"There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed." -Buddha
Cersei sat on the Iron Throne, her pale, smooth hands gripping the melded swords of the vanquished. Her jaw was tight, and her gaze straight ahead at the doors, giving her a calm air, despite the fact that the thumping of her heart and the bulge of that vein along her graceful, delicate throat betrayed her true feelings. It had occurred to her that she was alone now. There was nobody to help her, none of her family left. Her father, gone, killed by her bastard of a little brother. Her brother, Tyrion...off with the rebels, who were currently battering the gates of King's Landing with the last of the mighty beasts that spat fire. Her son, Joffrey, killed by Tyrion. Her daughter, Myrcella, oh, sweet, beautiful Myrcella, died in a bed of blood, a bed of childbirth, in what Cersei imagined was agonizing pain. Tommen, innocent little Tommen, who hadn't done a thing to hurt anybody, dead of a simple fever. And Jaime...it hurt to think of him, physically hurt. Jaime was gone. Dead, they had told her, but she knew that it couldn't possibly be true. If he was dead, she would know. They had been born together, they would die together, they would love each other when they were with the gods.
The screams of battle outside were so loud that Cersei had to cover her ears. No, she couldn't do that, she reminded herself, lowering her hands shakily. You are a queen, though you may not be for much longer. Act like it.
All of a sudden, the walls started to shake, and Cersei had the sudden reflex to run to her Jaime. But he still wouldn't be there to hold her, make love to her...never. Not again. A loud crash resonated through the throne room as a stone ball came catapulting through the seven-pointed star stain-glass window behind her, hitting the back of the chair and knocking her straight out. Then, she allowed herself to scream as smoke from the gaping hole entered the room and perforated her lungs. Her foot was trapped under the heavy weight of the Iron Throne, the circulation to it cut off and turning the ankle an ugly shade of black-and-blue. Laying her head down slowly, Cersei made a cradle with her arms for her golden head, and decided to gracefully accept whatever death they would have for her. She would not die with cries and begs and tears like a beggar. Lions didn't cry.
"Do you need help, sweet sister?"
"Jaime," she gasped breathily, pulling herself up quickly on her elbows and crying out at the tug on her foot. "I thought you were dead."
"Evidently not," he smirked, the expression a familiar sight that made her heart warm. "Here. I see that you require assistance."
He grasped the edge of the Iron Throne with his two hands-no, that was impossible, but now, Cersei could see that he had a new, golden hand affixed where his stump once was-and managed to lift it enough that Cersei could drag herself away. Letting it down, it banged louder than when the cannonball had come in. Jaime fell to his rear near it, panting and gasping for breath.
"Not my best idea, but it was worth it," he laughed, cradling the golden hand. Cersei was oh-so tempted to ask where he got it from. Cersei nursed her mangled, bloody, bruised foot with her hands, focusing on Jaime's presence to dull the pain.
Temptation won. "The last time we were together, I recall you only having one hand."
"A gift, sweet sister."
"From whom?"
Jaime cringed.
"Jaime?"
Silence.
"Ah, no matter. Jaime, please, you have to take me away, anywhere else, so we can be safe."
"And where do you propose we go? All of the Seven Kingdoms, even Dorne and the Iron Islands, have raised their bannermen against you and your regime."
Regime. What an ugly word. It hit her like a slap and the face with its negative connotation.
"Jaime, please, I just want to love you forever and die in your arms away from this place. Come, let's leave the awful memories behind."
"Cersei..."
"Oh, Jaime," she sighed romantically, kissing him passionately. He pushed her away. "Jaime?"
A moment of silence passed before he jumped upon her suddenly, trying to get his hands around her throat. Cersei screamed and started to struggle, though the cry was useless. Nobody would come to help her. All of the guards and servants were gone or dead.
"Jaime! Stop! Please!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered, tears running down his face now as his hands reached their destination, starting to squeeze painfully. Her own hands went up to try in vain to stop him, but he was simply too strong, even with only one truly operable hand, and his weight had her pinned to the centre of the room.
"Will the king and I have children?" a young Cersei asked.
"Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," she said. "And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."
So she was right, then. That loony old bat had been right all along. If only she had listened, oh, if only...but Cersei would not die with such regrets in her mind. Although she would die strangled to death by the man she loved, she would forget this. Love had made her do such stupid things. Forgetfulness would be daft, but it wasn't like she would be able to care what he had done. She would see father, mother, Jeffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. She would rest.
Just before the bones in her neck snapped and she lost consciousness, one word passed her train of thought.
Jaime.