By the time he finds his sister, she's already neck-deep in the preparations for the evening, dressed for the occasion and covered in jewellery from head to toe, carefully placing her crown on her head and sizing herself up in her reflection. Jaime stops by the door as soon as it's closed, giving himself a moment to watch her before he's caught her eye; watch the sunset's kiss on her skin, breaking into a thousand rays upon reaching the gems all over her gown.

"Cersei," he finally greets, drawing her attention to himself, arms wrapping around her so that she can lean onto his chest when he nears her and pulls her into his embrace. "I take it the conversation went well, then."

"Hmm." He'd never doubted her, of course, but he'd been cautious all the same, well aware of his siblings's less than uncomplicated relationship. It had been years since the last time they'd had a true disagreement and he'd never stopped being pleasantly surprised at their ability to work seamlessly together when they truly try. "I'm assuming yours did, too."

"It did. Martell was open to the idea of keeping Daenerys in Dorne as his charge, though I suspect we'll have a harder time with the girl's brother." She might have been a queen in some unrealised future, but he would have been king in the wake of his brother's death; there had been no doubt about that. There are few ways to bring him back into the Seven Kingdoms and offer him the Wall when compared to the life he'd had so far in the Free Cities and have it work out for them, and fewer ways still to even offer it without angering him further than he already is with them. Apparently, he's quite keen to return to the seat of his ancestors if he's ready to sell his sister's freedom in exchange for it. "But that's a conversation for another day. For now, Father is my main concern."

They would start their dinner earlier than the time announced to their guests, it had been decided – it's always a good thing to have a moment or two to one's own family away from prying eyes, and it would be better still tonight. In front of the realm, this will be a peaceful transition of power. No one needs to see the ugly innards of it before the fact; no one without the last name Lannister, in any case. The united front they have to present in front of the Martells matters far less in private.

"I'll be the one to tell him," Cersei volunteers, just as he'd expected her to. "We'll make an occasion for it if we have to, so that it can ease the blow a little bit. I've made sure that the children will be on their worst behaviour tonight until the Dornishmen arrive."

Jaime grimaces. "If Genna is to be believed, they've already started. She made a point of letting me know that she had been right and also that my son is unbearable and apparently, we've left our poor defenceless daughter to her own devices against his advances."

That manages to coax a laugh out of his sister despite the anxiety lingering in her features, the amusement shining through her contemplation. "Tya, poor and defenceless. Who would have thought?"

If it had been about anything else – anyone else – Jaime would have bristled at the prospect, but with the specific pair of them, the idea makes him laugh. Ever since they had been children, Tya had been the one holding the reins, both literally and figuratively, with her brother following on her heels, ready to pull down the stars from the sky if she were to ask.

"I talked to him today," Cersei says and from anyone else, it would have been a non-sequitur, but he knows that as always, they're on the same page. "Joffrey's betrothal has made them all strangely fatalistic, as if they're losing a brother even though we all know that the Stark girl will be the one ripped away from her family, no matter how much her father would like to refuse us. So naturally, now he wants to get married too."

Jaime grimaces. Whatever their eldest son does, their third one is soon to follow; it had been so since he had been old enough to know how to look to anyone for an example. "He has always used Joffrey as his main source of inspiration."

"He has always been used you as his main source of inspiration," his sister corrects him gently and even without her finishing this particular line of thought, Jaime knows what she's implying. She's right, of course. "I told him that if he wishes to ask for Tya's hand, then he ought to ask her, not us. They're still too young, it goes without saying, and it will take some manoeuvring until we can present it as something mundane rather than another exception for our family, but I'm sure we'll manage it."

"I'm sure we will," Jaime echoes. "We were a year older than him when we were wed, though, weren't we?"

"We were," Cersei allows. "And we were disoriented and too brave and fumbling our way through keeping seven kingdoms on their knees for years before we managed to find out what worked and what didn't. I don't want them to have the start we did. They don't have to hide; let them love each other as easily as they can."

It would never be as complicated for their children as it had been for them, Jaime knows, and a part of him is as relieved at that as his sister evidently is. After all, neither of them would inherit the realm; that burden had fallen on Joffrey's shoulders the moment he'd been born. He wants it to be easy – more than that, he wants to make sure that the good people of the realm will leave his children well alone if – when, really – they decide that it's time to be married. He knows better than anyone what the weight of everyone's eyes on him and the woman he loves had felt – what it feels like to this day, twenty years later.

"You have a plan for action on that, too, I assume."

"Of course," Cersei nods, both nonchalant and a little proud, the way she always is when she knows that she's done a good job out of whatever new scheme their life requires. "We cannot, under any circumstances, seem like the exception. Their courtship will be public and, since it'll be setting a precedent, that means that marriages between brothers and sisters may be permitted across the Seven Kingdoms – on a case by case basis, that is. If there are any pairs who would like their union to be officiated in the eyes of the gods, they would all have to come individually and plead their case in front of the Iron Throne – and more specifically, me. I'll listen to what they have to say and determine whether they are both willing. There would be too many people welcoming the opportunity to exploit the women in their family they now deem untouchable."

He can't help but raise an eyebrow at that. "That's a lot of effort for a marriage."

"We would have welcomed the opportunity if it had been available to us back then," Cersei shrugs, and warmth seeps into her voice when she continues. "Our children will be as happy with each other as we are, I'm sure. But that doesn't mean it has to be too easy so that anyone could do it. Not every woman has a brother like you, Jaime."

He understands, even if he's sure he couldn't possibly feel the concern she feels towards the prospect – many a Targaryen queen over the years had been brought to the marriage bed out of anyone's will but her own. He'd had no intention of setting up another such dynasty, even if he'd wanted Cersei to himself more than he had wanted the Iron Throne in the first place, and he's certain that his sister is as sceptical towards the supremacy of blood as he himself is. It's not their blood that makes them special, as he'd found over the years – it's themselves, and their brother has that same spark in him that would help lead the Seven Kingdoms into this newest shift. Handling the Targaryens eventually had been inevitable and the last thing Jaime wants is to have to revert to old traditions, especially ones that had started with the family in question.

Still, he's in too light a mood tonight to think about the Targaryens, even with dinner still hanging over their heads. His grip on Cersei's waist tightens and he turns her around until she's facing him rather than their reflection. "Is this a roundabout way of saying you're lucky to have me?"

She laughs, both exasperated and pleased as he crowds her back towards their bed, carefully putting her crown aside on the vanity table before it'd had the chance to topple over. She doesn't remove his, to his thorough lack of surprise, one of her hands coming up to trace his lower lip with a fingertip, thoughtful. "It's a roundabout way of telling you that what we have is less common than it would be if one could do it easily. Make it an option for everyone and within a generation or two, everyone would want it." She holds her breath when he leans in nearer still, so close that he can almost taste her. "Our entire lives, we were told what we should want. No one encouraged this."

She doesn't have to elaborate for him to know what she means. Having what they have had never been an option, but they'd fought for it tooth and nail. He had never even thought to want another; if that would be the case for someone else only after realising that it's allowed to want it, then she's right: they don't deserve to have it as easily as they would anything else. "And yet, here we stand."

His sister smiles back at him, victorious. "Here we stand."

He simply has to kiss her, then, and so he does, taking her hand in his to keep her close when she tries to duck his attention. "There's still some time left until dinner."

All he gets in return is a nod towards the window, where the sun has already disappeared halfway into the Sunset Sea. "Not as much as you'd like."

"No," Jaime amends, but pushes her onto the covers anyway, delighting in the laughter that it brings out of her, bright and carefree as if there's nothing but a line of endless successes stretching out in front of them. "Not as much, but still enough."

~.~

The first thing Jaime sees upon entering the main hall is Joffrey carefully counting out golden coins and handing them over to his brother. Lann waits for him to finish and then splits the pile in two, handing half of them to his twin with the expression of someone having finished a job well done, serene but clearly satisfied with himself.

"Joff decided to bet that Tybolt wouldn't be able to put colour into the fireworks for Myrcella's name day," Cersei explains when he makes to ask. "Which he then proceeded to do, of course."

Tyrion nods from his seat, sage as ever. "That's what you get for betting against family."

Joffrey scoffs. "We'll see how well it's done when we actually light them up."

Before anyone can protest – up to and including Myrcella, who seems altogether too pleased with herself for someone who had only made a demand and then let everyone else fall over themselves to satisfy it – their Lord father clears his throat from the other end of the long table.

"If they do, in fact, light up at all. I specifically remember mentioning that the pyromancers's equipment is not to be tampered with."

"Come now, Grandfather," Lann says, the coins singing in his pocket when he swipes them off the table. "Everyone wins this way, don't we? Myrcella gets what she wants and Ty and I are both ten dragons richer. I'm sure he can make them in the Stark colours, too, when Joffrey's beloved deigns to ride south."

Genna senses the opening as soon as it comes and swiftly grasps the chance to wave the tension away. "How did you find the North? I've heard a great many things about the Starks, but this daughter of theirs—she's more like her mother than her father, from what I hear."

She certainly is, as far as looks are concerned, but Jaime hadn't spent enough time with the girl to know for sure. "You'll have to ask the children. They spent days with her."

"She's wonderful," Myrcella chimes in, and she seems just as grateful to have found a friend so much like herself as she had back in Winterfell. "She was born for a southern court, really; it's wonder that they haven't wed her already."

"She was being saved for one of Robert Baratheon's sons, if I remember correctly," Cersei says with a barely noticeable grimace and Myrcella mirrors it right back at her. Ned Stark and the Lord of the Stormlands had been friends since childhood; it's no wonder that he'd made such a promise. It's equally unsurprising that he'd quickly forgotten about that unofficial arrangement when he'd received an offer from the royal family.

"It's a good thing that we're getting her out of that future, then, isn't it? She writes poetry and can play the harp and she's been taught to dance and sing—"

"Careful, Joffrey," Tybolt cuts in, voice dry. "If you don't hurry up and marry the Stark girl, I'm afraid Myrcella might steal her from you."

Joffrey scowls, but doesn't look particularly angry – the last few days had eased some of his anxiety about the potential union, it seems, and he'd got used to his siblings's good-natured jabs on the matter. "I doubt it; she seemed to like me very much," he proclaims and turns to their father. Without fully meaning to, Jaime tenses in his place, their last encounter still somewhat fresh in his mind. "I've asked her about her bastard brother and apparently, he's as willing to swear his life away to the Kingsguard as he is to the Night's Watch."

"That is good news," Cersei chimes in. "He seemed like a capable fighter."

"With any luck, he won't be seeing much fighting," Genna says and chances a look at her brother. "You're expanding the Kingsguard, then? Rather unconventional, isn't it?"

"I thought so, too," their lord father agrees, and adds with so much reluctance that it's nearly palpable, "but the royal family is both large and rather mobile. If there ever was a need for more guards, it's now."

For the most part, Jaime is just relieved that having Ned Stark's boy sworn in would mean that his daughters's not at all veiled interest in him would evaporate. Cersei had laughed rather heartily when he had brought it up. You didn't think Tya really wanted to marry him, did you? she'd asked, as if it had been the strangest thing in the world. When Jaime had argued that it would make some sense – he'd been more handsome than the average Stark, at least – it had only made her all the more amused. No Stark can compare to any of your sons, you know that, right? She's only saying that to rile Lann up. It's good for her to humble him sometimes.

Of course she'd think that. Jaime hadn't had the heart to be angry about it for long, or he would be proving her point, so he'd let it go, settling for resigned amusement instead. He'd certainly rather have his daughter marry his son than a northern bastard, no matter how skilled with a sword the bastard in question happens to be.

"Double the men, is it?" Tyrion asks, and Jaime nods. Fourteen knights of the Kingsguard seem like an adequate enough number, even with the potential new addition to the family that he and Cersei had told no one about. If only they'd been able to find knights good enough for the job. "I suppose it's a slow process."

"It is, but we're managing." Cersei shrugs, carefully casual. "Uncle Kevan has been of some help, though he hasn't been particularly enthusiastic about the prospect."

"That's odd." Tyrion's tone suggests no surprise at all, and Jaime can feel the conversation sway towards its original purpose. We'll create an occasion for it if we have to. It's almost too obvious, although perhaps he only thinks so because he already knows what's coming. For all their wonderful qualities, his siblings have the combined subtlety of a sledgehammer. "It makes sense, after all, doesn't it?"

"It was my idea, that's all." Cersei sighs in a way so thoroughly devastated that Jaime has to take a healthy swing of his wine in order to hide his smile. Given how regularly she disregards Kevan's protests with nothing but a wave of the hand, it's unlikely that she's anywhere near as crestfallen as she sounds – or crestfallen at all, as a matter of fact. "Our uncle is fond of reminding me that I am not, in fact, the one on the Iron Throne, and Jaime should be the one who has the last word."

"It doesn't seem to matter how many times I remind him that her word is as good as mine," Jaime adds, just in case the situation hadn't seemed severe enough. "He has several ideas about our new additions, but seems to think that we should keep them within the family, and there's no one in our immediate surroundings who is a good enough fit. I'm sure he means Lancel, but he's not quite— suited for the position, I feel."

"I bested him in a duel a year ago," Lann boasts, because of course he does. He had, after all, been instructed to be on his worst behaviour, and at his best, his son is still about as prideful as either of his parents.

"Perhaps you should be the one to join in, then," Genna fires back. "Protecting your brother is a noble enough cause, I'm sure."

"Oh, I don't think so." He drops his fork with a pleased smile now that he'd been indulged and he holds his breath in anticipation for whatever scene he has prepared for this. As much as he resembles him in looks, this particular habit of scandalising the people who disapprove of him to prove them right is nothing but Cersei. "I was born to be a knight just like my father, auntie, but not a celibate one." Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime can see Tyrion reach for the wine again. "And, just like my father, I've set my sights on the loveliest maiden in all the world."

Myrcella raises an eyebrow in mock outrage. "Even lovelier than me?"

Lann laughs and, when Jaime turns to the side, he can see Joffrey wear the very specific glee that his firstborn's expression seems to adopt when he's watching a slowly unfolding disaster. Myrcella watches on, undisturbed as ever. Cersei and Tyrion are both tenser than words can describe, but it's swiftly masked by the most vacant smiles Jaime had ever seen from either of them. Tya, a willing instigator of chaos in the best of days, laughs alongside her partner in crime, Tommen and Tybolt seem to be wrapped up in some game written on paper passed between them, mainly as a source of distraction – it's a good thing, he supposes, since neither of them is too good at being anything other than proper – and on the other side of the table, his lord father's face is unreadable. Much the same can be said about the rest of their family. "That's rather unfair, isn't it? It's such a close thing."

It's only a jest, as they all know, but Tya swats at her brother's arm when he tries to wrap it around her shoulders in the no man's land between their seats, only to lean in and kiss him on the cheek when he makes a show of being hurt. "Did I harm you, brother? You bested our uncle in a duel, I heard. Surely it takes more than a princess to best you in turn."

Lann's eyes burn with triumph when he pulls her closer to himself, gaze not parting from hers. "Shall I prove myself to you, then, Princess? It's been a while since we've had a tourney, hasn't it, Father?"

Tya laughs – a genuine one this time, at some reference that Jaime fails to understand, but he nods all the same. "It has indeed." He had been too busy dealing with Martell to know where this is going, but Cersei's hand on his is enough of a guide. Scandalising their father is a start, all he needs to do is finally convince him that they're all more trouble than they're worth. "On the occasion of Joffrey and Lady Stark's wedding, perhaps, once she arrives in King's Landing. You'll be old enough to participate by then. Another thing for Kevan to organise, I'm sure. I have to say, Father, you've left him with quite a lot on his plate."

"I don't recall leaving anything unfinished when I last left the capital." Lord Tywin is unflappable as ever, but there's a stubborn press to his mouth that Jaime knows painfully well. There are few things that irritate him as much as his children's transgression against his established order of the family, even after all those years, and a display of a similar disobedience further down the line would be sure to only push him further towards the edge of his patience. "What I do recall, however, is reminding you that spending gold on a whim is never a sign of good judgement. Even more so if it's at the behest of a child's boredom."

"I think it's a lovely idea." Cersei's tone is ever so cluelessly innocent. For a fleeting moment, Jaime wonders if anyone here believes the pretence at all, but it likely doesn't matter – all that matters is the effect her words have, and her words hit like knives. "The King loves his tourneys."

"I suppose I might miss out on participating in this particular one," Jaime says with a great, heaving sigh. "I'm not unhorsing my own son." He flashes the son in question a smile and Lann beams back at him, unexpectedly warm given their collective resolve to make this dinner as uncomfortable as possible. If he hadn't been sure before, he's certain now – there is something here that he doesn't know about. "Or depriving him from the chance to crown his own Queen of Love and Beauty, even if it'll deprive me of the chance to do the same."

His sister laughs and a moment later, he feels her touch on his cheek, turning him towards her. "It's all right. You've done it only about ten times so far."

When she looks at him like this – eyes brimming with love and quiet satisfaction, her hand warm as a summer's day on the side of his face – he cannot be held responsible for anything that happens, Jaime thinks. He forgets about any game they're playing; any manipulation they're supposed to be doing – when she leans in just a fraction closer, he kisses her, gentle but insistent, as if he doesn't have all the time in the world to do it whenever he wishes.

When they part, to his great pleasure, it takes a moment for Cersei to compose herself again, and to his utter confusion, she uses it as a preamble to turn to their brother.

"Tyrion." He looks up with enough discomfort written over his features for Jaime to almost feel guilty for it. Almost. "You were the one who organised the last tourney here at the Rock, weren't you?"

"And the one before it," their brother nods, and there's a spark of recognition to what she's doing. "Would you like me to handle yours?"

"We certainly wouldn't oppose to it. We arrived here on such a short notice and you still managed to accommodate us just fine; from what I can tell, there's nothing more for you to learn when it comes to being Warden of the West. Wouldn't you say so, Father?"

The silence reigning upon the table feels nearly suffocating before their father collects himself. It's not often that he's rendered speechless, but Jaime is proud to have been the cause of it most times. "Did you wish to make Tyrion Lord of Casterly Rock?"

"Not at all," Cersei says, shaking her head. "Only that perhaps if he's up to the challenge, he can apply what he's learnt in the capital as your stand-in. I'm sure it would do him some good to practice those skills elsewhere, too, and I'm equally sure that uncle Kevan must want to come home by now. Unless, of course, you'd like to come home with us."

And there it is again – that tension. Lord Tywin takes a deep breath and when he speaks, even though he addresses him, his eyes are locked on Cersei. "That's quite the hassle, isn't it? At this point, you might as well name your brother Hand, Jaime."

He tries out the same unassuming expression that his sister tends to adopt in such cases. "Are you sure you'd like to give up on the position? You could always join us in King's Landing."

He isn't, Jaime knows. He certainly wouldn't have done it before tonight, when he'd still thought that he could influence the future king even if there is not much he can do about the present one. After tonight's display, though, it's not particularly likely that the answer would be anything but an affirmative. Their father had been Hand of the King and had withdrawn before, after all. There are some battles that not even he could win.

"Of course." His voice is light, even if his expression is anything but. "I'm sure your brother can lead you both to all the success in the world."

It sounds more like a curse than well-wishes, but Jaime is happy enough to take it. He had expected the process to be much messier, after all. "I'm sure he will."

~.~

On the evening of Myrcella's name day, the occupants of the Rock along with all their guests and the entirety of the royal family make their way up to the clearing high above so that they can watch the night sky above their ancestral home explode in gold and red. There's a wave of awed gasps all around when the moment does come and Jaime can't blame them – it's glorious, the way the light fills his vision and then disappears spark by spark into the sea way down below, and – best of all – Myrcella looks more pleased than the rest of them combined, surrounded by a precariously tall pile of gifts and everyone she had ever loved. Knowing his daughter, no one will be getting any sleep tonight – there will be dancing and singing and every other sort of entertainment one can imagine – but for now, he's more than happy to stay here in the pleasant chill of the night breeze in their endless summer, sitting on the bare rock under their feet, cloak unclasped so that he can throw it over Cersei's shoulders to keep her near – and keep her warm, should she need the excuse.

She doesn't – his sister's as close to him as she can be as she watches the last of the fireworks explode, burning together in the shape of a lion for a split moment before falling apart, and cheers along with him and everyone else at the spectacle. It's a feeling he wants to live in forever – this night, this warmth, this love, all firmly in his grasp, and Jaime gives himself over to it fully, away from the pretences and games and intrigue of any court, including the one they'd found here. For a moment, nothing else exists – no threat to their kingdom, no risks in the way ahead – and he recalls waiting for her, desperately praying for peace and victory and, most of all, her safe arrival when he'd been stuck all by his own in the Red Keep, looking forward to a future he had decided they would take for themselves between one breath and the next.

As always, his sister is where he is, even if he'd wandered twenty years into the past. Perhaps she'd been right in her assessment – Joffrey's potential wedding had made them all strangely introspective – or perhaps this is simply where they always end up eventually; somewhere between the memory of struggle and the hope for what lies ahead.

"I remember the day I left to come find you," Cersei says, hand straying to find his somewhere between the pile of fabric that her gown makes. "The day after your raven arrived. I thought that I may never come home again, but it didn't matter. I didn't have a clue what would happen, and I was still racing to you as fast as a horse would take me." He watches her watch the children as they pour their attention over their sister, much to Myrcella's evident delight, near one of the large campfires that had been built nearby. The light of the fire throws everyone's shadows over the ancient fortress, making them as tall as giants, and Jaime feels as if the entire world is at his feet. "And we didn't, did we? We never came home. We built our own."

He wonders, for all of a moment, if the future worries her as much as it does him, given that she'd been thinking of all potential outcomes even then. Of course it does, his mind supplies a moment later – Cersei is always ten steps ahead, aware of every possible disruption to their lives before it had happened. Sometimes, it doesn't happen at all, but she has a solution to it just in case. Of course the future worries her. She'd never allowed that to change a thing about her course of action, however, and her resolve is the most beautiful force of nature he's ever known. It's a heady feeling; knowing that they'd kept each other safe through every uncertainty that ruling had thrown their way, and it's better yet, being armed with the knowledge that the future would hold more of that same protection. After all, "We built our home before either of us had ever left the Rock."

Cersei's smile is even brighter than the fireworks when she faces him again and she pulls them both down so that they're lying on their backs, gazing up at the stars above. It's not a particularly royal display, but then again, sitting on the ground hadn't helped them fulfil that role much better. It's the same sky they'd been looking at when they had been just old enough to be able to climb the stairs up here on their own and Jaime's eyes close on their own accord when his sister presses herself closer still, the way she had back then – the way she does every night, even now, as if they'd risk getting separated otherwise. There hadn't been a threat of any such thing for many years now, but the instinct for it is still there, he knows – he feels it, too, pulling him in her direction regardless of where in the world they are. King's Landing, Casterly Rock, the depths of the North, even; it had never particularly mattered, as long as this one constant had remained the same.

Cersei's arms wrap around him, her head resting on his shoulder, and he's home.