"I can't wear that colour," Kaela Yarwyck proclaims, pushing aside yet another heap of fabric as Jaime watches on with dawning despair. It's not the first time today he's heard that, and it hasn't been just Kaela that had said it, so if he's exhausted, he can only imagine how the seamstress must feel. "It's wearing me."

"It looks fine," Maya Sunglass offers in response, as if they don't all know that fine isn't good enough for this occasion – or for any occasion, when you're a princess. "At least you won't be dressed for a funeral."

"You're hilarious." Cersei's icy tone is bellied by the amused curl to her lips as she dutifully stands as more and more pins are vowed into the fabric of her own dress. "I changed it, didn't I?"

She had, not without being nearly begged to do so by the poor woman in charge of everyone's clothes, and the result is startling, after the borderline ascetic dark ensembles that Jaime had been used to so far.

The gown – still shaping up, but almost ready, even to Jaime's not particularly educated eyes – is a work of art. It's white, the skirt draping slightly behind her even with the stand she'd been given to step on, with pale blue flowers wrapping around her waist and off-shoulder sleeves, making her look as if she'd just emerged from the castle's gardens; ever so subtly untouchable. Her golden hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders, braided back in her usual style, though he doubts he's seeing the finished product. As it appears, they'll need quite a while before they're anywhere near prepared to face the public.

"You did," Kaela says with one last scorned look towards the pink-reddish pile in front of her before delving back into the catalogue of her options. "So that's blue for you and red for Maya. What's left for me that isn't boring?"

"Brown isn't boring, just neutral," Cersei offers diplomatically, but quickly relents. "Green could work. It'd suit your hair."

The seamstress had pointed as much as soon as they had come in – red hair and green clothes are, apparently, are a rather popular colour combination – but the princess lights up as if she'd only just heard it for the first time. Must have been the stress of it all getting to them, Jaime imagines, though he doesn't have much of an insight into the other competitors's schedules. "Of course!" She grabs one of the samples and saunters away, doubtlessly towards one of the workers neither of the three of them had had the chance to involve in this project so far, and Jaime suppresses a smile despite how mystified he feels.

"Isn't this a bit counterproductive?" He asks finally, leaning towards Stephan Osgrey, another one of the personal guards that had been assigned after Jaime's own arrival, this time for Maya's sake. "Helping each other out," he clarifies at the man's questioning glance. "They're supposed to be competition, aren't they?"

Stephan scoffs, as if he'd said something particularly ridiculous. "Sure are," he allows, still a bit condescending, as if he knows that he's passing on insight that he knows Jaime has never had any access to. "But this holiday has nothing to do with that. They're not going to announce who the next queen will be on a damn ball. They're competition, but they're also each other's only friends. I would know. I was in their shoes, a long time ago. Don't think much has changed since then."

"You were in the running?" He's about Jaime's age – and, therefore, the princesses's, too – but it feels like such an alien concept, for someone quite so skilled at what they do. He would have assumed him to have been trained for a guardsman since an early age.

"A long time ago," Stephan stresses again. "And I left long before I could be disqualified. We were attacked one day," he elaborates when Jaime keeps quiet, waiting to hear more. "It was a protest, or a riot— I couldn't tell you what it was about if you paid me. We were still kids, the lot of us; the Queensguard locked us into one of the old shelters in the castle. We were all terrified – well, apart from Cersei, but you could already guess that." Jaime does laugh now, the image of his princess springing into action immediately, no matter of her age or the circumstances around her, all too easy to imagine. "And Maya was crying, so I went to comfort her, and the entire time I was thinking about how I would never manage to be a king. How would I keep my composure long enough to protect a nation when I could barely protect myself?"

"You were a child." And that's an understatement. There's a memory lurking somewhere in the back of his mind about the riot he'd described, and it had really been a long time ago – they couldn't have been more than fourteen. "No one could expect you to handle it."

"A few of them did, though." His eyes linger on Cersei again as she fusses with the laces of her gown. "Most of them aren't here anymore. If they couldn't make it, then I know that I definitely wouldn't have. But back then, I was sure of one thing." He turns to his own charge now, almost as if he doesn't realise that he's looking at her, and Jaime feels an uncomfortable twinge in his own chest. There's a sentiment shining through his eyes that seems entirely too familiar, even if he himself hadn't seen it on his own face. "I could barely protect myself, and I couldn't protect a nation, but I would protect this one little girl. She's not so little anymore, and I was being trained for the Queensguard for as long as I've been out of the running – my parents weren't pleased, but I suppose it was the next best thing – but when it was decided that they would all be getting personal protection, I couldn't pass on the chance."

Jaime nods pensively, not entirely sure if he can fully understand any of it – he had led a far different life, after all – only to be further confused when the man speaks up again. "Honestly? I'm just waiting for all of this to be over. If she wants to be Queen, I'll help her on her way to the throne, but I'd prefer it if she had nothing to do with it at all, even if she stays in a position of power."

Now that is even more puzzling than the idea of the different competitors trying to help each other along. "Aren't we supposed to support them in this?" He asks, hesitant if he's missing a detail that he should have picked up somewhere along the way.

Stephan laughs, hearty and clearly genuinely amused at his fussing. This is the best thing about the Queensguard, Jaime had noticed – no matter how new he had been a first, none of them had ever made him feel inadequate."I'm sure we are. But it's not what I want for her, not that I would ever say that – even in the most peaceful centuries, queens live on borrowed time."

~.~

He dreams of the earthquake again that night.

Somehow, without ever having asked, Jaime is sure that this is the same nightmare that had occasionally tormented Cersei over the last few weeks, and it always goes the same way. She's always there, but it's not quite her; more like the version of her he had thought he was supposed to see when he'd first met her – her hair shorter, her face sharper, more serious; complete in a way his Cersei doesn't seem to be just yet. There isn't any pain in dreams, though he had almost felt it this time, but he had been bleeding profusely, and doing his best to get to the clearing on the other side of the rubble as the ground beneath him – above him – keeps shaking.

I want our baby to live, Cersei had said, voice rising in pitch and in panic when he had failed to acknowledge her fear at first, evolving into a frenzied rage against their impending doom. Not like this, not like this—

Nothing else matters, he had assured her, holding her closer than he had ever dared in his actual life. There are memories of an entire other timeline melting into one another, flashing through his mind as he realises that this is it; the end of them. He had always known this would come, and that in one way or another, it would be like this – the two of them in each other's arms, face to face with death, finally. The real him is there too, in a sense, Stephan's words throwing a long shadow over the scene in his dream - queens live on borrowed time. Had they always ended up here? Had this even been the first time? He can't be sure, but he does know what keeps it all connected, and his other self voices it just a moment later. Only us.

It always ends the exact same way as it had the other times – acceptance and darkness, and then blinding light.

It has to be the same. She'd been happy to see him back when he had woken her up, if somewhat embarrassed – it had been strange at the time, but not so much now. I want our baby to live. She'd looked so disoriented, so confused, but the way she'd sat wrapped around herself, protective of someone that isn't there, had been proof enough. It makes sense that she had mentioned her claustrophobia too – the dream had certainly brought alone a spike of that for him as well.

There's no way to ask, of course, so instead, he stands by the door as the princess endures a berating by the make-up artist that had apparently handled everyone in the royal family for at least as long as the princess in question had been alive.

"I'm sorry," Cersei says, a twinge of dark humour in her voice. "I know dark circles are a bitch to cover."

The woman opens her mouth, likely to chastise her on her language, too, but gives up soon enough. "It's all right," is what she settles for with a sigh, applying something shimmery along Cersei's cheekbones with a brush about as wide as Jaime's palm. "I just worry. Has anything been bothering you recently?"

"Just the usual." There's not a hint of lie to her tone, but he knows better – and so does the artist, if her grimace, followed by a suspicious glance in Jaime's general direction is anything to go by. "The Queen will be making a decision soon, as I'm sure you know."

"I don't think that has ever caused you this kind of worry before." Another look, and then the woman turns to him directly. "Can you wait outside, please?"

Despite himself, Jaime frowns. "I don't think that's a great idea." From what he's learnt so far, she happens to account for some of her clients's other needs as well, especially when it comes to their mental wellbeing, but it still feels wrong to leave Cersei by herself, no matter how private the conversation happens to be. By now, he's used to being treated as part of the scenery; when he's in the presence of the Queen, he's almost entirely sure that he's as invisible to her as her own guards are.

But, "It's all right, Jaime," Cersei says, evidently resigned to her fate, studiously avoiding his eyes even as she reassures him. It's ridiculous – he knows nothing can happen to her in this room and in this company, but that doesn't seem to make it any easier to bear. He takes his position rather seriously, after all. "I'll be done in a minute."

It's more than a minute, just like Jaime had expected, and by the time Cersei emerges, she seems to be equal parts annoyed and strangely uncomfortable, but she also looks determined as she stuffs whatever it is that she'd been given into her small bag. "Come on," she gestures him after her, shoulders squared up as if she's going into battle. In a way, Jaime supposes she must be – for her, this is what battles are. "It's almost time to go."

It really is and, as Jaime prepares himself for what he's fervently hoping will prove to be an unusual outlier in his job, he tries to school his features into the same determination that she carries everywhere with her. Tonight, they're both going to need it.

~.~

As painstaking as the princesses's preparation for the masquerade had been, the Queensguard had gone through far worse. Jaime might be biased, he'd admit that much, but he's also certain of it – after all, he'd stood witness to both.

It's the nature of it that bothers him the most, really. The fact that it's a masquerade makes his job all the more complicated, though the Lord Commander hadn't seemed to think so – with so many carefully picked people stuffed into one room and without a clear idea of who is who, no one could possibly try to do anything to harm any member of the royal family – or their guests and contestants – without getting caught immediately. Treat this as a day off, he had said, nearly a dismissal of their collective worries, Gods know you don't have many of them.

That's true enough, Jaime supposes, and he would have loved to have a day free of worry, provided that he had made sure that Cersei would be adequately protected first, the masquerade feels like anything but.

"She's all right," Mata says, a smile blossoming under the blood red of her mask. "This place is packed full with some of the best soldiers alive, and she can handle herself. It's not like you need to baby her night and day."

"I'm not babying her," Jaime protests immediately, even though he knows it'll be met with doubt. "Who does that sound like something you've told someone before?" He chances a look around the room, automatically searching for his charge and holding back his laughter when he sees Stephan spinning her around the ballroom floor with the sort of practiced ease that only royal training could have given him. Jaime had been rushed through several lessons as well, but he feels nowhere near as comfortable here as his fellow guard apparently is.

"Because I have." Unlike him, Maya doesn't restrain herself, dark eyes glistening with the mischief of her laughter. "Half an hour ago, give or take. You're all so neurotic about this."

Not all of them, perhaps, Jaime thinks – Kaela's guard had seemed rather relaxed about the prospect of this entire ordeal, so it must be easier when it's just a job like any other. It isn't to him, unfortunately and, from what he's seen so far, that isn't the case for Stephan either. I would protect this one little girl.

"Cersei is a wonderful dancer," Maya says with a truly scandalous amount of careful nonchalance. "And she's good at leading, too, if you're worried about that. You shouldn't be, by the way – you're not half bad either – but she and I learnt together. I would know."

Jaime keeps quiet for a moment, still absent-mindedly following the steps of the dance. It's not really something he doesn't know; given that he's supposed to be as much of a guest to this even as anyone else here – but it's her motives that puzzle him – or, rather, the cast that he can't see any.

"And you're telling me this because?"

She looks terribly serious for a moment. "Because I want you to know that you're allowed."

Jaime swallows heavily, almost missing the next beat. "To dance with her?"

She grins back. "That, too."

He can't help but smile back now. "You're awfully bold for a princess."

"Princesses should be bold." The piece they're dancing to comes to a dramatic end and she steps away, heading in the same direction that he knows he's about to pick despite his best judgement. "But we do need the occasional push." She curtsies, laughter still ringing in his ears as she turns her back on him. "Good luck, Mr Ryswell."

~.~

As it turns out, Cersei really is a great dancer. She's good enough that Jaime almost loses his footing while trying to follow, and they might be the most mobile couple in the entire ballroom – paintings of the kings and queens of bygone years breeze past them, and Jaime does his best not think about any of it.

"We have a mission," Cersei says mid-turn, breaking him out of his reverie. He's not quite sure if she can see his raised eyebrow through the mask, but she elaborates soon enough anyway. "Issued by the Queen herself – peace negotiation in Essos. The preparations start tomorrow." Her lips curl into a smile, both inviting and challenging. "If you're feeling up for it, that is."

"Always." Truth be told, he's not too eager to get back to Essos all too soon now that it's not part of his life in the way it had been before, but he's not going back as a soldier; only a diplomat. It's bound to be different that way, he bets. "Peace negotiations?"

"Sounds worse than it is, I think, but it's not like I can say no." She sighs with exaggerated ease, as if nonchalance will help with managing the doubtlessly anxiety-inducing prospect that she'd been faced with. It makes him angry, for a moment; that Her Royal Majesty hadn't even managed to leave her alone just for tonight, so that she can enjoy herself like she had been meant to. "I'm sure between ourselves, we can handle it."

"Anything," Jaime nods vigorously, though as per usual with her, he's not entirely aware of what he's getting into just yet. "It's not like we're really going to be on our own out there. I'm sure we'll be as safe as anyone could be."

"Oh, definitely." Cersei's hand tightens around his again; a gesture they'd both grown fond of recently whenever one of them needs the support. It's a small thing, but it's all he needs to feel all the certainty she already feels when in his presence. "There's a reason we're both here, after all."

There is, in theory – she's there to learn how to protect the nation, and he's there to protect her while she does it. The flash of half-dream, half-memory that had plagued him ever since the first time he'd had the nightmare that he's so certain she shares grows stronger now – he hadn't always managed to protect her, after all, had he – and he works twice as hard to ignore it.

He fails, just as he always would have – this is Cersei, and she's alive and breathing in his arms, flushed with the exertion of several – rather energetic – waltzes back to back, smiling up at him whenever she catches his eye, the blue flowers on the edges of the white satin of her mask tangling in the strands of her golden hair every now and again when she spins around too quickly. She's so alive, but he can't get the image of the other her out of his mind, tear-streaked face and fear and love and all. Don't let me die, Jaime, I don't want to die.

He has to know. He has to. No one will hear him here, and it's far easier to start this kind of conversation when neither of them can quite see the other and Cersei isn't neck deep in her work, so absorbed by it that she refuses to acknowledge anything as unruly as a recurring, possibly shared nightmare would be.

"You dreamt of it again last night," he says and promptly winces, hand tightening on hers when his princess tenses in his arms. She knows perfectly well what he's referencing, non-sequitur or not. He could probably benefit from being a little less blunt from time to time, but he'd never really managed it. "Whatever it is."

"I did," she says, quieter than he'd expected. "You shouldn't worry about it. It's ridiculous." She shakes her head, as if it would help her transfer her indignation onto her own unconscious mind. "I don't know why it keeps happening."

"Don't you think it's strange?" He hadn't meant to push, but if this helps, then so be it. "That it happens so often?"

"Not really." Had his usual behaviour been anything other than thorough for a personal guard, she might have asked him why he'd suddenly started caring so much; as it is, the only issue she seems to have is with dwelling into her own head for too long – which, now that he thinks about it, isn't much better. "It's just an unnerving dream. Everyone dreams of their own death every once in a while." She's trying so hard to play it off as something she would never let bother her that Jaime is almost tempted to let her, if only to indulge her for a moment. "I'm no different. And the dream itself... I've read the story about as many times as other people have felt the need to retell it for me. It only makes sense, considering."

"Considering what?" There's unease curling up in his stomach, heavy and unbearable.

Finally, she holds his gaze for more than a fleeting moment. "Considering the way she died."

He doesn't need to ask who. The queen she's named after. "How did she die?"

"Jaime." It sounds somewhere between a plea and a warning, but he doesn't budge. Not this time.

"Cersei." It's still part of the question, in a way, as much as it's him addressing her. "I could always find out myself, you know."

"And that would help how exactly?" It's a striking contrast – the ethereal costume mixed with her severe expression. "It will go away on its own eventually. There's nothing to worry about."

How, how could he possibly tell her that he's been going through the same? Whatever he says, unless it's a word-for-word retelling of what she herself had seen, is going to sound too strange to be true. "It would help," he says at last in a final, futile attempt at wrestling the information out of her the easy way. "If it's something that can be overcome—"

"Princess?"

They've been relatively still for a little too long, it would appear, and Jaime suppresses a sign as one of the Queen's advisors breaks from the flock to interrupt them.

The princess in question has no such troubles – Cersei is, as always, the epitome of patience, as far as appearances go. "Yes?"

"Her Majesty would like a word."

Cersei's eyes stray to the centrepiece of the room, with the long table and the large, ornate chair in the middle where the Queen is seated. Her careful facade flickers for all of a moment; enough for Jaime to see the uncertainty seep through. "Now?"

"I'm afraid so." He doesn't elaborate, but he doesn't need to – it's less an invitation and more a command – and, with a nod from Cersei, they both head to the other end of the room. He's not her guard tonight, but he needs to be there; he can sense it already.

"How convenient," he mutters – the interruption had come at the precisely right time – and the princess turns to smile at him, nervous but teasing.

"It really rather was." She reaches out, squeezing his hand in a quick reassurance somewhere between the flowing layers of her dress and his absurdly long sleeves, hidden from prying eyes. "We can talk later."

~.~

They don't, of course. Jaime had expected nothing less – Cersei is, apparently, less than eager to explore the topic. Instead, he does his own research.

The Red Keep's library is so enormous that it's intimidating, and so is its history section, but he doesn't wander about for too long – he knows what he's looking for, after all, given the small timeframe he'd been given for the existence of the queen he's looking for. It couldn't be too difficult, with Cersei's description in mind. The first and the last on the Iron Throne. It must have been before the beginning of the end of the Westerosi unification, and when he reaches for the last volume of History of the Seven Kingdoms, he places the book on its face down on the table, and starts flipping backwards from the very last page.

And there she is, sure enough – Cersei I Lannister, followed by a list of titles. She had died during the Targaryen attack, just as his Cersei had alluded, but how?

Going through her history back to front turns out to be a somewhat difficult exercise – she'd been a controversial figure at her best and, reading about it upside down, Jaime grimaces at some of the things he's glancing through, only stilling as another familiar name swims up to the front, more and more often.

Jaime Lannister, her twin brother and formerly the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, also saw his titles changed after she was crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Now commander of her armies, he led the charge against Highgarden, which would eventually result in—

Funny you should mention that. Cersei's voice rings in his memory again, and he grits his teeth. Yes, very funny. The only reason no one had brought it up to him directly yet, he suspects, is to avoid being the subject of their future queen's wrath, and if she's anything like her namesake, she's bound to have lots of it. The Queen I was telling you about? The Lord Commander during her time—

The words blur in front of him and Jaime traces a finger over the page, as if it could do anything to help him get closer to the events described in such painstaking detail. Jaime Lannister. Her twin brother. Her lover, too, from what he had seen so far. Now far more attentive, Jaime flips to the start of the chapter and reads, enraptured, about the family that had managed to break apart a three-century long ceasefire between the Seven Kingdoms. And as the history follows any records that had been available from their times, his mind begins to fill in the blanks.

It's not that he actually knows, of course – he couldn't possibly. But here and there, he can guess, and that seems to be good enough, because the story is shaping up right in front of him, making more sense than the scarce details that the chroniclers of that time had offered. It's only when he realises that he's not going to learn more about their eventual faith here that he turns to a source he knows cannot fail him.

~.~

It takes him a while to get there – he's not even in the Queensguard proper yet, implying anything else would be too arrogant even for him, and he suspects that the librarian only relents because of his obvious (and, this time, not entirely fabricated) enthusiasm over the history of the institution. He might have been less insistent at any other time, but this is different – for some bizarre reason, it feels as if his life depends on it, and this time, his life doesn't feel like it's solely his either.

He should have told Cersei. The guilt of doing this so blatantly behind her back nudges at his conscience every now and then as he goes through the motions of acquiring what he needs, but if he wants to get anywhere at all with it, he can't have her scepticism stand in his way before he's had the chance to prove his point to her, and so, Jaime reverently takes his precious cargo and retreats to a rarely visited sector of the library.

Over the years, the White Book had turned into more of a list of names than an individual page of each and every member of the Queensguard and their achievements, but if this man – Jaime Lannister – had lived around the time he supposedly had, it would be there, recorded in full. Whatever history books have deemed too obvious, or too common a knowledge, would have still found its way there – because it would have been written by one of his fellow guards, if any had survived.

And sure enough, it's there, once he gets his hands on it, aware that he's holding something unimaginably fragile as he makes his way through the life of a man he hadn't realised had existed until several hours ago. Not all of it had been mentioned in the book he'd picked up, but then again, that part of it had been more focused on the monarchs rather than the warriors. Either way, he doesn't mind an account that had been written in real time, and despite the several references that would definitely have to take further research, it's the end of it that catches his eye – it is, after all, what he'd been looking for in the first place.

Died protecting his Queen. It's a good note to end such a tale on, considering the life he had led, and it gives him no more information, other than a stray note about trying to save the city from destruction, which lines up with what he had found out already. There's more to read if he wants the full picture, but for now, he doesn't need it.

There are no more answers to seek, not on a superficial level, and Jaime closes down the book, more mystified than he had been to begin with, but now armed with knowledge that, in some way, he had already had.

There had been no earthquake, after all. It had been the end of the Seven Kingdoms as the people then had known them, and for some reason he can't even begin to explain, Jaime almost remembers it all.