"I crossed a thousand leagues to come to you, and lost the best part of me along the way. Don't tell me to leave."
Jaime Lannister
The blinding pain in his head faded to a dull ache. Jaime opened his eyes and saw that he was dreaming. Slowly, Jaime flexed his sword-hand, marveling at the dexterity of every individual finger. He rotated his wrist and grasped the air like a sword. A soft moan distracted him from his hand, and Jaime glanced to the side.
Cersei lay beside him, the curves of her body bared to the world, her pink-tipped breasts pressed against his arm. Her golden mane draped across her shoulder, framing her face—it looked younger now, without the faint lines of stress and hardship. His sister always did look so peaceful in slumber. That was the only time she ever did.
How cruel was the world, he mused, to take away everything he wanted, only to give it back when he slept?
The ground spun under him, and Jaime staggered out of bed like a drunkard, emptying the contents of his stomach into the corner of his rooms. He heaved, eyes closed as his body rebelled against him. Trembling, sword-hand cradled to his chest, Jaime opened his eyes, expecting reality.
"Jaime? Is something the matter?" The husky, sluggish voice of Cersei caused a fresh jolt of pain. Had she called to Lancel in the same way? To Osmund Kettleblack?
He stumbled back to the bed, content with having the dream continue. The downy covers seemed excessively soft after sleeping on the ground for so long. Jaime stared, first at his hand, then at his sister.
Lashes accentuating her emerald eyes, Cersei peered at him with concern. "Jaime?" she repeated. "Are you feeling ill?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Well, in that case," her tone turned mischievous, "why don't you join me in bed?"
Jaime shook his head again. No. Never. Not after what she'd done. Not after what their children had done. Not even in his dreams. In some ways, the death of Joffrey had been just—though his sister's false accusations of Tyrion were anything but.
Cersei pouted at him, feigned hurt covering her annoyance. "Well, I suppose it can wait. I was going to tell you after, but…" a spark of excitement entered her eyes, "I might as well tell you now."
"What is it?" he said, emotionless. Jaime's patience for games had long eroded.
She wrapped her arm around his waist and drew him closer. Cersei pressed her soft lips against his ear, and in a coy murmur that didn't hide her exhilaration, said, "I'm with child. And it's yours."
A wave of revulsion swept over him, and Jaime thought he'd be sick for the second time.
"What?" he whispered. Oh, the gods were cruel to make him remember this.
His sister mistook his horror for simple shock.
"Yes, yes, it's true!" She giggled with elation. "No Baratheon will sit on the throne. None of that damned man's offspring. Instead, it will be our child, just how it was meant to be!"
His dream was too vivid, too focused, too long. It had a tinge of reality and pain that he'd never experienced before. Jaime pushed aside the panic welling inside him. If this dream wouldn't end on its own, he'd do it himself.
Ignoring Cersei's rambling, Jaime leaned over, grabbing the knife that his sister always kept by her bedside. He ran a shaking finger (one from his sword hand) over the edge of the blade. He pressed harder, just hard enough to feel the bite of the dagger. Jaime twisted it, letting the flat of the blade rest on his palm. His vision began to swim as he saw the letters on the blade.
Dreams are another way for gods to fuck with us, Tyrion had once said to him, back when their family was whole. Sometimes, they're impossible to tell from reality. But the words—they'll tell you the truth. You can't read them in dreams.
The etched words on the dagger gleamed, wavering, but legible: Hear me roar!
"Fuck." Jaime felt the world fall from under him.
"Jaime? You're scaring me. Stop it!" She reached for him, but he roughly pushed her aside. He lurched to his feet, one step after another, falling against the door frame, grasping it for support. Cersei called out to him, panicked, but Jaime payed her no heed.
He stepped outside the room, his back to the wall, the stones cold against his naked skin.
It's not a dream.
Jaime pressed his hands to his face and shuddered. He was… he was in the past. Before his children and the War of Five Kings and the loss of his hand. Before Cersei's madness, Tyrion's anger, and his father's death. Before Brienne. Before everything.
He breathed in deeply and looked up. Standing several paces away, a plump and perfumed man looked back with nothing but careful curiosity on his face.
"Varys?" Jaime whispered.
The Lannister raised his sword hand, looking from his palm to the eunuch in front of him. And Jaime crashed to the ground, consciousness draining away as his mind desperately clutched for respite.
Author's Note: This is a collab between me (To Mockingbird) and my friend Duesal Bladesinger. We both have accounts on this website, so we decided to post our story on a wholly separate account. I'm doing Jaime's POV, while he'll handle Ned's. We'd really appreciate feedback from you guys!