The heavy oak chair was bolted to the floorboards of the Queen's bedchamber, an antique relic from the days of Aegon the Unlikely. Now, it served as the altar upon which the pride of the Golden Lion would be systematically, beautifully butchered.
Ser Jaime Lannister pulled against the silken ropes binding his wrists to the heavy armrests. The thick, braided cords bit sharply into his skin, offering absolutely no quarter. He tugged his legs, only to find that his ankles had been swiftly and expertly lashed to the heavy wooden legs of the chair while he had been paralyzed by his initial shock.
He was completely, humiliatingly immobilized.
"Cersei..." Jaime laughed nervously, the sound tight and breathless in his chest. He looked up at his twin sister, his eyes wide, trying to find the playful glint that usually accompanied their darker games. "This is a fine jest. Truly. You have caught the Kingslayer. Now, untie me, sweet sister. The jest is done."
Cersei did not laugh. She did not even smile.
She stood a few paces away, bathed in the warm, flickering light of the hearth fire, looking at him with the cold, calculating gaze of a vivisectionist preparing to open a live subject. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up to the golden clasps resting on her shoulders.
"This is no jest, Jaime," Cersei murmured, her voice a velvety, hypnotic purr that sent a shiver racing down his spine. "You have guarded your tongue for far too long. You keep secrets from the realm, which is your right. But you keep secrets from me. And that... that is a treason I will not abide."
With a soft, silken rustle, the clasps came undone. The breathtaking emerald-green gown slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her bare feet like a puddle of liquid jade. She stood before him entirely naked, a flawless, pale marble statue kissed by the firelight, her golden hair tumbling down her back in wild, beautiful waves.
Jaime's breath caught in his throat, choking him. The sudden, overwhelming sight of her naked form, combined with the week of agonizing physical and emotional starvation he had just endured, hit his system like a battering ram.
His heart hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm against his ribs. His body reacted instantly, a heavy, desperate heat pooling in his groin, straining uncomfortably against the black leather of his trousers.
"Cersei..." he breathed, his voice instantly dropping an octave, thick with raw, unadulterated hunger. He strained against the ropes, his muscles flexing, desperate to reach out and pull her against him. He wanted to bury his face in her neck, to lose himself in her heat and forget the apocalyptic terrors that had haunted his mind these days.
"Patience, my sweet lion," Cersei whispered softly.
She walked over to a silver tray resting on a nearby table and lifted a heavy flagon of Arbor gold, bringing it and a jeweled chalice over to where he sat. Her hips swayed with a slow, deliberate grace that made Jaime's vision blur.
She poured the rich, amber wine and brought the chalice to his lips. "Drink," she commanded gently.
Jaime, parched from anxiety and lust, opened his mouth. Cersei tilted the chalice, pouring the heavy, sweet wine down his throat. She didn't stop when he swallowed; she kept pouring, forcing him to gulp it down frantically to avoid choking.
A few drops spilled past his lips, trailing down his chin and soaking into the collar of his linen tunic. Before he could catch his breath, she refilled the chalice and pressed it to his mouth again.
"More," she coaxed, her free hand coming up to gently stroke his golden hair. "Drink it all for me. Wash away the cold."
He drank three full chalices of the potent, sugary vintage in rapid succession. The heavy alcohol immediately hit his empty stomach, sending a flush of dizzying heat straight to his brain. It lowered his inhibitions, blurring the sharp edges of his knightly discipline and filling his head with a heavy, pliable fog.
When the flagon was half-empty, Cersei tossed the chalice carelessly onto the Myrish rug.
With agonizing slowness, she knelt on the floor between his bound, spread legs. She reached up, her cool, soft fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of his trousers. Jaime gasped, his head throwing back against the wooden chair as she deftly unlaced the leather ties.
She freed his heavy, aching manhood from the restrictive linen, her touch impossibly light, barely ghosting over his feverish skin.
"You have been so tense, my love," Cersei whispered, her breath blowing warmly over his sensitive flesh. "Your mind is burdened. Your body is rigid. Let me soothe you."
She wrapped her hand around him. Jaime let out a ragged, desperate groan, his hips bucking upward instinctively. It had been so long, and his desperation was so absolute, that the mere touch of her skin against his felt like a lightning strike.
Cersei began to move her hand. Slow. Excruciatingly, deliberately slow. Every stroke was a calculated masterpiece of friction and pressure. She mapped every inch of him, dragging her soft palm and manicured nails up and down, matching the rhythm of his frantic, shallow breathing.
Jaime's eyes rolled back. The terror of the corpse mountain, the humiliation of Robert's court, the heavy burden of the white cloak—all of it melted away into the searing, absolute euphoria of her touch. He chased the friction, straining against the biting ropes, entirely consumed by the blinding rush of pleasure.
"Yes... Cersei, please..." he begged, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of his pride. He could feel the pressure building rapidly, a massive, cresting wave of release rushing up his spine. He was seconds away from the edge. "Please, I need..."
And then, she stopped.
She pulled her hand away entirely, stepping back and leaving him completely untouched.
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Guys, I am thinking of updating one only from two of my GOT fanfic. If any honest comment do, then pls tell me which would be better to continue.