She feels as if she's flying.

It's not a sensation that Cersei has been allowed often and, she suspects, it's not one she's going to get again anytime soon, so she enjoys it as well as she can – with her head thrown back, hair tangling into itself on the wind, the forest passing her by in a mad rush as the horses speed up even further, the carriage nearly tearing itself off the ground with the effort, or so it seems.

She smiles, her grip on the sides of the door's open window tightening as she does her best to get as much of herself outside as possible without actually falling. Being on the road had always filled her with a sense of adventure; a touch of the unknown that she gets so rarely that it's always cherished when it comes. It makes her feel like the cliffs she and Jaime had wandered on as children, unfathomably dangerous and terribly exciting all at once.

And it's not unfounded, really – every single time, travel had brought about change. Not always for the best, but it might be this time, she suspects. It might just be because she never learns that hope doesn't seem to be too kind a mistress, or because of who had summoned her there, but all the same, she feels— happy, almost. Impatient, definitely. Alive, more than she had felt recently, most of all.

It had been only a handful of days ago that she had walked in Casterly Rock's main hall to break her fast and had stumbled upon her family's grim faces – their worry, surely persisting despite the action taken to rectify the situation, nearly makes her laugh even now. Your brother has finally lost his mind, I fear, her aunt had said, only to clarify, the other one, when Cersei had turned to glare at Tyrion. She had asked for more detail and the information had poured out – she had already known about the King's death at her brother's hand, but what had apparently transpired since then had been more unbelievable still. He'd refused to give up the Throne when Eddard Stark had demanded it of him and, worse, had refused to obey their father's commands to give it up in the first place. That had sounded rather easy to handle, but apparently, he'd managed to turn the Lannister army on his side at some point in the process, and had only sent out one demand in return – Bring me Cersei, and then we can talk.

It's embarrassing, everyone had fussed since Tywin's furious missive on the matter had arrived. It's embarrassing and improper and it's making them all look woefully undignified and unprepared to handle one rebellious son with, currently, too much power. It's terribly petty and inelegant.

It's also, Cersei thinks, the best thing that's ever happened in her lifetime, and her smile grows even wider. The wind might as well be carrying her on its wings as long as she remains in this forest, on her way to see her twin. The Gold Road lacks shade rather consistently, barring the struggle through the mountains a day prior, and it's only as they slow to pass through a bridge that she realises where exactly they are.

"Blackwater Rush."

"Yes." She had spoken mostly to herself, but the response comes anyway, followed by an exasperated sigh. "And if you don't want to face the smell of it, you'd better come back in. It will take hours to handle your hair as is; you've made yourself look like a swamp witch. It's unbecoming."

Everything about me is unbecoming. "Come now, auntie." The endearment – one she hasn't used since she'd been a child – slips out unbidden and Cersei peeks back in without giving up her seat on the windowsill, facing Genna Lannister's unenthusiastic disapproval with the brightest smile she'd given anyone in years. "It's only my brother."

Which, of course, means that she will take great care to fix her hair into something uncomplicated but charming, or simply leave it down as soon as she enters the Red Keep. It's been a while since they'd seen each other and she can only imagine the look on his face once she does get there; looking her best is a given.

"Do you think I've dressed you up for your brother? Whoever the next king of the Seven Kingdoms is, he'll be in the capital now. Everyone will see you the moment we enter the city. Your father wants you to leave it a queen."

They had had this conversation many times. Each and every time, the anxious pit curling low in her stomach had tightened further, abating only when she'd redirected her attention to the current task at hand, but she's reminded of it rather frequently all the same.

"So he doesn't mean for me to leave it at all."

"Is this a surprise to you?" It's not unkind, but it's just harsh enough to be meant to keep her in her place. "Get your brother out of that chair, let your father graciously hand it over to someone else, and the crown will be yours. All we have to do is play our cards just right."

"I know that." And her awareness of it is acute, too – had been for a while, especially in the moments when her aunt had sorted through her wardrobe, looking for anything that would suit her own tastes. She'd had no luck – Cersei had grown up relatively tall and rather thin, and she'd taken to wearing the gowns that suit her best, with their flowing skirts and sleeves that nearly reach the floor, carefully embroidered and held together by golden belts and ties and ribbons of all kinds. She has a number of more opulent pieces as well – the kind that bare her shoulders, daring enough to invite the eyes downwards – but she had left them all at home to eventually be sent with the rest of her belongings in the event that she's staying, much to Genna's chagrin. She would rather face her still-faceless future husband as she is, under the guise of demureness mixed with resolve, than try and tempt anyone through her thorough lack of interest, so, "I'll be sure to let them see my best side. Though I don't suppose it matters much, between my father's money and my looks. What was it that that singer called me? The jewel of the West? The pearl of Westeros?"

"Those were two different singers, I think," Genna muses. "I know this is all feels like one big joke to you. I know you think you're here to see your brother and have some whimsical adventure and have everything be exactly as you remember it. I'm sure he thinks the same, or he wouldn't have called you here. The reason I was sent with you was to remind you that you would both be wrong. It's not a joke. It wasn't a joke when he joined the Kingsguard on a whim and it's even less of one now. The entire realm rests on your shoulders now, and it has for a while – longer than you've realised, certainly. It's not a fair burden, given that you haven't been made queen yet, but it's yours to bear. This is another thing you understand, I hope."

"Of course." She wants to understand nothing of the sort. "It's worth a mention that if it hadn't been for Father's—"

"Separating you was not Tywin's mistake," her aunt cuts her off, irritated. "It was – and I've told him this time and time again, even though he wouldn't listen – the fact that he abandoned each of you to your tutors and to each other and hoped for the best. If he had parented any of you the way he'd needed to, none of his three children would have turned out as insufferable as this, but here you all are, unwilling to accept the roles he's desperately trying to assign you."

"But that brings us back there, doesn't it?" Stupid as it is, she's unwilling to let go. "If it hadn't been for him and the King, I would have had a crown on my head already. The Kingsguard is a perfectly respectable—"

"And who do you think should have inherited Casterly Rock, then? Tyrion?"

"You love Tyrion."

"You don't, so the question still stands."

Cersei gives it a moment's consideration, but really, there would be no one else. "I suppose so. He's still too young and he would have to marry, but," she swallows back a fraction of her pride, "he's not any less of a Lannister than any of us are. If Jaime remains in the Kingsguard and I am to be wed to whoever takes the Throne, Tyrion will be the only one left to inherit it."

"See, niece, this is the part that troubles me. I cannot imagine a world where you believe any part of what you just said, or one where your ridiculous brother thinks that he will keep his position after killing the same man he was meant to protect and promptly usurping his place. No, this is something else."

"Such as?"

"I wouldn't know, would I? Jaime's instructions weren't particularly helpful." She shakes her head, baffled, and Cersei hides her smile by finally hopping back into the carriage and onto her seat. "What could he possibly need you there for? So that he can hold you hostage?"

Now there's a thought. An unexpected frisson of heat races through her and it's all she can do to keep herself collected before it shows on her face.

"Don't be ridiculous. He can be impulsive on occasion, yes, but he's not a madman. Whatever game this is, I'm sure I can convince him to reconsider."

She could, but does she want to? For a moment, Cersei allows herself to picture it – her brother sprawled onto the Iron Throne, still in the pristine white cloak that he'd accepted for her, finally free of oaths and promises, with a continent at his feet. Gods.

"Not mad, no. Although— you've both spent quite a while in court, haven't you?" Her aunt's eyes pierce much deeper into her than she would have liked them to. "Him more than you, in recent years."

"I suppose so, yes." Her laughter, when it comes, is so audibly nervous that it makes her wish she hadn't spoken at all. "What are you implying? That old Aerys might have affected him somehow?"

"Not in the ways you're thinking of, but I wouldn't rule the possibility out. Just from what we know— He kills the King, takes his place, rebels against your father, and refuses to speak with anyone but you. After years among the Targaryens..." She shrugs in a display of cluelessness, but doesn't look away for an instant. "You're a beautiful woman, Cersei."

"I know. Doesn't have much to do with my brother, does it?" Her heart feels as if it might beat its way out of her chest any moment now. "Did you ever entertain the thought that he might want me there because he trusts me? He's alone and surrounded by enemies, and he's just committed treason. Did anyone fathom the idea that I might be able to help? He thinks better of my mind than all of the Westerlands put together."

It's not even a lie this time – being named a jewel or a pearl or any other treasure doesn't hold a candle to the way Jaime looks at her; to the way she feels when he bothers to listen.

"Oh, trust me, I'm not underestimating you one bit." Genna's words bite even harder when paired with her narrowed eyes, and they don't sound at all like a compliment. "You're rather sharp, it's true, and that's why I know you could tell exactly what I meant."

Cersei finally looks her in the eye, summoning her most oblivious expression; the sort that is rarely, if ever, sincere. It's irritating to be underestimated, but somehow even more so to be seen through quite so effortlessly. "I'm afraid I don't, auntie."

Genna regards her for the span of several excruciating heartbeats and, at last, sighs. "For our collective sake, I hope that's true. We would not want all of those would-be kings to come to any wrong conclusions, now, would we?"

"Of course not." She shakes her head, determined to be as convincing as possible. "I want to make the best impression I can."

"Then fix your damned hair."

Cersei does, diligent as ever, each harsh tug on the tangled-up golden strands reminding her of how close they're getting to the city and, with it, to the Red Keep and the man currently occupying it.

Casterly Rock is days behind her, but she's going home.

~.~

Compared to the way they'd rushed on the open road, eager to reach the capital, the pace they adopt through King's Landing's crowded streets feels almost like a crawl. Her aunt closes the curtains with enough determination that Cersei has to resort to peering past their edges to meet the curious eyes of the commoners outside until finally, she's allowed to push them open once again.

"Let them look upon you, if you so wish," Genna tells her, trying to chase the various scents of the city away with a perfumed fan held up to her face. She'd never been one for places such as this, rather put off by both their size and the density of the population, but for her part, Cersei is equal parts disgusted and charmed by how easy it is to disappear in. She'd done it once or twice before, after all. "They'll be your subjects soon enough."

Subjects. Despite the constant, shapeless anxiety for the future that feels as if it's grown more and more unbearable inside her though her entire life, she finds herself smiling. "I like the sound of that."

"I thought you might."

Her audience grows ticker, but seemingly richer at the same time as they approach the Red Keep. Cersei holds her breath as they finally come to a halt in front of its gates and the buzz of the countless conversations that had surrounded the carriage until now lowers considerably, and then gets to her feet. From her first step outside, she must be a queen. She might not be one just yet, but it's coming, and just for this instant, it doesn't matter who the claimants for the Throne – other than her brother, evidently – are. She must look like a queen in her own right.

Luckily enough, she's only had her entire life to prepare for the part.

"Lady Lannister," a voice greets her as soon as she opens the door – quick enough to miss out on some final familial advice on Genna's part – and Cersei looks him over in a desperate attempt to recall his name. She'd seen him before, even if it hadn't felt quite this important then – though, she suspects as she quietly deduces his identity, that might just be due to the fact that he hadn't been the heir to his House back then. "It's kind of you to join us."

"Lord Stark," she nods, absent-minded as she surveys their surroundings. No sight of her Lord father, though their family's banner is flying high over their heads in each and every direction, its red and gold matched only by the stone-faced Lannister soldiers surrounding the castle. "My brother called for me. All I've done is my duty." It's not a lie, precisely, and she continues when met with the scepticism in his eyes. "My father—"

"Occupied elsewhere, I'm afraid. He didn't expect you quite this early. I can escort you inside in his stead."

Eddard Stark hooks an arm around hers, as if this is nothing but a pleasant stroll through the royal gardens, and she feels a distant twinge of amusement break through her breathless anticipation. He must think her scared or unsure, feeling the way she supposes he must when he feels that he's on the brink of war. Unsure, yes – where Jaime's safety is concerned, mainly – she would give him that. But scared? Cersei can feel an age-old sort of restlessness crawl up her veins, burning through the last remaining vestiges of her uncertainty. She's rarely been this excited for anything before.

And still, it's difficult not to notice the air of unease around them as they swan through the gates and she catches the eye of another man – one she recognises quite a bit better. The one, everyone assumes, who will demand the Throne, even if he had failed to do so this far. It's a ridiculous notion, a Baratheon on the Iron Throne – or at least, not one she can easily imagine – but it wouldn't be the first ridiculous thing to happen in recent memory.

"Your friend doesn't look quite as thrilled with my presence."

"To tell you the truth, it's difficult for him to be thrilled with anything just now – or for me, for that matter."

Oh. That. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss." The castle looms before them, the doors guarded by another four of their family's men, and they only step aside when she nods her acknowledgment at them. She's closer to her destination still, and the troubles of everyone piling up to try their luck with ruling over this place seem more and more inconsequential by the moment.

"Thank you, My Lady. I must say, your brother's— unexpected refusal to cooperate with anyone has not made things easier for any of us." The words are just as blunt as she'd expected from anyone from that far up north, and he stops in the middle of the corridor, still far enough from the doors to the Throne room to be out of earshot if he takes care to be quiet. "We live in uncertain times. You must have heard the rumours and the wishes some of the more prominent Lords have already expressed concerning the new potential rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. Robert is— I wouldn't say he's particularly ambitious, especially at this time, but he was the one to lead the rebellion against the crown, and he did kill Prince Rhaegar. It's widely considered—"

"And my brother killed the King himself. Does that count for nothing?"

Alarm flashes in Stark's eyes, as if he's just considering the idea that she might not be there to help him, all his courtesies falling away in the face of his confusion. "What are you saying?"

"What were you expecting me to say? An apology for the death of a ruler you all rebelled against? You aren't getting one from me, and you certainly won't be getting one from my brother, either. Do you expect him to apologise for being the only one brave enough to kill the man you all desperately wanted dead but wouldn't raise a hand against, even when he slaughtered your families?" And there it is, she recognises as her voice raises above the appropriate volume for a woman of her station; the unbecoming part of her that her aunt had tried to get her to keep at bay. She's a lost cause, fortunately, and Cersei darts a look around herself. It's a calming enough sight – she's surrounded by Lannister crimson and the faces of the soldiers guarding her brother are men she's known her entire life, some of them decades her seniors; men who know her well enough to protect her without a moment's notice if the northerner moves a muscle out of the invisible line she's set for him. "I'd like to see him now. He requested me here alone and I intend to greet him so."

"Lady Lannister," he warns – pleads, almost, even as she pulls away and heads towards the entrance, resolute. "If I may remind you, your brother is—"

"I know what my brother is, and I know what he is not." She has no clue of what the future of any of them will look like once her conversation with her twin is over, but she knows him just enough to be able to walk into his domain with her head held high. He might damn all the kingdoms of Westeros down to the worst hell there is, but he would never hurt her. It's the only thing that matters, considering how little she cares about the realm or what any of its people think about her family's unexpected movement up through the ranks. "Good day, Lord Stark. I can handle myself from here. The Kingsguard can escort you out if you fear you might get lost."

It's a bold move, but it doesn't matter – he's outnumbered in every way imaginable and, as he turns away with a last look of disdain towards yet another unmoving guard, Cersei is sure that he'll relay all of this to his potential king right outside the gates. Perhaps to her father as well, should he ask. Good. This new, reckless confidence is far too beautiful for her to try and question it, but it's certainly a good thing, if it's getting her what she wants. Let them all know.

She's here for her brother and the world dutifully fades away in response; even if only just for now, nothing else matters as much as him, and Cersei lets their family's soldiers push the doors open for her, hearing them fall shut with a heavy click behind her just as her eyes stray up to the Iron Throne on the other side of the deserted hall.

She never looks back.

~.~

The Throne room looks exactly as she remembers it, though it's far less crowded than the usual state that she'd seen it in before – there are only a few guards remaining, lining the walls of the hall, and the lone figure high up on the Iron Throne chases them all out with a silent motion the moment she's inside. Cersei barely notices them filter out past her, too focused on the their master, and it takes her all of a moment to compose herself before she strides closer, equal parts exasperated and desperately intrigued by this new development that she'd had to resort to her imagination for so far.

"Ah," Jaime speaks up as she nears, lips stretched into the most infuriating smirk she'd ever seen from him, and when it comes to her twin, that's saying something. "I should have known. Isn't this a custom of some kind? Sending the most radiant maiden in all the land to the new king? Just like in the songs."

"Not quite like in the songs if you specifically called for me, is it? I'm far from a willing sacrifice on our father's part." The new king. It sounds better than she wants to voice, considering that she's not meant to encourage him. What she's meant to do and what she ends up doing rarely match, however, and she can't resist the temptation to fire a response back. "I'm no maiden, I'm afraid, but since none of them could outshine me, you're just getting me."

"Nothing just about you, sister." He's unflappable as always, motioning her closer as she stands in the middle of the hall, arms crossed over her chest. Something hesitant – scared, almost – breaks through when she doesn't move, as if he had been worried about this precise outcome. "Thank the gods you're here. I thought—"

"—not much at all, apparently." She doesn't bother lowering her voice – there's no one around to hear them; Jaime had made sure of that. "The gods? Aunt Genna brought me here because you wouldn't speak to Father. Father! And all of this – the army, the occupation—" She's almost lost for words, now that all of her worry is pouring out in the form of the sort of berating she knows she's meant to make him endure. "Do you have any clue what kind of mess you've landed us in? I just spoke to Stark right outside those doors. If it hadn't been Lannister men guarding you, I wouldn't have been allowed in. Robert Baratheon is furious—"

"Fuck Robert Baratheon."

"That's precisely what everyone would like to make me to do at some point in the near future!" And that's part of it, too, this anger – the last thing she wants to worry about is the potential matches Lord Tywin is trying to arrange in this very moment, and there's nothing she can do to stop him from doing it all the same. "Do you think this is easy for me? They all expect me to drag you out of here somehow because you put me in the centre of their attention. How did you think this would end? Father—"

"Father would have been dead if it weren't for me!"

The silence that falls around them rings in her ears as soon as her twin's voice stops echoing under the hall's high ceiling and Cersei stares back at him, breathless, rushing closer just as he gets out of his seat to near her. They meet halfway, reaching for each other as if it's their second nature, no matter the circumstances. "Jaime—"

"Everyone in this city would have been dead! They wanted the King gone, and no one else would do it! I know you know," he says as soon as she opens her mouth. "I heard you when you spoke to Stark. Do you know what he did, when they came to take away the body? He tried to take it back." He nods back towards the Iron Throne without giving it a second glance. "Back for whom? Rhaegar is dead. They all are. What has Baratheon done to deserve it more than I do? If I give up now, they would kill me – or, worse, Father would make up excuse after excuse and drag me back to Casterly Rock and marry me to the highest-born woman whose father would give his daughter to a someone he thinks is a turncloak, while you would stay here to be given over to whoever manages to pry the Throne from me? No."

"Then what?" Despite her best efforts to remain composed, Cersei can feel tears brimming in her eyes and, as she tries to blink them away, they spill down her cheeks, making Jaime's already incensed expression crumpling into the sort of worry that she hadn't meant to cause. He'd deserved none of this, and none of her ire, but she feels too helpless to do anything but keep on arguing, even as her hands reach up to cup his face and he closes his eyes as if her touch is the sweetest relief he's ever felt. "I thought I would arrive to find you killed. The things I imagined— no, I didn't think of fighting anyone on anything at the prospect of that. What other way out is there? We've always known where we would end up. In the end, Father always gets what he wants. What would you have me do?"

Unexpectedly, Jaime sinks to his knees on the floor below them; drags her down with him until she's wrapped up in his embrace, his thumb stroking her lower lip contemplatively as he considers his next words. The fact that he thinks that they require consideration is proof enough that it's going to be something unbelievable, and even that forewarning isn't enough for her to be prepared for the solution, when it comes.

"Marry me. Here and now, if we have to; I'll drag the High Septon here in the Red Keep and make him do it if I must. Father wants you to marry the King, doesn't he? It's what he's always wanted. I can give him that." He presses his forehead against hers, eyes closed as if in fervent prayer, and Cersei remains quieter than she remembers being before; both in surprise and unbearable longing. "I can give you that, too. I can give you the crown that you want, and I can give you myself; it's all I have. My sword won me the Throne and the same sword will keep me on it. If I could convince our soldiers, do you think it won't work on our bannermen? They'll fight for us if they're made to, and Father wouldn't want to stand against us publicly. I've already embarrassed him enough; making this worse wouldn't be a good look."

He's right, is the best and worst part – on her way here, ever since the day her twin had killed the Mad King, Cersei had endured endless speeches on how terrible this entire ordeal is making them all seem in the eyes of everyone. For all of his preaching about how unconcerned they should be with the opinion of the sheep, their Lord father seems rather terrified of the consequences of what the flock would do if his machinations come across the wrong way, and he's painstakingly careful in a way Jaime has not been a day in his life. It's strangely exhilarating; the way the plans she's listened to for years on end have unravelled in a matter of moments with a swing of her brother's weapon.

"The rest of the realm—"

"They'll bow to us, the way they bowed to the Targaryens." He still won't look at her, and she's almost convinced that he is praying, after all. "The Seven Kingdoms were united by conquest. What stops us from doing the same? We'll never get another chance like this, and neither will anyone else. The dynasty that Father keeps talking about? We don't need anyone else to launch it into existence." He finally opens his eyes again; leans forward for a quick kiss, brief but as passionate as his vision of their supposed future. "If we walk out of that door and surrender, there is no knowing what he'll make us do." He pulls away, just far enough to be able to take both of her hands into his, gripping them to the point of pain; holding on for dear life. "This is why I wanted you here. If we do this, it has to be now. Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it's me you want, and I'll keep us on the Throne for as long as I can."

Yes. Yes. Yes. It's a beautiful picture that he's painting and for the first time, it has the chance to be more than a fantasy; the desire to embrace it claws at her insides like a wild animal at the bars of its cage. She finally finds her voice again.

"Do you want to rule?"

"You do. Between the two of us, we'll manage war and peace. All you have to do is say yes."

Is there really anything else she could possibly say? "There's nothing I want more. But, Jaime—"

His next kiss, when it comes, catches her by surprise. It shouldn't have, given the urgency written over his every gesture, but she gives herself over to the sensation immediately, lips opening under his insistence, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair almost on instinct. His white cloak falls over them both as if to shield them as he lowers her to the floor and she doesn't mind at all, really; reaches down to free him from his clothes, only halting when he holds her by the wrist to keep her still, tearing his mouth away from hers to trail a line of haphazard kisses down her neck, making her arch up towards him with the need to get closer.

"Not here," he clarifies a moment later, though he doesn't pull away more than a fraction. "I wanted—"

"Did you have a plan for this, too?" The question comes out on a gasp and her brother grins back with one of his enthralling smiles – the kind that would have made her want to follow his every whim even on her best days when she hadn't missed him quite as much as she had before she'd reached the Red Keep – and pulls her to her feet before turning his back on her and marching back to the Iron Throne, resuming his previous position with an air of someone both ridiculously proud of himself and dangerously eager to please.

"Of course I did. I started planning for your arrival the moment I knew Father would oblige me."

He clearly had, if his impassioned marriage proposal is anything to go by. Cersei climbs up the dais and Jaime's hands flex around the handles of his seat in anticipation, but she's not in a hurry – she contorts herself into a curtsey and looks up at him through her lowered eyelashes in a perfect mimicry of serene acceptance only to see his eyes darken with desire. If he means to wed her and spend the rest of his life ruling the realm alongside her, she might as well try and give him a taste of what that might look like. He'd put his life on the line for her dream of queenship, after all.

"Very well, then." The words make it crystal clear that the point of this spectacle is to indulge him and little else, but her tone sounds different to her own ears now; more provocation than seduction. "What would you have of me, Your Grace?"

His voice is so low when he speaks again that it's almost inaudible. "Oh, I think you know."

"I wouldn't want to assume." She shakes her head, doing her best – though likely unconvincing, at least to him – impression of innocence for his benefit, only to hear him growl his frustration.

Jaime had never had any patience for these kinds of games and that fact alone is sure to spell disaster in court, but she doesn't particularly care – couldn't possibly, not when he moves again and drags her up the short flight of stairs by the wrist, pushing her backwards and directly into the heart of the thousand blades of Aegon's enemies, sinking to his knees in front of her to continue laving his attention down her collarbones, struggling with one of the knots holding her gown together, but for a moment, his troubles are the last thing on Cersei's mind as she looks down at the hall in front of her and nearly freezes in his arms, even more enchanted by the view the Throne affords her than she had imagined she would be.

This had never been a matter of question at all – it had been impossible, and she had never asked, knowing it would only get her berated for the lifelong, bottomless greed that seems to fester inside her. There had been no version of events in which she would have ever occupied the seat that's being laid at her feet now, a finer gift than any she had been ever offered – any she would be ever offered again. Even back when her father had promised her a betrothal to Prince Rhaegar, she had imagined him here and herself by his side, but no one – no one – had even thought to offer this as an option before. She had only ever seen Aerys here before Jaime had taken it from him and her brother's presence had been such a beautiful change of scenery; she could watch him occupy it – and let him share it with her – for the rest of her life.

"Jaime?" She calls out, voice high and almost too breathless for words.

He tears his mouth away from her for a brief moment. "Hmm?"

"Yes."

The reaction is instantaneous – Jaime gets back to his feet and pulls her up, too, the heated kiss that follows clearly distracting enough for him to step away a heartbeat later, frustrated, so that he can look down at her dress and the distress it's causing him.

"Off, oh, please," he rambles as he tears at the bow holding her gown together, finally loosening it enough to be able to push it down her shoulders and to the floor. It's an easy one to handle and she'd worn nothing under it in anticipation of his impatience and Cersei steps out with ease of the pile it makes on the marble, the chill of the nearly-empty hall making her shiver before Jaime gathers her in his arms and pulls her onto his lap. Unlike his newly conquered castle and the throne he brings her on alongside with him as he sits down, he's warm – burning, almost – and she gratefully sinks into his embrace, lips parting for him when he makes to kiss her, blindly fumbling with the laces of his breeches.

He responds in kind as soon as he realises what she's doing; lets go of her so that one of his hands can wander down her stomach instead, her lips curling into a sated smile when his middle finger pushes into her, too eager to draw this out for much longer.

"You're so wet." He presses in further, forcing a whimper out of her, and Cersei rests her forehead on his shoulder, her breasts pressed into the gilded steel of his breastplate. She feels restless and oversensitive, as if she'll burn her way out of her skin if he doesn't touch her more, and Jaime gives in, adding a second digit and working her open. "Have you been thinking about this? I have. Ever since I claimed the Throne, I've been imagining you on it." He holds her close, his free hand clenching into a fist in her hair and his hips snap up against her, keen but not quite willing to put an end to his teasing just yet. The scent of blood still clings to his armour and yet, it's not hard to imagine him fantasising about this precise moment. "I kept it for you, you know that, right? For us. I've seen the way you look at it." He pulls her back by the hair until she faces him again, his face alight with this wicked glee coursing through them both. "And the way you look at me. I don't care who else comes to claim it," he continues, raising his hips so that she can push his trousers down his legs and wrap a hand around his cock, his eyes fluttering shut the moment she touches him. She could live in this moment, Cersei thinks; would willingly drown into his exhilaration. "I'll kill anyone who tries; you'll be the Queen even if we're the last two people standing— Fuck, Cersei, yes. Come," he adds when she quickens her rhythm and he pushes her hand away with visible reluctance, only to grip her by the waist and position he over him until she can sink onto his length with one swift movement, her body welcoming his as eagerly as it always has, Jaime's tortured groan drowning out her stifled gasp. He holds her tighter still, forcing her to stay in place, and Cersei leans forward, arms wrapped around his shoulders to steady herself once her brother sets the pace, frustratingly slow but too obviously pleasurable for her to hurry him along.

Gods, how she'd missed this. Memory can never do justice to sensation, she's always known it, and yet, it's somehow always a surprise; how complete Jaime makes her feel, and how easy it is to get lost in his touch and his whispered promises, no matter how bloody and violent they happen to be sometimes. He's offering her the world, no matter what it costs the rest of the realm, and they both know she doesn't have it in her to refuse it or turn him away, so why not just give in? "It's going to be a long list," she says, biting back a moan as one of his hands deserts her to tease at her clit, leaving her to chase after their collective pleasure with every eager thrust to meet his hips. "The people you would have to kill, that is."

"Let them come." His breathing is ragged and shallow, but the same unshakeable confidence that had put them both in this position is still present in every word, shaking out any remaining fear that might plague her. "Unless the Seven Kingdoms unite against us, what could anyone do? We have the Westerlands on our side, and, oh, Cersei," he cuts himself off, any line of thought about the war they could cause devolving into more praise when she leans in to kiss what little of his throat is visible above the high collar of his armour, tilting his head back to give her better access, his strokes over her sex growing rougher in his urgency. She clenches around him, feeling her pleasure course through her, stronger with each frantic movement, and Jaime thrusts back in counterpoint to her, his free hand snaking into her hair as if to make her keep her mouth on him, the resulting sting only bringing her that much closer. "You feel so good. The next time I fuck you, it'll be in our marriage bed."

That's what does it, in the end – Cersei feels herself freeze in his arms, her grip around him tightening as she arches up against him, shuddering through her climax and biting down on the skin she'd been nibbling on to keep herself as quiet as she can, hard enough that she faintly hears him cry out in response through the buzzing in her ears and feels the warmth of his release a moment later, so delightfully familiar that it only serves to make her more insatiable for him; more unwilling to let go.

Thankfully, Jaime makes her do no such thing – they remain entangled in one another for some time, the repetitive sensation of her twin's soothing caress down her back almost enough to lull her to sleep.

There's something in the back of her mind trying to fight its way forward, however, insistent and unpleasant. A long time ago – almost as if in a dream or a different life – she had asked a question and had received a rather puzzling answer. I've been promised to the Prince. When will we marry?

But she wouldn't, she had learnt back then. You'll wed the King.

It should start making sense right around now. She refuses to let it.

"There's just one more thing I want."

Jaime feels almost boneless in her arms, leaning back against the Throne, and sounds half-asleep himself. "Anything."

"I want us to marry before you're crowned. It can happen in the same ceremony, I don't care," she hurries to add when he pulls her away from his shoulder to give her a dazed look tinted with confusion. "As long as we're wed first."

"You want to marry me before I'm the King," he says, catching onto what's on her mind as he always does, even though he could never possibly guess the motive behind it. "You don't have to prove anything to me."

Despite the uncertainty still haunting her whenever she thinks back to that horrible, distant day, Cersei finds it in herself to smile. "I know. I'm not proving it to you."

"All right," he agrees easily, already bored of the topic. "We'll do this however you like."

"Good."

If they survive this decision at all, she thinks, they would be escaping a terrible fate by the skin of their teeth either way; might as well get as much out of it as she possibly can.

~.~

The Great Sept of Baelor had not seen a bride this happy in quite a while, Cersei had heard several times since the day had started, and even her father's presence doesn't seem able to diminish that now. She feels impatient and flushed with excitement, more so than is likely proper, and there is nothing in the world – not the lurking threat of a new war breaking out, not the idea of the Seven Kingdoms breaking apart, and certainly not Tywin Lannister – that can ruin that.

The transition itself is going a lot less smoothly than the idea of her marriage, thankfully enough. After years upon years under Targaryen rule, not many had had anything to say about a brother and sister being wed to one another – not to their faces, in any case, in fear of offending their new ruler, but there had been quite a bit of uproar at the idea of Jaime being the new ruler at all, mainly from their fellow Great Houses rather than the smallfolk. The smallfolk, Cersei suspects, don't care one bit, and this is another part of it that she can hardly wait for – being introduced to them as their Queen, and by no one other than Jaime, at that.

"You seem very happy with yourself." Her father's grip on her arm is so tight that it nearly hurts, but Cersei doesn't flinch; doesn't even meet his eyes, focused on the doors in front of her as she is. Before she's presented to the people, she'll have to be presented to her betrothed and soon enough, they would be wed. Her mother's cloak is heavy on her back over the delicate fabric of her bridal gown, but Jaime is waiting for her on the other side of the Sept with another one, she knows – the one carrying his new, almost entirely identical, lion sigil altered just enough for ceremonial purposes. House Lannister of King's Landing. As soon as the wedding is done, they will have their crowns and coronation, too, but he'd heeded her wishes – this comes first.

"I really rather am." Her smile is as brilliant as it's honest – the sooner this conversation is over, the better. "And so is Jaime, though I suppose you've spoken to him already."

"I have." She'd rarely heard this much disdain in his voice, but even that doesn't hurt anymore; not as much as it once might have. "This was all his idea, he says. Tell me, do you have any grasp of the chaos you've started? Your brother doesn't seem to, but I assume you've thought it all through already – I've taught you that much. When I asked him why he'd done any of it, would you like to know what he said?"

She does, although, "I could guess."

"Because I love her. He threatened and intimidated realm into kneeling for him, humiliated half of his House in front of everyone, and brought all of our bannermen to heel with promises of prosperity and victories in speeches that could not have more clearly come from under your quill. All of this because he thought you would like to rule alongside him."

"I would, and I will." She meets his eyes head on this time, some new awareness roaring up from inside her, refusing to keep her as small as she's always had to make herself in her father's presence. She might never see him again – even if he won't try to fight his children directly, it's unlikely that he'll ever forgive either of them for this – and it feels good; letting him see her for what she is, for once. "You've always taught me to strive for the highest place possible, time and time again. Here I am."

"You would have had plenty of options—"

"I don't want plenty of options. I want him. It's not what you wanted," she allows when he makes to speak again, "You've made yourself quite clear. But have you ever dared to imagine it; both of your children on the Iron Throne? Jaime did, and in a short while, he'll be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Because it's that easy, isn't it?" He doesn't wait for her to respond. "Your brother is a fool, and so are you. How long do you think that the constant threat of violence could keep someone on the Throne?"

Carelessly determined to anger him further, Cersei shrugs. His disgust had been expected, his disappointment even more so, but this place – and her role in it today – is a shield against it all, and she feels invulnerable, like a goddess would. "It seemed to work well enough for the Targaryens, until everyone forgot that it had ever been any different. We don't need to unite the numerous kingdoms of Westeros or subjugate them with dragons; we only need to keep them together. Do you think any of the people in this temple – the ones that Jaime's new position hasn't personally scorned – care which one of the ones so far above them takes that seat? All they want is food and peace."

"You're awfully sure you can give that to them without any help whatsoever from the rest of your family."

"Don't threaten me." It slips out so easily that it brings her a twinge of startled pride. The spark in Lord Tywin's eyes, dangerous and helpless all at once, like she might have brought him to the brink of physical violence but has suddenly found herself untouchable, is yet another small victory to add to a growing collection. "If we manage to keep the Throne, you won't miss the chance to make sure you go down in history as the man who helped make it happen. And even if you do, I'm sure we'll manage well enough. You've raised me prepared to be a queen." She nods towards the entrance, itching for either a crown or a fight. "The King is waiting for me."

It's half a day later – after the wedding, the coronation, the roaring, beaming crowd that had met them outside the Sept and the feast that had followed – that Cersei finds herself laid out in the expansive bed in her new chambers, doing her very best not to glare the men that had accompanied her here and helpfully pulled her out of her gown, only distracted by their scrutiny when she hears the distinct sound of women's laughter down the corridor, followed by Jaime's occasional input. The bedding hadn't been her idea, but she had endured it well enough, she thinks – at least she hadn't caused a fuss as the jokes on their way here had got progressively rowdier and more daring, and Jaime seems to have borne his own half of it with the same grace – any other newly crowned king, especially one looking the way he does, would have either taken advantage of the situation or omitted the tradition entirely. Her brother had done neither and now, as he's pushed through the open door, breeches unlaced, shirt hanging off of one shoulder, she's almost glad – it's a wedding as mundane as any can be where the royal family is involved, as if there's nothing at all out of the ordinary. She had never imagined anything like this; being out in the open with most of her truths brought out for people to see. It's a feeling unlike any other.

"My honoured guests," Jaime says with an all-encompassing gesture as he nears the bed and Cersei beams back at him, stretching out over the covers so that she can see his gaze darken with anticipation at the sight of her in nothing but the thinnest layer of her gown left, pearly white and entirely translucent, "I can only hope the feast is to your liking. If you would be so kind as to return to it, I would like to be alone with the Queen now."

They all obey wordlessly and Cersei's eyes dart to her brother's as soon as the door closes and he climbs onto the bed as well, leaning over her, his hands already tugging her only remaining clothing upwards.

"Could they still be out there?"

Jaime shrugs, his hands roaming up her ribcage as soon as he's got her naked, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts until she shudders and presses into his touch, eager for more. "Who could tell? Some of them, perhaps. They'll want that bloody sheet that Father so helpfully reminded us both of by morning, so they might want to hear it happen as well."

Cersei scoffs, still eyeing the door occasionally. "They're in luck. Did any of your admirers take your sword away from you on the way here?"

"No." He nods towards the side of the bed where the weapon is now propped on the wall, still in its sheath. "What would you need that for?"

"Oh, not much at all." A small cut would sting and she would have to do it somewhere where it wouldn't show in her dresses, but it would be worth it, to have this particular humiliation over with as quickly as possible. "I might have given that specific bit of blood to you years ago, but I have plenty more to spare."

"Oh, Cersei." She looks on at him intently, her fingers whispering through his hair as he crawls lower down her body and buries his face in her chest, leaving a wet trail down ribcage and then her stomach until he can settle between her thighs, looking blissfully comfortable when she hooks her knees over his shoulders. She's been wet by the time he's first touched her and the first heated press of his lips against her cunt makes her finally look away, eyes clenching shut and body gravitating towards him, ready for more – always more. She bites her lip to keep herself quiet, but hears her brother's disapproving murmur a moment later. "No, let them hear you. I want them to hear."

"Jaime," she squirms, feeling strangely flustered, as if this truly is the first time they've done anything at all. "All those years of hiding—"

"No more," he says, decisive, and she's inclined to agree – they deserve it, after all this time. They deserve the entire world. "I want them all to know now. Nothing else matters," he reminds her as his fingers push inside her unceremoniously, and if she could bleed for him again, she would – would do anything, to make this as good as she possibly can. "Only us."

~.~

King's Landing is the same unruly mess that Genna remembers – it's unlikely to change anytime soon, she supposes, no matter the ruler, and it's a good thing that it's not an awfully long way from the city gates to the Red Keep, or she might have given up on this entire excursion in the first place.

Not much has changed in general, really, other than the sigils peering out of every corner and the amount of soldiers, both in the painfully familiar Lannister armour and in the golden cloaks they'd been given to roam the streets. There are more of them now, though fuelled not by the same paranoia that had assured Aerys that he'd been surrounded by enemies, but by the rather reasonable fear that the peace here – or anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, at this time – is built on shaky ground.

It's not something one could tell by looking at the life at court, however, she amends as soon as she enters the Throne room, bursting with life as always and thrice as noisy as she remembers it from the times when Targaryens had ruled it.

"Aunt Genna!"

She turns around, not too intimidated by the new onslaught of sound given her own guards's serenity, and comes face to face with her niece – precisely the one she had been looking for.

It had been nearly a year since the wedding. A year of tension and endless treaties and peace talks; a year of having to avoid Tywin's ceaseless but carefully repressed fury over a situation he can do nothing about. Once he'd let the twins out from under his thumb for even a moment, it had been too late to salvage anything at all, and he'd had the wisdom to not turn on them, at least, even if he had refused to come and congratulate them on the matter which had brought her here. Some wounds, she suspects, mainly the ones on his pride, would take longer than that to heal.

"Hello, dear." Cersei is exactly as she remembers her – with her delicate silver crown resting on her braided golden hair, her crimson gown trailing behind her as she wanders about the hall to attend to her admirers and deal with the occasional issue that arises. She had done it so easily at home that it's no surprise that her idea of holding court is similar. There's that same boldness too, the one from before, brought to the surface as she'd assumed her new place in the order of things. "I'm glad to see you."

"So am I." She looks earnest, at least, her smile more sincere than any Genna had seen her offer anyone before. Or, well, anyone other than her twin. In retrospect, perhaps they should have known. "What brings you here?"

"News travels fast, especially where the King and Queen are concerned." Cersei looks away with a pleased laugh and there is something so unbearably happy about it that she can almost bring herself to believe this had all been worth it. "I hear congratulations are in order."

"You've heard right." Her niece stills, still beaming like the sun's first light sprawling over the sea. "His name is Joffrey. He's— oh, you'll just have to see. Jaime—"

"Where is His Grace?" The room is beyond crowded, but not enough for her not to see him, surely. "Wasn't all that fuss caused so that he could keep that seat up there?"

"I wouldn't say he's particularly interested in it, no. Jaime?" She calls out and, as if by magic, he does seem to be in the general direction she's looking in, appearing behind a column with a small bundle in his arms, clearly engaged in conversation. Cersei sighs. "He would swear to anyone forced to listen to him that Joff can understand every word he says."

"He does! He understands it all and then does the exact opposite of what I've asked of him."

"He's a fortnight old."

"Well, he's learnt to be stubborn already. He gets this from you, I'm sure. Here, little man, do you want to meet your aunt?" The whimper that the baby – golden haired and green-eyed, as if that had ever been any doubt – lets out in response doesn't seem to mean much of anything, but she finds herself with her arms full of the realm's new prince an instant later anyway. "Hello, Genna."

"Jaime," she acknowledges, eyes flickering between the three of them. Her nephew wears his new position well, and his crown is a bulky, imposing thing – a reminder to the world of the man who rules it, along with the sigils of their house decorating his clothes. King or not, he still dresses like a knight; like a soldier fresh out of a battle. Too young. Among the various criticism that the new royal family had endured, this had factored heavily, too. They are both too young. "Your sister was just telling me—"

"Your Grace?"

"Yes?" Cersei is the only one to turn around – Jaime spares the man a quick glance and gives up once he realises that she'd handle it – and then gives them both an apologetic smile. "I'll be right back."

They watch her retreat and Jaime sighs, running one now-free hand through his hair pensively. "She's just better at this," he says, as if making an excuse to an unspoken accusation. "She's better with the baby, too, but I prefer him to all of those nobles wandering about asking for things. He might be awfully small, but he doesn't ask for much, other than his mother." He laughs at that, though it sounds more than a little bitter. "Thankfully, she asks about him all the time as well."

"It'll wear out in time," Genna soothes him. Going by the adoration written all over Cersei's features when she stares at her son, that's unlikely, but still, "He's her firstborn child. You've been there her entire life. Wait until you have a couple more and she'll be all yours again."

"Oh, that's not an issue. She wants a whole pride of little lions if she can have them; she's already all mine." He has the grace to wince at her withering look. "You didn't need to hear that."

"I did not," she agrees, absently rocking the child to sleep. "What if he has a sister later on? What would you teach them, when they look at you and see— What would you say?"

"Our children will be free to do as they please." It's determined enough for him to know that it would be taken seriously, and she does, no matter how unwilling she is to see the truth for what it is. She's not Tywin, after all, and there's a point where denial grows too big of a burden. "The way we wanted to be. The way we are now. We'll give them anything they want, but won't force them into anything. We're not the Targaryens."

For now. "And thank the gods for that." Genna smiles, rueful, as she watches her niece flitter from one of her guests to the next, shining over every part of the hall, every inch a queen. "You've certainly been successful at giving her what she wants."

She thinks back to their ride in the carriage a scant year ago and to Cersei's carefully composed innocent cluelessness when she had asked her if she'd known anything of her brother's supposed plans. I'm afraid I don't, auntie, she had said, eyes wide, scandal written all over her features when she'd suggested that Jaime might want to keep her here for good. She should have known, back then; should have guessed that she had never been as helpless as Tywin would have liked her to be.

"That was the easy part, to tell you the truth. She wins them over one by one – I'll lead a war if I have to, but with Cersei by my side, we might just keep the peace. They're all either too charmed or too frightened to resist her." There's an edge of admiration to his tone that Genna hadn't expected but one that, when she thinks about it, had always been there. How had they not seen? "Sooner or later, Cersei always gets exactly what she wants."

He sounds so terribly proud of her that it's impossible to resent either of them, no matter how reckless they had been. No other prince would have done, she now knows – no Rhaegar Targaryen and certainly no Robert Baratheon could wear a crown on his head and still praise her for holding the Seven Kingdoms by the throat, and Cersei would have accepted nothing less, in the end.

It's difficult; imagining that a king like that could exist. Difficult, but tempting enough for her to delve further.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

If anything, Jaime only sounds puzzled. "Why would it? She's my queen."

And everyone else's, it would appear. Swords had won them the Throne, but Cersei carefully casting the rays of her blinding light in countless different directions would keep them on it; Seven Kingdoms turning still at her touch, as if she could make or break them with a single word. Chances are, she could, with the power Jaime had put in her hands. She had seen this before, in her brother and her cousin, and it's wholly unsurprising that their children are so much worse; that little additional bit of greed finally letting them take the step that Tywin had never dared to. "So she is."

Long may she reign.