Chapter Text
The first thing Tyrion does is laugh.
“Oh, big brother,” he chuckles, patting Jaime’s - no, his own, no, this is all so confusing, just as looking down on everything from such a height is - head. “This will be fun.”
*
Cersei kissing him is mentally disgusting, but his body reacts on a distressing level.
He pushes her away before she can reach for his cock, and she flies into a rage when he walks away and ignores her screaming.
*
Brienne of Tarth is a marvel, an oddity of strength that Tyrion recognises and admires and wonders why Jaime has not done more than fight with.
She hits him in the gut with a mailed fist and he thinks he understands why Jaime as maintained a careful distance.
*
They wake up the following morning in their own bodies, and Jaime is scowling. There is a mass of bruising on his belly the likes of which Tyrion has rarely seen, and neither Cersei nor Brienne is speaking to him.
Tyrion, on the other hand, as received a stream of notes in clumsy scrawls from all manner of serving women, and he cannot help but laugh that for once, he has come out the better against Jaime.