Notes: This idea has been floating around my mind for a while and I was hesitant about launching this fic into the outside world so early on into the writing process, but I have a steady outline now, so hopefully all will be smooth from here. The basic premise is a 'what-if' scenario, the reasoning behind it more thoroughly explained when we get into Jaime's POV in the next chapter. Sadly, I can't use the same tags here as I do on AO3, but the most major warnings are canon-typical violence, dubious consent (for Euron and Cersei's entire relationship, essentially) and slow burn and heavier angst; also of the sort that you'd expect from the canon characterisation. The twins's canon relationships from s8 will be featured to a degree, but I want to make it perfectly clear (just in case) that the aforementioned twins together is the endgame of this. What I mainly wanted from this fic was to explore them when they're away from each other under extreme circumstances and what conclusions/mindsets that separation could lead them to, so hopefully I'll manage that much.
Hope you guys enjoy it and feedback is always welcome!
She's never been so alone in her life.
In a way, Cersei supposes, it's a good thing. If this truly is where it all ends, then she needs no audience for it; no guards to smother her with their presence as the world crumbles around her. There's nowhere left to run, nothing – no one, not anymore, not without Jaime – left to save and Cersei drags herself to the most open part of the castle, stills and looks up at the ashy clouds above. If the Targaryen bitch had wanted her to see her city dying, she might as well get one last reminder of why she'd done it. Dragonfire is quicker when compared to suffocation, if she has to guess. Cersei wraps her arms around herself (it won't make a difference if she tries to protect the baby, it never ever does, but she's not dying after losing another child, she's not and it doesn't matter – she's dying all the same – but it's what her world has narrowed down to), positions herself right under the open sky, and waits.
And gets forcibly pulled away back into the castle a heartbeat later.
"No." The protest sounds more breathless and bewildered than angry, but Cersei still claws frantically at the fingers wrapped around her wrist before her other hand gets captured too. She looks up, wide eyes meeting Euron's before he starts dragging her bodily towards the dungeons without another word. The audacity of it is staggering; more so than her home of over two decades burning down like a match in the wind. "Let me go—"
"The whole Keep is either crumbling or on fire," he says. At first she thinks he hasn't heard her at all, except— it's not that he doesn't listen, it's that he doesn't understand. It's survival that matters the most to him even if it means leaving everything else behind and while she hadn't expected to be included in those plans, now that she is, refusal is as obvious an option as the realisation that she doesn't have much of a choice anymore. The only thing worse than a choiceless death is a choiceless life, she's always thought, but this – strange as it is – feels somehow less bleak than the possible outcome of Stannis Baratheon's siege. Living means potential and potential means fighting back. Living means keeping her baby safe through the only way out she's got left. It had been too late for Tommen – she shudders when thinking about the consequences he'd have suffered even now that her son is dead and gone despite her best efforts – but she has a choice now. A choice and no obligation or prophecy to hold her back and while it's not freedom, it's life. Life, right now, is all that must matter.
So when Euron Greyjoy leads her through yet another underground entrance right before it collapses behind their backs and points her towards one of the few ships still intact with the promise to help her climb up when she gets there, Cersei dives into the muddy waves of Blackwater Bay and swims for her life.
~.~
The next few months, in a way, manage to prove her right. It's humiliating, having to go around collecting the favours she'd peppered well into the Free Cities just in case she ever found herself precisely in this situation, but not quite as humiliating as sailing from port to port and still not being able to afford anything but the drab, colourless sacks of fabric that Ironborn women call clothes, and so she makes do. It's not like any disguise can make her truly unrecognisable to anyone who had ever met her in person – not with the lion pendant still adorning her neck, in any case, and she clings to it as stubbornly as she does to the red gown she'd left the Red Keep in. It wouldn't fit if she tried wearing it a few months down the line, but it would again, eventually, after the baby's arrival, and wherever it is that she's going, she refuses to give up what little finery she'd restored along the way. There are dignified ways to be a runaway, she's always believed, and if there's one thing she's got left, it's this.
The news coming from Westeros in the meantime are as unsurprising as they are welcome – Daenerys Targaryen had fallen shortly after her triumph and her murderer had been restrained, along with Tyrion. Despite her brother's devotion to his queen, it's not particularly shocking that he had been involved in the betrayal as well. She had seen it brimming out of every word he had spoken to her all those months ago when she had been standing above the city gates and it had taken a city dying for him to realise what a mistake he had made, but Cersei can't bring herself to wring any satisfaction out of it. Carelessness isn't quite the same as hate and she hadn't seen the destruction coming; not in the scale that it had ended up with. Even though she can't see for herself now and she had watched as it had happened, it's a difficult thing to believe – King's Landing, gone. If it hadn't been for the baby, she would have preferred to die with it. What would be the point of anything else? She barely remembers what it feels like to not wear a crown regardless of the meaning it holds and for over two years, she had been given no reason to believe that she would ever find it in herself to survive its loss.
And yet, she has one now. Far too many times to count, it's this particular thought that had kept her afloat through Euron's endless whims, the cluelessness of every step taken, the miserable affair of living on a ship for months; none of it had mattered when her mind had wandered back to the life growing inside her. She'd been haunted by the urgency of making things right before the time comes and now that the time is here, she's at least partially satisfied with the results of her effort.
They're finally on land again and the house she's in is pitifully small compared to the birthing room she would have had someone set up back in the Red Keep, but it's enough, she concludes as she stares out through the window and the scattered stars in the clear sky above her head. There's an infinity of worse directions for things to possibly go in and what little she has is more than enough once she pushes the thought of her twin and her crown out of her mind. Barring her midwife – not a proper one, just one of her array of handmaidens who had been lucky enough to be serving the Iron Fleet instead of her when the city had fallen – she's entirely alone, but it's just as well. Being surrounded by people had never done her any favours before and although the girl is thoroughly useless beyond her panicked litany of, "It's all right, Your Grace," Cersei is grateful to be left with no one else here. It could have been worse. For months on end, ever since Euron Greyjoy had dragged her out of her home and towards salvation, the prospect of it being worse had become somewhat of a prayer, too; a prayer to herself to bite her tongue and bide her time.
"Your Grace," the girl picks up again after yet another stifled hiss. The pains had started a while ago and her gaze keeps straying to the stars above every time she tries to anchor herself into her body, but there's no avoiding it now; not anymore. "I think you should—"
"Yes," Cersei
END OF DAY EIGHT
agrees despite herself; drags her body up into a half-sitting position and throws the covers off before tensing up as much as she can despite her exhaustion. She's been through this before, of course, and with each and every instance it feels brand new. She had been only a girl the first time and she had been right to be scared – the birth had brought her nothing but a fortnight of happiness before the tragedy had struck and a long, terrible day of Robert's anger – not at her, not just yet – and his arms wrapped around her along with an endless stream of, 'Quiet, quiet now,' until she had stopped sobbing and screaming and clawing at his arms like a frightened animal. She had loved him for it back then. Worse still, she suspects she might have loved him for it now, had he been here, and Cersei pushes the thought away as quickly as it had come. No use for that now. She had made her choices and they had brought her here and for once, she looks forwards to what it's going to bring her. "Yes, I think so too."
It's the sight of the very same stars that gets her through the night. Oh, it hurts – it always does, always has, but she's too ecstatic to truly mind – and it's the kind of repetitive, all-consuming pain that could drive nearly anyone mad, but she holds on as well as she can; talks and shouts and, finally, screams through the pain until one of the servants at hand scurries away to find any real midwife that this wretched town might have while she clutches at the hand of her handmaiden for dear life. The girl won't stop fretting, clearly terrified of having to do this alone – she had only dressed her before, Cersei remembers, and had never been remotely prepared for this kind of responsibility. Why she hadn't made a run for it in the first village they had stopped in is still mystifying, but she's altogether too exhausted to keep clinging to the conviction that danger hides in everyone. It's much easier to let herself believe that perhaps just this time, she'd surrounded herself with people she can trust and it's enough to make her just a little more forgiving at the next, "It's all right, Your Grace" for the night.
It all passes in a blur as it had before; a blur of pain and yearning and blood and, at long last, the distant beginnings of joy and relief as the midwife leans closer to her, squeezes her free hand in encouragement as Cersei fights to keep her eyes open. She's so tired, her desperate focus on the sky outside her window faltering dangerously as she clings to the world around her, but if she falls asleep now, she's not sure when she'll wake up. She's not sure if she'll wake up at all, come to think of it, not with how thoroughly exhausted she feels and how draining every breath had been for weeks on end, and it's unacceptable – this can't possibly happen now. She isn't her mother. She refuses to be nothing but a shimmering ghost in her child's life; a story for other people to twist and pile fantasies on and for her child to suffer over for a lifetime just because she couldn't take the exhaustion and Cersei spits out the cloth in her mouth, bites down on her lower lip hard enough to break skin and keeps herself afloat by grasping the pain with a kind of desperation she had never known before.
It's only when the first rays of gold and crimson spill over the edge of the sky that she hears that first cry; piercing and sudden and easily the most beautiful sound in the world. There are tears streaming down the sides of her face and into her hair and laughter is bubbling somewhere at the back of her throat and she reaches out blindly, trembling arms outstretched in a wordless demand.
"The baby," she manages at last, frowning in displeasure when her midwife laughs, leaning over the still-crying bundle in her arms and stepping closer to Cersei's side.
"You needn't worry, dear. He's perfectly healthy."
"He." A boy. It hadn't mattered in the slightest, but just knowing makes it a little more real – more so than the pain or her determination had rendered it – and when she feels his weight as he's placed in her arms, every single piece of her is blissfully quiet for the first time in an eternity. The women are still wandering around the room, preparing the crib, a bath, a thousand little things that she's going to need now, but none of it reaches her ears as she presses her son close to her chest and quietly vows to never have to let go again; not like she had before. "It's just you and me now," she whispers, body still wracked by the odd pained shiver, and he's so impossibly tiny and yet big enough to fill the entire world. The sun steals its way into the room bit by bit and she's never been less interested in sleep in her life.
~.~
"—need to speak to her now."
"Her Grace is resting."
"Then wake her." Despite her handmaiden's protests, Euron sounds incredulous at being denied. "Or don't. I can do it myself."
"My Lord, I would not—"
The door swings open and Cersei forces herself to open her eyes for good instead of succumbing to the drifting on and off that had carried her through the better part of a day, only to be met with a rather predictable sight: the girl standing by the door, eyes wide and anxious, and Euron Greyjoy's expectant smile as he nears her. She sits up enough to be able to reach into the crib and hand her sleeping son over to him, tensing up as he examines him carefully. There's not much to see – babies don't look much like anyone, fortunately, she's found from experience, and the wide green eyes staring back at him could easily be her own – but there's no telling what the sight would make him do. She's not sure she's strong enough to stand yet, but she can be if it gets to that, she knows. There isn't much she isn't capable of now.
"His name is Loren." It's a statement, not a suggestion, and Euron nods. She'd had months to think it through and it had been a name fit for a Lannister prince. It'll be a perfect fit for him now, too, she had always told herself; she would make sure of it. It's the name of kings. Jaime had been the one to suggest it in one of the few times they had been bold enough to start thinking of names and the thought makes something in her chest twist painfully now – he'll never get to hold him. Perhaps this is their punishment, after all, or perhaps he's just collateral damage in the gods's effort to punish her. Perhaps this is what she deserves – to never once see him welcome his own child into the world.
"Loren." Euron tests the name out and lifts him even closer, grinning when the disturbance wakes the baby in his arms. "He's loud."
"He's hungry." She reaches out to take him in her own arms again, careful but decisive. Joffrey had been loud too, even in his best days, and Robert hadn't particularly loved him for it. "Give him to me."
He obeys, but doesn't stray from the side of the bed. "He should be loud; he's a prince." She doesn't have it in her to correct him – not a prince; not anymore or, perhaps, not yet – and Euron brushes his fingers over her son's forehead and then directs his attention to her, his kiss almost bruising in its rough celebration. He doesn't seem to require much of a response from her and it's just as well; she isn't quite
END OF DAY TWO
up to entertaining anybody just yet. In time, that might come too, she assumes – life will have to go on and they will have to set sail again eventually – but for now, she's happy when she's left alone again. It's not peace, not fully, but it doesn't have to be. Peace had never been on the table to begin with.
~.~
It takes her about a fortnight to realise that the aimless wandering from before isn't quite so aimless anymore. They leave the Free Cities behind once and for all and start circling back towards Westeros and – more specifically – towards the Iron Islands. Cersei isn't sure when they'd made the trip out of the Narrow Sea passage at all, but she can tell when they start sailing west. It's far more familiar, the harbours they pass by feeling more and more like the one she had grown up in such close proximity to and although they never come even close to the Rock, it's easy to see that Euron's scattered array of acquaintances that he can talk into all sorts of petty crimes grows more and more purposeful and selective until it's clear as day that he's building an army.
She refrains from bringing it up at first. It's none of her concern and the more support they have, the better; the thought of doing something of the sort had plagued her ever since her escape too and it's not precisely a surprise that he wants something of what he'd had back too. On a surface level, nothing has changed. They still move from town to town and day to day without a roof over their heads save for the ship's cabins, the only tangible difference being Loren's presence. It's enough to change everything, of course – she feels less vulnerable now that her body is solely hers again, but far more so whenever she takes him outside with her or leaves him in someone else's hands for even half a day. Strangely enough, Euron seems to feel the same way – he'd gone to greater lengths to protect the child than she had imagined, even if it means keeping quiet about his existence to begin with, but it's easy to see why. He's protecting his legacy, after all, and with a burnt down fleet, a former queen and a son are a greater asset than he would otherwise have.
It's better than what she had imagined, significantly so, and he nearly drives her out of her mind on a daily basis all the same.
"If you keep dressing like this," he says one day while one of her servants drapes a new dress – perfect for the baby, the merchant had assured her when he had seen him cradled in her arms, it unclasps in the front, see – over her body, "we're going to be robbed blind before we know it."
"I'm a Lannister." It serves as a reminder for her as much as it does for Euron, after all this time spent away from anyone who's aware of that fact apart from him. "Do you expect me to dress in rags? I'm not afraid."
"And you should be, My Queen." It's likely a habit at this point and it grates on her ears, but it's preferable to him using her name, she supposes. "Without a Queensguard to defend you—"
"I have managed so far, as you can see." She gives him her most pleasant smile – quite a feat given the circumstances, so it doesn't surprise her when it only makes him narrow his eyes at her. "And I have you, don't I?"
That is enough to bring that insufferable grin back again. "Aye," he agrees, pulling her in by the hips until she's pressed flush against him, fingers digging into her skin despite the heavy silks she's drowning under. Cersei dismisses her handmaiden with a glance and turns her attention to him again just as his grasp snakes under her chin and he tilts her head up, the promise brushing against her ear. "That you do. Along with your bannermen, if you were to ever ask, I assume."
She carefully untangles herself from his grip, suddenly unable to take any contact at all. It's going to be a problem if he doesn't understand just how little she has now, but that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is being forced to realise it for herself once again, even as she tries to push down the flare of age-old ambition buried under the fear of asking for too much – she could take what she wants like she always has if she tries. It's the one thing in the world she's still sure of, even if, "They're my brother's bannermen now."
"If forced to choose between their Queen and the Imp, I wonder," Euron insists despite her apparent lack of enthusiasm, "where would they go? Who would they follow?"
"Me." There's no question about it. Not after the string of tremendous mistakes that Tyrion had made in such a short time and the victories she had managed to bring to her claim to the Throne before King's Landing had fallen. "I fail to see how it would be of any use. The Westerlands and all the Lords that inhabit them aren't enough to fight against five kingdoms. If I ever want them back, trying to make them fight for independence wouldn't be the way." Not yet, she thinks; it would take quite a while to gather the strength to do something of the sort, but she would manage it eventually; that much she knows.
"The Westerlands can wait." He's off-handed enough about it to make Cersei bristle and it's another thing she carefully bites back as he continues. It's her home they are talking about and it's been so many years since she had last seen it; the last thing she wants is to wait. "It's quite a prospect; I'll give you that. But there might be something easier to gain back in the meantime. I've planted the seeds for it already, but an army rallying behind one leader would make it much easier."
It's enough of a promise to spike her interest, whether she'd like to admit it or not. Few things in her life had been more difficult than drifting in and out of sea with no real clue of where the next day would bring her and, given the amount of difficulties that they years past had offered her, it's a bold statement to make, but she can feel herself growing more and more restless by the day. It's understandable – contentment wouldn't be easy to achieve with the swift change of direction that her plans had taken – and unbearable all the same. Any change would be welcome, she thinks sometimes. It's yet another burst of reckless bravery with nothing else to back it up, but Cersei is ready to see where it might take her. "What would I be rallying them for?"
"A kingdom. Mine, to be precise." His grin grows wolfish and any spark of disappointment she might have felt is replaced by intrigue. "It is just a pile of rocks, you know that much by now, but it's better than life at sea. It's enough to put a crown on your head." He's dangerously close again; so much so that she needs to look up to meet his gaze. It's enough to make her squirm, but her discomfort pales at the prospect he had just unfolded in front of her, even with all the traps that it holds. "Is this not what you truly want, My Queen?"
Titles and flattery or not, Cersei can see the proposition for what it is. It's always come down to this, she supposes, but at least she had been the one with the absolute power before; any marriage they would have entered would have made him a consort regardless of how well he tries to weave his way to a higher position. Here, it'll be offered to him on a plate and she's the one who'll have to fight her way up, just like always.
Is this not what you truly want? Had he asked her all those months ago as the Red Keep had started crumbling around her, she would have denied it without an ounce of dishonesty. All she had wanted then had been another chance; another stolen hour breathing until she could break and remake herself into something entirely new, but still living.
The relative safety that anonymity and the open sea had granted her had changed things – or rather, had brought them back to the surface again – and she can feel hunger lifting its ugly head somewhere deep inside her, terrible and glorious and insatiable as ever. Cersei knows it well by now; welcomes it with open arms as it spreads through her like wildfire. "Yes," she breathes before giving it another moment's thought. What is there to think about? For once, he's right. Anything is better than being stuck in the in-between forever and whatever the risk is, she's willing to take it. "Yes, it is."
"Good. You wear it much better than my niece ever could." He brushes a loose strand of hair away from her eyes, as if imagining the sight of it already. "It'll be ours within the month if it's up to me; within the year if your army needs it."
I have no army, Cersei wants to protest like she had done for months on end now, I'm not your Queen anymore, but all of a sudden, it's started feeling like false modesty; like denying a truth that she can claim if she would only reach out for it. And if she's dared to reach that far once again, then there's nothing stopping her from making another step closer to the edge. Her entire life had been an endless chase just like this one – a step closer and then another, and another after that until her prize is safely cradled in her arms. She'd missed it, truth be told, and it's an excellent distraction of the constant reminder of the future waiting for her.
"And what of the Westerlands, then?"
She can wait, of course – it's another thing she's excels at – but there are few images more tempting than the thought of claiming her home back; of fighting tooth and nail for what she's owed. It's not just about the castle, either. She's safe behind the walls of the Rock; safe as she had never been anywhere else. Looking for peace feels like chasing shadows, but Cersei had become rather good at keeping shadows on a tight leash when it comes to the life she builds for herself. If safety and a kingdom and a home aren't enough of an incentive, she thinks bitterly, then surely family must be – if she's to ever see her brothers again, then what opportunity could be better than placing herself in Casterly Rock and daring them to come take it from her? She's done far worse before and been forgiven for it. It's certainly one way to go about it.
His next words, when they come, only help her resolution settle in deep, roots spreading down to every hidden notch of her soul; to every bit of ambition she had commanded into silence over the months of her exile.
"With time and enough men, I could build my fleet anew. It's nothing I haven't done before. And if you want your Rock back, you'll have all the ships in the world to take it."
If there had ever been a way to resist such an offer, Cersei thinks as she nods her assent, she's forgotten it a long time ago. Come to think of it, she's not quite sure she's ever known it to begin with.