Author's Note: [Jaws theme slowly growing louder in the background]

It had been a long day.

Being entirely on someone else's schedule – particularly if that someone is a princess – means that Jaime doesn't really have many uneventful days, but today had blown all of the last fortnight out of the water in terms of just how much of a disaster it had turned out to be. It hadn't been Cersei's fault, no more than it had been the fault of any of the other competitors or the Queen herself, but he can see it all weighing her down as she retreats towards her chambers anyway, an uncharacteristic slump to her usual perfect posture. She tries not to let it show – has been for hours – but it doesn't make much of a difference, considering how well he knows her by now.

The meeting with the Dornish representatives had been less than stellar. If he looks back far enough – all the way into his military career – Jaime knows that deep down, everyone in that room had seen it coming from a mile away. The Crownlands's endless assault on foreign territories to fight petty wars over resources that had, supposedly, belonged to them in the recent past, had been both deadly and wildly ineffectual when it had come to the state's popularity on the continent, but the Queen had insisted on continuing what her predecessor had started. It's more a matter of pride than anything else, as they can all see from a mile away – neither country could possibly be this passionate about a few inconsequential islands in the Narrow Sea – and the deep-seated realisation of the pointlessness of it all had made everyone twice as irritable as they usually would have been, hence the lack of any real conclusion, let alone an agreement on long-lasting peace.

Or so Jaime had thought. Usually, after meetings such as this one, Cersei would talk him through it for the rest of the day, offering her own perspective and opening his eyes to miniscule details that he hadn't even thought to seek out as well as showing it all to him in a completely different light. It makes sense that she would be so much better at it than he had ever been – he's a soldier, and she's been prepared to do this for longer than she'd been able to realise what her family had had planned for her – and he's more interested in hearing about it than he would have anticipated before coming in the Red Keep. It's a small ritual, but it helps them both unwind from the tension that tends to build in war rooms and for that, he appreciates it.

She's far too subdued for that today; more so than he's ever seen her. It's unexpected – this is far from the first time a diplomatic venture had taken a turn for the sour, but it's a job like any other, or so she says. There's a way out of everything, Cersei had assured him more than once, and just because the stakes are higher in her position doesn't mean that there's anything unsalvageable. The thought that there might be something more serious at play here – something he'd missed despite his best efforts – makes his heart sink.

"It's not that," the princess assures him and, to Jaime's surprise, it sounds convincing enough. "I've been feeling all out of sorts today."

No one would blame her for that, all things considered, he wants to assure her, but bites it back. Out of sorts, from what he'd been able to tell, tends to mean sick rather than tired more often than not, even if it's not necessarily in the physical sense.

"That's understandable," he says at last, still aware of how delicate he needs to be about this if he's to help her remain even remotely collected, and yet, "You shouldn't let them get to you. Getting a rise out of their opponents is what they do best."

"This was more than just some petty fight-picking, Jaime." Even now that she's truly upset, she doesn't raise her voice above the even, tense near-whisper that he had gradually become gradually used to whenever they were in public. "They hate us."

"Everyone in Essos hates us," he says, and it slips out so easily that he doesn't quite realise the weight of what he'd declared to her until his charge turns to look back at him, appalled. "Politics-wise," he amends in a feeble attempt to salvage the situation, unable to look at Cersei's dismayed expression for much longer. "I doubt all of the regular people around there care about anyone past their own street, much like the regular people around here." They're still in the middle of the corridor and his eyes dart in both directions to find it empty before he takes the chance and reaches out for the hand that isn't still reflexively clutching at her tablet. "The Westerosi and Essosi countries have been at each other's throats for as long as the world's been turning. No one is expecting you to fix it, let alone before you've got a crown on your head."

"Then what is the use of me?" She doesn't pull away, but does tug him along until they're back in front of her rooms, the elaborate locks finally allowing them in after a series of clicks, Jaime's mild surprise going mostly ignored in favour of the door being slammed behind his back. He misses the warmth of her hand in his as soon as she lets go and drops down in the chair by her desk, looking even more defeated than before. "This was a test. Everything they have me do is a test, of course, but international relations? These are the ones I can't afford to fail."

"You haven't failed at anything." This is the first time he's been here. It's a silly, childish thing to focus on, given Cersei's current plight, but he can't help himself – it feels altogether too personal, especially given how devastated she seems to be just now, and it's hard not to wonder if she even realises what she's done. The thought of her being reprimanded for it when all she'd wanted had been to talk the day's struggles out with someone who might understand. "Taking a step back today was the right thing to do. What else could have you done? Give them an inch to make them think they can take a mile, then bomb some military base flat to let them know you aren't fucking around? Our brave leaders have been doing that ever since bombing things flat first became an option. This is the norm." Her green eyes are wide as saucers, as if she's only now remembering who she's talking to, and what kind of experience he's speaking from. "If you want to do something to change the norm, then you're on the right path." Emboldened by his previous gesture, he nudges her again, both friendly and a bit challenging. "You were telling me about your namesake the other day. What would she have done?"

Seemingly despite herself, Cersei smiles, still somewhat brittle but far less affected than she initially had been. "She was fond of bombing things flat, I'm afraid."

"Ah." There's not much he can say to that. "She was ahead of her time, then."

The laugh that follows is the most unexpected part of today, loud and sincere and nothing like anything he had ever expected to bring out of her. "An example to us all," she agrees, leaning back in her desk chair to grasp at something by her computer. It's a history book, he sees as she starts thumbing thought it to find what she's looking for, and it gives him the chance to look around the place without looking like he's snooping. It's covered in books, most of them on world politics, history, or even specific figures, but she's not lacking in the fiction department either – there's another impressively-sized shelf, far more colourful than the rest, nestled right between her expansive bed and what he assumes must be a walk-in closet.

"There used to be a small drawing room there before, for her to accept guests in when needed," Cersei explains, apparently having followed his line of sight. "Or so I've been told. The governess that took care of us when I first came here thought it would be amusing to give me her chambers, and she told me everything about the place on my way in. She was a remarkable woman."

"Your governess or Queen Cersei?" It's somewhere between a joke and a honest question, but there's an ulterior motive to it, too; one that Jaime wouldn't so readily admit to – he wants to savour the words in that combination and let her hear them, see if that can improve her mood.

It does. She grins back, more restrained than before but no less honest. "Both. It was a more difficult time; savage, in a way. Warfare was way different then." She gives him a rueful look, as if in recognition of a knowledge that she, thankfully, had had no first-hand experience with so far. "Or perhaps not so different, in its essence. I try not to draw inspiration from it."

"I can see that." Chances are, the people who have known her for the last decade should be able to see it even more easily, but there's no knowing that for sure. There are people he's known all his life without knowing them at all and, he thinks with a fond glance at his princess, there are people he's known for weeks and for a lifetime, as well.

"It's strange," she says, almost echoing his line of thought. "It's always something I've thought about, of course – how the results of negotiations would affect everyone actually on the ground, but it's never occurred to me that I might need someone to advice me with an insider's knowledge."

For once, he can show off a smidge of the historical literacy that she tends to lord over him. "Back in the day, they had a Master of War for that."

"They were on the right track." Cersei rolls her eyes, looking almost disgusted for a moment. "Now we have a Minister of External Affairs, and he's more useless than any of us, the contestants, when we were sixteen." She peers back at him, smile bolder than before like she's about to say something especially scandalous, only to offer something that Jaime, he now realises, has been thinking of for quite some time. "When I'm queen, you'll be the one in charge of that, I think."

There it is – the confidence she'd been sorely lacking after the meeting's end. "I was thinking something more along the lines of Lord Commander of the Queensguard."

"Really?" She seems almost mystified, as if that wouldn't be the natural progression from being a member of the Queensguard, and the realisation makes his heart do an odd jump in his chest – she takes it as a given that he's meant for something more. "How come?"

There's really no way to explain it, other than what he himself had been told in the not so distant past. Jaime shrugs. "Just an inkling."

~.~

It's only when he realises that the screams are coming from somewhere other than his dream that Jaime finally startles awake.

Cersei. It has to be – his bedroom is right next to hers for a reason, and the castle is old – the stone does far less for muffling sounds than most of today's building materials would, and between one breath and the next, he's out of his room and getting through the complicated sequences of her door, cursing it for the cage that it makes. This, at least, is a small mercy – now he knows that no one has broken in. The balcony is still an option, but it's too high up for anyone to even consider climbing without getting caught, so what could it possibly be?

"Cersei?" There's no answer, and it vaguely occurs to him that he should likely be using a more appropriate form of address in the event that this is some kind of test, too, though he doubts she would do that to him. Nothing from inside the room sounds like struggle, but he does still hear several garbled words, suspiciously resembling begging, or at least prayer – two things he had never imagined the princess in his care doing.

And, apparently, she isn't, he realises as he finally makes his way inside – she's not even awake. Her face is contorted into a distressed grimace, almost as if she's on the verge of tears, but she's asleep, and so completely still that the barely visible tremors that shake her seem all the more obvious.

Relief washes over him, ridiculous in its enormity, but he doesn't leave; steps closer instead, taking her by the shoulder as gently as he can and tries to shake her awake. "Cersei," he hisses, now far more conscious of the effort to not make a spectacle out of this. "Wake up. Cersei!"

Finally, she does, and she has been crying, as it turns out – as soon as her eyes open, the tears slide down her cheeks, her breathing coming out shallow and irregular as residual sobs rack through her even as she takes in her surroundings and realisation sets in.

"Jaime?" It sounds more elated than he had ever imagined hearing it. Cersei's arms wrap around her own body almost protectively and she looks down, perplexed, then back at him, face awash with something between intrigue, confusion and embarrassment of all things. "It was a dream," she says, doubtlessly mostly to herself, but he nods anyway, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Not the pleasant kind, I assume."

"No." Her laugh is feeble, but the sound of it relaxes him some all the same. "Puzzling, though." A quick consultation with the grandfather clock on the other side of the room tells her what Jaime had already been able to tell by the greyish shade to the darkness outside – it's nearing morning – and Cersei throws the covers off, stepping out of bed before heading for the balcony. "I think I need some air."

It's as much of an invitation as he's going to get and he trails after her, unsure, faced with a sight stranger than anything tonight once he steps out – still in her nightgown that seems to be more of a dress, Cersei pours boiling water into two teacups before slamming them on the small table between them. The tea inside is black as night. Jaime suspects he might need it.

"They let you make your own food?"

"Not really, no." With the same care she assigns to any of her royal duties, Cersei morosely adds a general helping of honey into her own tea and pushes it towards him. "But it is generally accepted that we might not always want to refer to the helping personnel in times of crisis of the personal variety."

"Is this a crisis of the personal variety?" He almost doesn't dare to ask – almost. He'd read all of her files borderline religiously in his first days of service in the castle, as is always expected of everyone in the Queensguard, and she doesn't really have any fears to speak of, barring one – one that he, through some cruel twist of fate or coincidence, he shares.

"I'm not sure," she says, apt as always to whatever is going through his mind at the time. "I just know I needed to get out. I have—" She falters, clearly struggling with admitting to anything that might resemble a weakness, no matter how much she trusts him. "I'm—"

Time to put her out of her misery, then. "Claustrophobic," Jaime finishes for her, doing his best impression of an encouraging smile when she nods, watching him carefully for any reaction. "Trust me, you're not alone."

It takes a moment for the veiled implication to dawn on her, but when it does, Cersei looks equal parts disbelieving and awed at the absurdity of it. "You too?"

"Me too." Her laughter, when it comes again – a sound he's growing worryingly attached to – is almost helplessly amused. "Did the dream have something to do with that?"

"In a way." She still looks unsure of how much she wants to share, as if there's something about it that still isn't quite clicking, if the way she keeps stealing calculating glances at him is anything to go by, but Jaime lets it go. Time for a different approach.

"I have nightmares all the time. Had them back in the army and have them about the exact same things now." It's not likely something she can relate to, if this one had rattled her so much, but then again, that's not much of a surprise – he doubts the life she'd led so far is anything to have nightmares about. "Focus on where you are now." It's his age-old technique once again and he feels altogether too happy to share that part of himself, if it's her that it's going to. "Focus on what is here and now. Imprint it into your mind." He does it himself, almost subconsciously by now – the cool, refreshing sea breeze in his face, the warmth of the cup in his hand, the strong taste of the tea, the unbearably sweet scent of Cersei's perfume clinging to everything in this room, the distant sound of the waves not too far from here. It's his home by choice now, but it's an age-old obligation, too; must feel especially so to his charge as she quietly absorbs the surroundings she knows so well. "This is here and now. This is what's real."

"Of course." There's something about her tone of voice that tells him it might be a while before she manages to break away from the nightmare's – if it had been one at all – hold all the same. "Of course. It was just a dream."