The sun is already up by the time Jaime wakes up - a rare occasion even on his most relaxed days - and he narrows his eyes at the open curtains as he stretches out in his bed, the realisation that he's not, in fact, as alone as he tends to be in mornings coming suddenly enough for him to flinch and almost dislodge Cersei from where she's propped on his arm.

Right. Their booking situation had found a not quite satisfactory resolution last night, after all, and he'd been too tired to argue the princess's questionable ideas of how to fix it and get them both the rest they would need to face this day, and it had brought him here, unceremoniously hogging more space than is likely appropriate on a bed meant for a future queen. Life had had its twists for him before, Jaime has to admit, but he had never really imagined that it would lead him here.

Cersei is still asleep, it seems, the nigh-permanent contemplative frown usually etched over her features now smoothed out in her rest. There had been no nightmares tonight for either of them, from what he can tell, and idly, Jaime wonders if perhaps the strange force sending that same vision through their minds again and again had been settled for at least a while by their proximity. He tries his best not to recall the tale again, but it slips in uninvited - the other Jaime must have shared the queen's bed often enough, given the relationship they'd had. Further research had brought him to several plays and short stories written for the two of them, as if it had all been awfully romantic. It's as good a fuel as any, he supposes - the secrets, the scandal, the blood and the war, all in the name of doomed love - but now that he's dreamt the man back into existence and had seen the horror on this other, stranger Cersei's face in the face of the inevitable, he doesn't find the concept quite as dangerously attractive. He'd much rather have her here, asleep on his already numb upper arm, with a country at her feet and a glorious future to look forward to, and nothing to worry about other than yet another task she had been handled on the way there. There are no dead men or dragons or stuff of legend; only the same atrociously boring politics that she'd been delving in since childhood. The threats he has to protect her from belong to the present, not the past, and by the time Jaime had managed to convince himself to let it go, if only for the time being - long enough to make sure that everything today goes according to plan, she's already awake, too.

They can talk about it later. She had never followed up on that particular promise, after all.

Jaime hastily closes his eyes, doing his best - but likely still not quite as convincing as he would have preferred - impression of having only woken up. She retreats as hastily as she can without making a scene out of it, but she doesn't look too bothered, and it's a small relief; knowing that she feels this comfortable in his presence despite how little they know each other still. Perhaps it's the same familiarity that plagues him that does it, or perhaps he's just trustworthy enough for her to allow herself to be as relaxed around him as she ever gets around anyone.

"Good morning," she drawls out, voice still heavy with sleep but a smile - not as tense as he would have expected, given the circumstances - brightening up her features. "Long day ahead."

"Mm," Jaime agrees, ready to elaborate with something a little more adequate, only for the doorbell to catch his attention instead. "That's our food, I'm guessing."

"Better be." Cersei throws a robe over her nightgown, and it's another half-remembered moment that Jaime can't afford to indulge in - he draws the covers over himself self-consciously, as if she could never possibly guess the effect she has on him, especially this early in the morning. It's improper to even consider any of the scenarios running through his mind just now, but then again, sleeping in her bed hadn't been particularly proper either. The best he can do is stave off the thought, but even that doesn't last long, as the princess re-emerges a moment later, carrying a plate so large that he's surprised when she lowers it to the bed successfully. Back in the Red Keep, he'd be wary of making a mess and having the cleaning personnel glare at him again, but then again, his charge outranks him even without a crown on her head.

"Breakfast for two," she shrugs at his startled expression, and promptly digs into the breakfast in question, eyes closing with a pleased smile as her lips close around the cherry she'd picked out from the elaborate spread in front of them.

Jaime swallows heavily. The food can wait, perhaps. "I think I'm going to take a shower first."

It might be a good thing they'd arrived in the middle of a heat wave, after all, because it's going to be a cold one, he thinks gloomily, and it's a better thing still that the princess is too preoccupied with this last bit of relaxation that they've been granted to pay much attention to his whims.

~.~

The hotel, ever since last night, had felt like a dream of its own, even if it's nothing like the nightmares - it had been a handful of moments suspended in time, a calm before a storm. He had been surprised that they'd managed to steal that away for themselves in the first place, so the realisation that they might as well be entering a warzone doesn't come as as much of a whiplash as it could have otherwise. This is what they're here for - if Cersei is to be believed this is what she's put in the world to do, as if some deity had bestowed it upon her before she'd even been born. It wouldn't be particularly strange if she thinks so, either - in the circles that she's grown up in, elections or not, the idea of the divine right of kings must be alive and well.

"We're here to negotiate with a terrorist group in all but name," she explains with an uncharacteristic sort of resignation when he asks about the sheer amount of soldiers from the Crownlands wandering around the place, not as inconspicuous as he would have made them if he'd been given the chance, considering that the other side of the conflict keeps eyeing them warily. "More specifically, it's an attempt at making them loosen their control over the cities around the border with Myr. They're not breaking international law - for now - but they are disturbing the local population and the trade between countries enough that an intervention is needed."

"From us?" He feels horribly inadequate, suddenly - despite all the effort thrown into making this the safest venture possible, Jaime hadn't really bothered to delve into the tensions of the region, assuming that he would be able to get by on what his years in Essosi wars had taught him. "Not Dorne?"

"The Disputed Lands are far more our problem than they are theirs." There is a man approaching them and Cersei's voice is so carefully neutral that he can't tell whether she's happy with that turn of events or not. "I suppose it's only fair, considering that we're the one drilling them for resources day and night." A moment later, her customary smile - civil, pleasant, and entirely vacant of any genuine emotion - is plastered all over her features. "And this would be our translator. Hello again, Mr Hotolis."

"Hello, Lady Hardwicke." There's none of the Miss that Jaime is used to; not here, out of the Crownlands and the Red Keep, where everyone is pretending that she's not any different from any other contender in order to humble her. The man is all smiles, and idly, he wonders if all of his desert-appropriate clothing is paid for by the crown so that he can do their bidding all the way out here. "It's a pleasure as always."

"Let's hope it is." Cersei's as tense as she can get, looking for all the world that she's both nailed to the ground and ready to make a run for it now that there's no feasible way for this to go anywhere but forward. "I think introductions are in order."

"Of course. Harlodos Nahirah, their leader," he starts, following in step as Cersei moves closer to her opponents, "has agreed to this meeting under pressure from his organisation, to discuss the Crownlands's influence over the region and the possibility of allowing them to overhaul the local ruling system to their benefit - so that the population would have a voice in the parliament all the way in King's Landing and have its demands heard better, eventually. A colonial power such as the ones you hail from, they believe, is in need of representatives of all its lands in the capital."

Something between confusion and discomfort passes over Cersei's face, but even to Jaime, following her like the silent shadow that he's supposed to be, it's barely noticeable. "We are not an empire," she says, and there's indignation slipping into her tone now, although her voice remains firm. Now she's facing the other side, speaking to them directly despite the language barrier. It's not like her to shy away from direct conflict when needed, so Jaime stifles the urge to do anything but remain in place. Remember what you're here to do. "I must admit, I'm not quite sure I understand. You say you're working in the public's best interest - wouldn't it be in their best interest to allow them to continue international trade until the matter with your representatives is settled. A transition like this takes time - rushing through it with the negotiations being fuelled by blackmail would be an unfortunate path to take towards it."

The translator launches into his introduction - Jaime hears her name somewhere along a string of unfamiliar works, so this is what it must be - and it's only when Cersei frowns that he realises that something is amiss.

"Excuse me," she says, firm but careful as ever before he's managed to switch to translating her opening words. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake. I'm not the Queen; I'm just a representative for the Her Majesty."

Each word is painstakingly chosen and, as Jaime looks around to take in their audience, it becomes clear why that is - among the soldiers, there are journalists on the prowl, too, each exchange and shift of expression carefully recorded for today's evening news. It's little more than a story for them, and he almost resents them for it, predictable as their presence is - on top of everything else, there's that to worry about, too.

Still, Hotolis is all smiles. "Apologies, Lady Hardwicke. The news always reach me last, as you can see." He raises an eyebrow at her with something that feels like it should be good-natured curiosity but doesn't really manage it. "I hadn't realised you spoke Valyrian."

"It's only a hobby," she assures, and she's not smiling now. "I certainly couldn't compete with a translator, but, as you can likely guess, I've heard the word for queen more than a few times in my life."

"I'm sure." If Hotolis had noticed that he's being reprimanded, he doesn't let it show, though his smile looks a little more pained now. "This should make the negotiations easier, then, shouldn't it?"

Cersei's scowl only deepens as he - evidently - goes on without correcting his previous translation, and suspicion starts to raise its ugly head somewhere deep in Jaime's chest as he tries to place the pieces together and doesn't find them quite fitting. A false announcement of a new queen being crowned wouldn't be something unusual - if the Crownlands's gossip magazines are to be trusted, there's a new monarch every time they need something new to speculate about and enchant readers with - but a queen would be received with much more fanfare, surely - and even more security than a princess would have been provided with. She would have certainly had the Queensguard in its entirety with her, too, or at least enough of them to be intimidating. She certainly wouldn't be standing all by herself in the middle of the desert with one bodyguard by her side.

"The local people could stand the discomfort for a time if it draws attention to a cause that the majority support, Mr Nahirah says," the man goes on anyway once he receives a response, undisturbed by the tension that Jaime knows he alone can feel. It's clear than no one other than the very inner circle of the scene set here can see that something has happened at all, and the lax attitude at his fellow soldiers might have frustrated him if he hadn't realised that a lot of his own assessments of the situation likely have more to do with the time he's spent in Cersei's presence, surrounded by politicians in a world where every word weights in its place in a specific way and where everything can go crumbling down as soon as someone steps out of line for even a moment. "But he's willing to reconsider if a deal to proceed with his offers is made here and now."

Offers. Jaime almost scoffs in response, but knows better than to react before the princess herself has. Demands, more like. He's known men like this before and, unfortunately, he's sure he's going to know them again in this line of work - whatever he's promised now, there won't be any stopping this unless Cersei offers an immediate solution - the sort that she's not permitted to make just yet. Anything less would be considered as inconsequential as any other empty promise made when it's time for a public figure to try and rise in rank.

Sure enough, Cersei had arrived to the same conclusion. "I'm not in a position to sign such a deal at the time." It's the closest she can say to an admission that she's quite sure she will be in the position in question the future while still sliding by on plausible deniability and still, Jaime can hear the cameras clicking in quick succession as the princess steps forward, extending her hand for a greeting. "I can, however, submit your case for the parliament's consideration at the earliest opportunity. I'm certain that we all would prefer to keep our borders safe from conflict - Myr is a trusted ally to us all."

The group's leader couldn't have understood her, but apparently, her benevolent smile is a good enough reassurance - he joins her in the no man's land, one of his men following in what is almost a perfect mirror to Jaime himself, and it's only by the time they're shaking hands that the translator picks up her reply, Nahirah's expression souring as he goes on, just as Cersei breaks away so that she can turn to face the man, disbelief and doubt etched over her delicate features.

"Mr Hotolis, that is not—"

The world flips around on its head so abruptly that Jaime almost fails to react - almost.

By the time he'd drawn his gun out, Cersei had been spun around and towards him, another weapon pressed into her temple as Nahirah barks something in response that he can't understand. It doesn't make sense - she'd made a perfectly reasonable offer and if the translation had been right—

Only, of course, it hadn't been right. Only a hobby or not, Cersei had apparently learnt enough of the language to be able to tell.

He can't shoot without risking the possibility of hitting her - nor can anyone else around him, rifles and all - so Jaime goes for the next best thing instead.

"What did you say to him?" Hotolis just yelps in response as Jaime's own gun digs into his back, his left hand wrapped around his wrist to keep him in place. "You better tell him what she said, and you better do it now, or—"

"Or what?" Out of all the times he'd held someone at gunpoint, he can't recall a time he'd been taunted before, but even without a comparison, it's a weak effort - the translator's voice is trembling as he fights to keep his composure. It's a losing battle and he'll fold before long, but Cersei could easily be dead by then. As it appears, they both know it. "You'll kill me? It won't be enough to save her."

Despite himself, Jaime laughs; a tense, nearly hysterical sound, eyes still on Cersei as she tries to explain herself in hesitant Valyrian. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the same insufferable clicking from before; camera after camera recording this newest delve into an adventure that the common man has no access to. For a single, wild instant, he wants them all dead. "I can do far worse to you than that."

He tightens his hand's hold and starts twisting, not stopping for the man's struggling - or for the voice coming from behind him. There's a rifle trained on the opposite side of the camp that he can spot somewhere in his peripheral vision, followed by a crisp, "Just give the order, sir."

"And have him shoot her before you can shoot him? Put that down," he snarls despite himself, nodding towards the princess when the soldier hesitates, and they both watch as Nahirah loosens his hold on her, weapon still firmly in his hand. "She's got this covered for now. You, on the other hand," he says, nudging the wrong end of his weapon into Hotolis's back, as if he'd need the reminder that he's the one being spoken to, "You will tell every single one of them to stand down before I blow your brains out."

"Do you think that this is as big as this gets?" There is it, again; that false bravado that makes him want to follow up on his threat right now and be done with it. "You couldn't even imagine—"

"I'm going to imagine it just fine when while you get your insides ripped out for information back in the Red Keep." It occurs to him, distantly, that he isn't making this easier, but the rage ruling over him just now is like nothing he's ever experienced before; like liquid fire running through his veins, finding home in the words as they spill out, unfortunate as they might be in the long run. "Now, if you want to actually live to see the end of that, tell them to withdraw. She's not the Queen, and she's nowhere near as important for your demands as you might think. You want to meet the woman in charge face to face?" He nods towards the group on the opposite side of the temporary construction set up for the negotiations to take place, where Cersei is still surrounded by both enemies and firearms, frantically trying to explain herself with a limited dictionary. "Tell them what the princess said to you. Make sure they let her go, and you'll get a private audience as soon as we land back in the Crownlands."

"Except that's not really your decision to make, is it?" Hotolis sounds even more desperate now, as if he knows that this is what he wants but that he isn't getting it anyway. "The Queen herself is untouchable. All we can do is draw her attention. Kill one of her little bitches and perhaps then—"

The gunshot echoes so loudly in the crowded space that, compared to it, the chaos that erupts in response feels almost like silence. Jaime is the first to move once again, pushing away the translator's body and stepping over him to get to the other side where his fellow soldiers had finally used the moment of shock to swarm into the enemy lines, pushing them away until Cersei is in clear view and he can tug her away from the stunned leader's general proximity and away from the camp, vaguely surprised when she follows suit. There are no more shots to be heard, so perhaps the situation is being deescalated somewhere behind them, but he doesn't turn to look. Only one thing matters now.

"What are you doing?" He doesn't answer and her voice is almost muted enough to unsettle him, but there's no time for that now. "Jaime, what did you do?"

My job, at last. "I'm getting you the fuck away from here."

"You killed him."

"Of course I killed him, he wanted you dead. Get out of my way or you'll be next!" he barks at yet another camera floating towards them. "The princess will have to release a statement later, I'm afraid."

It doesn't matter, anyway - he can already hear one of the soldiers closest to them explain the situation to a reporter, the woman nodding in horrified, puzzled understanding.

It's only back behind the hotel's front doors, past the cheery receptionist that hadn't been lucky enough to know of the commotion yet, and on their way to their room, that he takes a look at Cersei again - she's pale and wide-eyed, one suspiciously steady hand gripping a mirror for dear life as she fixes her hair and the upper half of her clothes back into place; touching up several spots around her eyes where her make-up had smeared, either from heat or sweat. There's still the same restless energy buzzing inside him, clouding any attempt at rational thought, and finally, his confusion bursts to the front. "Cersei, what the hell—"

"I have to speak to Her Majesty," she manages, voice still as frighteningly quiet. "She'll want to hear it from me first."

The door to the bedroom slams closed behind her.

~.~

It's some time before Cersei speaks again, even after she emerges. She's so subdued that he wants to shake her, but doesn't dare to - she's shaken enough as is, and it's at least partially his fault, and Jaime wonders if that's not part of it, on top of everything else. Perhaps this had evoked the same senseless need for violence in her, too, if the quiet fire in her eyes is any indication, only her method of handling it is to try and snuff it out instead of letting it loose like he had.

"You shouldn't threaten the press."

"Fuck the press."

"The Queen says you could stand to work on your temper."

"Fuck the Queen, too."

Finally, Cersei's own temper fires up and she's shooting daggers up at him - a much preferable alternative when compared to her quiet acceptance. "Is this your response for everything? You killed someone who could have been useful on a whim and now we know nothing! We don't know who he worked for, we don't know what they want, and most of all, we don't know why he decided to act now - all things that could have been very easily revealed in an interrogation. And what do you do instead? You shoot him in the head."

"I did warn him that I would do that," he shrugs, entirely unapologetic. "What else did you expect? He wanted to have you killed to draw the Queen's attention and she let you out here with minimal security and no promise of a safe return on something that was supposed to be a calculated risk, so yes, I don't have a better response than that. Fuck the press and whatever they decide to say about it, and fuck the Queen, too, for not coming all the way down here herself."

"Are you insane?" She doesn't require an answer to that one, apparently, because she goes on, her voice gaining pitch alongside with her anger. "A calculated risk is still a risk. This is nowhere near big enough for the Queen to get involved in herself, which is why I'm here."

"You're here because you're being tested." It's a shot in the dark, but he knows her well enough by now to know that it's aimed well. "You're here because when you are the Queen, you'll be everywhere at once if you can be. When you are Queen, the small issues will be your issues to handle, and you'll be there when you need to be instead of sending your protégés to handle it for you. As far as I'm aware, I've been hired to make sure you survive that long."

She bristles again, but it's far less scandalised now, as if hearing of herself as a queen as a prospect alone is more pleasant than she'd like to admit. "I'm not the only candidate," she says at last. "If they've got this far, that means they're just like me."

"They aren't, and everyone knows it. No, no one will say it," he says when she opens her mouth to protest, taking a step back as he takes a step forward, cornering her against the law of the living room where she can do nothing but look the truth in its eyes. "But they know it. That's what Tyrion said when he described the job to me. Did it never occur to you that there's a reason for you to be the first one to get personal security?" She doesn't look away, she wants to, he can see - she knows. "It's going to be you. You know it, they know it, the people know it, and if anyone gets any ideas about using that knowledge against the Crownlands by sacrificing you, then I'm here to stop them, no matter who it is. Some snivelling traitor in the Disputed Lands, another would-be queen, someone in parliament who doesn't like the ideas you put forward and who will like them less when you rule over them, doesn't matter. I'll kill them if I have to." He takes one of her hands in both of his, tracing mindless lines over her palm, as if to map out the future on her lifeline; show her what he means to do, and the mistakes he wants to correct. "Them, and anyone else who dares. I don't care what the country's priorities are; I know mine. And I'm not losing you again."

"Again?" Cersei echoes, but it's more a challenge than genuine confusion. Under different circumstances, he would have thought that it's finally a conversation that she's ready to have, but there's something else simmering under the surface - something in her eyes that he's only ever seen in the other version of her, the one from his dreams when the dreams in question aren't limited to the nightmare-memory he knows by heart by now. It's hungry and eager to get out past her endless, carefully constructed defences. "You can't kill everyone who ever opposes me."

Her breathing is heavy but quickened, as if she's caught on to whatever it is that has taken over him, and Jaime intends to see it through.

"Yes, again. Anyone who dares," he repeats, crowding her even further against the wall, leaning forward to nuzzle against her temple where the gun had been pressed what feels like an eternity ago, delighted by the way her body moulds to his in response. "Of course I can, if it endangers you. I'm as untouchable as you, Cersei." He laughs despite her lingering anger, despite her berating, despite the memory of death still ringing in his ears. He'd learnt a long time ago that blood doesn't wash out of anyone's hands, no matter how invisible it becomes after a while; might as well embrace it, if it's for her. The knight whose name he'd somehow inherited had done just that, if the stories are to be believed, and what a life he'd lived. "You want that throne? You'll have it, and you'll keep it for as long as you like. We can make sure of that together, if you'd let me."

She yanks him back by the hair; doesn't speak a word other than everything that her starved, furious expression can tell him, and then her mouth is on his, hot and biting and accepting in a way no verbal surrender could have been, and it feels like a match meeting gasoline; like a rapid forest fire, spreading faster than anything he's ever seen, scorching everything in its path as it burns and rages and destroys, making room for something entirely new. Jaime growls as his arms wrap around her waist and he grabs at her like a drowning man would at his only salvation, bunching the paper-thin fabric of her dress in two greedy handfuls, pressing impossibly closer to her when he feels one of her thighs wrapping around his waist, her needle-thin heel digging into his skin, a punishment and a celebration all at once. He loves it. Of course he does, and of course she knows as much - she always would have known, he suspects. It's her, and he's been missing this through his entire miserable existence, and there's nothing he wants more than to take her apart right here and see what makes her tick; see if he can do to the same to her that she does to him.

Inevitably, the answer has to be yes, but he wants to know, wants to see, his hands on her back tightening as she arches into him and fuck, he had just known she'd fit this well against him. Her breathing hitches on a gasp against his mouth when he thrusts against her, desperate for friction despite the restriction his uniform provides, and he leaves a trail of wet, messy kisses down her neck instead, his arms around her the only thing keeping them both from toppling to the floor. Cersei pulls him up again, her tongue lapping at his lips as he grants her entrance, just as mindless in his wanting, and it feels so intolerably good; knowing that he's found her, at last.

When she breaks away, he almost follows for more, suddenly more needy than he's felt for most necessities in life, hesitating only when he feels her trembling under his touch, eyes wide, looking less like the Queen than she had moments ago - the Queen in his dreams, not the one currently on the throne, never her - and more like the Cersei he knows, ever so careful to not break something she thinks is valuable. It feels better than he'd ever admit, to be considered on the same level as she does international peace and every other thing dear to her heart, but more than a little frustrating, too, knowing how she likes to take her time with those things.

There's a time and a place, he reminds himself as he presses his forehead against her chest and feels her fingers tangle in his hair again, a caress more than a demand this time. A sigh breaks out of her just as he tries to calm his own breathing, and Jaime smiles despite his state of near-desperation - this might not be the time and the place, given everything she'd just been through, but at least he knows that they're in the same boat, now.

When he hears her voice again, she's surprisingly crestfallen, and it's a complete non-sequitur to anything he could have expected.

"I think Tyrion was right."

"He usually is," Jaime nods, still not looking up. If it's all the same to her, he could spend an eternity like this. "What about, exactly?"

He can almost feel the resignation fill her again as she responds, apparently having faced some revelation of her own that he's not allowed to be privy to just yet.

"We might need to pay Casterly Rock a visit."