THE RED SEA

Jaime IV

Jaime was flying. Well, he was falling, really, but he wagered it felt exactly the same. Wind in your hair. Sun in your eyes. So fast your entire body tingled, and all those other pretty words their Septa used. But Septa Saranella would never fly or fall (not unless she tripped on her teats, as Cersei often said she would) because she was boring. And old. Hence the teats.

He was still snickering at the thought when he hit the water.

Cersei was floating by the shore when he surfaced, her clothes folded neatly next to his own haphazard pile further up the beach. Both piles were breeches. They'd both been Jaime today.

"What are you laughing at?" She hadn't opened her eyes, still floating in the gentle waves from his splash while the sunlight turned her pale skin all golden.

Just like their hair was, he noted, golden lions like everyone said. His was plastered to his head by seawater, while her's floated around her face like a crown. Jaime fought the urge to tug at it. "Septa Saranella's teats," he said instead.

His sister cracked an eye open at that, giving him a disapproving look as he paddled over to her. Jaime didn't know how she did that with just one eye, but he ignored her anyway. "Come jump with me," he suggested as he reached her.

Cersei sputtered as his approach cascaded waves over her face and turned over so she was treading water facing him with a frown. "I'm not climbing the cliffs naked."

"Put your clothes on then!"

"They'd get wet, Jaime."

That was true enough, he supposed. He hadn't even considered that. Cersei was much smarter than him at spotting problems. It was because he was a boy, she told him often, it took no smarts to swing a sword. And that was also true. Jaime didn't think at all when he trained with the Master at Arms, he just moved. It was easy. They had even allowed him to move to a steel training blade on his sixth nameday! All the other boys were still using wooden swords, and they'd seen seven namedays now! Cersei had been angry about it (the steel blade was too heavy for her so she couldn't play at swords dressed as him anymore) but his father had smiled at him so it had been worth it. Even the Dornish prince had been impressed!

"Do you think Prince Oberyn and his sister will come visit again?"

"I doubt it." Cersei had made her way back to the rocky shore and settled on a sun-soaked boulder to wring out her curls, "Their visit was Mother's doing, Father has far better planned for us than Dornishmen."

"But I liked Oberyn," Jaime whined.

"Of course you did, he was the only one stupid enough to jump off the cliffs with you."

Jaime frowned. Stupid. That's what everyone thought. Ever since Maester Volarik told his father about his reading… But he wasn't all stupid. He knew the dumb old maester had only told his father to punish him for breaking his hand when he'd put it on his cock. Volarik had told him it was alright, but Jaime knew it wasn't. Mother had been so angry when she found out Cersei touched his cock, and that was Cersei… "I'm not stupid."

"Then why are you on fire, stupid?"

Jaime blinked. A wave crashed against his back. "What?"

Cersei was looking at him oddly. "I said, come touch me." She was rubbing between her thighs, he noticed. She said it felt good, and he knew it felt good when she touched him, but…

"Mother said we can't anymore."

"Mother's dead, stupid. The monster killed her."

Jaime didn't like to think about that. He missed Mother, but Cersei and Father didn't like it when he said so, so he protected the baby instead. "He didn't — "

"Then why are you on fire, stupid?"

Another wave crashed against him, this one large enough to break over his head and force him underwater briefly. "I'm not on fire!" he protested when he surfaced, "And I'm not stupid!"

"What are you talking about?" Cersei demanded, "I told you to come touch me. Someone has to until I get my beautiful silver prince."

Jaime was pitched forward by the force of another incoming wave, and bubbles blinded him as he fought his way back to the surface once more. His back burned with the strength of the impact as he regained his breath and looked around. Cersei had spread her legs, her child's cunt glinting in the sunlight, but her eyes flashed red as flames… "You said the picture was King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne," he spluttered before the ocean swallowed him once more.

His sister's laughter floated around him as he kicked desperately toward the sunlight. His lungs burned. His back burned. His right hand crumbled into golden dust that swirled away on the currents…

"Then why are you on fire, stupid?"

Jaime woke gasping for breath.

He wasn't on fire — though it took him an embarrassingly long and frantic moment to assure himself of that fact — and he wasn't drowning either. He was just the same pathetic, crippled knight who had succumbed to the unnatural sleep brought on by milk of the poppy sometime the day before. At least, he assumed it had been the day before. He'd been unable to keep track of the days beyond daylight and night since he'd woken, screaming in pain, under the blade of Horn Hill's maester.

He shifted slightly, drawing one knee up toward his chest to ease some of the pressure on his ribs while hissing in pain. Everything hurt. Worse than that, everything pulled like his skin had shrunk and no longer fit his body. He hadn't actually seen the damage yet, but he could guess well enough. He had no hair to speak of, or at least none on his head nor his arms, and likely nowhere else either. His face was tight. And painful, of course, but the tight was worse. It felt as though he was wearing a mask, or perhaps someone else's face, frozen and unable to emote. His back felt much the same, as though his armour had melted into his very flesh and left him stiff and rigid. It forced him to lie on his front, the pain unbearable otherwise, and as such he felt every bump and jostle of the carriage in his ribs and stomach.

He dragged his thoughts away from anything pertaining to his gut before they could go any further. Between the milk of the poppy and the rough ride he was nauseous more often than not, and he had learned the hard way how painful vomiting in his condition was.

Working his left arm under him — and pointedly refusing to look at either that hand or, Gods forbid, his other one — Jaime eased himself up on his forearm and looked around. The carriage smelled of decaying flesh, which he declined to acknowledge as his own, but even still the unmistakable scent of shit heralded their approach to King's Landing. Gods, he'd have to explain what happened to Cersei…

"You should rest, Ser Jaime."

Jaime would have jumped out of his skin were it not tighter than one of Cersei's corsets. As it was, the startled movement caused a quickly aborted grunt of pain to rise in his throat as he searched for the speaker with damp eyes. Randyl Tarly. Of fucking course. "As should you, My Lord."

And really, he should. The Reacher Lord was less swollen than the last fuzzy memories Jaime had of him, but his face was still littered with oozing blisters which formed the shape of his helmet and his heavily splinted legs appeared utterly useless. His eyes were glassy and unfocused from the milk of the poppy, but his pallor seemed better than before. Jaime wasn't sure if that pleased him or not, but his own mind was still far too cloudy to give it much thought. Instead, he focused on forcing his body into an upright position despite his carriage-mate's continued protests. The procedure took far longer than he would have liked, pain causing his vision to white out periodically and his smoke-scarred lungs fighting for breath with every laboured movement. By the time he finally slumped his shoulder against the carriage window, nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Still, he'd done it. Cersei would not find him prone on the floor in a mindless stupor.

Palming the window cover open, Jaime allowed the chilled winter air to clear the cobwebs from his mind. The smell of shit did nothing to help settle his stomach, but he'd been in King's Landing for enough of his life that it did nothing to worsen it either. Randyl Tarly didn't seem to share his constitution, if his pinched expression was any indication. "Breath through your mouth. It'll help with the smell." If Tarly started vomiting, he would surely follow suit…

Fortunately, the older man was a good soldier through and through and parted his lips obediently. Jaime nearly laughed, but ended up closing his stinging eyes and resting his head carefully against the open window instead. If he still had hair, it would have been blowing in the wind… If…

The sharp tugging at his scalp was growing more than bothersome, in fact it was properly painful now! "Ow!" he complained, trying to wiggle away from the offending fingers to no avail, "Cersei, ow!"

"Stop complaining, you sound like a girl." His sister chastised him as she tied the final braid up with a piece of silk and arranged it among the others piled atop his head. Her movements were still far from gentle, but at least it didn't seem that he would lose any more hair to her crusade. "Now, tell me what's expected of you?"

"Do not speak unless spoken to. Sit, smile and look pretty. And don't eat like a pig."

"Precisely." Cersei appeared before him, dressed in his leathers and breeches with her own golden curls loose down her back.

They would need to get a cut, Jaime mused as he eyed the length. He would have to convince her…

"I'll not have you fucking this up," his twin continued, "Prince Rhaegar hasn't said two words to me since he and his father arrived, but he will speak with you about me. Stand up."

Jaime obeyed mindlessly, feet sloshing in the ankle deep water as he stood. "They've scarcely been here a day," he pointed out, wincing as the corset he was wearing tightened around his chest, "Surely, Father — "

"Father intends for me to be Queen," Cersei spoke over him as she lashed the laces still more tightly, "And I will be. My sons will be golden dragons and kings."

"Dragons… are dead," Jaime choked out, already regretting letting his sister talk him into this deception, "Tyrion says… last dragon died… hundred years ago."

A particularly violent tug finished cinching up the corset. "The little monster still waddles like a drunken babe, what does he know?"

"He… read it." And really, this was ridiculous! How did women wear these things? "Reads… better than… I do."

Cersei rolled her eyes. "The stable boys read better than you do, stupid."

The water lapped against his knees. "I'm not stu — "

" — upid? If you think I will allow this farce to stand, then you've lost whatever shreds of faculties you had left to you. I will not have it!" Tywin Lannister was seething. Standing to full height in Harrenhal's burned out throne room, he radiated a fury the likes of which Jaime had not seen in him since the day the maester had informed him that Tyrion would live at least into childhood.

This wasn't the plan.

"You think to command your king, My Lord?" The threat was obvious, as was the king's joy in levelling it. Jaime thought Aerys suited this half melted shell of a throne far more than his seat in King's Landing. He imagined it bore a striking resemblance to the content of his head.

"I. Will. Not. Have it!"

Jaime couldn't breathe. Even standing in the shadows by his sister's side, even as their fingers brushed against each other and his body longed for more, even with Prince Rhaegar's expression of resigned disappointment visible from his position opposite them… He couldn't breathe.

This wasn't the plan!

He should be celebrating, elated at his appointment to the most elite of ranks, but joy had turned sour almost before he tasted it. The white cloak hung heavy on his shoulders and forced the air from his lungs. The water burned red and gold, warm against his waist. Cersei's things were being packed hurriedly by loyal Lannister servants…

This was not the plan…

"Oathbreaker."

Jaime looked up sharply. King Aerys was gone, his father and sister too, and Prince Rhaegar stood facing the empty throne. The young knight could feel his white cloak beginning to grow heavy as the red water soaked it through.

"That's what they call you, isn't it?" the prince continued, pale fingers trailing across the water's surface and leaving delicate ripples in their wake, "Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. A man without honour."

"What…?"

Rhaegar didn't turn around and instead waded a few steps nearer to the throne his father had occupied just moments before. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," his mild voice echoed around the room like whispers at sea, "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women… Did you not swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be? Did you not swear it, Oathbreaker?"

"I did protect the innocent! Half a million of them!" Jaime was cold all over and his cloak tugged at his throat, "He was going to burn them, Your Grace, all of King's Landing…"

"And yet, you failed."

A scream echoed through the hall. It was a woman's scream, pained and frightened, an involuntary noise rather than a cry for help. The type of scream that still haunted his dreams after all these years…

In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women…

The Queen…

"I tried — "

"You failed," the son repeated. He turned, then, and his ethereal face was lit with swirls of red and gold from the water below as he lowered himself onto the throne. A crown, white as his hair, flickered atop his head. The ghostly crown of a king-who-never-was… "You failed, Jaime Lannister, and now a monster stalks our shores."

Jaime shook his head. The water surged against his waist like a sea of blood and fire… Or fire and blood… He was so cold. "I don't understand…"

"No," Rhaegar agreed calmly, "You don't."

She screamed again, then again and again and again and again —

Jaime jammed his fingers in his ears, fighting the urge to scream along with her. His knees buckled, the water crawled up his chest, his cloak wrapped around him tightly, and still Rhaella screamed. The sound was everywhere, and the newly named Kingsguard cast his gaze in every direction, searching for her. The king was raping her. He was killing her! But the room was empty save for her failed protector and her son.

"Jaime," there were tears on the prince's cheeks, "Save her."

Rhaella's screams turned to whimpers and pleas and choked sobs. The sounds of a woman trying to avoid attention. The sounds of a woman who had learned long ago that no one would save her. It was worse than the screams. So much worse.

"You're hurting me."

Jaime flinched as his queen's voice seeped through the door.

Ser Jonothor Darry frowned at his young guard partner's reaction. "Fix your cloak, Ser."

His white cloak had coiled around his legs, wrapped tightly around his chest and was floating tauntingly about his arms. The water had turned it so red that it could be mistaken for black, tarnished and soiled. Jaime tugged at it valiantly, but the fabric would not budge.

"You're hurting me!"

Save her… Rhaegar's voice echoed in his head.

"We are sworn to protect her, as well," he reminded the older knight.

"We are," Darry conceded, "But not from him."

You failed, Jaime Lannister, and now a monster stalks our shores.

Confusion warred with frustration and shame as he tried to understand. He failed, and a monster…? Oh. Oh. That innocent babe born of cruelty and madness. That fire-eyed girl on dragonback… Her father's daughter.

"No." Jaime surged forward, sword in hand as his cloak floated away. Ser Jonothor moved to intercept him, but Jaime cut him down. The other Kingsguard's blood seemed to glow as it swirled around him, somehow redder than the water's flames. He would not fail. The monster would not come. He would not burn again. Waves cascaded around him as he broke the door down, watching it sink out of sight in his peripheral vision as he charged to his queen's aid —

Laughter.

Jaime froze, sword at the ready, waves rocking him in place. Rhaella was laughing. She was stretched out on the bed, white and lavender and beautiful and smiling and alone and laughing at him.

"Your Grace…?"

"You will always burn, Jaime Lannister." She smiled, all teeth and glee, and swept an arm through the water.

Waves rose up at her call and pushed, pushed, pushed him from the room. Red and gold and black and blood, swirling and pulsing and crushing… Jaime began to swim, sword still in hand. The water soaked his hair, gold to red. His armour grew heavier with every stroke —

"Burn them all!"

The Iron Throne was an island before him and Aerys stood atop it, barefoot and manic, balancing on the blades.

"Burn them all, little cub, burn them all!"

He didn't understand. He was the stupidest Lannister after all, he couldn't understand. But he didn't need to. It took no smarts to swing a sword… Jaime swam toward him, hatred urging him on. His sword broke the surface, red with Darry's blood, and he lunged.

Aerys watched the sword piece his chest and grinned. "Wrong." He seized Jaime's wrist and fell backward off the throne, dragging them both into the depths.

Jaime fought and punched and kicked. He pulled his sword free with his left hand and slashed at the dead king, but to no avail. The corpse's grip remained firm, those claw-like nails cutting into yet unblemished flesh while scaled fingers left bruises with their force. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die. The water flickered red and gold, like flames. He was going to burn. Panic set in and technique fled. He clawed and scratched, bit and flailed and finally, finally, he was free. When he resurfaced at last, he was in a cavernous bathhouse and his skin was caked with mud and blood and piss and sick. There was a naked wench with straw-like hair before him and so, so, so much pain, but the water was clear…

A particularly sudden bump jarred him back into wakefulness. Water rushed in his ears. Water. The Mud Gate.

Jaime blinked. He was almost home. But was it home? Had it ever been?

Footsteps drifted through his consciousness, and the former Kingsguard forced himself to think. Metal on metal in time with their steps. Soldiers. Rolling his head to the side, he caught sight of men in battered armour bearing the rooster of House Swyft, the burning tree of House Marbrand, the green and gold of House Hayford, the huntsman of House Tarly… Survivors, however few. The Tarlys' maester walked with them, and Jaime pulled himself back out of sight. The carriage would need to be moved to a barge to cross the Blackwater Rush, he knew, and the vial of milk of the poppy in the maester's hand glinted menacingly. He closed his eyes and prayed the man would think him already asleep.

His deception was a success. While Lord Tarly was drugged heavily, the maester deemed him able to make the rest of the journey without another dose. Jaime smiled to himself, revelling in the tiny victory. His pleasure was short lived, however, for the moment they were free of the docks the rocking of the barge had bile rising in his throat. His mouth watered, his guts twisted and his body burned. His distress keened out of him without his consent as he clamped his mouth closed desperately. He held it together until Randyl Tarly, now semi-conscious and slumped forward, vomited without reservation.

In the end, Jaime Lannister was presented to his queen reeking of death, covered in his own sick and nearly blind from pain.

It was three days before Cersei came to see him.

He was well cared for in the interim, of course, despite his sister's absence. Qyburn, who hummed and tutted his way over his mangled flesh, had obviously been tasked with managing his recovery and did so with his usual enthusiasm. Jaime refused all offers of milk of the poppy, but acquiesced to poppy wine in his bid to stay conscious. He would be there when Cersei came, if not fully in body then certainly in mind.

For three days and three nights he waited, alone in his pain and doubt and fear.

Qyburn's prognosis was grim, but nothing he had not suspected. His armour, melted by dragonfire, had ravaged his back and shoulders. The pain would pass, the disgraced maester had assured him one particularly awful night when the pain had his eyes rolling and he couldn't get a breath and tears stained his cheeks, but the stiffness and too-tight skin would be his lifelong companions. The bones in his right foot and ankle had been crushed by his flailing mount, ribs had cracked when he'd been thrown, and the shoulder of his right arm torn out of place. Not that the shoulder mattered. Not anymore. His golden hand had melted in the heat, the molten metal running the length of what remained of his former sword arm and cooking the flesh away. Jaime remembered that first moment of agonizing consciousness back in Horn Hill as the blackened limb was cut away, and the image of charred bones where his arm should have been as he tried to fight off the men holding him in place was forever burned into his memory. It was gone. The shoulder. The arm. Everything. Just, gone.

His left arm had been spared the molten gold and broken bones, but little else. The skin was puckered and red and swollen, and his fingers… He had broken memories of rolling among the flames, clawing at his armour in desperation, an act which had apparently burned the tips of his fingers away. The hand was still heavily bandaged, with Qyburn having decided that the skin was still too damaged for him to attempt to sew it back over the exposed bones, but Jaime had seen them once and that had been enough. He would regain the use of what remained of his fingers, he'd been assured, but it didn't matter.

The youngest Kingsguard in history. The golden lion. The great Jaime Lannister… And not a hand left to speak off.

Death is so final whereas life… Life is so full of possibilities.

His brother had never been so wrong.

He was drifting at the edge of consciousness where the pain was almost bearable when Cersei entered, draped in Lannister crimson and crowned in gold. Like flames, his mind offered unhelpfully. Jaime ignored it. "Cersei…" She had come alone, and Jaime felt frayed and battered hope stir in his chest as she closed the door behind her. Perhaps…

"What happened?"

The hope flickered slightly, but Jaime refused to let it go. "Dragons," he replied, peering up at his sister's face, "The Targaryen girl was waiting for us. She knew… She has three grown dragons, Cersei…"

She had closed the distance between them as he spoke and reached out to brush her fingers over his hairless scalp. "How do they fight?"

Jaime leaned into the touch as it explored his face and neck, the pain more than worth it to feel whole again. "They burn things…"

Cersei glared, her touch growing rougher and drawing a pained gasp from her brother. "Obviously," she looked him up and down and drew back her hand, wiping it on a cloth Qyburn had left by his bedside, "How does she control them? Do they obey orders? Are they soldiers or beasts?"

"I…" The direction of the conversation and the sudden lack of the contact he'd so craved was throwing Jaime off balance, "She was riding the largest. They seemed under control…"

"And her ground forces? Were they caught in the fire as well?"

"There was none, just the reserve forces from Highgarden…"

Cersei stilled and her face went carefully blank. "None," she repeated, "You mean to tell me that the entire Lannister army lost to a little girl and three dragons!"

"Half — "

"Half!?" The queen interrupted loudly. She stooped to his level, emerald eyes flashing, and Jaime could smell wine on her breath, "I commanded you to take that castle. I commanded you to take their gold! And you bring half my army!?"

He couldn't do this. She was moving too fast. He couldn't keep up. He didn't understand. And Gods, it hurt… Jaime's eyes slid closed of their own accord. His ears were ringing. His hands — hand — was shaking. Tears prickled at his eyelids and his stomach twisted and rolled… He wanted his sister, he wanted his brother, he wanted his mother. He wanted everything to stop, stop, stop! He couldn't… He just couldn't.. But he had too. "The Riverlands need more time if they hope to maintain stability." An answer, nothing more.

"The Riverlands need more time?" Cersei demanded, her voice — by contrast — rising with every word, "You think I care what the Riverlands need? You think I want some common whore ruling my kingdom!"

"Lady Kitty's parents were both of noble birth."

His sister recoiled as though he'd struck her. "You like her."

"I respect her."

"Respect," Cersei laughed coldly, "Did you fuck her?"

"No."

"Did you want to?"

"No."

The palm that collided with his burned face sent pain spasming through Jaime's entire body and the world faded in and out around him, yet the sensations felt far away. Everything felt far away.

"The Tarly bitch can have you."

"No."

"No? And what reason could I possibly have for keeping you?"

"Loyalty."

"Loyalty didn't trouble you when you made your deal with father."

I'll leave the Kingsguard, I'll take my place as your son and heir if you let Tyrion live…

"How do you — ?"

"You betrayed me. You left me and came back maimed and soft. You would have left me again for that spiteful little creature. You let him go and our father died for it. You come back now looking like a lumpy, bloody shit and you want to talk about loyalty!?"

The shaking had reached his lungs now, and Jaime couldn't breathe. Foggy darkness pressed in on him from all sides. He just wanted it to stop.

"Why shouldn't I marry you off? Why should I secure the Tarlys' allegiance and see to it that I have heirs named Lannister? You and Father and Robert and all the smug cocks who smiled then ignored me, you were all wrong. I am Queen. I destroyed my enemies, all of them, without a husband or a brother or a lover. I have been sold and bred and disrespected, but that is over. I am the Queen, and you will do as I command."

Weeks passed. Jaime drank milk of the poppy without fuss and slept for most of them. There were dreams, of course. There were memories and night terrors and monsters as well, but he avoided the wakefulness needed to consider or remember them at all costs. Qyburn cut him off when he began swindling second and third and forth doses out of passing servants and nearly choked on his own vomit. He didn't argue with the former master's decision. He wanted to, desperate as he was for the escape the milk gave him, but he couldn't find the energy. Truthfully, he couldn't find the energy for much beyond breathing and blinking most days. Even the pain of broken bones and too tight skin couldn't rouse a reaction anymore.

Jaime thought, sometimes, that he ought to be frightened, but he could find the energy for that either.

In the end, it was Qyburn who forced him up. The little man appeared in his line of sight with a modified crutch and manhandled him upright, heedless of Jaime's halfhearted protests. It hurt. It hurt with that deep aching pain that inhabited every fibre of his being, but the pain was oddly grounding and arguing took more energy than standing.

He was bathed and dressed where he stood. Bandages and red cloth. (Like fire and blood, his mind whispered.) A servant hurried off with a chamber pot he scarcely remembered using. Qyburn fiddled with the straps binding his remaining wrist to the crutch and checked the splint strapped to his broken ankle and declared him fit to leave the room.

Jaime wondered if it would be worth the pain to collapse where he stood, but the effort involved proved too much once anga and he hobbled from his chambers like a good little soldier under Qyburn's watchful eye.

They reached the King's Chambers just as his knees began to buckle, but at least he managed to present himself to his sister standing upright and clean this time before crumpling into a seat across from her.

"Qyburn tells me you're healing well."

Was he? Jaime didn't know how true that was, but he supposed it was the best thing to tell the Queen.

"You don't look well."

Now that was true. He wasn't well. He wasn't right. He wasn't him, but he couldn't bring himself to care… Flames danced before his eyes, green licking red and gold. Blood ran from his daughter's nose. Locke's blade glinted. Tyrion's stubby arms embraced him tightly. Rhaella's screams rang in his ears. Joffrey's purple face gaped at him. Tommen's innocent gaze begged for help. Fear glittered in the Stark boy's eyes. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. The stones resting on his father's eyes. Burn them all. Burn them all —

"Jaime."

He blinked and his sister's face came into focus across the desk, impatient and frowning. "Just tired, is all."

Cersei's nose wrinkled slightly, but Jaime's gaze fell away before he could work out why so he was as near to startled as his apathy would allow when she reached across and cupped his cheek gently. "I've given your words some thought." The voice was his queen's, but the hand was his lover's… "And you were right."

Jaime doubted that, but said nothing. He couldn't have, even if he wanted to. Couldn't do anything more than sag into his sister's hand… Gods, he just wanted to sleep…

"Loyalty. Honour. Legacy. It is ours to maintain, now." Cersei tilted his head so their eyes met once more, the once matching green now sharp and bright and dull and lifeless respectively, "You told me once to fuck prophecy, and I did. The younger Queen has burned away. You told me that you and me were all that mattered in this world, and here we are standing atop the bones of our enemies. Am I still the only thing that matters, dear brother?"

Of course she was. He knew nothing else… Jaime nodded into her palm.

"Good," she did not smile, "We are all that is left of our family, you and I. Mother, dead. Father, murdered. Uncles Tygett, Gerion and Kevan, dead — "

Dead, missing and murdered, he corrected dully.

"Cousins Lancel, Willem, Martyn and Tyrek, dead. Aunt Genna, killed along with her children in the fighting to sit that common whore you respect so much atop the Riverlands — "

Wait, what? The words tugged Jaime back to the present somewhat, and he lifted his head. "Aunt Genna's dead?"

Cersei's face twisted vindictively. "Didn't think to ask after her while you were drooling over the cunt, did you?" she mocked coldly, before her expression smoothed once more, "But no matter. We remain, and we are all that matters in this world. Lord Qyburn," she turned to the man who had been hovering in the doorway since their arrival, "Show the others in."

"Cersei, what…?" The others? Jaime wanted to understand, he wanted to pay attention, he needed to pay attention but try as he might he just couldn't. Sleep and fog and nothingness swirled in his head while dull agony gnawed at him from within and without…

"Your failure at Highgarden has put us in a difficult position," the Queen voice was back, "And yet, for the sack of our family, I will allow you the opportunity to atone for your transgressions. We must secure our position, and you Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, will secure both the Westerlands and the Reach. With much of the Reach fled to the dragon whore's side, I have given the title of Lord Paramount to Lord Randyl Tarly. You will marry his daughter, Lady Talla, and bring her back to Casterly Rock as a hostage if nothing else."

Brother and sister stared at each other for a long moment while Jaime tried, and failed, to react. He should feel something. He should be angry or jealous or slighted or shamed… He should care… But he didn't. He felt nothing at all.

Cersei, clearly, interpreted his silence as defiance. "I don't need your consent — "

"You have it."

Her eyes narrowed and she studied him as though she expected some kind of ruse, but a knock at the chamber door interrupted any further questioning. "Enter."

They did, but Jaime couldn't bring himself to look round. Instead, he let his head droop and his eye slide closed as he longed for sleep. It didn't come, of course, and the shuffling and snuffling of men dug like gnats into his head. Someone bumped his crutch, jarring the dismal excuse for a hand strapped to it, while someone else clapped him on the back in greeting. Jaime felt his body curl in on itself as he tried not to vomit. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this…

"... Your Grace… honour…"

"... Lord Tarly…"

"... your father…"

They were talking now. Talking and laughing and drinking, no doubt, their words little more than jumbled sounds battering his mind. Where was Qyburn? He just wanted to sleep. Surely he'd earned a good hefty dose of milk of the poppy by now? Gods, he prayed the Tarly girl was quiet...

"... Highgarden… dragons…"

"... Targaryen girl…"

"... needn't concern… cannot change… together to retake…"

"... killed…"

Everything hurt. Everything hurt, and yet he felt nothing just as much. He was adrift, somewhere, and nowhere at all. Jaime pressed his broken foot into the floor and revelled in the sudden real, right here pain that caused stars to dance across the inside of his eyelids.

"... fares your daughter?"

"... afraid… know. Brienne — "

Jaime's head snapped up, eyes popping open and searching frantically for the speaker because it couldn't be…

" — is making her own way, as young knights do."

He looked like her. Jaime had never stopped to consider anyone sharing her look, but he did in every way. The square jaw. The unholy height. The straw-like hair. Even his dour expression was as much hers as his. Selwyn Tarth sat ramrod straight in a nearby chair.

"As young knights do," another voice, this one unfortunately familiar, mocked from somewhere behind him, "She's a woman."

"That will do, Lord Tarly." Cersei's tone may admonish the Reacher Lord, but her smile was predatory, "As it happens, I've heard tales of the Lady Brienne's adventures. Serving the false king, Renly Baratheon, and then the traitor's window, Catelyn Stark. Standing by while they mutilated my dear brother… And now, I hear, she is serving our late king, my son's, murderer, the traitor's daughter herself, Sansa Stark."

Selwyn's face was the colour of spoiled milk. Jaime's head spun.

"I've not heard from my daughter since her time among Renly's forces. I assure you, Your Grace, I know nothing of her current allegiances…"

"Of course," Cersei's smile grew somehow sharper. "Loose morality is a necessary trait for a Hedge Knight. Hardly a reflection of her Lord father at all."

There was a pregnant pause before Lord Tarth sighed, and Jaime recognized the look on his face as the same one Brienne had worn when she'd grown tired of his shit, albeit much paler, "I implore you, Your Grace, say what you mean."

The Queen leaned back in her chair, her movements deliberately slow as she poured herself a generous glass of wine and took a drink without breaking eye contact. "The Stormlands have been in shambles since House Baratheon fell," she said at last, "Divided loyalties. No clear chain of command. I would have you rectify that. Your daughter is your only heir, and a known traitor. I offer you a suitable bride, fertile and strong, and the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands in return for your loyal service to the crown."

"A generous offer, Your Grace — "

"Yes, it is," Cersei cut across him sharply, her tone noticeably colder than it had been a moment before, "Should something untoward befall your little Lady knight, Tarth would be left in a very unfortunate position…"

Selwyn went very still indeed, and Jaime suspected he wasn't the only one holding his breath.

"Lord Qyburn, would you fetch the Ladies?"

The former maester, presumably, obeyed for Jaime heard the chamber door open and close behind him. The silence that stretched out after his departure was tense enough that it seemed to suck the air from the room, and it remained that way until Cersei released the Storm Lord's gaze.

"Lord Tarly, it's good to see you up and about."

"I'm not sure about up, Your Grace, but your Lord Qyburn does brew an excellent poppy wine."

Jaime debated shifting to look at the man, he really did, but apathy won out again and he let his gaze fall back to the desk in front of him. Cersei couldn't know where Brienne was, could she? What was he thinking, of course she could… It was getting to her that would prove difficult. And yet she seemed wholly unconcerned by the rebellious Northmen, a ruse perhaps, or she had someone within their ranks… His eyes slid closed again as the thoughts chased each other around his head. Brienne had found Sansa, at least. There's one oath kept, Rhaegar…

"You've had time to consider my proposal, I take it?"

"There was nothing to consider, Your Grace, it would be my honour to bring the Reach to heal in your name."

"I'm glad to hear it. My brother, likewise, would be honoured to wed your sweet daughter."

Honoured. Jaime would have laughed at the choice of word if he could have. As it was, he kept still and quiet and prayed no one would address him. Brienne could be in danger, and her father certainly was, he should feel something but there was nothing at all save for that dull distant pain and a pressure behind his eyes… He should say something, he knew. He should look at the man who would be his father by law, but he couldn't… Gods help him, he couldn't do this… They were still talking, but he couldn't. He just couldn't, couldn't, couldn't…

"Are you quite well, Ser Jaime?"

No, his mind screamed. (An answer? A prayer for anonymity? He didn't know…) No, no, no, no! The voice was too gentle and much too near to his ear. Jaime forced his eyes open and noticed, far too late, that he was shaking in his seat. He tried to stop, but failed. He tried to raise his head but failed at that too. His eyes tried to pinch shut again and he let his head fall further, trying to hide the tears blurring his vision from the sympathy in Selwyn Tarth's gaze. An answer. He needed to answer… "Just tired, My Lord." His voice sounded shattered, even to his own ears, but he got the words out at least.

"Yes, pain will do that to a man."

Qyburn's return, flanked by two young women, saved Jaime from the need to respond. He led them both to Cersei's side, and Jaime realized that he recognized both of their faces. Janei Lannister and Joy Hill, both of them cousins from his father's side, and two of the only Lannister left living. A fertile bride indeed…

"Lord Selwyn," Cersei addressed him, pinning him with her gaze once more, "May I present Janei of the House Lannister, trueborn daughter of my late uncle Keven, ten and five and flowered." She gestured to the younger of the two girls who, with her golden curls and green eyes, looked the plainer version of Cersei herself as a child. "And Joy Hill," she indicated the elder cousin, a dark-eyed girl with bone straight hair of pale gold and a soft face, "Natural born daughter of my late uncle Gerion. Should you accept my very generous proposal, either of these women are yours to wed. If not…" She left the threat unsaid.

"I could hardly choose between such lovely — "

"Save your chivalry, old man," another voice spoke up from the shadows in a tone of easy mockery, "I'll take the bastard off your hands. She'll do me just fine." The speaker stepped forward and Jaime saw a man with dark hair, a lazy smile to match his voice, and an eyepatch hiding one eye. He was well dressed, to be sure, but the clothes were worn and his leathers bore salt stains indicative of time spent at sea.

"Ser, I appreciate the gesture — "

"Oh, I'm not a knight. The Drowned God has no use for suits of armour and pretty oaths."

Cersei cleared her throat pointedly. "Lord Selwyn, this is Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands."

"Lord Greyjoy?" Lord Tarly cut in, "I was under the impression your brother had styled himself a King in rebellion against the throne?"

"Yes, dear Balon was always dull as a sack of rocks," the pirate Lord raised a fist to his chest absentmindedly, "What is dead will never die and all that. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a far sharper wit than my brother and I assure you, I've no desire to be king. A throne is so small, but the world is so much more…"

"Lord Greyjoy," Cersei interrupted, putting an end to the posturing before it could truly begin, "Has proven himself a valuable ally these past few moons. As such, it is my honour to present him with a royal decree naming his betrothed Joy Lannister, trueborn daughter of Gerion Lannister."

Euron gave her an extravagant bow. "You honour me, Your Grace."

"It's no more than you deserve, My Lord," Cersei looked almost bored as she gestured their cousin forward to take the pirate's arm, "Lord Selwyn, your decision?"

The Lord of Tarth was stiff and stony-faced, but he bowed all the same. "I could not hope for a more lovely bride."

"Lovely," Cersei didn't bother to inject any warmth into her smile, "Lord Qyburn will escort you back to your chambers and wedding arrangements will be made posthaste."

Jaime gave up on any pretense of wakefulness as the other Lords and Ladies filed out as he allowed the mindless chatter and sound of heavy footsteps lull him toward long desired sleep...

"Lord Euron, wait a moment."

With a whine, Jaime forced his eyes back open in time to see the pirate flashed a wicked grin at the departing men. "And how might I serve my Queen?"

Cersei waited just long enough for the chamber door to close before smug smirk quirked her lips. "Your bastard in exchange for mine, I believe was the agreement?"

"You can't keep him," Euron matched her expression carelessly, "That wasn't part of our arrangement."

"I legitimized yours."

His laugh was sharp and biting and vicious, nothing at all like the careless words and smiles he offered. "Oh, I suppose I can spare him a few moons. I'll need him back mostly in one piece, though."

Cersei huffed a laugh of her own. "What do you take me for, My Lord?"

"A woman who knows what she wants, and takes it. I wouldn't bother with you otherwise."

"Charming."

"That's what they tell me," Euron's smirk grew and he leaned out the door, "Bastard! Get in here!"

Jaime felt his heart skip a beat as a man shuffled the room. White hair. Pretty, otherworldly features. Pale, porcelain skin… But, no, it couldn't be… He forced himself to think, to focus, to stay here, now, and not drift away in shock. This man was too tall to be Rhaegar. His eyes were wrong — a grey that seemed almost turquoise rather than dark purple — his face was too thin and his shoulders too wide. No, this wasn't Rhaegar, but near enough…

"Jaime," Cersei was almost crowing, "May I present Aurane Waters, Bastard of Driftmark and the blood of old Valyria. Lord Euron presented me with a gift for an alliance well struck, and Waters is going to help me with it…"

He didn't want to look. He didn't need to look. He already knew. He knew by her tone and Greyjoy's smirk and Aurane Waters' sunken cheeks and haunted eyes…

My sons will be golden dragons and kings.

How does she control them? Do they obey orders? Are they soldiers or beasts?

Oh Gods, he couldn't do this. Please, I don't know how to do this…

The dragon egg glinted red and gold in his sister's hands. Laughter echoed in his mind.

You will always burn, Jaime Lannister.