Notes: We catch up with Jaime's side of the story this time around. Gets mildly nsfw for a good 500ish words, but if you clicked this fic, something like this is unlikely to bother you, I'd guess.

Jaime had been certain he'd dreamt her at first.

It certainly wouldn't have been for the first time – Cersei had frequently plagued him in his sleep even before his departure from King's Landing and had done so twice as frequently when he had thought her to be dead, but the more news he had heard from her side of the world, the more detailed his dreams had got and the night he'd seen her – halfway through his voyage back to King's Landing, in the middle of the night, after he'd volunteered to be the one to escort his brother on his visit to the North – he had been sure that this was no exception.

It had been the only thing to make sense at the time, really. He had been half-asleep, staring outside through the dirty window of his cabin, when they had passed by yet another port, when he had seen the sort of monstrosity that only the Ironborn could create; a ship larger than almost anything he'd seen before, with scarlet sails dominated by lion, its giant mouth opened for a roar, painted right in the middle. By the time his eyes had strayed to the port itself, he had already expected the view that had welcomed him there – the familiar sight of Euron Greyjoy's mutes moving all kinds of doubtlessly stolen goods on and off the ship, and several people watching over the process lest someone strayed from their purpose. Greyjoy himself had been nowhere to be seen, however, and Jaime had instead been drawn to the only two people who had seemed to stand out.

Under the sickly pale glow of the whale oil lamps scattered over the port, Cersei had been nothing but a shadowy silhouette, but she'd taken his breath away all the same, with her presence alone. The deep red of her gown and the gold of her hair had been proof enough of her identity and had certainly been enough to draw him in, but he had been unable to look away once he'd made sure it really was her, even if her face had been half-hidden by the night and the shadow of the man next to her – another willowy, blonde figure in unmistakable Lannister armour, if not for the sigil carved into the breastplate. A lion, to be sure, just like the one his sister had worn on her head when she had been crowned Queen; her sigil and hers alone, to go with the long, billowing cloak behind him. Whatever position she had given him must have been a rather prestigious one and it had clearly made them close, he'd thought, venom racing through his veins (venom and sheer, unadulterated elation because she insist on driving him mad as always but she's alive, alive, alive and every breath she takes feels like a gift from the gods, even from afar) at the sight of the man reaching out a hand towards her to pull her to her feet, Cersei's lips curling into a smile at something he'd said.

From the back, in the darkness, her companion had been so similar to him that it had only solidified Jaime's conviction that it was all a dream. It had felt as if he'd been looking at himself from about two years ago, faithfully following into her every step, only it had been all wrong – her attire is much more vibrant now, her crown a twisted tangle that he can't quite make out, her hair nearly reaching her shoulders, braided hastily to the back from the sides as she had always loved to wear it. The pair, as well as the port and the ship and anything but the shimmering blackness of the sea, had disappeared from his field of vision soon enough for him to think that they had been nothing but a fleeting mirage from a time he had done his hardest to leave in the past; a beautiful memory that was best left forgotten. None of it had made any sense anyway – Cersei should have had no business in this part of Westeros, if the reports were to be believed, and at least one of their more prominent relatives had refused to answer her call. Last he had heard from Tyrion before he'd actually decided to make the trip to the capital, she had still been on Pyke, unreachable as ever, even if the Ironborn raids on the mainland had started becoming more and more aggressive as of recently.

Now, however, as he stands on the same balcony that he and Cersei had frequented when they had wanted a moment alone with their future plans and themselves, away from all her soldiers and guests and handmaidens, what little hope he had been clinging to dissipates under the harsh sunlight. It's just the one ship coming to them now, so his sister isn't here, he's certain of it, but he's just as certain that this is her ship. It's an even bigger abomination in the light of day – more a fortress than a boat, with high walls surrounding it from all sides, pitch black and lined with red, the paint sliding down in endless trickles like the blood of some enormous beast had dripped all over it, but it's the sails that he ends up focusing on the most; the same sails that he'd only caught a glimpse of before. The Lannister sigil still dominates it all, but the Greyjoy colours are wrapped all around it from the edges, the kraken's outline carefully painted into the surface so that its tentacles are wrapped around the lion's raised front legs. The sight almost makes him feel sick, but the statement is rather easy to read and next to him, Tyrion heaves yet another long-suffering sigh.

"Gods help us all."

"Might be a bit late to start trying to appeal to them now." This was only a messenger's visit, Tyrion had assured him when they'd first met this morning, seeing s the Iron Islands had always been rather isolated and had only become more so now that they'd separated themselves from the rest of the Six Kingdoms. The news coming from their direction had been scarce so far and the fact that Cersei has opted to send someone to make contact has to be a good sign, he'd repeated time and time again, as if that would make the visit any easier. "Who represents her?"

"Damion Lannister. Another traitor, though I doubt he sees himself that way. As far as he's concerned, he serves the last monarch he recognises as his own. His father turned his back on her, but he joined her less than a month later and pledged his men, his sons and – as far as I'm aware – at least ten ships to her cause. In turn, she made him the Lord Commander of her Queensguard."

Of course she had. Had he expected anything else, truly? Despite his attempts to bring the vague recollection of the man's appearance to the surface of his mind, Jaime can't quite remember if the Damion Lannister he remembers from the sacking of Highgarden is the same man he'd seen back in that gloomy port, but he must be. "Queensguard for a Queen consort?" He manages. The question comes out more harsh than indifferent. If Tyrion notices, he's kind enough to pretend that he hadn't. "It would be a hit on Euron Greyjoy's pride. He'd never allow it."

"Apparently he has, although I suppose we'll know for sure soon enough. I don't think he had much of a choice – Cersei's army is what got him his throne back and his fleet is what will get her hers, sooner rather than later. They have each other by the throats, so she's no consort at all. Whether he likes it or not, he must have shared the power with her."The ship nears the city even more, disappearing behind one of the half-destroyed towers of the Red Keep as it finally sails into the harbour. Another sigh. "We might as well go welcome the man. He is family, after all."

~.~

No matter how many times Jaime reads his way through the scrolls piling up on the table before him, they keep being as difficult to bear as he had dreaded. The news they'd brought isn't the worst thing about it all, if he's honest; no, it's a combination of everything and everyone involved that sours the situation endlessly. He had been forced to wait out Damion's conversation with Bran Stark's Small Council and had only got access to the information at hand well into the afternoon. In the meantime, he had managed to snap at his cousin at least three times despite his desire to speak to him at a later point. It had threatened what little civility there was to be found in the meeting and the man had retaliated by refusing to meet his eyes to the point where Jaime suspected that he would be forced to apologise if he wanted to get anything out of him.

The day had somehow managed to worsen from there.

The first message had been all Ironborn violence and none of Cersei's sharp, cutting threats; a rather graphic description of what would befall the Six Kingdoms's 'little boy king and his pathetic excuse of an army' if they threatened the Iron Islands and their independence again. It had at no point passed through his sister's hands, Jaime's sure, or the tone would have changed significantly. The contrast of the next announcement – it had passed through Oldtown at some point and had been subsequently officiated there – would have made that clear even to an untrained eye, because the announcement in question is nothing but Cersei.

"...they were wed on Pyke in the third day of the new year, in the eyes of the Seven and the Drowned God, and were witnessed by the smallfolk and their bannermen alike," Tyrion continues mercilessly despite Jaime's best efforts to tell him that he'd got the point across already. "The union has already resulted in an heir – Loren of houses Lannister and Greyjoy, crown prince of the Iron Islands, heir apparent to the Westerlands. She's brave." His brother had thrown the scroll in his general direction; Jaime watches it curl back into itself, as if just as reluctant to absorb the news as he is. "This is a threat."

"Of course it's a threat." Loren of houses Lannister and Greyjoy. He had been the one to pick the name and offer it to her to begin with and Jaime can almost see the malicious glee in Cersei's eyes as she had written her message, well aware that it would eventually end up in his hands. She had meant to hurt him and the fact that it had surely hurt her just as much is a small comfort, but it's all he has. "She's done this on purpose."

Loren. It's almost worse than not knowing, now that he has a name to go with the news of his existence and his imagination had already provided a face for him to look at too – the boy must look just like Joffrey and Tommen when they had been infants, he thinks; there's not much to be said about variation when it comes to their family, with two generations of Lannister blood mixing with itself alone. It's another thought he had tried to suppress, what his son must be like, what she had called him, where they both are now, and it's far more difficult to bear now that it's inescapable.

"Well, I certainly hope so. For all her faults, our dear sister has never seemed like the sort to send out marriage announcements on accident."

"This isn't a joke." His mood is getting fouler by the moment, Jaime can tell, and his brother is not to blame, but there is no helping it now. "It's a message, just like the one she sent by sending Bronn to us. It's barely even a threat. She's done this to spite me."

"Spite you? Jaime, she married him. And as much as I don't like admitting it, Greyjoy is right. If I do want to keep the Westerlands in the Six Kingdoms, how am I supposed to defend them? Cersei is doing her very best to drain every single one of our resources she can find, get as many people to kneel to her as possible, and make me look like a fool in the process. Worse, she's succeeding because she's styled herself as a practical, diligent ruler and a martyr willing to take the mantle and work in her homeland's best interest. When compared, of course, to the Small Council that must surely be ruling the country through the Stark boy's hands."

"Has she convinced everyone?" It wouldn't surprise him, mainly because she's right, and it's an answer enough when Tyrion's face falls even further in response.

"I've got Lords Lyden, Brax and Lefford on my side, along with Saltcliffe from the Iron Islands, who is only considering joining us because of some petty strife between his own house and the Greyjoys. So no, it's not everyone. I can hold three minor houses and one Ironborn traitor against her and perhaps the Dornish if I can get them to come fight in a Lannister civil war, which I doubt I can. She must be terrified."

"Neither of you has to go to war. It's a reasonable enough campaign." He had had his worries about the Stark boy in question and, although Tyrion had managed to put the majority of them to rest, Jaime would have rather preferred seeing his sister on the Throne, had it still existed. She had spread the same message before Daenerys Targaryen's arrival and, along with his efforts, it had convinced the majority of the lords she had invited to King's Landing to swear their allegiance to her instead. It had been an impassioned enough speech to touch even the more sceptical among them, but he had realised that quite a while ago – Cersei, with a little power, with or without a crown, had always been capable of convincing anyone of anything. It had always been more of a nuisance than a talent and that had never been clearer before. It's a dangerous game she's playing, but then again, dangerous games are what she's best at.

"I know it's a reasonable campaign, that's the problem." Tyrion looks about as affected as he feels, if for entirely different reasons. "Few things are worse than a reasonable Cersei. Now she's got the most powerful fleet in the world on her hands, fully restored, and the rights to it by marriage. I would have said that Greyjoy was a fool to wed her at all, but from what I hear, there is little to be done about it now. Damion claims that the man loves her enough to follow her anywhere and everywhere and, since he's stuck around for nearly two years now, I'm willing to bet that that's precisely the case."

"He doesn't love her, he's obsessed with her." Obsessed with what he thinks she is, really, and somehow that only makes it worse. "She didn't seem to understand how dangerous that is, no matter how many times I told her. When we were planning the ambush on Casterly Rock and the attack on Highgarden— I spent days with him. Days and days on end and it was nothing but Queen Cersei this and Queen Cersei that. He was driving me insane."

His brother casts him a look that he can't entirely interpret, a strange mix of exasperation and morbid fascination. "I can't imagine what that must have felt like."

"I wouldn't think so, no." Tyrion seems almost amused now, and it's easier to barrel ahead instead of delving into it. "And now she and the baby are alone with him. If he ever realises—"

"There's no way he would, unless he manages to put another child in her and receives something other than a perfect Lannister heir." Cersei would never allow it, Jaime knows, but the thought makes him wince all the same. "He's heard the rumours – everyone has – but I'm sure you've both done what you could to disprove them once the betrothal was arranged." At the silence that follows, his brother looks up in alarm, incredulity written all over his face. "Jaime?"

"What would have been the point? He knew. You said it yourself, everyone knew." It does seem ridiculously reckless when he looks back at it now, but they had both been so happy, and Cersei had wanted to announce— He squeezes his eyes shut against the steadily rising tension in them. It doesn't matter now, what Cersei had wanted. It doesn't matter what he had wanted either. It had disappeared, slipping through his fingers like dust, the day he had departed from King's Landing. "I never should have left her side." She wouldn't have been a queen, perhaps, but she would have been safe with him, somewhere across the Narrow Sea. It would have made her – them – far happier than whatever it is that she's been handed now, he's sure.

"No, you shouldn't have." The reprimand, calm as it is, is unexpected enough to startle him and Jaime forces himself to meet his brother's eyes. There's no judgement there; only a hint of the most reluctant sadness he's ever seen.

"She lied to me." She had done it before, to be sure, but there had always been a reason that he could respect; an excuse for him to make his peace with. There had been nothing of the sort this time. "Just as she did to everyone else. I could have understood if she had told me, but she chose not to. I gave a word; what do you think I should have done?"

"You could have been a brother to her for once in your life, for a start. Tell me, did your word start to matter quite so much before or after she told you she still intended to marry the man who had strengthened her army tenfold already?"

Oh, he's not tricking him into this. It had been painful to hear her mention it like it was nothing, he can't deny that much, but he had handled Robert; surely he could have handled one more suitor. The thought of years upon years of hiding, pointless hiding from someone who already knew, had weighed him down, but it had been nothing compared to her secrecy, nothing. The lie had insulted him more than anything. He'd convinced himself of that quite thoroughly over the last few months.

"All I've ever done was be a brother to her when she needed me to be. How did she return that favour?"

"Favour?" It's rare for him to truly enrage his brother – truth be told, Jaime isn't sure when it had happened for the last time – and rarer still for it to be on Cersei's behalf, and the notion alone leaves him speechless. "I was right here, in front of the city gates, the day she realised she couldn't win this war. I looked her in the face and begged her for her own life as she spared mine. She executed a prisoner for it, made sure to prove all my faith in her wrong, and it was the most helpless thing I've ever seen her do. I could see it, but you're telling me that you couldn't?"

"Of course I could. She would have never married again if she'd had a choice."

"So you did know." For all his effort to not show just how angry he is, Tyrion is as furious as he's confused. After all this time, Jaime can't blame him, truly. "And you still left her to die."

"She would have died if I had come back for her, we both would have. You know it as well as I do."

"I know nothing of the sort." The confusion is what wins over, in the end, as each and every defensive statement slips further and further away from common sense. "How did you?"

"I didn't." The admission slips through gritted teeth, only held back by the stubborn belief that not keeping it a secret would somehow change the course of events once more. "As soon as I heard about the ambush at Dragonstone, I was ready to ride south. Your King was the one who said—"

"What?" He'd faltered halfway through his confession and comprehension dawns over his brother's face; partially, at least, as this must still make little sense to him. "What did Bran say?"

"Nothing." He'd made a mistake. Hiding away in the north would have done nobody any good in the end, but it's been months; if he admits it now, there would be no going back. Might as well keep whatever dignity he'd remained with close to his chest and wait; wait as long as he needs to, just like he had so far. "It's nothing."

"Jaime—"

"Damion wanted to have a word before he departed," Jaime cuts him off and gets to his feet, heading for the door before his brother had had the chance to ask any more questions. "I want to make sure that he keeps Cersei safe, at least. She's never fared well when entirely alone."

"She's far from alone." It's a weak comfort at best, but it's all Tyrion has to offer. "She has her guards and her court and her baby; I'm sure she can manage herself."

"Of course she's alone." Guards and court and children had never been able to mask true absence well. "I'm not there."

~.~

"I apologise for earlier," Jaime says as soon as he runs into his cousin again, eager to get the courtesies out of the way. "My worry got the best of me, I'm afraid."

"There's nothing to apologise for, My Lord." Damion's smile is just as perfunctory, although some of the awe that had been written all over his face ever since Highgarden still lingers. Had Jaime known that narrowly escaping death by dragonfire would have absolved him of all his sins, he might have subjected himself to it earlier. It had worked out for Cersei too, after all. "I would have spoken to you sooner, had my business with your brother not been so pressing. Her Grace is quite all right; even more so now that she's back with her prince."

Her prince. He wants – needs – to know more about him, but the need to hear more about her travels is stronger. "They've been separated for a time, then?"

"For a time, yes. Her Grace wanted to stray somewhat from the Westerlands to make sure that her future borders would be secure." He chances a look around them, as if unsure whether someone would accuse him of treason to a king he'd never sworn allegiance to. "I'm sure she explained it all to you before you left for the north."

"Me?" Had Cersei told him that she'd been the one to send him there; the one to command him to leave for King's Landing as well? It seems doubtful – she would be too proud to do something of the sort, surely – but perhaps it's in his best interest to play along. It's less and less of a misconception the more time passes, either way. "Yes, of course she did. She does love to plan for the long term."

"I've noticed." The look on the man's face is too fond for comfort and for a brief, irrational instant, all Jaime wants is to rip off his ridiculous cloak and strangle him with it. "She would be happy to hear I've found you in good health."

"I'm sure." He hadn't meant to sound quite as bitter as he feels, but it must be enough for Damion to pick up on, because he shakes his head.

"I mean it. She prays for your safe return day and night, My Lord."

Return, not arrival. The pressure behind his eyelids is back and Jaime blinks it away furiously. He refuses to be moved by a second-hand account of his sister's supposed turn to the gods all of a sudden. "She knows precisely where I am. Surely she has more pressing matters to pray about. Her continued safety, for one."

"I would say she's safe for now, despite her rather— radical ideas for how her new lands should be ruled. The Ironborn have accepted most of it so far, curiously enough. She's quite well-loved, if you'd like to know, as is her son."

"And what about the boy?" It would only be natural to ask, he reasons. The boy is supposed to be his blood anyway. "What do you know of my nephew?"

"There's not much to know about children when they're as young as he is, I'm afraid, but he'll make a wonderful prince." Damion smiles, then; a sly, conspiratorial thing and it almost feels like Cersei's the one speaking through him. "He's a true Lannister."

"He is." Whatever Tyrion says, there truly is no point in lying. "I can assure you of that much."

If the man is at all unsettled by the revelation, he doesn't let it show. "I worry for Her Grace on occasion. She's too reckless when it comes to him; she's ready to do just about anything to keep him safe. It makes the position much more difficult, as I'm sure you remember."

"I do." He takes a step back, readying himself for a goodbye. He can't stand this a moment later; listening to what a near stranger has to say about Cersei while he has to wait it all out like he's been doing for months. It would be too dangerous to try anything now, but Tyrion had been right – the right time would come. Euron had been a fool to marry her at all, if he valued his continued existence. "There's much more to learn, I'm sure. I'll be leaving for the north again with my brother at first light tomorrow. Meet me at the docks then."

"Of course, My Lord."

He barely makes it through the rest of their pleasantries before turning on his heel and marching for the room he had been given for the night. For once, the end of the day can't come soon enough.

~.~

He dreams of her again that night. It truly is a dream this time, he knows, because they're in her chambers and King's Landing outside their window is untouched, unlike the barely put together town emerging from the ash that it is now. It's a strange, disjointed thing, half-memory and half-hope of a next meeting, he suspects; Cersei is sitting on the opposite of the table, talking through the bites of their dinner, but she's also at the door or in her bed or in his arms and it's only when his vision kisses him and her lips taste like something sinful and foreign that he realises what it is that he's remembering. It's vivid enough to wake him and his body feels alight when he comes back to his senses, his breathing heavy as if he'd just fought his way out of the battlefield.

Their last night. It had been surprisingly warm back then, right before that meeting in the Dragonpit, for a night on the edge of winter, much like the warmth he feels now in the ever-improving weather. It had been rather calm, too, however, while there's a storm raging outside his window now, and he's all alone. He recalls it as clearly as if she's here with him, though; there's no need for similarities when he can close his eyes and bring it all back to the surface again, dangerous as it is.

Their dinner that night had been rather unusual, courtesy of their new cook from the Summer Isles. It had tasted somewhat like milk, only half-frozen and although he hadn't asked about what exactly had been put into making it, the taste of it on Cersei's tongue – cold enough to make him laugh into her impatient kisses – lingers still. It had been immensely sweetened, likely by honey, but it's the bitter aftertaste of it that he remembers, deep and rich and sharp as his sister's hands on him. He had stopped her, eventually; had led her to the bed and had fucked her for as long as they'd been able to stand without losing their minds, as if it had been their last night in the world – for all they had known, it could have been, as she'd felt the necessity to remind him earlier.

He's not thinking about it now; he shouldn't. It's the same as it had been all through his needless mourning – the more he tries to put the pieces of their life back together in his head, the closer she is to taking over his mind entirely and he can't allow that, not even while trying to figure out a way to get to her without putting her life in danger, but for all his resolve, she's still there. The moment he closes his eyes, Jaime can see her clear as day, eyes heavy, face flushed; can hear her hitched breath in his ear, her whispered pleading when she'd thought he was taking too long; can feel her body pressing against him, teasing and enticing and nearly maddening. He had rarely indulged such demands and he certainly hadn't that night, no matter how many bloody trails her nails had left down his back as she had urged him on. The thought of that alone is enough to make his breath pick up its pace again – enough to make him hard, even if he'd meant to observe it all from afar, as much as he could – and he sinks back into the covers of the bed as he idly unlaces his breeches before he can think better of it. He mustn't think about her, truly, but just this once couldn't possibly hurt.

Another wave of desire – hot, frustrating, far too overbearing – washes over him as he finally gives up the ghost and his hand wraps around his cock, the pace he sets a little too quick for his usual state of mind but just rough enough to imitate the touch he needs. It's not enough to mask the calluses on his fingertips when compared to how much softer – how much smaller – Cersei's hands are, but it'll have to do. Her rhythm had always been just as furious, just as demanding and it had always reduced him to clinging on to her, only coming back to himself enough to open his eyes when he'd spilled his seed to watch her lick it off of her own palm. He closes them again now and lets himself see her. It'll hurt later, it always does, but it's inevitable once he'd dared to consider it at all. It's what his sister always does – as soon as he steps into the water, she drags him into the open sea with her, even when she's a thousand miles away from him.

Despite the fury of the storm outside, the dawn is near, he knows, and with it countless people who could come knocking on his door, but it's not enough to dissuade him. The deeper he dives into his own memories, the worse it gets and he's so painfully aroused that his own hand is a poor substitute, but it barely even matters anymore. Cersei had had a trick for that too; all for him, just for the moments when they'd been short on time. It had always been useful, but particularly so in the morning before the summit. She had kissed him breathless as soon as she had woken up, clearly in the mood to do all the work herself. He can still remember how her pale skin had nearly glowed under the frosty winter sunlight once she'd draped herself over his body; how she'd buried her face in his shoulder to stifle her gasps once he'd entered her and had let her set the pace she'd wanted. The thought makes his own pace pick up now, in a poor replica of Cersei's heat surrounding him from everywhere and the fire in her eyes when she'd pulled just far enough to be able to kiss him again, sharp and biting and as greedy as she always tended to be.

"We must leave soon," she'd whispered after yet another insistent knock on her doors, her breath washing over him making him tremble, "plenty of preparations to be made."

"Now?" He had understood, of course, just how many things needed to be taken into account, but it hadn't been particularly considerate of her to start something she had known she wouldn't finish – only she'd intended to do just that, clearly, and he'd felt her right hand close loosely around his throat a moment later, the pressure increasing ever so slightly with every downward thrust of her hips until he had felt lightheaded, the image of her piercing eyes inches away from his already starting to darken around the edges by the time she'd abruptly let go. The sudden rush of air had flooded his body, sweeter than any relief he had ever known apart from her, and it's the recollection of it– the elation that had raced through him, Cersei's grip on him as she'd stilled and shivered and finally found her release – that drives him over the edge now and Jaime bites into his lip to stop himself from crying out, bites until he can taste blood lest her name manages to slip past his tongue. It hurts, inside and out, just as he had thought it would, and he catches his breath as he stares sightlessly at the ceiling, heartbeat gradually slowing down as he finds himself smiling, for once.

Finally, he sleeps.

~.~

When one of Tyrion's men comes to wake him what feels like the blink of an eye later, Jaime can barely drag himself down to the harbour, cloak wrapped even tighter around his shoulders against the still-chilly morning air. Back North it is, this time along with half of Bran Stark's court for a visit of his sister's kingdom. For a long moment, he lingers by the docks and contemplates whether it's necessary for him to make the trip just now, but there's no other choice. He had tried to build a life there and, difficult as it is to imagine keeping it now that he knows what fate likely has in store for him, simply not coming back without another word is not only cruel; it's reckless. Where can he go? His brother is leaving in the same direction and his sister is as untouchable as it gets.

As if by command, Damion Lannister nears him as soon as he'd let himself think of her again, far too cheery given how early the hour is. "I wish you a safe journey north, My Lord. Her Grace will be most pleased, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," Jaime echoes. It's not quite a lie; it's just letting the misconception stick around long enough for Cersei to either be forced to explain to her armies about his absence or be forced to communicate with him directly. They're both rather tempting, as far as options go. "When you reach her, tell her—"

Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her that she should be sorry. Tell her I can't wait until we meet again. Tell her to meet me halfway, if she dares.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Tell her you didn't see me for long and that we couldn't really speak. She worries enough as it is."

"You want me to lie?" For all his bravado, his cousin seems rather disturbed at the thought, especially if it comes down to Cersei. Jaime nods; a final refusal to back down this time.

"You'll just have to trust me." And I'll just have to wait. "It's for Her Grace's own good."

She would understand, eventually, and by that time, he would be ready to be what she had evidently been praying for once more. For all the uncertainties that the world has offered him, it's the only truth Jaime had ever known.