This fiction consists of a series of relatively unrelated one-shots I've written for the A Song of Ice and Fire kinkmeme on LJ. You can find a link in my profile. The length and genres vary, from humor to fluff to horror.

You can always find the most recent version of these stories on my LJ page - also found in my profile.

Summary: Cersei loves her broken little doll; Jaime is powerless to stop her. CerseiJaimeSansa
Prompt: 'what happened to giving women flowers instead of heads?'

Four Nights

I.
A fog permeates King's Landing, one that smells so thickly of madness that Jaime tastes it: sour, like the stomach bile of a dead wolf. He hadn't noticed it at first, or perhaps he had simply not cared to heed it, but it soon became as obvious as the sun in a clear day's sky. His elation that he finally had the time to scrub the grime from his skin, so roughly that he almost tore it away, flesh red as if he had been in the sun for far too long and raw as if he had been skinned, dissipated as he learned how quickly the world changes when one is torn away from it.

It starts no more than a week after his return. He is overeager, excited, and takes risks he might not have in other circumstances, but it had been too long. Too long since he'd seen her, too long since he'd touched her, too long since their bodies last united as one. One time with Cersei, not even a proper night - next to Joffrey no less - was not nearly enough to sate him after his prolonged, miserable, filthy 'adventure.' Jaime's eyes dart through the hall, expectedly empty of all guards, as he moves with silence trained by a thousand nights of practice. Jaime had long held access to the schedule of rounds; he and Cersei have been taking advantage of the rare moments of vulnerability in security for as long as he remembers. He pushes the sturdy door to the Queen's chamber open without bothering to knock, warm satisfaction welling within him when he sees that his twin still leaves her room open to him, even after so long apart.

"Sis-" Jaime's mouth snaps shut as his gaze slips across Cersei's immaculate chambers and it is obvious that he and his other half are not alone. Cersei's large room is dark, more brown than black in its partial light, with its sole remaining candle burnt to almost its base; there's an unfamiliar light smoke in the air that Jaime recognizes as incense. Jaime's eyes work to adjust to the lighting as they focus on the intruder; it seems female, by its body shape, and sits closely enough to Cersei that their arms are touching. It quickly becomes apparent that they're comfortable around each other. The girl – Jaime almost believes it's one of Cersei's ladies in waiting, but knows of none who are that small or that Cersei would never show them such trust– pays little heed to Jaime, even as he draws closer in confusion. The two are holding hands, and Cersei has a warm, almost maternal look on her features as she stares at the child beside her. It's hard to tell the child's coloring in the dark, and Jaime does not immediately recognize her features, but he can tell she is unafraid, even though in her lap she clenches a doll as if it is a part of her. Cersei's guest looks down and away from him, but Cersei pushes the girl's chin up with her finger, as if to offer her strength. "My Queen." Jaime corrects belatedly, not realizing he never finished his welcome. The girl remains impassive, as if she does not care one way or the other, her eyes glued to Cersei as she watches her every move. Despite appearances, Jaime knows not express any familiar intimacy in the presence of another.

"Jaime." Even in the darkness Jaime knows the expression which covers Cersei's features, he can tell by the way she caresses his name that their thoughts and desires remain united, all that is left is to makes their bodies so. Her informality continues to worry him, but not nearly enough to distract him from his sister's future attention; it is a rare event when he is the cautious one instead of she. "Come Sansa, you must greet our guest." Sansa. Jaime's mind snaps back to reality and works fervently as he futilely prays the girl is not who he believes; he knows none of Cersei's servants or maids called such, and there's only one of high birth Cersei would keep so close who holds the name. The Queen pulls the girl up off the bed and tugs her over to greet him, firmly, but not-quite forcefully, enough to let her companion know she will not tolerate insubordination. The confirmation of his fears is immediately apparent as the girl's dark hair clearly becomes auburn as she approaches the light. The Lannister man is not sure if he feels relief that his ward is safe – or terror that Cersei seems to favor her.

"Perhaps it would be best if I returned another time. . ." Jaime retains his distance with a step back as he feigns that the meeting is unimportant. As he prepares to leave, Cersei clutches his arm, intentionally near where his right hand once was.

"Nonsense." The Regent's voice is not a whisper, but the husky tone she uses in seduction. All at once his lust returns anew, more stubborn and powerful than before.

She draws him close without another word, her lips just as he remembers as they make their way down his face and neck. He cannot stop his grunt of pleasure when she bites hard into him, enough to leave a mark, and leans his head back to more easily draw her into his arms. Jaime almost wishes to scold her, to tell her what a fool she is to reveal their relationship to a child, for he has no desire to harm another Stark for knowing things she should not, but nothing besides another light moan of desire falls from his lips as his twin draws him to her bed and works at his trousers with disturbing efficiency.

Sansa proves to be a good girl. Cersei barely needs to say more than two words and she nods and smiles and moves to vacate the area around the bed. Jaime does not look at her for more than a half-second beyond to see that she chooses to sit down on the floor nearby, doll still in hand. Sansa brushes its hair lightly with her fingers, but his attention is diverted and the Lannister man feels his hesitation slip away when Cersei's fingers play at his cock and he presses down on his twin.

It barely feels any different than any of their other times together, and only once does the girl's presence interfere with their coupling. The Stark girl gasps in worry in response to Cersei's louder moans, in fear that Jaime may have harmed her queen. His irrational mind, drunk on his hormone-driven lust, internally amuses itself with thoughts of how different Sansa seems from her mother.

II.
Jaime returns the next night, drawn by primal desire. He follows the same patterns, the same methodological path through the castle until he reaches his lover's room. Again the door remains unlocked, but what he sees before him upon entry is quite different. Where the two females had been preparing for bed the night before, both are instead alert and awake, still not entirely dressed down for the evening, but informal enough that they are not expecting disturbance. Cersei's room is lighter on his second visit, and Jaime sees the two more clearly as he gently closes the door behind him, to not draw attention to any who might have heard him walking the halls. Neither female cares to look up; his twin knows his footsteps well enough that a smile crosses her features, but one very different from the lust-filled expression that often drives him to madness. The look tells him more than any words can: Cersei does not share Jaime's plans for the evening. Instead, Sansa sits with her doll in her hands once again, her back to Cersei, as the queen runs her brush through the maiden's hair; the girl, too, brushes the hair of her doll, which she clutches against her as one might cling to a rock in the middle of the ocean. Jaime sees the strange object with more detail in the light, a brown, almost leathery, thing, deformed by years of wear if he's not mistaken. It is unfit for most born of her rank, but the child seems fond of it.

"Good evening, brother." Cersei's words are pleasant and warm, as if she'd rather spend their time speaking than fucking. Much of the time she uses the tone in mockery or manipulation, but he can sense her genuine feelings behind it when she uses it with him. He's not heard the tone recently and he finds misses it. "You've come at the perfect time." The smile remains, but she continues to look at the pretty, pale thing in front of her. Even Cersei's fair skin seems almost tan compared to Sansa's almost grey complexion. Jaime inclines his head in curiosity, knowing his sister expects no reply until she finishes her explanation. "You're to bring a present for our dear Sansa." Our? Jaime almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it, not only that she implies they share the Stark girl, but at how his sister orders him about like a common servant. Cersei ignores Jaime's irritation, though he is sure she recognizes it, as she speaks to her companion as she might a child of no more than five years. "You'd like a present, wouldn't you?" The Regent questions the girl. Sansa blushes deeply and again turns away from Jaime, as she had the night before, before she quietly and assuredly nods.

Cersei waves Jaime over with an unfamiliar apathy - she does this to annoy me. He is in no mood for her games; his earlier purpose for coming quickly fades, arousal gone entirely, as it becomes obvious that Cersei's attention remains elsewhere. Jaime remains steadfast and silent until he's sure the woman understands he has no intention of obeying such an order – she can at least look at him if she wants to request something. It is the queen who relents first; his sister breaks the tense silence as she places her brush to the side and pushes at Sansa up. The girl is shy, not nearly so meek as she first appears, as she stands and aids the Queen to her feet with surprising strength given her lack of tone and muscle mass. "Sansa needs a new doll." Cersei motions toward the bundle in the girl's arms. "Go now, show Ser Jaime." The look in his sister's eyes is harder than the hardest metal; his earlier stubbornness almost falls away, but Cersei underestimates him. He returns her gaze with an equally cool look and prepares to speak; the words never form and Jaime is paralyzed, by no work of his sister's.

Sansa approaches carefully, respectfully, and retains her distance as she holds out her "doll." It takes every ounce of willpower in Jaime's body not to recoil in horror, but his sharp, low gasp echoes loudly in the silence of the room. Is that. . .Joff? No, impossible – Cersei would never allow it. The object which first appeared to be a doll was no doll at all, but a worn, decapitated head. The brown leather he saw earlier is skin, though it appears to be in the later stages of decay, as it looks to tear easily and is obviously falling apart. The hair is still remarkably thick and well taken care of, despite that it falls out in clumps in a similar manner as the skin. The girl lovingly runs her fingers through its hair, its color indefinable but he can tell it had been light before death, as she shifts her weight back and forth in anticipation. The foul thing did not smell, a wonder in itself, but its mouth is open in a perpetual scream and the nose looks like it might soon drop from its face. Jaime feels Cersei's eyes digging into him and he knows he is trapped. He blinks rapidly at the sight, hoping to clear his vision. He bites his tongue hard and runs his left hand over the stump that remains on his right, in hopes to learn that it is all a horrible dream; yet nothing changes, save the girl's look, which becomes more curious as time passes.

"And where am I to get such a. . .doll?" Are the only words his mouth forms as he looks up to the older woman. Jaime is half inclined to believe the girl cradles Eddard Stark's head in her arms, no matter how absurd the notion. Her father has been dead for far too long, the head she holds is fresher, but it explains her fascination with the hideous Lannister almost laughs at the thought, even if his stomach turns simultaneously; he has seen war and death, he has killed in countless ways, but some part of the back of his mind is appalled to see what was once such an innocent, naive girl twisted beyond repair.

"You're a resourceful man. You'll find a way." Cersei does not smile as she moves towards the girl and gently takes her in her arms. She leads the Stark back to the bed and again they sit together; their whispers and his breaths are the only sounds that shatter the peace in the oppressing room. The Stark girl continues to blush at whatever Cersei says, and gives infrequent small nods of both confusion and curiosity whenever Cersei motions towards her brother. Jaime knows he has no place in the room, not this night. The two are almost as young gossiping friends speaking of subjects boys are not welcome to hear. Cersei's gaze falls upon him before he turns away, her eyes holding silent orders: Now, brother. Jaime almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. Cersei wants him to collect a head, of all things, but finally relents, knowing how temperamental his sister is when she does not get her way. A corpse should be easy enough to find, he supposes.

Just as he closes the door behind him, his sister's voice calls out, a harsh command, one she uses as a Queen to speak to her subjects: "Male, female, I care not, but do make sure it has hair."

There are times he wishes he can say "no" to the woman he loves.

III.
He is not one to listen to rumors, but his curiosity about the young Stark girl finally gets the best of him. Sansa gives him no explanation, Cersei gives him no elaboration, the servants hold their tongues more tightly than he's ever seen before, and little Tommen is entirely oblivious, so Jaime goes to the knights. A few coins are all it takes for their lips to flap freely, where they did not even move the servants. Rumors about the Stark girl prove plentiful, but two stand out above all others.

"She was touched by the same poison that killed King Joffrey." Whispers one.

"It runs in the family. Tully side." Says another; Jaime is inclined to believe him.

If nothing else, Jaime can admit the Stark is a sweet girl; she's taken to smiling at him whenever he brings her new "dolls." Jaime does not know why he does it, or even how to stop, because, Gods forbid, he knows he's driving her further into the darkness. But then he sees her smile. His disgust falls away and only one thought fills him: she's relying on him. His gifts make her happy; he had brought warmth to so few in his lifetime, and making someone besides Cersei smile is surprisingly pleasing, satisfying in a way he did not expect to ever feel. If he ever speaks his thoughts aloud he knows his father and sister will call him "soft," but he is well beyond the point of caring. He often wonders if his promise to Catelyn is what drives him to act; equally likely is that it is his sister's affection and he feels some twisted responsibility towards those his twin loves. Perhaps it is both, or perhaps neither and their madness simply infects him as well.

He has been avoiding Cersei and her pet. He knows the Queen dresses the girl up and takes her out, dolls and all, and that they often spend time together chatting with the other women of court, even if the knights' rumors say that Sansa speaks little more than ten words a day. The Stark carries her heads – Cersei makes Jaime collect more than one on a sufficiently common basis in order to keep a properly fresh rotation – in a thick blanket with her wherever she goes, almost as if they are her children. He does not know what she does with them when she sleeps, and he is sure he does not want to.

Cersei knows his game. Jaime swallows visibly as the Lannister woman and the Stark girl stand outside his bedroom door, not quite an invasion of his privacy, but certainly an unwelcome surprise. It is still early in the evening, but with the girl's presence Cersei can walk through the castle, even to her twin's room, without questions. His sister almost pushes Jaime out of the way as she leads Sansa into his chambers; neither of them even bother to look around and Cersei leads her companion over to his bed. There is a smile on Sansa's features as she looks up at Jaime, blue eyes wide, and Jaime cannot look away from Catelyn Tully's girl, who he swore to see safe. "Sansa misses you of late." Cersei criticizes him openly as the two continue to stare at each other, but the girl does not blush, as she might have in their earlier meetings. The Stark does not hesitate to hold his gaze from her position at the side of his bed and, for a brief moment, he sees her mother. Jaime turns away in disgust, unable to face his incompetence. Sansa Stark will never return home.

Cersei's words are true; the girl is friendlier to him whenever he visits and it is more than rare smiles or words of thanks. No longer does she seem so shy, but he would not call quite call her bold, either. She acts the same as she does with Cersei: pleasant, open, sometimes even sharing a few words or giggles at Jaime's sardonic observations. She is never warm; Starks never are. Cersei seems to be enjoying her twin's awkward reaction and her voice holds amusement as she speaks to the girl. "Why don't you tell Ser Jaime what you told me?"

The girl is worried, that much is obvious. She looks over to Cersei with the first act of defiance he has seen, but it immediately melts away at the Regent's frown. Sansa breathes deeply before she speaks, her words first cautious, but stronger as she continues. "We. . ." the Stark stops herself as she runs a hand over her 'doll's' head to elaborate on who she references alongside herself "We'd really like it if you would stay with us." Jaime cannot stop the shock from crossing his features and, from the corner of his eye, he sees Cersei's lips curl in response. The Regent looks at Jaime as a lion would her prey; in that instant he wishes for nothing more than to steal the young thing away from his sister before she can taint her further. He opens his mouth to very politely reject the newly-bold girl, but she finishes, urged on by Cersei. "We're -" this time she references Cersei, as she looks to the Queen with a smile, who nods in return "- lonely when you don't visit."

Jaime releases a long breath as he muses on Sansa's words and pretends to ignore Cersei. The girl is still a child, after all, alone in a foreign household, danger surrounding her at all times. She's been hurt more than once; it makes sense that she might wish for comfort – or even a rare friend. If this was how he must protect what was left of Catelyn Stark's daughter, he would do it, even if it meant facing Cersei's self-satisfied smiles.

He stays with Sansa and Cersei that night, as the young Stark curls into the older woman. Cersei leans her head down over her, as if to kiss her cheek like she might Tommen's, but instead her lips make their way down and down and down, her mouth half-open, trailing along unmarred flesh. Jaime's eyes narrow in surprise, but then open widely as he watches the Queen suck softly, then bite a spot on Sansa's neck. It's a place he knows all too well; whenever his twin marks him, she chooses to do so in the same location, in the exact same manner and Jaime can almost feel the motion against Sansa as if it is done to him. Jaime almost thinks he's dreaming, or seeing something not there, as their bodies are only outlined by the pale light of the moon, and blinks to clear his eyes. The women's actions do not stop, and his vision is as clear as it's ever been; Cersei's mouth makes it way back up, feathery kisses bring forth small bumps across the girl's skin, before she finds Sansa's mouth. There is no gentleness in the way the Queen parts her companion's lips; she acts in a confident, familiar manner, as if this has all occurred before. Jaime needs not continue the thought, as a moment later he confirms its legitimacy, when Sansa continues the motion and presses her tongue into the Queen's mouth. The intimacy lasts for a long moment - it seems almost forever as he watches, as if time slows down - before the Stark girl finally releases the kiss and draws her head into Cersei's breasts, so she can sleep comfortably, doll cradled firmly between their two stomachs. The Queen smiles up at her brother as if nothing happened and instead grasps Jaime's only hand and places it in between hers and the Stark's. A small smile, no more than a wisp, forms on her features as she closes her eyes to sleep, more relaxed than he's ever seen her, and Jaime cannot muster the desire to remove himself from their shared grasp. As he drifts to sleep, far later than both Cersei and Sansa, he muses about how, despite having sired three of his own, strange it is that the first child who gives him a second glance does not share his blood at all.

IV.
"I cannot stay with you tonight, pretty." Cersei strokes the Stark girl's hair in the same manner that Sansa strokes her doll's. Jaime watches as Sansa's eyes fill with tears as she clutches the Queen's skirt and Cersei delicately removes her fingers, much like a mother would do to a clingy babe. Some part of him is disgusted by the girl's reliance on his sister, another part accepts it as strangely normal, a third knows how hypocritical it is for him to even consider the first or second, as he is much the same way. "But you will not be alone." Cersei's voice is gentle, but her eyes speak a different language as she glares at her twin. She dares him to defy her; if it had been a few months before, he might well have. No longer is he so appalled by the twisted little thing; the broken creature once named Sansa Stark has grown on him. He does not deign lie to himself with the Catelyn excuse; one night with her, as a father might a scared daughter, would cause no harm. They might even enjoy the time together.

Cersei leaves without another word, for where he does not know, and the girl stares at the door, then at him, then back at the door, before her eyes finally land on him. Jaime does not know what to do with her; how does one entertain a madwoman? He attempts to train and exercise, but Sansa clings so closely that he fears he might harm her. He looks to read, but Cersei keeps no books in her room that interest him. For a time he practices his writing, to get cleaner and smoother with his left hand, and Sansa seems to enjoy it as well, but the way the girl stares at him - her doll placed gently on the table, its decayed face and empty eye sockets staring at him with equal intensity as the frigid blue of its owner's eyes – makes it impossible to concentrate.

The evening is not even half through before he decides there is nothing left for him to do but rest. Again, Sansa seems to agree with whatever he chooses - when he tries to ask what she wishes for the only reply he receives is "Whatever you like is fine." - and changes into her nightshift, an obvious gift from Cersei, as he can tell by its revealing design. She crawls into Cersei's bed beside and facing him. Her doll presses closely between them, just as it was between Sansa and Cersei when the three had slept together before, and he pretends it's not there. Jaime swallows as the intense child stares at him, eyes unblinking. Her eyes are not the eyes of her mother.

Jaime turns over at the thought, so that his back is to the girl, but forces himself to remain close enough so that she touches him. A moment later, Sansa gives an annoyed huff and crawls over him, not bothering to move around the bed, before she again continues her gaze. The Lannister closes his eyes, unable to face the Stark, skin still as colorless as when he first saw her with Cersei, hair a bit longer; had he not known previously, if someone told him Sansa was Eddard Stark's daughter, Jaime would not have believed it. No more than a moment later, he feels her soft fingers on him as she draws her body close for warmth. Jaime's breath catches in his throat before he forces its release, surprised at the creature's boldness. As he exhales, he feels Sansa's finger press to his half-open lips gently, touch warm and unworn, playful yet cautious, and his eyes open in surprise. Rare unreadable emotions fill her features as the curious girl's fingers roam over his cheeks and beard, then back to his lips. Jaime catches her hand uncomfortably and places back onto her side, but she gives another smile.

For the first time that night, she closes her eyes and Jaime finds himself relaxing without the piercing look upon him. The thought vanishes an instant later; before he sees her intention, the Stark girl's lips press to his neck in a harsh suck and bite. She does to him what he once saw Cersei do to Sansa and what Cersei does to him; the feeling is familiar, and sends the warmth of arousal through him, as it is identical to Cersei's favored marks. His first reaction is to push her away, but his body does not follow his commands, especially as her mouth reaches his upper neck. So very Cersei. His breaths are rapid and sweat from nervousness paired with what he knows to be inappropriate lust covers him; it is said the mad rage if denied their desires and Jaime is unarmed and half-naked. The Stark's nails, almost as long as his sister's, would do more damage in the short term than he could do to her at their distance. His mind works frantically, but his body refuses to follow its commands as Sansa presses her tongue into his mouth.

In an instant the spell is broken and she distances herself. She does not look at him as she nuzzles into his chest and encircles him in a warm hug. "It's different. . ." She murmurs against him. Jaime silently disagrees; if the candles were dimmed and he did not know who shared his bed, he would not have known the difference in the feel of Sansa and Cersei's lips. There is only one woman who could have taught her, after all. ". . .But you're just like her." The Stark girl is not tired, he can tell, but Jaime says nothing in reply, knowing that it will only urge her forward. All he can do is feign sleep in order to escape the horrible creature his sister has birthed. "Never leave me." Are the words she repeats over and over into his ear, comforting, constant, for hours and hours on end, well past the point when her voice should fail, her throat parch. It permeates his bones and his essence and he doubts he'll ever forget anything she does to him.

Jaime wakes well into the night, the girl still in his arms. He is unsure how long it's been since Sansa's voice faded and he fell asleep, but the girl rests soundly and looks peaceful; were it not for her doll, he might believe her normal. His gaze sweeps around the room, not sure what wakes him, and a glint catches his eye. Jaime clenches his jaw in worry as he extracts his arm from the girl, who does not seem to care one way or the other in her deep slumber, and grasps the dagger he knows Cersei hides under her pillow. The Lannister moves cautiously, his footsteps silent against the cold ground as he approaches whatever he saw from the corner of his eyes. At first he thinks it's a dream, but as he grasps his hand – or lack thereof – and fumbles about the room with a decided lack of grace, he knows reality is the only place he can be.

There is little in the side of Cersei's room but Sansa's belongings. The only striking feature in the small corner is the rows of shelves, more than twenty at this point, each holding ten dolls. Sansa's dolls are remarkably well organized and their owner obviously deeply cares for them, but Jaime cannot help but feel discomfort as he enters the area. He presses his lips together in disgust as he continues his search for threats, but stops suddenly. His gaze is drawn to one area and he immediately knows this is what he searches for. One of the dolls is not nearly as decayed as the others, its skin still pale, soft and not leathery, as if the person had only died a day ago. Even its eyes were bright, as they stared vacantly into the moonlit room.

Jaime knows those eyes. It is disturbingly clear in that instant that Jaime Lannister is just as mad as his sister and Sansa, for he would swear on his very life that the head held on a pedestal on Sansa's top shelf, alone and surrounded by lovely red and black velvet, is that of Aerys II Targaryen.