It all has to be one big coincidence, of course.

Really, Jaime thinks as he looks for anything he could have possibly forgotten when packing his luggage, there's no way it isn't. Whatever it is that he suspects he has discovered has got to be nothing more but the work of his consistently overactive imagination and nothing else. Any other explanations he had thought of so far range between the bizarre and the outright ridiculous, and he's sure that Cersei would tell him as much too, if he were to ever confide any of this to her, nightmare or no nightmare, because she is precisely the rational, put-together person that everyone – including him – should strive to be. All of the stories of magic and dragons and strange snowy creatures are far behind them; this is now and the here and now is an entirely different place from the harrowing tale that he had followed despite his best efforts to keep himself in the dark. None of it is real in the world as they know it today, or someone would have known. It's not particularly likely that a soldier with no prior foray into the occult had managed to rediscover something still present out of the realm of things that had disappeared hundreds of years ago, if they had ever existed at all.

So far, he had managed to find an explanation for almost every match of the story he had read to what he's seeing in front of him here and now. Jaime is a frequent enough name even here in the Crownlands; the fact that he and the legendary hero share it is nothing strange at all. Cersei is the daughter of a Lord – and more specifically, a Lord who had planned to make a queen out of her when she had still been a child. The fact that she had been named after the first queen that had ever ruled independently in the Red Keep is as predictable as it gets. Cersei's nightmare falls into the same category; she had said it herself – everyone had always brought up the queen in question around her, and it had stuck. He must have read the story before, if he's able to dream of the same thing, and perhaps it had stuck in his then-childish mind without him realising it, too, only to come out to haunt him from the depths of his memory where it had stood long forgotten. The idea of the tragic death of royal pair of twins that had also happened to be lovers being told in a grade school's history classes is a stretch, but there's no other explanation, so he accepts it.

There's just one little detail that keeps bothering him – one piece of this puzzle that he can find no conceivable place for, no matter how hard he tries.

"Tyrion?"

And there he is, the final piece himself, sitting on one of the tables in the mess hall with a mountain of paperwork in front of him, Cersei going through a small fraction of it in the chair on the opposite side, as unaccompanied as she had been the day he'd first met her.

"Jaime!" He narrows his eyes at the sudden burst of enthusiasm, but tentatively steps closer anyway. "Lovely of you to join us. Cersei here was just telling me how effective your plan for dealing with the peace negotiations is."

"Mmhm. He's been working on it ever since I told him."

She's still engrossed in her documents and he has about a million different questions he could be asking and about a million other things to say, but what really comes out once he draws in a breath is, "You know each other?"

Cersei does look up this time, smile as amicable and unassuming as it gets. "Most of the children of nobility do. I was more surprised to hear that he had sent you my way." Her eyes dart towards Tyrion with something resembling admiration more closely than he had seen her display for anyone other than the Queen. "I remember you telling me about dabbling in social services, but I never expected you to handle cases around our age."

Tyrion shrugs, dripping with the false modesty that Jaime knows and loves. "I've found that it's easier that way. Children can be more complicated than one would expect, even in the simplest of cases." He turns towards Jaime, motioning him towards the empty seat in the middle and he follows without protest, just like he always has. "Having some understanding of your client's state of mind certainly helps."

How someone who is – apparently – nobility could possibly relate to a whole lot of directionless orphans, Jaime isn't entirely sure, but then again, perhaps it's his case specifically that Tyrion had been drawn to. He desperately wants to ask, now that he knows what he knows, but it's too risky with Cersei not only within hearing range, but right next to him – if he's going to sound even remotely as insane as he fears he might, then it might be best to run it past his social worker first.

The social worker in question must have sensed that there is something amiss, because his gaze wanders between Jaime and the princess by his side, more knowing than it has any right to be, before he finally declares, "I think it's time to let Miss Hardwicke return to her schedule. Her Majesty has been so kind to trust me with handling security, and there's no better source of information that getting it firsthand." He gives Jaime a tight smile as Cersei gets to her feet, gathering her small tower of paperwork and swiftly but tactfully attempting to flee the scene. "Cersei," Tyrion calls out after her and she falters long enough for it to be obvious that he'd caught her attention. "I hope you consider what I told you. About Casterly Rock."

She nods, somehow both perfectly polite and missing the warmth she'd seemed to hold for the man just a moment ago. "I certainly will."

Neither of them speaks again until the door had closed behind her back and the clicking of her heels on the marble floors had become almost inaudible, but by the time it does, Jaime has already descended on the closest illusion of a friend he has with all the frustration that had been building up over the last few days.

"Did you set this up?" he asks before he can stop himself, quietly grateful that Cersei isn't here to see this. It's as bad a look as he had suspected it would be.

As always, Tyrion's face is completely unreadable. "The peacemaking efforts? No. I don't have this kind of power here. Even if I had, I would have thought it was a bad idea. In fact, I told Cersei that already, but she's never been one to step away from a challenge."

"I'm not talking about the diplomatic visit," Jaime says. Had he been in a better mood, he would have been inclined to agree – it's reckless and, given his own experiences in Essos, the chances of it bringing about any kind of real change are slim to none. "I mean all of this. My position here. All of those girls need protection, but you sent me to her. Why?"

He has to give it to him – if Tyrion is playing a game of some sort, he's excellent at it. The astonishment written all over his face seems to be entirely sincere. "Cersei and I have known each other for years," he says, and it doesn't sound as defensive as he himself would have been under the same circumstances. "Of course I worried about her safety. I decided to recommend you because were free and capable of doing the job the way it needs to be done. It appears that I was right – she's had nothing but glowing praise to offer so far."

"Yes, yes, you were right. You always are." The smugness sneaking into Tyrion's voice is unbearable even through the uncertain surprise reigning over his explanations. "And of course I'm good at what I do. That's not what this is about."

"Then what is it about, Jaime?" He sounds both exasperated and genuinely concerned and just like that, the words start pouring out – he tells him about the dreams, about the history he now knows, about the burden of a past that had never been his, and about the illogical, terrible conviction that this is all more than some strange coincidence.

To his credit, Tyrion listens through it all; doesn't interrupt the waterfall of words that comes out of him, even if it's likely more than he had ever heard from him before. Jaime isn't a man of many words, usually, and this is all as unknown as it gets; so distant from anything he had ever experienced so far that he doesn't quite have the ability to put it into words, especially given the scepticism that shines through despite his best efforts to appear neutral. It's only when he's on the cusp of voicing it that he runs out of patience.

"Jaime." Tyrion raises a hand to stop him mid-sentence, and they both seem equally surprised when it works. "Is there a point to this?"

He laughs, but it comes out more joyless than amused. "I bet you can see it coming already. Before meeting her, I never even knew any of those people had ever existed. Now, I have all these dreams, and Cersei thinks it's just a trick of her mind, because of course she does, but I just—I just want to know."

"Know what?" The question is unexpectedly gentle, given the frustration Tyrion must feel by now if his confusion is genuine. "So far, it would appear that Cersei is right – she's letting this all get to her head the closer she comes to the crown, and your arrival likely didn't help. You could have read that story in school before and forgotten about it. What is it that strikes you as unusual?"

"You," Jaime blurts out before he can stop himself and cringes when all he receives in response is a raised eyebrow. "They had another brother, you know. Tyrion, a Lannister, just like them."

"I do know that." If he's at all disturbed, it doesn't show, though it wouldn't, Jaime supposes – he's excellent at his job, after all. "I'm directly descended from the man, as far as I', aware. How is this relevant?"

"The day I met Cersei – the day you sent me here – you told me that you had an inkling. I didn't really understand there, but you were right – it was a perfect fit and—this Tyrion." He falters, unsure. It sounds even more complicated out loud, but it's too late to go back now. "He did everything in his power to keep his siblings safe. I don't know. I kept thinking—"

"Jaime, I'm sorry, but let me see if I've got this right," Tyrion starts again, and Jaime feels almost betrayed by his baffled tone, as if he had convinced himself that he would have all the answers. "Cersei – the likely heiress to the Throne, who has been prepared for it since birth, is named after a medieval queen. You've known me for years. I just happen to be named after my own ancestors and suddenly I've decided to, what? Set you up with some resurrected warrior queen because I think you were reborn alongside her?"

His first instinct is to say yes, but, "It sounds ridiculous when you put it this way."

"Because it is." It's not unkind, but it is grounding in a way he hadn't quite expected. "Cersei and I have known each other almost our entire lives. A lot of what she does is exceptional, as is her mind, but she's a perfectly ordinary girl."

"There's nothing ordinary about Cersei," he retorts immediately, and feels his face grow hotter at Tyrion's fond, exasperated sigh.

"Not to you, I'm sure. And if I know her at all, the sentiment is returned. Enjoy that." He squeezes his hand in yet another show of support that he hadn't seen coming. "It doesn't have to be something larger than life to matter. You can love her as she is."

~.~

By the time they're out of the capital – and the Crownlands as a whole – on a private flight, and directly into the depths of the desert at some clearly politically significant spot in Nowhere, Essos, Jaime is as tense as he can get.

There is no chance of any of this going sour, Cersei had assured him a thousand times and really, he knows that well enough – he had dedicated quite a lot of his time over the last week making sure of that. They had figured out every angle, every possibility, no matter how unlikely, of things going haywire. She would be as protected as she could realistically get, not just by him, but by a number of soldiers sent along with them, looking as inconspicuous as possible as not to raise the already present tension, but they're there. That should be enough, Cersei had said, and there's no way she's anywhere near important enough to be assassinated. Jaime hadn't seen it as particularly funny, but they'd proceeded anyway – despite her dismissals, they both know that this is too crucial to miss.

Still, as they step off the plane and he takes in their surroundings – the world's smallest airport, a hotel of similar size, and the bare bones of a town – he feels woefully unprepared. Cersei is fanning ineffectually at herself – with an actual fan, no less, decorated with elaborate lace to match the edges of her sleep, formal dress, in a stark white, and held together with a belt and too many buttons to withstand the Essosi heat. She couldn't have been prepared, of course – despite all her experiences, she had never visited this part of the world before.

"This should be a quick one," she declares valiantly despite that, tugging her small suitcase along, full of the determination he knows so well. "We'll get to know the area so that we can make sure we have the biggest advantage possible tomorrow." She throws him a fleeting smile. "Positioning in peace talks is almost as important as it is during war."

Yes, Jaime thinks despite his best efforts to remain optimistic, because they could always devolve it into one. It's happened countless of time before, and the idea of being present for it for once isn't particularly appealing.

"Come on," she urges as they leave their meagre belongings in the hands of a hotel employee rushing out to meet them. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

~.~

Surveying the site doesn't take long, which, Jaime supposes, is to be expected – there's nothing there, for now – and before he knows it, they're back at the tiny semblance of a hotel and he only stops being distracted by every little thing in his way when he hears the familiar, irritated pitch of a Cersei plunged directly into strange waters.

"—was a crucial part of what we asked of the man on the phone," she's saying, clipped but still relatively civil. If he knows her at all, it won't last much longer. "It was what was asked of me, and it's what I asked of you. I had this confirmed three times. What exactly went wrong?"

"It's just the online reservations, Lady Hardwicke," the woman behind the counter says, looking about as frightened as anyone on the wrong end of Cersei's collected anger should reasonably be. "Someone— Someone let it be booked twice without realising it. We have rooms available at the floor below; it would be enough to accommodate—"

"Absolutely not," Jaime cuts in before she'd even had the chance to finish, having deduced what the dispute might be about even without an explanation. He had been the one to request a room right next to Cersei's' in order to continue the habit of being able to keep an eye on her at all times if needed; if she's arguing about room placement, there is very little else it could be about. "We're a package deal."

It's a bold statement to make, but Cersei doesn't deny it; looks thoughtful instead, as if something new had suddenly occurred to her.

"And my room?" She asks at last. "What does that include?"

"It's more of an apartment," the woman shrugs, eyes straying between them as if to gauge what the reaction to her next words will be. "There is a queen-sized bed in the bedroom and a small living room; it has a futon, if—"

"I'll take the damn futon, then." He feels tired and overheated and wants nothing more than to play down and go to sleep, even if it's right here, in this lobby forgotten by the gods. There's no time for trying to bargain their way into something they clearly aren't going to get. Jaime rips the keycard out of the receptionist's hesitantly outstretched hand. "Give me that."

~.~

Cersei disappears in the bathroom for a good half an hour after they find their room and emerges with her hair pulled back in a thick braid and the same nightgown that he had seen back the first time when he'd barged into her room, worried for her safety but instead being sent down a rabbit hole he should have probably left untouched, and heads for the bedroom without a second look at her discarded luggage, left there for her to doubtlessly overthink tomorrow when choosing the appropriate clothing for the occasion.

It takes her about as long to return as it takes Jaime to realise that he should probably ask for one of her extra pillows if he wants to be even remotely comfortable on the sad excuse of a futon that her living room offers.

"You're not sleeping there," Cersei declares before he can say a word, motioning him closer with a gesture commanding enough that he almost feels compelled to obey despite the absurdity of what he assumes she's implying. "Tomorrow is going to be hell, Jaime," she adds when he opens his mouth to protest. "You are not preparing for it on a couch."

"I've prepared for worse while sleeping on the ground in an overcrowded tent," he counters, one hand still lingering on his own suitcase, unsure how to proceed. "I'm not sure what Her Majesty tells you about the army's working conditions when describing the country's warfare, but, well—"

"If tomorrow goes well, she might just decide that I'm finally prepared enough to be left in charge of our great nation, so I'll just have to put that on my agenda too, won't I?" She doesn't wait for a response. "For now, this is the best I can do," she says, generously gesturing towards the room behind her, "It's a queen-sized bed, and I'm not quite there yet."

As often as he accuses her of overanalysing every little bit of her life, Jaime does precisely that for the entirety of his preparation for bed; considers every word she'd said and everything he had said back as if his life depends on it. Had he been expected to refuse? Not likely, no – Cersei isn't fond of mind games. Had he said something to provoke her into this? Not really, either – he hadn't said anything before she'd come out with that idea. What, then? Had he just made her feel comfortable enough with his presence that this hadn't felt like such a sacrifice? The thought warms him more than he would like it to – more than is probably safe where his heart is concerned – and Jaime sternly tries to get himself to enjoy it just a little less.

It doesn't quite work. Cersei is the first thing he sees when he enters the bedroom, nestled in-between a pile of sheets too high for the current heat, but apparently just perfect for her. From what he can see, she's asleep, and Jaime slips on the other side as quietly as he can, startled by how eerily familiar this feels, too – looking at her on the eve of a conflict of some kind, waiting with bated breath for a war that might or might not come. She looks as troubled in her sleep as she does while awake, endless schemes doubtlessly running through her mind, and Jaime grins to himself as he closes his eyes and tries his best to fall asleep, too. Tyrion does have the annoying tendency to be always right, but his assessment of the situation needs an amendment this time, it seems – this might just be a bit larger than life than he had expected, but he can love it – and her – all the same.