A/N: I have not read the books yet. My knowledge of the series is limited to that gleaned from the TV show and from various spoileriffic fanblogs. Because of said fanblogs, however, my fanfics typically combine both TV show and book references. Apologies for any inaccuracies!
Every night, she dreams the same dream. Jaime is standing behind her, his arms around her. This is how she knows she is safe. She is looking out the window at King's Landing. It is silent, a grey and ravaged wasteland, like Castamere, like Harrenhal. Burnt out by wildfire. They are the only ones left—as he promised.
...
They tell him that he is noble and brave. They call him Ser Goldenhand the Just, never "Kingslayer", although that is what he is and why they have chosen him. They tell him he will have his honor back, gold, lands, titles, any woman he wants. He nods, and thanks them. But he wants only to return to the days when he was whole in body and spirit, chivalrous and invincible, riding to battle with his head held high and arrogant and the light of Cersei in his eyes.
Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moonboy for all I know. He whispers this to himself over and over like a prayer, a prayer for strength.
A camp follower accosts them on the way to King's Landing, an old beggar who cleans their armor and horses in exchange for a hot meal. In the evening, by the campfire, he entertains their group with bawdy stories. He hasn't heard the rumors, or pretends he hasn't. He may be the only one left in the Seven Kingdoms who hasn't heard.
"Why the long face, Ser? It's only war. It'll be over in its time, like all the other ones."
"Just anxious to get home."
The beggar nods with pretended sagacity. "Someone you love there, eh?"
"More than life."
…
She wakes up each morning alone to a city under siege, and a losing war. Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella, all dead now. Only the life of the court goes on, and Jaime is not there. She employs a taster to check her dinner each night for poison, most of them do now. And she is tired. Nevertheless she gives orders and is feared and obeyed, continues long after the hope and pleasure in it is over—she is still Tywin's son. Nearly daily she orders the beheading of this or that suspected spy or traitor, clinging by her fingernails to a power her soul has in truth outgrown.
...
He comes to her at sunset. He has put off his armor but is still dusty from the road. She is in her chamber with two guards posted outside, poring over books on battle strategy, rubbing her temples against an eternal headache which only one potion now can remedy.
"The queen is not to be dist—"
"It's Jaime, you idiot, let him in." And his heart leaps at the voice behind the door.
She rushes into his arms and for a moment he thinks, no, knows he is hallucinating, because she looks to him exactly the same as she was at fifteen. No, that's not true, her hair is cropped short and there are small worry lines in her face now, his fault, he thinks, he should have come sooner. To what, rescue her? There is no rescue for either of them, only the choice of how to die. To wipe away her tears, to comfort her? Yes.
Her face is still hers and her body still fits perfectly to his. The rest doesn't matter.
She clutches at him desperately. "I'm so frightened...death is coming for me, I know it. Tyrion's at my throat. It's the prophecy. I wake up in the night hearing him trying to get in and I can't stand it, I can't stand it."
"Tyrion isn't—" he stops himself. "Don't be afraid. I'm here now, you understand? We won't again be parted." He waits for her to slap his face and pour out angry bitter recriminations, but they never come. Instead she breathes deeply and the hint of a smile appears on her face. Her soft smile, reserved only for him. She kisses him, a slow lingering kiss. The taste is the same.
"I'm not afraid. They cannot truly harm me while you live. We were born together—"
"Yes."
And as he looks at her he sees his face reflected in her eyes and he knows he cannot betray her. "But I was born after."
Her eyes look into him, piercing and steady. "Only by a few moments."
He fingers the tiny vial in his pocket. "Only by a few moments."
He bends down to rest his head on her shoulder, his face buried in the curve of her collarbone where her hair once fell. He can hear her heart beating there, still calm and steady, and from her heartbeat and her calm unhurried breathing he knows she was telling the truth: she is not afraid.
He breathes her in, taking from her the courage he needs to do what must be done. Nothing new here: he has always needed this it seems, this comfort in his sister's skin, before he could do anything.
They stand there for a while longer, holding each other, speaking without words. And Cersei is happy. She thinks of neither the past nor the future. She neither mourns her dead children nor worries over the plots on her life, she is at peace now as her brother puts his stump hand on the nape of her neck and rests the fingers of his good hand along her throat at the pulse point and she relaxes into his touch, a simple movement, as natural to her as breathing—
—more.