Chapter Text
Jaime and Cersei had been switching places for as long as they could remember. Ever since they were little, it had been their game, one that involved more than just pretending to be each other. They swapped lessons, too, taking on whatever the other was supposed to learn.
When they were younger, the idea had been simple: Cersei wanted to experience sword lessons, along with the lordly lessons Jaime received as heir to The Rock. Because of that, Jaime should help his twin and experience the “lady lessons” Cersei received. Jaime, of course, initially didn’t see the need for such frivolous things. He had swords to practice with and horses to ride.
But Cersei was stubborn, she wanted to learn what her twin was learning, and Jaime didn't mind pretending to be Cersei; she had the best dresses and the nicest shoes. What he did mind was being forced to sit through hours of “boring courtly arts and household management”. At least that’s what he thought back then.
So while Cersei was learning the sword and Jaime's heir studies, Jaime took on sewing, which he assumed would be another one of those “lady things” that wasn’t for him. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
On their first “switch day,” when Jaime took up the needle and thread, he couldn’t help but notice how it felt just like swordplay. The focus, the precision, the movement, it was all the same. It wasn’t the same as slashing a blade, of course, but the fine, delicate control required to guide the needle through the fabric reminded him of the control he wielded with a sword.
“It’s just like a sword,” he muttered to himself as he made another precise stitch, his focus narrowing. "Only... no blood.”
Cersei, on the other hand, had swapped her lessons for a day of sword fighting.
“It’ll be easy,” she said to herself, determined. “Just... channel Jaime.”
She stepped into the training yard, where the master-at-arms was waiting, and tried to adopt the swagger she had seen Jaime do a thousand times. She grabbed the practice sword and held it awkwardly in her hands. It felt heavier than she expected.
“You there!” the trainer called out, seeing her approach. “You’re late , Jaime. What’s the delay?”
“I- I was just, um... getting ready!” Cersei stammered, trying to sound as confident as possible. She gave a half-hearted swing with the sword, and it wobbled in her hands.
The master-at-arms eyed her suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. “Hmm... You look off today. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing!” Cersei shot back quickly, trying to cover up the unease that was now growing in her chest. “I’m just... focused .”
The master-at-arms wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t say anything. Cersei, however, was becoming more and more aware that she wasn’t quite as good at swordplay as Jaime.
She tried to swing the sword in a clean arc, but instead, it barely managed to graze the target. She missed the next strike entirely, stumbling a little as she adjusted her stance.
The master-at-arms stepped forward, his expression hardening. “ Jaime , what in the gods’ names is going on? You never miss like this.”
Cersei’s face flushed red with embarrassment. “It’s just a bad day,” she said quickly, forcing herself to appear calm. “I’m still warming up.”
She swung again, this time losing control completely. The sword slipped from her hands and landed with a loud clatter on the stone floor.
The master-at-arms looked even more suspicious. He stepped closer, inspecting her stance. “I swear, you’ve been messing up all week. Your parries are sloppy, your strikes are weak, and you’re... fumbling like a novice. What’s going on, Jaime ?”
Cersei cursed under her breath. She couldn’t keep up the charade any longer. She wasn’t Jaime , and no amount of pretending was going to make her good at swordplay.
“I... I must have overworked myself, that’s all,” Cersei lied, trying to avoid the master’s gaze. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
The master-at-arms was clearly dubious, but he didn’t push the matter further. “If you say so. But don’t waste your time pretending, Jaime . You’re better than this, and I expect you to pull yourself together. If not, I’ll have to report it.”
Cersei’s heart sank, but she quickly recovered. “I’ll work on it,” she said, holding back her frustration. “Tomorrow, I’ll do better.”
As the lesson ended, Cersei could barely hold her head up. She tried a couple more times of course, but after she didn’t improve as much as she had hoped, she quickly switched her focus to Jaime's lordly lessons.
Meanwhile, Jaime would act as Cersei in her sewing lessons, which he found he enjoyed. The truth was, Jaime had a natural talent for sewing. With each passing day, he got better and better. His stitches became more precise, each line neat and straight, and before long, his work was smoother than any seamstress Cersei had ever known. She even started to find herself a little bit jealous.
“Are you sure this is a lady’s skill?” Jaime mused aloud one evening as he finished a delicate hem, admiring his handiwork. “Because it seems like a fine art .”
Cersei rolled her eyes, clearly trying to hide her begrudging respect. “You’re a freak, Jaime.”
Jaime smirked and shrugged. “It helps with precision. Just like swordplay.”
And so, they continued to switch lessons as they grew older. Cersei enjoyed her lessons on politics, while Jaime had developed a knack for sewing. The more he did it, the more it seemed to align with his sense of precision, and the more he enjoyed it.
Their game of swapping places evolved into something of an unspoken competition: who could master the other’s lessons better? Jaime would finish a dress with flawless stitching, and Cersei would tackle the political intricacies of noble life, mimicking the best lords with surprising success.
It was a strange, unspoken kind of rivalry, but the truth was that both of them were good at what they had chosen to learn, and neither of them would admit just how much they enjoyed it.
—Time Skip —
A year passed, and the twins had each become remarkably proficient in their swapped lessons. The Septa, who had been overseeing Cersei’s progress with needlework, began to notice something unusual.
One week, after Jaime had spent the day pretending to be Cersei again, the Septa entered the chamber, expecting the usual chaos. Cersei, after all, was often impatient with the needle, her work rushed, her mood changing like the weather.
But today, "Cersei" was sitting still, focused, and utterly absorbed in the sewing. The Septa had to stop herself in her tracks, surprised by the smoothness of the stitches. They were perfect. Neat. Even. There was no sign of the usual haphazardness or frustration that came with Cersei’s work.
The Septa cleared her throat, watching with a mix of admiration and confusion. "Ah... my lady," she began cautiously. "A good day, I see?"
Jaime, still acting as Cersei, glanced up, flashing a perfectly serene smile. “Yes, it’s peaceful today,” he replied smoothly, his voice smooth, his fingers never missing a beat.
The Septa eyed the needlework more closely, then glanced back at “Cersei” with an almost puzzled expression. “You’re unusually calm today, my lady. These stitches... they’re flawless. Your work has never been so... steady . It's almost as if you've found a new... well, focus .”
Jaime smiled inwardly but kept his expression neutral. “I suppose I’m learning,” he said nonchalantly, returning his focus to the delicate work in front of him.
The Septa stepped closer, her eyes narrowing with growing curiosity. “Indeed. Quite unlike you. I remember just yesterday... you were frustrated. The stitches were uneven, rushed. But today... today is different.” She paused. “What’s changed?”
Jaime continued to sew, pretending to concentrate fully. "Perhaps I just needed time," he replied, his voice smooth as ever.
The Septa’s brow furrowed. She eyed "Cersei" carefully, the pieces starting to fall into place. “Strange... you’ve been so inconsistent lately. One day calm and focused, the next, so distracted, so impatient...” She looked at the finished work once more. “But today... it’s perfect.”
Jaime, of course, knew exactly what she meant. “It’s a good day, that’s all,” he said, still in his best imitation of Cersei’s voice.
The Septa shook her head, still intrigued but reluctant to probe further. “A good day, indeed,” she murmured. “But my lady, I do wonder... it seems your mood swings are quite... dramatic lately. But I can’t deny it, the work today is the best I’ve ever seen from you. I wish you could be like this every day.”
Jaime, trying his best to act humble, simply nodded. “I’ll try my best to keep up with it.”
The Septa gave a satisfied nod, still bemused by the sudden change in "Cersei's" demeanor. “I’m sure you will. If only all the ladies could be so... precise with their work.”
As the Septa left the room, Jaime allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. It was almost too easy at this point. Cersei’s moods, her behavior, her skills. all the while, he had been the one carefully crafting Cersei's perfect needlework. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
When Cersei returned from Jaime's lessons and resumed her “lady lessons” the next day, the Septa’s suspicions only grew. As usual, Cersei was impatient, frustrated, and her sewing was, once again, sloppy. The difference between “Cersei’s” work on this day and the last week was night and day.
The Septa walked into the room, glancing at the fabric with a sigh. “Ah... my lady,” she said, her tone light but filled with gentle reproach, “You’ve been... distracted again, I see. Your stitches are... not what they were last week.”
Cersei barely looked up, already annoyed at the Septa’s presence. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her needle movements sharp and uneven. “I’m not in the mood for it today.”
The Septa watched quietly, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Strange, isn’t it? You were so focused last week... so calm. But today? It’s like you’re... a different person.”
Cersei rolled her eyes, clearly uninterested. “I’m just having a bad day,” she snapped, trying to hide the frustration creeping into her voice.
The Septa gave her a knowing look. “Well, I hope tomorrow will be better,” she said, still trying to piece the puzzle together. “It would be a shame for your skill to slip... just like that.”
Cersei barely paid attention to the comment, but the Septa, as she walked away, couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off . The mood swings. The inconsistent skill. It was as if someone had been... pretending to be Cersei for a day, showing skill far beyond her usual.
As for Jaime, well... he was already preparing for the next time they switched. After all, it was all part of the game.