He's not thinking about it.

Once Bronn is successfully shoed away by Tyrion's – empty, for the most part, he suspects – promises, Jaime takes to actively avoiding any of Winterfell's current inhabitants, up to and including his brother. Instead, he takes a turn for the rookery, paying no mind to the countless birds gathered over his head when he enters and takes a seat by the only table he can see, picking up a quill and a parchment and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, only the light of the full moon outside guiding him. Can a raven be sent out at night? He'd never tried before, but then, he'd never been incensed enough to do so. This doesn't feel like it can wait. It's a good thing that his left hand is better at penmanship than it had been and no longer as useless as his rage, or this missive would read like a great deal of Joffrey's tantrums had sounded; childish and deeply flawed and desperate for his sister's attention.

And he's all of those things, he supposes; that apple hadn't fallen as far from either branch of the tree as he would have liked it to. It doesn't particularly matter.

Qyburn,

If you would be so kind as to inform Her Grace

No, that won't do. There's nothing graceful about any of this. Carefully, he tears off the top of his letter, ready to start anew.

Qyburn,

Do tell the Queen that her message has been received

That's not quite it either, he realises, acutely aware of the fact that he's wasting time – and scarce material – on whatever it is that he's trying to convey. It's too impersonal; too distant. It's only fair that he returns the insult just as aggressively as it had come.

Qyburn,

Has my sister lost her mind? I made my allegiance quite clear

But he hadn't – not to her, he's sure, because he knows how things work inside her mind; knows that to her, his departure had been a betrayal. And it's not just that – he's not in the mood to talk to any of her fawning yes-men and especially not to the worst offender of them all. He goes directly to the source instead, her name smearing under his clumsy left hand as he goes along, being made further illegible by a water droplet falling from gods know where. Of course the roof above his head has to drip – it only makes sense that this castle is falling apart, just like everything in the world. Just like him.

Cersei,

I can't believe you. You're such a fucking bitch

But there's really not much purpose to that either, is there? She knows, and this is her way – striking a match off of him and then basking in the warmth of his ire and the usually pleasant consequences it tends to bring. This is nothing more than a reminder, really; a prompt for his own unhelpful mind to supply him with all the memories needed for him to know that Bronn, crossbow and all, had been sent here as a challenge. Worse – as an invitation.

Furious, he scratches over those last few words too and tosses the parchment aside, heading back into Winterfell's long stretch of rooms meant for guests. He could easily go back to Brienne's chambers where he had spent the past couple of nights, but it's no good – he can't look her in the eyes with nothing but Cersei on his mind; not if he means to sink lower than that afterwards, and with the way his life is going, he suspects he might end up lower still.

~.~

He doesn't go back to Tyrion, either – he couldn't possibly stand his prodding and subsequent gloating. More than anything, his brother had been amused, it had seemed; he and Cersei had threatened each other's lives so many times that Jaime suspects that it barely holds any weight by now. She had had a thousand chances to kill him, and Tyrion could have let his Queen burn down the Red Keep whenever the urge came upon her instead of dissuading her time and time again. If they want to keep hurtling threats at each other in the same perverse back and forth for as long as they have left to live, who is he to stop them?

It's different for him, though there's no way for Tyrion to understand that – different and new, to be at the receiving side of her easily unearthed violence, to this degree at last. And it's not just that; her message, unsubtly delivered as it had been, had brought along with itself an onslaught of memories that he could easily do without.

He misses her, is the thing, and he misses the mundane bits of their life in the Red Keep as much as he misses the sort of antics that get a weapon pointed at his face just because she had decided to swan back into his life one way or another. He misses the hazy, simple joy hiding in her green eyes in the early mornings; the warmth of her body wrapped around his while she's asleep, the sight of her gripping the handles of her throne and leaning forward, hungry for a fight, to address whoever had dared to come before her. He misses seeing the flawless porcelain of her facade break to pieces for him.

And that's what it boils down to, really – he wants to bait the same angry, helpless craving from her that she does from him and she's just reminded him that he can't, unless he goes back home. As he slams his door closed behind his back, Jaime can almost imagine the vicious pleasure this thought has brought her, because he knows it had. It's Cersei he's thinking of, after all, and the world simply rearranges itself for her when she required it to. He should be infuriated by the fact that he's letting her do the same to him too, he knows, but the only thing he feels is liquid heat running through his veins, curling low in his stomach, sly and deceptively innocuous like his sister's eyes on him when she wants something, and he's not in the mood to lie to himself for much longer.

As soon as he's in bed, his clothes taken off and the bed's covers spread over him from head to toe to shield him from the cold, he gives up on the pretence of restraint, eyes falling shut as he palms his already half-hard cock, a gasp slipping out as he thrusts up into his own hand, his anger only making the urge for release that much stronger.

Does she do this, too? The image comes uninvited – Cersei sprawled out in their bed, her fingers teasing her open, her lips parted on a moan, thighs clenching around nothing in a place that had always belonged solely to him. Of course she does. Knowing her, she's done it the night she'd given Bronn the order, thinking of what he would do once he finds out she'd sent someone to kill him. He hopes it feels as inadequate as the lack of those same fingers feels on him now. His hard, calloused touch has nothing on the smooth silk of hers, but there's no way she doesn't feel the exact opposite thing; no way her small hand can bring her the same pleasure that he does. They are nothing but two pieces fitting into each other the way a sword fits its sheath – nothing else feels quite right, and the memory of the bliss written all over her face whenever he touches her is branded into the back of his mind, haunting him for eternity.

It's the thought of that that makes him bite his lip and hurry his rhythm, barely bothering to pace himself at all. What would be the point? He doesn't have anything to prove to anyone tonight and Cersei has a way of making him feel desperate and restless and frustrated even when she's only in his mind and he can't get her out of there: with his eyes closed, it's so much easier to pretend that she's somewhere near, out of touch but not out of sight, watching him give into his own pleasure like she has so many times before, more a vision than a memory – he swipes his thumb over the tip, rough and impatient, and almost feels her fingers wrapping around his wrist once he's done, holding his hand to her lips and idly licking his seed off of his palm, her gaze not leaving his for a moment. He remembers – sees – himself flipping them over, watching her silently as the wildfire in her eyes meets its fuel and meeting her in a frantic kiss an instant later; feeling her squirm under him as her thighs wrap around his waist, always, always eager for more.

He comes with her name on his tongue, mouth flooding with the coppery taste of blood from where he'd bitten his lip too hard. It's only fitting, really. Even this release feels like a defeat.

Fuck. Absent-mindedly, Jaime wipes his hand on the sheets, suddenly cold despite the wool surrounding him from each and every direction – cold, but half-suffocated at the same time, as if the walls have suddenly grown closer to him.

He doesn't remember the last time he's earnestly tried to communicate with a god, but he does now, turning to no one in particular; to whoever would be inclined to send a message that he cannot bring himself to, and it's a vague request with nothing spoken to back it up – his words are saved only for his sister.

You should know by now. I will only ever die by your hand.

~.~

In his dream, Jaime is on his knees in a sept bigger than any he's ever seen, facing the Stranger's hooded back and whispering fervent prayers. None of what he's saying sounds like words, somehow, his desperate pleas melting together in senseless cacophony, and it's only when he's finished that he realises that he's waiting for a response to the message that he'd just whispered to the northern winds back in reality, outside of this place trapped somewhere between worlds.

High up above him, the faceless god laughs.

It's a familiar sound – one he loves, as much as it hurts to admit it. High and gentle and preciously rare, wind chimes moved by the breeze, as honest as it gets. The last time he had heard it—

He can't quite recall it and that hurts in its own way. When had he last heard his sister laugh? Really laugh?

When he opens his eyes, the marble meant to imitate the cloth of the god's cloak is a soft, malleable thing under his knees – a dimpled pile of shiny black satin. If he looks up, he knows what he'll see – the spiked shoulders of her gown, her halo of golden hair circled by the braided silver of her crown.

The words, when they come, echo from an entirely different direction – somewhere right behind him.

"You needn't worry, I know. Though if you want me to kill you, it's only fair that you return the favour."

"Never." She's driven him to violence on occasion, yes, but, "I never would. Unlike you."

He does look this time, and there she is, facing him now, the Stranger's good barely disguising the dull glimmer of her crown on the candlelight – that golden Lannister lion baring its spikes back at him. She's smaller than him now, just as she is in the waking world, but her eyes are black as night and, reflected in their darkness, he can see behind his back.

The Maiden. Of course. Jaime doesn't need to turn around to confirm the banality of his own imagination because he already knows – half-undressed, her bridal gown pooled around her waist, just as he remembers her from the morning of her wedding. Only it's not quite her – there's a cruel edge to her smile that wouldn't come until later and that, to this very day over twenty years down the line, he hadn't seen aimed at him, and she's holding what must apparently be their family's favourite crossbow trained at his head.

"No, you wouldn't", she allows. "It's no good unless you die, too. Are you so eager to see what awaits on the other side? You might not enjoy it much."

"I suspect I won't enjoy it at all." None of them move and it occurs to him, distantly, that he's being asked to make a choice. "I'll follow you into hell – into any of them. Is that it? Is that what you want to hear?"

The goddess behind him laughs again, and there's a certain malice to it that the Maiden isn't supposed to possess – or at least, as far as he knows. None of those women is actually his sister, after all, no matter how he addresses them. The crossbow lowers by a fraction, but doesn't move away from him.

"Is that what your message meant, then? Would you like to die?"

His gaze doesn't stay from his the Stranger wearing his sister's face and under the shadow of her hood, he can see tears sliding down her cheeks. She shakes her head, but no words come out – not that he'd expected it of her. Unlike the memory keeping a weapon pointed at him, his Cersei is as deafeningly quiet as she had been since the day he'd left King's Landing.

He should turn around, he knows. Jaime had rarely been a man of faith, but he knows enough about each of the Seven to know why the Stranger is rarely prayed to and why the Maiden is quite as beloved as she is. He should definitely turn around.

He steps forward, arms falling open in a resigned welcome; shoves the hood out of the way and draws Cersei into a kiss as soon as she sways into his embrace. Under the Stranger's cloak, her dress is crimson and gold, and the pendant with their sigil feels like it's burning a brand into him when she presses near and responds, her hungry lips on his just as scorching hot as the precious metal is.

Behind him, the Maiden sighs just the way his sister had as a child; with petulant acceptance, letting the world – him, really, though the two are interchangeable where Cersei is concerned – know that she isn't pleased, but also that she knows that there are battles she couldn't possibly win.

"I thought as much." He can hear her adjust the crossbow, but doesn't tear his mouth away from Cersei's. There's blood on his tongue again and he idly wonders if this is what it feels like to make a goddess bleed; to bleed alongside with her. "Hold tight, brother. This won't hurt at all."

The bolt sinks straight into his heart.

~.~

"I always wanted to be there when they execute your sister." It's Sansa Stark speaking, but it's Cersei looking back at him through her cold gaze; the Maiden's careless goading lacing the words. It's an invitation and a challenge once again and he'd already written out the path forward for himself, really. "Seems like I won't get the chance."

No, he thinks with bitter triumph taking over his entire being. No, you won't.

Cersei would never give anyone the satisfaction and the hope of getting to her before it's already too late to help her festers inside him, but he knows that no matter the outcome, she would allow no one but him there next to her.

And truly, it doesn't matter – he'd greeted death so warmly when she had come in his sleep last night. With her by his side, he would do it outside of the realm of dreams, too.

With her in his arms, he now knows, it won't hurt at all.