Notes: In which Cersei enjoys the simple pleasures in life such as angst, making friends, and potential religious revelations.

On a more serious note: there are, despite the above carefree description, some parts of this chapter that could be potentially upsetting, but it's nothing not covered by the warnings at the start of the story. I tried to play around with some symbolism and foreshadowing in this one, which I don't really do often; hopefully it worked out at least somewhat. ;D

Cersei sees herself in a mirror for the first time in months on the morning of her wedding.

She's not quite sure what she'd expected, really, but everything about her reflection feels off in a way she can't quite pinpoint. Her features seem even more pointed than before and her complexion is somewhat darker, hair even lighter than it is in its natural state. It's what weeks upon weeks under the unforgiving rays of the sun and its reflection in the sea will do to a person, no other way around it, but it's unsettling all the same – as if everything about her is sharper, exaggerated, more focused than before.

It fits the world around her, there's no doubt about that. The haunting, unreachable beauty of Pyke hadn't escaped her when she had first seen it under the first rays of the sun today, but absorbing it into herself so early on hadn't been particularly appealing. Her own eyes stare back at her from her reflection, darkened with tension and anxious trepidation, green as the moss that crawls up the sides of the castle and just as deep, the striking red of her gown and the gold of her hair setting her as far apart from everyone else in her surroundings as possible. Some bride she'll make. It's a good thing she's past caring, Cersei supposes, and a better thing still that the ritual will barely fit within the faith of the seven as it is. She'll have no one's cloak but her own wrapped around her shoulders ever again; she's marrying into that much freedom, at least.

Watching the battle up close as the final of the Iron Islands – as well as the Greyjoys's ancestral home – had been wrung out of their current queen's hands had left her feeling content, if strangely empty. The last few months had been a whirlwind. Although she hadn't been anywhere near the Rock, they'd sailed to the Westerlands several times, in cities and towns and the smallest settlements imaginable and, bit by bit, Cersei had chipped away at the Six Kingdoms and the supposed power they held over the armies that had been hers by right. Not everyone had thought so, of course, but she had expected to be turned away far more times as it is; the few times it had happened, she had mostly been relieved that it hadn't been worse.

Still, three of the Lannister bannermen turning their backs on her (she had kept a careful tally, just in case) had been nothing when compared to the army she had gained through her efforts and eventually, the picture that Euron had painted for her back when they'd still been sailing a great distance away from the rest of Westeros had started unveiling itself in front of her eyes. It had culminated in Yara Greyjoy's death just this morning and the chaos that had followed when the Ironborn had faced the king they'd chosen for themselves years ago, and Cersei had watched it all from the shores of Pyke, under the shade her sails had thrown over the ship, the few soldiers who hadn't participated in the conquest in order to protect the fleet still at her back. She had taken Loren out with her – he was too young to understand anything at all just yet, but she would tell him of it one day; the conquest she had encouraged in his name, the first of many more to come. She had fought for the kingdom he would inherit before she'd even known him and the determination is even stronger now, curiously enough. She hadn't thought it possible.

The fell of the last shreds of Yara Greyjoy's control had been a glorious sight, only soured by her betrothed's attempt to drag her off with him as soon as Cersei had set foot on solid ground, and she had made her excuses on the grounds of requiring some semblance of preparation before the wedding. After all this time, she'd reasoned, does it truly matter whether the union takes place in the morning or by noon? Much to her dismay, her own reasoning had forced her to realise just how little time she'd given herself. It had brought her here – far away from the chambers that would be her own by tonight, in a room once inhabited by the last queen consort that the Iron Islands had had. Taking a final look at herself, Cersei's body forces itself out of her chair without her permission, bracing for the inevitable.

"Your Grace," her handmaiden rushes by her side before she'd had the chance to get far, still fussing over the details of the circlet of tangled thorns and flowers that would adorn her head before the coronation, "I wasn't done just yet. Your hair— if you'd like me to pull it back—"

"It's quite all right." There's not that much of it to pull back to begin with, but Cersei would have preferred to leave it be either way. Her new subjects won't take well to her as it is, she's sure, and even if she refuses to let go of all the other signs of her identity, trying to make herself look as refined as possible would doubtlessly only work against her. "I'm ready."

~.~

There's only one sept on Pyke – a half-derelict, windswept thing from millennia ago, with the twisted, grotesque shape of the Drowned God's vague image standing proudly in the middle of the seven-pointed star that the other statues form. According to Euron's story, it's the only leftover from the time when one of his distant predecessors as King of the Iron Islands had wed one of her own unfortunate ancient relatives and the Lannister princess in question had introduced him to the Faith of the Seven. Her conviction had been strong enough to convert him almost entirely, but in the end, he had insisted on merging their gods's presence in the same temple and for a while, a compromise had been reached.

It had ended up being more of a failure than a genuine connection between the two belief systems and this last memory of that era seems to be a fitting place for a similar union all those years later, Cersei thinks as she steps through the entrance. A few of her bannermen along with a Drowned Man and a number of local lords are the ones standing witness to it this time and she takes her time looking at each and every deity they're supposed to swear in front of just to avoid meeting anyone's eyes. It shouldn't be quite so difficult – she's done this before, after all, even if she hadn't been aware back then just how bleak her circumstances would soon become – but she's still relieved when she's finally standing in the centre too, the light of the sun filtering through the stained glass in a thousand different hues. Never again, she had sworn after Robert had finally spent his last breath, never again unless I mean it, unless it's Jaime, but once more, it's not a choice she can make. And why should it matter, truly? The gods had never been gentle with her; if she lies in their names just once more, why should she be punished for it? They'd shut their eyes and ears to her too many times for her to be afraid of the consequences and so she says her vows with all the conviction she can muster, not looking away from her soon-to-be-husband's eyes once she gathers the courage to face him.

There's no septon to prompt her this time, no cloak to be wrapped over her shoulders, thank the gods, and no ribbon to tie around their hands. Euron fumbles the order of the gods's names, or perhaps she does, but the words are out at least and Cersei soldiers on through the rest of it. He untangles the thorny wreath out of her hair with a few hard tugs and replaces it with a driftwood one, identical to his own if not for its size. She refuses to make the entire ordeal easier for him by lowering her head as he crowns her, and it's all for the best, really – she knows he likes her better when she's defiant.

~.~

Pyke's great hall is just big enough for a celebration an event the size of a wedding should induce and it turns out as loud and unrestrained as Cersei had expected. She's yet to see anything of the castle apart from several stray rooms and she can see the shadow of the Salt Throne on the dais behind her back – a large, dark, bulky thing that'll doubtlessly look even worse in daylight – but it wouldn't be a good idea to claim it before the Ironborn's newly returned king had. Everyone expects her to as it is, it's in their eyes; curiosity and a dash of fear and about twenty different kinds of hunger. It's in every toast in her honour (or in their honour, or to the price's health – it's all the same, an excuse for everyone to drink themselves into oblivion, as if they'd needed one), in every cup pushed into her hand, every glance that measures her response. She accepts it all but refrains from doing anything but raising every goblet to her lips before putting it down. There's no need to experiment with whatever they're trying to feed her, she needs to keep her head clear for tonight as it is and to top it all off, it's dangerous with her still feeding Loren herself.

The later the hour grows, the more suffocating the great hall feels, with its dark walls and booming voices and the unbearable heat of the fire and Cersei gets to her feet as quietly as possible once she realises she's had enough. It's still enough to draw everyone's attention, the Ironborn's eyes settling on her from all corners, and she gives them all a smile and a rueful sigh, turning to her husband to explain.

"Loren must be needing me already. I'll have to attend to him before we retire for the night."

Euron nods, but grabs her by the wrist all the same to keep her in place when she makes to leave, voice barely lowered as he speaks. "Wait for me. The guards can show you the way."

Her smile is growing thinner by the second, she can feel. Robert's obvious resentment in front of his subjects had been humiliating, but he'd at least had the grace to let her come and go as she pleased unless he was having a particularly bad day. How foolish she had been, to think that being loved would be any less degrading. She had been surrounded by familiar faces back then, at least, and she'd always had—

But he's not here now. In the sea of strangers, all she can catch a glimpse of is her family's sigil on her soldiers's armour, and it's all Cersei needs to wring her arm out of his grip. "Of course, my love."

Still, once Loren is fed and she'd sung him to sleep in his nursery – songs she remembers from her childhood, ones that bring her just enough happiness for the rage and helplessness to take second place instead of poisoning her body and his in turn – she can't seem to get her feet to drag her to the king's chambers. Instead, she wanders off in exploration, just as she'd done during her first night in the Red Keep. It's her chambers that interest her the most and, along with the nursery, the rooms she'd been given end up being in the farthest separate tower of the castle, reachable by several rope bridges, a long, winding staircase and little else. That would have been suffocating too, she thinks, given how difficult it is to escape, but every thought of being caged leaves her mind once she enters trough the door and her eyes settle on the window. Everything else is rather impressive given the state of the rest of the castle, too – the enormous bed, the study in the corner, the several tables and daybeds and yet another door where she thinks she might discover a bath – but it's the window that catches her eye, wide enough to turn the entire living space into a balcony of its own.

Here's another way out, then. She doesn't give it a second thought before striding across the room and stepping over the sill, kicking off her shoes and bunching up her skirts in the process, just enough to be sure that her footing on the cliff outside is steady and it's not at all different from what she'd done when she had been a child with far too much energy to spend, encouraging – or encouraged by – her twin until they'd seen every inch of their home, regardless of how difficult it had been to achieve. The Rock had been endlessly fascinating to her for its nature; half-castle, half-wild, misshapen rocks that no one had dared to try and carve into submission.

Here, now, she gradually loosens her grip on both her new crown and her gown – it wouldn't do to ruin either of them, but it seems so inconsequential now – and Cersei leaves herself in the hands of the world around her. Even all those years later, keeping herself steady on the wet, slippery surface while still nearing the edge is easy as breathing. And breathe she does, finally, freer than she had felt in decades.

It had started raining earlier; an unmistakable summer storm in the midst of spring. Pyke is the perfect place to witness it, Cersei thinks – every time the sky cracks open with lightning, she can see the endless open sea below her boiling alive along with her, the pouring rain that soaks her to the bone despite the steel decorative plate woven into her dress and the wind catching in her hair, twisting it around her face in impossible knots. She can taste the waves on her lips every time she sees them crashing against the bottom of the cliffs hundreds of feet below her and the sight is enough to make her laugh, the sound drowned out as the storm's fury worsens around her. Unreachable. It's what she's always wanted, isn't it, being so distant, so high up that nothing, nothing can touch her unless she reaches out to meet it. The prospect seems rather tempting now, when she sees how easy it would be. This is where she would be happiest, really, up here and down there, dead and alive and never, ever forced to swing between one terror into the next again. Never again.

It feels almost like flying when she spreads her arms; almost like jumping and never having to land; almost like the Drowned God himself is watching her every move, keeping her steady when she falters. It's chaotic and terrible, nothing like the stoic, indifferent deities she's so used to resenting, and she gulps the sensation down to the last bit.

No one would ever find her here if she were to stay, she knows. No one would know whether she'd sunk or swam or soared or crawled somewhere just around the corner and onto the next impossibly high cliff. No one would think to look, whether on her wedding night or for years and years after the sea or stone or thunder had made her part of them, and Cersei finally understands. What is dead may never die.

~.~

It's the sun that wakes her; the sun that makes her realise that she'd fallen asleep to begin with. The cliff is gone and so is the storm and this isn't the room she'd seen last night, but rather her marriage bed, it would seem – it's even more spacious, clearly meant for more than one person and of that isn't enough of a give away, then the sight of her new husband asleep next to her certainly is. There's no trace of the storm she'd endured and Cersei would have been convinced that she'd dreamt all of it if it hadn't been for the dampness of her half-thorn dress and the familiar, somewhat sticky feeling of dried seawater in her hair. Had she jumped at some point, only to be found and brought inside? It seems unlikely, given that she appears to be entirely intact, but still relatively easy to explain when compared to anything else she can imagine. The last thing she remembers is the storm; the sea roaring so far down below, more tempting than it had ever been before, but she can't—

Cersei forces herself to stay still when she feels arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back from the window and into an embrace. It's a game Euron tends to play, trying to startle a reaction out of her, and she's determined not to let him have it, especially not when she has quite so many questions.

"My Queen," he greets and it's true this time; the pang that the word leaves behind significantly less painful even if it still stings. "You gave everyone a right scare last night."

Perhaps she'd jumped after all. Missing queens with fragile grip on their will to live can make any kingsguard rather nervous, she's found, or perhaps that had just been Jaime. Jaime— it's another thing she remembers, had recalled their childhood and Casterly Rock, but that couldn't possibly do much to trigger her memory. He's always there, in the back of her mind. Staring at the vast, horrifyingly open stretch of sea and thinking of him had been inevitable. "Are your people quite so fond of me already?"

"They were only curious, I think, before one of the fishermen below saw you on that clifftop and came to tell me." His arms are tighter around her now, immovable and unbearably hot like the throne near the fire the night before. "You heard him last night in the storm, didn't you?"

"The fisherman?"

"The Drowned God." She can feel his mouth on her throat, up to her ear as he whispers his faith's secrets to her. "I can smell it on you."

All she can smell is salt and dirt and sea foam, but perhaps that's precisely the point. She must have been quite a distance away from her room if she had been so difficult to reach and another spike surges up – she had liked it. The thought of going impossibly farther excites her even without the memory of it and yes, perhaps she had had help after all. "I don't know what I heard."

"I do. When I saw you where you stood— I don't think you recognised me. I don't think you recognised anyone." Another kiss, just below her ear, right before he takes her by the arm and turns her around. There are scratches down the side of his neck, Cersei notices now, and they look just familiar enough for her to realise that she might have been the one to inflict them. Whatever state of mind had carried her through the night before had to have known better than to struggle, she's sure – she'd grown out of similar ideas less than a year into her first marriage – and, given his behaviour, she must have complied once he'd found her. She can remember drawing blood, though, and the sight of it in his face – had it been his blood at all?

"I wanted to be alone for a while is all."

"But you weren't." There's something akin to awe in his eyes and it's as puzzling as it's fascinating. He really believes it, that much is obvious, and if she's not careful, she might just end up following his example. He drags her closer to him and pulls them both back towards the bed, hands already tugging at the pitiful remnants of her dress. She hadn't ruined her crown, at least, because it's placed on her head a moment later, Euron's bright blue eyes shining as he appraises the sight it makes. "I knew you would be fit to rule here with me, but this—" He shakes his head, smile growing all the wider. "Your bride is as bold as she's mad, one of my lords said, and she'll get struck by lightning if she doesn't learn how to keep herself safe, but I could see you standing on that tower like it was nothing. They haven't had a queen like you in forever, and you've already brought their future king into the world. Fond of you? They'll worship us forever."

It's an enticing thought, she has to admit, especially given the hostility that she had expected, but it makes little sense. She'd always been told that the Ironborn are as superstitious as they come, and surely surviving a thunderstorm out of a tower window couldn't be the sort of feat that he's describing. She'd brought an heir with herself, that much is true, but it's still too early to say whether they appreciate her more for it. She'd birthed princes before, had raised and crowned and buried them, and no one had been any better for it. She'd never readied Tommen enough to be king and Joffrey's reign had been killed in its cradle and there had been nothing for her to do, no god to lean back on, no destiny to follow – for all the princes she'd given the realm, none of them had been fathered by a king. If the Drowned God had decided to favour her for her child, then he couldn't possibly love his own followers too much.

"I don't want them to worship me." None of it is supposed to make sense, of course, because it's not real. Euron is the mad one, truly, for pretending that a deity's will had brought her here. It had been her own decisions, her own mistakes, her own desperate desire for survival and if it hadn't been for Loren, she would have drawn her last breath months and months ago, back when the Red Keep had started crumbling over her head. He had told her all his stories of the times he'd thought he'd met his god – in the sea and on land, and on the night when he'd had his men tie him to his ship before he'd managed to follow his visions under the waves – and it's nothing like what she had experienced, nothing. It's no use discussing it, surely, even if it's to fuel his ambitions even further. Not when she could have him fuel her own. "I want them to follow me when it matters."

"And they will." He'd got her even closer to the bed while he'd been talking, clearly, because it takes a single unceremonious push for her to end up on her back over the soft expanse and for him to follow her. "Like your own subjects did in King's Landing. You've won over half of them already."

Her gown is beyond repair as it is and Cersei barely flinches as his hands rip through another layer and slide up her thighs, slow and deliberate. He grins against her mouth as he kisses her and that's another memory piercing its way through the drunk-like haze she'd apparently spent her wedding night in. Blood. It hadn't been his, then. When she'd been wed to Robert, there had been an unsettling amount of care directed at making sure that she would be in the best position possible to conceive on the first night. There had been no one to make such preparations now, although she'll have to make sure to remember when to avoid him in the future, and Cersei speaks as soon as she pulls away.

"I'm afraid there won't be any more princes just now."

"So you said." Ah. Perhaps she'd struggled, after all. There's nothing quite as stubborn – or as foolish – as hope, regardless of how much she would like to pretend otherwise. "No matter; the Iron Islands need just the one for the time being."

And really, there's not much she can say to object to that. She could close her eyes, she knows, but it's easier to seek out the sky instead – it had kept her under its wing just the night before, after all.

~.~

Holding court, Cersei soon finds, is about as much of a chore on the Iron Islands as it had been back home. The differences lie mainly in her throne – it's a dark, solid thing made from a single piece of stone that feels as if it's perpetually drenched in whale oil and lacks the comfort that the remnants of Aegon's fallen enemies had provided – and the nature of the disputes that she's supposed to settle. Back in King's Landing, it had all been complaints, requests, or a combination of both and the easiest way to move through the endless line of people waiting for an audience had been to provide the supplies she'd been asked for if she had them. Here, it's mainly petty fights over local power and the occasional murder and she's halfway convinced that not all of it needs to be taken to the crown to deal with; it's just that they're all way too interested in seeing their new queen from the mainland to miss out on the opportunity to let her share her justice with them. She'd had her share of this kind of attention when she had first become queen – both Robert's consort and a ruler in her own right – and it's far from unusual, if a little uneventful. It's only when a man that had clearly come from her own corner of the world steps forward that her interest is piqued just as the man is being announced.

"Lord Damion of House Lannister."

"Your Grace." The man had fallen on one knee in front of the dais, but it's the title that pleases her far more, among the chorus of 'my queen' that she's yet to correct out of her new subjects for its familiarity. It's what makes her rise from her seat and near him, her guards following like shadows as she examines her latest guest. It's easy to see it – he's around her age; the nervous, watery green eyes, the shining blonde hair are the perfect giveaway of a man she might have once known – and she wonders how she hadn't spoken to him before arriving here. They'd reached everyone possible in the Westerlands, she's sure, unless he's someone's rebellious descendant. There's a certain appeal to such an image; one she couldn't possibly indulge now. Instead, Cersei reaches out until her hand is in his field of vision and he looks up, as startled as he's pleased.

"You mustn't kneel." It's a custom like any other, but it's no way to win an ally over, she supposes, particularly an ally connected to her by blood. "We're family, from what I gather."

"Distantly so, Your Grace." He shifts in his place, eyes straying over the room before he lowers his voice. "I was hoping to have a word with you alone."

"It would be a pleasure." It should only take a look in the general direction of the harassed servant and his list of names to make her request clear, but she's familiar enough with his reluctant expression to know that it'd be easier to voice it. "Emmond, do inform my royal husband of the work we've done so far today. He might find it useful."

For all his desire to take his kingdom back, Euron had been thoroughly uninterested in the mundane parts of ruling so far, although – unlike Robert – it's usually easy enough to drag him out of whatever ship he'd holed himself up in should the need arise. He's already planning a raid or ten, or so he'd said, and the prospect is as intriguing as it's terrifying. It's no use thinking about it now, however, and Cersei redirects her attention to her visitor as soon as they're outside, without the echo of the throne room picking on every word. "I must say, My Lord, I can't say I expected such a visit. I was under the impression that I'd visited every branch of my family tree before sailing even further west."

"You did. My father is Reginald Lannister, he was—"

"He left quite an impression, yes." Some of the warmth in her tone had dissipated and it gives her a vague sort of pleasure to watch her distant cousin squirm at the sound of it. "He made his position on my call for aid very clear."

"I'm not here to reinforce it, I assure you." He had stopped, eyes staring into her own so intently that she has no choice to believe him and his face is unreadable; a fleeting emotion she had only ever seen in her brothers's and her children's expressions on occasion. Affection, she'd call it, if it hadn't been for the fact that Damion Lannister had never met her before. "Did he tell you why he refused?"

"Oh, he did. He was very expressive. I'm a relentless, arrogant disease of a woman, I believe, and the world would have been a far better one to live in if I had only known my place to begin with."

He pales even more, as if he hadn't realised the magnitude of the damage he would have to fix, and it's really becoming rather difficult to hold back her urge to laugh. "He's not fond of change."

"I didn't get that impression, no." She picks up her pace until her guards fall somewhat far behind them and Damion takes his cue from her to do the same. "If you haven't come here to make sure I knew that already, then why?"

"Because I don't agree. A portion of his armies are mine to control and, if it please Your Grace, I would prefer they would come to you when you ask, rather than the crown."

"Not much of an answer, is it?" She should be thanking the gods for this opportunity, Cersei knows, but suspicion had always led her forward far better than gratitude. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The question makes him falter just as they stop abruptly at the corner of what could have been the gardens if not for how unkempt they are, just above the sharp edge of yet another cliff. The wind is just strong enough to drown their conversation out, it seems, by the time he finds it in himself to speak again.

"I was under Ser Jaime's command when Highgarden fell; I helped get the gold back to King's Landing." He nods, abashed, at the customary thanks she gives him, before closing his eyes as if trying to bring the memory forth. "I survived the dragon attack when it happened. Your brother was there."

"I would expect no less. He's never been one to run away from a fight." Not until it mattered the most, at least. Swallowing the bile is easier by the day. One day, she might even convince herself that there's no hurt left behind at all.

"You misunderstand me, Your Grace. Ser Jaime fought, yes, but it's Lord Tyrion I saw. He was there; just on the hill above the place where the Dothraki attacked. He watched it happen. I think he might have seen your brother too, and do you know what he did?"

She doesn't, but it's easy to imagine; just as easy as the ridiculous twinge of betrayal that worms its way under her skin. "Nothing."

"Nothing. And he still did nothing when King's Landing burnt down; he did nothing when the only ally he had left was exiled beyond the Wall. It must be comfortable; refusing to make a move. It certainly is for my father." He seeks out her gaze again and Cersei returns it, a little more open now. It's like looking into a mirror, given the hint of restless, aimless fire in his green eyes and the sight would have been unpleasant if she hadn't been quite so alone. "But it's not for me. You've brought about change before, plenty of it."

"It hasn't always been particularly bloodless."

"No change ever is. The Westerlands have been independent for thousands of years under the Kings of the Rock and they rule; if you want your birthright back, I'd like to be there when you take it."

"When?" It's a childish sort of enthusiasm, and not one she should encourage, but it's impossible to resist it when it's handed to her on a plate. She'd only seen wildfire take root once in the few days she'd had to prepare for the Sept of Baelor burning down, and it reminds her an awful lot of the look in Damion Lannister's eyes – a sudden burst that rises up and drags people and buildings and gods down into the dirt. It's a breathtaking sight, even all this time later, and she can already imagine the destruction it can bring about. It's just one man – just one army, not in its entirety, too – but it's enough to fuel the fire until there's no snuffing it out ever again. "You seem very sure of my ability to grant you independence, My Lord."

"I am, because you will. And independence under your command would be a pleasant one indeed." He reaches out to take her hand in his and bring his lips to her fingertips. There's no denying how much she'd missed the sort of court she'd spent her entire adult life in, not when she's got a piece of home right here in front of her, and Cersei finds herself smiling despite her better judgement. "I'll help grant it myself, if you'll have me."

She catches his hand just as he's about to let go of hers and holds it there, fingers intertwined as if she'd known him a lifetime already. She's yet to understand what about her way of change had won him over, but there's only one response she can give him either way. "Cousin," she says, voice sweet and dense as honey, "you don't ever need to ask."