The prospect of Oberyn Martell in Casterly Rock is not one Cersei wants to end the day on, but as it turns out, there's little she can do about it by now. She can't exactly tell Tyrion to delay the visit or prevent it from happening to begin with – being the Queen doesn't mean that her actions have no consequences and her sending a member of another Great House away on a whim would be awfully rude. No; apparently, they'll have to face this head on.

She would have to tell Jaime. The children can be given a half-truth, apart from Joffrey, perhaps – he can falsify surprise better than his siblings and she needs him to be prepared. Trying to handle hostile noble families in connections where the peace is as fragile as it gets is precisely the sort of lesson that a future king needs.

She sighs, rubbing at her eyes to chase off the need for sleep threatening to overwhelm her. It's only a few more letters and she's tired of staring down at parchment; the sooner she's done with this, the better, and she certainly wants to be done with it today.

Jaime's arrival disturbs her determination just enough to sway her away from her work and she gives into the distraction rather willingly, truth be told; lets him crowd her against the headboard of their shared bed and undress her before she'd even tried to explain herself and justify working through yet another long evening. He hates this, she knows; the amount of things that she decides to get done in the night hours so that she doesn't have to miss out on anything else during daytime. Distantly, she has to admit that he's right – what she does end up missing out on is sleep in those cases and more often than not, she can feel it taking a toll. There's so much to do and so little time, especially out here on the road, that indulging him suddenly doesn't feel like as much of a crime against their joined duties.

"Jaime," she says nevertheless, closing her eyes when she feels his fingers press into her, half-tease and half-demand. Her body comes alive under his touch and it's all too easy to forget about everything he's asking her to put aside but, "I have to write a contract—"

"—and you have to write to Tyrion and negotiate the arrangement of the betrothal with Ned Stark and send yet another raven to Father telling him to fuck off because he can't keep his hands off of our every decision, yes, yes," her twin interrupts, audibly annoyed. His touch grows rougher, as if in retaliation, and Cersei unsuccessfully tries to bite back a gasp, legs bending at the knees as Jaime crawls in between them.

"I haven't told Father to fuck off."

"I have. I'm tired of having to listen to his berating about things that have nothing to do with him. You'd think he'd be happy with the reassurance that our precious family name will live on in every way imaginable, but he's been a nightmare recently."

The last thing she wants to do when her husband is knuckles deep inside her is talk about Tywin Lannister, but apparently, he's had this on his mind for some time. "What did he say?"

"Nothing other than the usual."

"Jaime."

"I'm tired of listening to his advice on how to raise our children and run our household in our realm." Jaime pulls away by just a fraction and there's a frustration painted over his features that she hadn't quite expected. "I'm tired of being lectured as if we're still children and not the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Before we left, he tried to give me a lecture on how to correct Joffrey's 'unruly temper' because he snapped at some visiting noble when they wouldn't leave him be, trying to petition for something he has no say in because he has no say in anything. Every time he visits, we have to remind him that if Joffrey needs advice on how to rule, he could always turn to the two of us."

It's a good thing that their father tends to give his advice as Hand by raven rather than in person for the majority of the time, Cersei thinks, and a better thing still that he hadn't joined them on their way here. That might have ended in tears. The only downside to that is the fact that he tends to send Kevan in his stead more often than not and there are few people as insufferable as her uncle when he tries to remind her for the eighteenth time in a week how the Throne belongs to her brother and not her.

"If I may remind you, this is precisely what we're going to rectify by visiting Casterly Rock, provided that Tyrion agrees." She reaches out, trailing a hand over Jaime's cheek and jawline, a brief burst of triumph coursing through her when he leans into the touch. It's not often that he needs her to calm him and not the other way around, but it's a cherished ability to have. She feels her lips curl into a smile. "I'm not sure I want to get his reaction in real time when he learns about our newest venture." When he raises an eyebrow, her grin grows wider. "I have a promise to keep, remember?"

That's all he needs to brighten up and soon enough, Jaime's hands are on her again, resuming his previous activities as if reminded of where the discussion had stopped them.

Even after all those years, it's strange; how well he knows her. Back when they'd first had Joffrey, she'd told him that she'd like to have as many children as he would give her and at least partially, it had been fuelled by fear. She'd sidestepped the answers to her own childish questions back when she'd married her brother before he'd been crowned, but it hadn't felt enough. She had been promised three children; the desperate need to prove the witch wrong had only furthered her desire to have more than that. It hadn't all boiled down to that, of course – the thought of being free to feel the same joy she'd felt the day her firstborn had come into the world, all with Jaime by her side, had been enticing.

Naturally, the twins had worried her since the start.

Jaime, seven bless him, had never been able to figure out the issue. Her pregnancy had been as relatively easy as it had been the first three times and the news that they would likely have two new additions to their family instead of one had overjoyed him, but she had been haunted by her prophecy with torturous consistency, her mind stubbornly pushing the memory back to the surface no matter how many times she'd decisively push it away in turn. It had been ridiculous. She'd already defied fate, after all; why would it matter if she'd done it again?

The day of the twins's birth, the Red Keep had closed its doors to anyone not named Lannister as Jaime had sat by her side the entire time, squeezing her hand in encouragement and quietly urging her on, as much as she would allow. Through the sound of her own screams, she'd heard him pray, more than once, and it had quickly become the most unnerving thing about the world surrounding her – if this birth had made Jaime Lannister turn to the gods for help, then she'd surely been a lost cause.

Distantly, she'd remembered their mother's death. So much blood. Would that be the catch? Would her children be born regardless of her so that she would never get to hold them? No, it couldn't be that, she'd reasoned. There had been a third part of the prophecy, one about a queen, so she must have been meant to live to tell the tale.

In the end, of course, she had. Way after nightfall, she'd held both of her newborn sons in her arms and Jaime had helped along as much as he could have, face white as a sheet. They hadn't spoken about it outright, but they'd come to an agreement that night – no more. Jaime loves their children, she knows, but there's no one he loves as much as her, and it had taken some convincing before he'd even dared to bed her properly again, after she'd assured him that she'd done the math and that it wouldn't be possible for her to conceive just then. The Lannisters make for a rather large house for a reason and fertility had rarely been an issue for the women in her family, hence her ease with it all before the twins had come along, but they'd been painstakingly careful after that.

And still, when she'd wept with the sort of relief she could never put into words on the twins's first nameday and had, fruitlessly, repeated to Jaime that they were nothing but tears of joy when he'd asked (and she could never tell him – speaking it into existence might make it happen, after all, and it's not true; not so far, at least), he'd done what he could to comfort her in the best way he'd known how; the same way he'd always had.

Tya had been born a year and nine months to the day after Lann and Tybolt, and Father had been less than impressed.

"I thought having plenty of heirs was good news in the public eye," Jaime had said when they'd announced her pregnancy and Lord Tywin had taken a moment too long to mask his grimace even as the rest of the family present had congratulated them with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"You're both still awfully young, for a start, and you already have five perfectly healthy ones, as I'm sure you remember," Kevan had chimed in, because of course he had. "You're the King and Queen, not peasants living somewhere in the depths of the Riverlands. You don't need twenty children to work the fields."

"It's just the one," Cersei had said, and had quickly amended, "as far as I'm aware. Each of them will have their place in court one day. Isn't it good to let people know that the royal family is healthy enough to shine into every corner of the realm?"

"She's right, uncle," Tyrion had said, and she had rarely been more grateful for his input, dejected as she'd suddenly felt in the comfort of their not-quite-new home. "I say keep them coming. One more and you'll have one to marry into each of the Seven Kingdoms."

Their father had inserted himself back into the conversation when he'd realised that Jaime had started seriously contemplating that idea. "I would advise you against that. It's a good thing to secure the line of succession, that much is true, but each additional child you push out into this world is a reminder of this travesty of a union. The fact that the Targaryens did it first won't save you forever."

That had been the end of that particular discussion and Cersei had soon sent them all away without as much as a pretence at civility, more shaken by the remark than she would have liked to admit. It had been the seventh year of their reign and everything had been going smoothly enough; she hadn't needed anyone planting the seeds of doubt into her and Jaime's combined abilities by making comments neither of them had needed to hear. Still, the thought had lingered, the same one whispering something she'd known since the very start of this venture – as much as their Lord Father was willing to put up with them in order to ensure that his own place in the eyes of Westeros was favourable enough, he'd done nothing at all to hide his disgust at his own children.

He'd left King's Landing – mostly for good – that same year, week or two before his sixth grandchild had been born and their decision to take precautions after that had had little to do with his, by that point nonexistent, input and more with the realisation that eventually, they might not have the attention necessary to spread between them all. Joffrey had been only six when Tya had been born; even with Cersei's army of tutors and helpers and between the two of them spending as much of their free time as they possibly could with their children, it had been a difficult balance to maintain between their duties and ensuring that no one would be lacking from their presence, let alone the crown prince.

It had only been up in the depths of the North a handful of weeks ago that she'd realised that she might want that again, as she'd idly entertained the youngest of the Starks's children, and a traitorous thought had snuck in. She wouldn't have six nearly-helpless children on her hands all at once this time around, she'd reasoned to herself; only one. It's so like her to never agree with any solid limit on anything, even one she'd put there herself, and the truth, as much as she wouldn't like to admit it, is that she does want more. It's not just a problem with children, given that she always wants more of everything, but it's more tangible in this case, when other people – namely ones she'd created herself – are involved, and yet, it had felt impossible; chasing the urge away.

Jaime had noticed, of course. He'd brought it up as he'd fucked her that night, still back in Winterfell. Is that what you want? he'd asked, grinning back in response to her frantic nod and the sweet, high moan that had followed. It's still startlingly clear in her mind; the unexpected, delighted thrill that had raced through her at the thought, the joy of it, their joined love for a life that's still yet to come. Do you want me to give you another child?

It had been quite a while since the last time and, she supposes, that had made the decision all the easier – time heals all wounds and the endless worry of standing by each other's side in the birthing room and hoping for the best had faded in the background to everything that had followed, so much so that neither of them minds breaking their self-imposed rules, just this one last time.

The very next day, Cersei had told him that she'd tossed the remnants of her moon tea away. It goes bad after some time, after all, and she doesn't think that she'll be needing it soon.

It's easy to think of that vision of the future whenever Jaime spills his seed inside her and tonight is no different. They hadn't told a soul about any of this yet, but perhaps they'd tell Tyrion when they reach Casterly Rock. If he's to come back to the capital with them, he should be prepared that he could end up with one more nephew than he'd bargained for, even though it shouldn't matter – he loves the children, as they all know. Their father had only ever been interested in Joffrey, seemingly more out of duty to teach him than anything else, and he'd given up what little investment he'd had in Myrcella when he'd realised that they wouldn't start considering marriage prospects by the time she'd been four. It had all made her all the more resolute to keep the children as far away from him as she possibly could, and this new one would be no different. He can rage over his or her existence as much as he likes.

She strokes through her brother's hair, damp with sweat from the exertion and the hot night outside, once they're done, and tries to clear her mind of any notions of disquiet or bitterness. Out here, with the Kingsroad stretching endlessly in every direction, it's just the two of them in the entire world; there's nothing anyone can say that would sour this for her.

~.~

The first rays of the sun steal their way into the room when Cersei drags herself from under the covers, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband, and starts her careful way through the rest of their correspondence. One of them does turn out to be from Ned Stark, regarding his daughter's potential dowry, and a following note about an exchange of resources that she'd agreed to in Winterfell. There's not much that the Starks can export out of that lifeless wasteland they call home, but she'd enjoyed their glass gardens and the strange plants crawling up their walls immensely and she'd asked for some of them for the price of the sort of fruit and sweets that the North likely gets only on rare occasions so that she could bribe him into speeding up the process.

Sansa Stark had been an excellent discovery on her part, if she says so herself; even though every girl in the Seven Kingdoms would have been available to her son had they asked for her hand, this particular one has all the makings of an excellent princess and quite the future queen, once the time came. The moment it had occurred to her that she could cheat her way out of supposed destiny, she had realised that there would be no need for the final part of her prophecy to come true, either. What would make another queen – the next one, perhaps – take everything she loves away from her if Cersei can get the girl to love her, first? If this is all it takes, she'd already been decently successful at that and Myrcella had found herself an excellent new friend in the time being, to the point where she'd started asking if Sansa would be joining them on the trip home more often than Joffrey had. She might need to sit them all down at one point and explain that the dwellers of Winterfell are not pets for them to amuse themselves with, but for now, it seems that the children had made their peace with the union. Better yet, so had she and Jaime, and in the end – along with Joffrey's own choice – that's what truly matters.

With another sigh, Cersei unrolls another piece of parchment and dips her quill in the ink again as she readies herself for another day of smoothing out Westeros around the edges until it's shaped to her liking once again. Last night's news had been unsettling, but not enough to disturb the rhythm of her work – few things ever are and, even with Oberyn Martell in her near future, she hopes to keep it that way. She and Jaime have a plan for this too, after all, just like they do for everything else.

Tyrion,

I appreciate the warning. I do still insist that our arrival should be a surprise to anyone but you. Her hand hovers over the scroll, unsure, before the world settles back into place. As usual, not a word to Father. Certainly no warnings for Martell, either. I don't plan on letting him have the upper hand in this, no matter how much he'd like to. We just rode past the Neck this morning, if you need an estimation.

We'll see you soon,

Cersei