I find Jaime is as much if not more responsible than Cersei for this whole “Lannister coup” thing.
Now you might say, but Cersei is the one who had bastards and murdered the king, so why does Jaime end up more responsible than her?
What choice did Cersei have? She either has kids with Robert, has kids with someone else, or gets dismissed as queen and married to someone else where the process repeats itself (although this second man might not be able to divorce her as her father is likely his liege lord. Might not will.)
While the path that leads to the least obvious death in canon is #3, I also imagine that Tywin would be nothing short of furious and we might end up with Stannis as the heir instead. I’m not sure Cersei thought of that as an option. Cersei misses quite a lot of things and keeps making the worst possible decisions, so this might just be a extension of her character.
And I’m not here to tell a woman that she has to have the children of a man. Any man, but particularly one who is raping and abusing her. Everyone is very sad when she kills Robert. I say, good for Cersei.
Jaime, though, what was Jaime’s excuse? What was going to happen to Jaime if he didn’t sleep with Cersei? She’d get mad? And what was going to happen to Jaime if his sister didn’t have children? She’d either be mad at him in Kings Landing or mad at him in some lord’s castle in the Westerlands. He wants to make a lot of noise about “honoring my vows” while upholding the Lannister regime.
I say they both did it, and they’re both still doing it.
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HELLO BEAUTIES. I have a pre-ASOIAF mini-fic for you here, featuring everyone’s favorite terrible family, the Lannisters. This is a sweet little scene I imagined between Cersei and her mother, which I intend to be part of a longer series surrounding Joanna’s relationship with the twins.
If you enjoy it, please feel free to let me know in the comments or in my inbox! I always welcome feedback. Sending you loads of love wherever you are, and thank you for reading,
Word count: 666 (cursed but we love it).
Cersei’s hair is long and tangled as a fisherman’s net by the time Septa Dorret finds them in the upper bailey, two small golden-haired soldiers playing at swords. Both are clothed in dirt-dusted tunics and breeches, weapons in hand, the wood of the practice blades thumping dully every time one of them lands a hit on the other. The guards only shrug when the old septa scolds them all like little boys—what in the gods’ names do they think they are doing, letting Lord Tywin’s children have at each other as if they were knights preparing for war? She seems likely to cuff each man on his ear when Jaime suddenly cries out, and the children’s fun is ended.
Septa Dorret is on them in a blink, prying the wooden hilt from Cersei’s fingers, hauling her back to the castle, Cersei squirming and kicking and shouting all the way, though in vain.
The septa is tough as old boots, and she has served House Lannister far too long to be daunted by their pride or wealth or status. What should she fear from a child? Cersei may well bear her father’s name, but at six she is no lion. She is a little girl like any other, and little girls must learn to behave..
It is not long before the commotion reaches her mother’s ears, and Lady Joanna arrives at Cersei’s chamber door just as Cersei is refusing, quite loudly, to have her hair combed. “Thank you, Septa,” Joanna says gently, “We can manage from here.”
“My lady.” The old woman sighs, relieved. She leaves without another word.
When they are alone, Joanna eyes her daughter evenly, patiently, silently. Cersei is slow to settle, but in time her sobs become fewer and softer until all that remains are a few ragged little gasps.
“Are you going to tell Father?” She sniffs, her cheeks salted with tears.
“No,” Joanna raises an eyebrow, “Though I imagine he shall find out anyway, if you arrive at supper in such a state. Will you let me help you?”
Cersei chews her lip, considering. Her hair is a nest of tangles, her hands and forehead streaked with mud, and a blue-black bruise is darkening above her elbow where Jaime walloped her with his practice sword. Certainly Father will notice, and when he does....perhaps it’s best not to think of it. She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her tunic. Then she nods her resignation.
“It’s not fair,” she says, plopping glumly into the little tufted stool before her looking glass. “No one ever scolds Jaime.”
Never mind that they play all the same games and run through the same thunderstorms and hide in the same gardens. Jaime is allowed to be as wild and filthy as he pleases. Cersei is only allowed to follow other people’s stupid rules.
“You are your father’s firstborn,” her mother is fond of reminding her. “You must learn to behave like—“
“A lady,” Cersei sighs, “I know.”
“A Lannister,” Joanna corrects. She lifts a handful of curls and pulls a pearl-handled comb through in long, gentle strokes until Cersei’s hair is smooth as a weaver’s warp, each strand a shining golden thread.
“I’m the firstborn, but Jaime still gets the Rock.”
“Someday, yes. But by then you will have the kingdom.” Joanna looks at her in the mirror, green eyes on green eyes. “And you will be the most powerful Lannister that has ever lived.”
“More powerful than Jaime?” Cersei can hardly believe it. She turns fully around in her seat, tucking her feet beneath her to feel taller.
“More than Father, even?”
“Yes,” Joanna laughs. Cersei will remember her mother’s laugh for the rest of her days, a sound that bubbles like seafoam over sand. “Though you had better not tell him so. Sit down now, and let me finish. You look a fright.”
“Good,” says Cersei, a jester’s grin between her ears. “Father says it’s best when they’re afraid of you.”
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