly from her ministrations.  He knew her body better than he knew his own, could predict each movement that she would make.  He saw the way her fist grasped at the pelts beneath her, heard the gasp in her voice that begged for him to keep going.  This was her game, as it always was, to pretend she wanted something aught than what he could give her, until she surrendered at last to what they were.

Pulling his hair from her grasp, he followed the line of her eyes to the crown that rested in the windowsill, the gold flickering in the torchlight.  It was nothing but raw metal, and yet it distracted his sister.  She was captivated by it, as she was once captivated by him.

At once, he pulled himself from Cersei’s grasp, listening for the inevitable shudder of disappointment as his fingers released her cunt.

"Is this the problem, then?" Jaime asked, crossing the room to lift the crown from its perch, "Will you let a circle of gold come between us?" Her arousal smeared against the circlet as he lifted it onto his own head, returning to her side.  The golden ring perched upon his head fit as perfectly as if it was made for him, and it was, as it was fitted to Cersei, and she was his double.

Carelessly, he tossed the crown aside, letting it fall upon the furs. “Don’t let the crown go to your head, dear sister.  You are me, as I am you. I could kill anyone who dared trespass here with one hand in your cunt.”

As if to demonstrate, Jaime lifted his fingers to her thighs, ghosting them lightly against her skin before he pulled them back again.  ”Unless, of course, you require different tribute.”

With that, he knelt again, brushing his lips against the golden hair that crowned the peak of her thighs, his tongue dipping gently into her cunt. “You’re so beautiful, sister,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against her, “more beautiful now than you have ever been.”

As furious as she was whenever he did not listen to her, she was even more furious now, when he did. She propped herself on both elbows as soon as his fingers left her core, frowning and glaring in outrage that he would dare not finish what he had started. In his arrogant glory, he covered the whole length of the room, reaching to where her crown lay, golden and pure. Cersei narrowed her eyes and she felt a twitch in her stomach when he touched it. He was laughing at it, and she thought it selfish:

"Along with that piece of gold I got a hold of history, brother." It was venomous, when she said that. Bitter. Triumphant, all the same. It was absurd that they would speak that way with Robert in the room; then again, she wanted nothing but her brother to return to her and touch her again. The Others take Robert.

The ringlet was feminine and it looked ridiculous on his head, what with the stark contrast with the splendid armor he wore. Still it fit his head as perfectlly as it fit hers, and that was fair. Her brother could have been a king; perhaps not the king the Seven Kingdoms would need after Aerys, but the king she had dreamed of when she was a child, before Rhaegar had come along. His head was naked instead, save for the golden curls that covered their scalps alike; no crown would ever be laid on his head, and the mockery of her own was bittersweet at that thought.

I was a child, and children dream of things that can never be.

"You look ridiculous, take it off immediately," she said, trying to sound menacing, but it was too late: the corners of her lips had already turned the frown to the smallest grin. She watched as the tiara landed on the pelts, in that space between her side and her sleeping husband’s back, and the gold stood out against the dark shade of brown. She looked at it, enamoured with it all over again, but it lasted only what was necessary to her brother to tease her again.

She watched, motionless, as his fingers barely brushed her skin, and she exhaled a shaky breath when he draw them away. Cersei was ready to send him on his way, screaming if needs be — if he would not please her, then he might as well leave the room and her to her own misery.

But he was faster this time, and she swallowed hard when he kneeled once more, breathing against her thighs. He needn’t beg nor ask, for she spread them for him out of instinct and primal urge, and the air got stuck in her throat when wetness met wetness, and the tenderness of his tongue seemed to soothe the soreness where Robert had been brutal.

She couldn’t tear her eyes off of her brother’s head, buried that shamefully between her legs, his eyes barely visible but green all the same. Her rigt hand slid down her side, subtle and invisible, until her fingers closed around the golden crown that lay abandoned there. She gripped it tighter, and tighter, feeling the pointy angles mark her palm.

"Why choose when I can have both," she whispered, every word laced in want and lust.

—POSTED 08 Sep 13  AT 10:44

|1| if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves


You shouldn’t be here, Cersei says, but not you should leave, not I don’t want you.Cersei’s hand holds firm against his own and Jaime smiles, unflinching. His sister’s hands were his own; though softer and thinner they were the hands of a fighter, of a swordsman. Now, wrapped around his fingers, Jaime could see them as they should be, slipping around his shaft, or else gripped tight in his hair, clawing tight as he shut her mouth with kisses.

"Guards? And which one of them could take me? Do you doubt me so, sister?"

Naked and glorious, Cersei lay before him. As his eyes traced her silhouette in the dim, Jaime could see sweat still glimmering in the valley of her breasts. Despite her wedding vows, or perhaps because of them, Jaime was sure he had never wanted her more. It was his left hand Cersei gripped; his sword hand still fingered his hilt, and he drew it now to the apex of her thighs, his fingers slipping easily into her still-wet cunt.

The metal of his gilded breastplate pressed against his belly as Jaime lowered his mouth to the valley of her breasts, his tongue flicking against her salt-licked skin.

"Did he… satisfy you?" Jaime growled as he buried his head in her warm breast, his golden hair falling about his armored shoulders. "Are you sated?" Between Cersei’s legs, his fingers still pulled at her, begging her to answer the question he truly wanted to ask.

Do you still need me, the way I need you?

Any and all retorts forming in her head were cut short by his fingers probing her — Robert had not, he had not wasted time, he had just fucked her. She saw his hand leaving the hilt, and she could have stopped it if she had wanted to; she was quick, ever since she was a child she’d been just as quick as him. Instead she’d let him, effortlessly; with a sharp intake of air when she felt him inside her, she turned her head to the side, where her husband’s back gave no signs of life except for the soft rising and falling in time with each breath.

How absolutely hilarious that would be a scene, for singers: the king fast asleep, the queen and her brother deep in sin just a hair away. The stuff of ballads, she told herself, blinking.

"Of course he did not," Cersei hissed, but then bit her tongue and gripped the furs beneath her palms, closing her fist fiercely as he caressed her deeper and deeper, with the intimate knowledge they secretly shared.

She should have sent him away, but her hands itched to reach behind his nape and keep his tongue on her breasts, discard the armour and let him take her, the Gods and their vows be damned. But the tiara, that golden tiara, winked at her from its place beneath the window, shining in the yellowish glow of the candles and the pale blue-white shade of the moon alike. It seemed alive.

"Jaime, don’t," she whispered, but her voice was hoarse from arousal and spoke of a different want. "You are going to get us both killed." She gave in at last, let go of his left hand and wove her fingers through his hair, tugging just enough that he would look into her eyes and see that she was serious. "This is treason." All the while her chest heaved with every light flicker of his ministrations, the words coming out in short breaths. "I am your queen.”

—POSTED 07 Sep 13  AT 17:33

|1| if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves


"I should not be here?" That was laughable. "He should not be here! He does not—" to say love you,would be cruel, and what was more, Jaime found it unfathomable, for who would look upon Cersei’s cruel beauty, cutting and raw like a naked blade, and not love her for it. “Deserve you.” Jaime whispered, though it took all his strength not to shout. It would be so easy now, to draw his sword and slide it between his naked king’s ribs, smooth and easy until it ran Lannister red dripping off its gilded sides to the furs that adorned his sister.

Even those were wrong. His sister should be dressed in lion’s pelts, gold and exotic and worthy of her. These were rough and common and wrong. Jaime’s legs move without his knowledge, his hands gripping tight as he rips them off of her, leaving her bare in the shadows of her marriage bed.

The dim candles pour golden pools of light upon her skin, on the swells of her breast, on the flesh of her thigh, stealing Jaime’s breath from his chest, bringing him to his knees before her, hearing nothing but her breath despite the clanging of his armor against the cold stones. How could she be more perfect now, when she was never less his? She who was once a part of him now belonged to the snoring oaf who shared her bed.

"Shall I kill him?" Jaime spoke in jest, hoping the smirk would not betray the desire beneath his words. One hand Jaime ran lazily up the line of Cersei’s thigh, the other fingered the red-jeweled pommel of his sword. "Do you think the seven kingdoms would notice if I took his place? The chair’s not so hard to sit on if you know how to wield it."

Deserve? That was a foolish notion, even for him. It mattered none at all who deserved whom; what did matter was that she was queen at last. She was always meant to be queen, their lord Father has told her as much. Every servant in Casterly Rock had known one day she would stand before Baelor the Blessed, kneel and receive the title. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She had known ever since she was a child of barely eight, and her father had promised her the dragon prince.


She said nothing; words were wind, and Jaime wouldn’t hear them. Her brother had too quick a temper and was too slow in thinking of the consequences of his actions; even now, in that chamber, her brother stood tall and proud and cowered before no one, not even the sleeping king beside her. No, he looked at Robert with contempt instead, the same contempt that he had scarcely managed hiding during the wedding. The same contempt that bubbled in her stomach.

Cersei didn’t flinch when he tore the pelts from her, but thanked the semi-obscurity for maybe he wouldn’t notice the darker spots on her legs. She kept her features schooled, knowing that as son as her eyes fell on the forming bruises, so would Jaime’s, and it would be impossible to restrain him then. Nakedness didn’t bother her; she’d bathed unashamed in the warm waters of the Rock before; and why would she be ashamed? She was beautiful. Jaime always told her so.

She frowned, unamused at his words. “I wouldn’t want you to, not when your blade is still dripping with the blood of his predecessor.”

Ned Stark noticed. He saw you on the Iron Throne and made you stand up. Why did you stand up, brother?

"You really should not be here," she hissed, slamming her hand down on his, firm against her thigh to still his movements. "He won’t wake, but the castle is full of guards."

—POSTED 07 Sep 13  AT 16:18

|1| if it hurts, we’re doing it to ourselves


Jaime was a masochist, or he would be, would it not mean hating Cersei as much as he hated himself in this moment, standing outside her bedchamber, listening to the boar grunts of her new marriage bed.

And yet, if he didn’t hate himself at least a little, why would he be standing here.

To guard her, was his automatic response, though what guarding he need do in the bedchamber was laughable. Who would attack her in there? A particularly unscrupulous pillow? (The thought that it was their new king he was supposed to be guarding never once crossed his mind.)

To be near her was more like it, though he’d rather be in her than near her, rather it be him plowing her against the silk, or the stone wall, or the red carpets, the way he had so oft in the past. At least if it was him, he’d hear Cersei’s mews of pleasure, which on this particular evening were few and far between.

Did she enjoy it? Jaime wondered, pacing the red stones of the keep outside their door, their new king fucking her, rosy and heavy with drink that he was. Surely she could not. Jaime knew he wouldn’t, not even if it had been some great beauty in there (though surely all seven kingdoms, and many of the free cities, knew there was no beauty greater than his own sister) instead of Cersei. There was only her for him, and him for her.

Through his third hummed chorus of some song of his father’s worth (or wrath), Jaime realized the grunting had stopped. Shoulders squaring tightly, he resumed his place at the side of the bedchamber and waited for his king to emerge, but there was nothing, no movement, no heavy footsteps, nothing.

Well, there was nothing for it then. If their new king wouldn’t come out, Jaime would have to go in. Without thinking of a reason why, an excuse, some imagined thread, without thinking of anything but Cersei, Jaime pushed open the door.


It had been unmistakable. As if his callous hands had not been rough enough, as if his thrusts had not been merciless and almost spiteful, as if the wine on his breath had not been humiliating per se. As if rather than a bedding it had felt like a devouring, a savage attempt at taming a wild thing.

Cersei Lannister closed her eyes and felt the king still above her, felt the muscles in his stomach tense and the fingers that kept her thighs apart dig into her skin. She let out  sigh of relief, knowing it was over. He would not wake up to claim his wife once more that night: the wine had been his solace during the nuptials, but in the end it had done her a service. As the dark haired king rolled off her, Cersei studied his face, with his half-closed eyelids and a frown that wrinkled his forehead; he didn’t look at her again when he said, “Sleep,” in a drunken drawl.

She couldn’t. At some point during the night the loud japes coming from behind the heavy door of the royal bedchambers had stopped; Cersei had been grateful for that. It meant the leering crowd had gone, and all the lords and their wives had retreated to their own residences, satisfied with the little circus that had been granted them that day. They had a new king, and a new queen, bedded and claimed. The new kingdom could begin at the break of dawn.

But the darkness that enveloped the capital, just outside the window, was nothing compared to the shadows she felt gathering within herself.


The wolf girl seemed to haunt her from the grave the way she had in life, when she’d stolen the dragon prince from her. Cersei had meant to be queen then, but the little brown-haired whore had come and taken it from her, ripped it from her bosom and left her with nothing.

Still Rhaegar had died, and Lyanna with him. A new king had been crowned, and a new age had begun that Cersei would ply to her will. Not Lyanna. Cersei. She glanced at the golden tiara that had been placed on her head only hours earlier, smiled at it like it was a child. Mine. But when her eyes fell on her own legs instead, she couldn’t ignore the reddening spots where Robert had gripped her; with a lazy flick of her hand she threw the dark boar pelt over her thighs.

When the wood creaked and the door opened, Cersei looked up and feared the worst. That someone might attempt on the king’s life, that they might take everything from her. She sighed deeply when she recognized the armoured shadow that stepped in: she knew who it was before he had a chance to step into the candlelight.

A creature of pride, Cersei found it hard to conceal the disappointment that shook her insides. “He won’t wake,” she said, looking at the king’s naked sleeping form. Then, returning her brother’s stare: “You should not be here.”