Notes: Hello and welcome to yet another meeting to Heavy-Handed Metaphors For Everything Anonymous; I'm Mia and cannot stop putting the aforementioned metaphors into every single thing I write.

In this one, we go back to Cersei and inch the plots closer to one another (and yes, for anyone wondering - this is indeed happening in the same night as last chapter).

It's not a raid, truly, and they're not going anywhere distant, or she would have never allowed this to happen.

"Mama?" Loren's steps are wobbly and uncertain, but he's still doing remarkably well, given the gentle sway of the ship and the still-twitching mackerel in his tiny fist. "Look!"

"Yes, darling." Cersei doesn't move up to meet him – it can be discouraging, she's found, to stop such an effort in its tracks – but catches him as soon as he reaches her. "A fish."

"Fis!"

"Fish." He had only said his first word a fortnight ago – mama, as well, swiftly followed by give me. He'd been sat on one of the tentacles stretching out from the throne, hand grasping for her crown, and Cersei had taken it off without a moment's hesitation to place it in his arms. She had been too delighted to hear his voice to care for the possibility of him breaking it and, to her pride, Loren had done nothing of the sort, as careful as he's curious. He had only made her prouder by speaking as much as he could in every waking moment since then. It's still difficult and most words don't come easily to him just yet, but there's more than enough time. For the first time in an eternity, time is the only thing not pressing down on her. "Give me that."

She takes the fish he'd scavenged out of the basket and tosses it aside in disgust. If they leave it all out under the sun just a little longer, it'll start rotting and the smell of the ship is unpleasant enough as it is, no matter how desensitised she'd become to it over the months. "We'll be setting sail now. Did you say goodbye?"

"Goodbye," he agrees solemnly, his bright green eyes earnest in a way that feels altogether too familiar. "To Adrack."

"You'll see him again soon," Cersei assures him. Adrack is Lord Blacktyde's boy, as far as she remembers; she had seen them playing together when she'd had to leave her son with one of her maids while holding court and it makes her happy to watch him making friends. She'd made some of her own in the meantime – allies if not friends, but it's the best she can ever hope for – and the Iron Islands had almost become safe enough to be a home of sorts. They both look unsettlingly out of place with their appearance alone, but it's a relatively easy truth to swallow when compared to the fate she could have faced instead. It's the thought of that fate alone that had carried her through the endless sailing, through Loren's birth and everything that had followed, if she's to be honest with herself, and Cersei clings to it desperately. "He will still be here in a week."

And a month after that, I might coax his father into following me to Casterly Rock. Although the majority of the Ironborn are ready enough to try and claim a castle on the mainland, especially one quite as legendary as the one she had promised them, it had still felt daring to suggest it in front of all those near-strangers; leaders of houses she had never got close to before, much more willing to follow a Greyjoy king than a Lannister queen. They had listened, of course, but it's not enough. It never will be, Cersei suspects, unless she's certain that they obey her for who she is. The prospect of that grows stronger every day and it's the wisest possible choice to let Loren – he would inherit it all, no question about it – become a part of them as well. Once the Rock is back under her control, she'd do well to make sure he would have the chance to expand his horizons further. Joffrey had always been so lonely; she wouldn't let the same thing happen here, when the line between royalty and subjects is quite so thin anyway. Here and now, he's still just a boy of one, far too young to understand any of it besides the sea and the stone that surrounds him from all sides. For a future king of the Iron Islands, it might just be enough.

It's the purpose of this voyage, in a way, only it's for Cersei instead of her son – she had wanted to see the lands they rule over, meet her vassals as she had in the Westerlands, lest they decide to turn their back on her when she needs them the most. It's not much of a change from Pyke and the endless days spent in the throne room, but she's grateful for the distraction all the same. Ever since the Red Keep had fallen, staying in the same place had started feeling more and more like a prison, no matter how much she tries to remind herself that she had been doing it all her life.

But her attention wanders away from it all now – Loren is tugging at her sleeve, insistent enough to make her laugh. "I want," he starts, only to falter a moment later when his limited vocabulary fails him. "Come."

"Come where?" He has no way of knowing just how long they would spend on this boat, but it doesn't look like he wants her to climb off either – instead, he's trying to pull her towards the cabins, it seems.

"Come."

"Your Grace?"

Despite her best efforts, Cersei allows herself a sigh. This sort of greeting is never too far away, not even in an open sea, and the Silence is still chained to the island; clearly, she's still easy enough to get hold of. "Yes?"

Much to her relief, it's one of Damion's sons – another Reginald, though thankfully not a traitor, unlike his grandfather – breathless from the climb, as if he'd been running all the way from the castle. "A raven just arrived from King's Landing. Father thought you might like to hear from him before you depart."

"He's right." She almost snatches the scroll from him, trembling fingers clutching around its edges as she stretches it out. Suddenly, none of the world around her feels real – Loren, still pulling at her skirts to get her attention, her Queensguard and his expectant gaze, the deck under her feet – and her heart beats so loudly that it's nearly deafening. "He must have been in a hurry."

"Quite so, Your Grace. He would like to return as soon as possible, but he needs an answer first."

"I'll arrange for it." The message is relatively short, but all it takes is a quick skim over it to realise that it isn't going to be to her liking at all.

Your Grace,He must have been in a hurry."

"

I've been welcomed into the city peacefully enough. I've yet to meet the King, but you were right – your brother is the one who handles all major negotiations. He explicitly said that he would prefer it if you would come to speak to him in person on our next visit. I can recount it all in detail as soon as we meet. A raven is not the safest way for news to travel.

If you'll allow me the frivolity – you did implore me to tell you of everything I experienced during my stay – Ser Jaime asks after you. I was left with the impression that he would like me to keep it from you lest he worries you even more, but I assumed you ought to know. It might be wise to send him a raven before he sets sail again. It would put him at ease, I feel.

He tells her nothing of essence, in short, and Cersei might have been further irritated by having her day interrupted for this, but it doesn't seem possible anymore – she can feel Reginald's presence in her immediate surroundings, can hear Loren continue to brag about his discovery of fish to someone else on the other side of the deck and it's all so distant; so senseless. For all his effort to be tactful, her cousin might as well have struck her right across the face.

Anger is the first thing to make its way to the surface, as it always tends to. Ser Jaime asks after you. He's quite late, she would have replied if she'd had the option to be frivolous too; he had his chance to ask over a year ago. The picture enough could make her sick – Jaime, wandering around the shattered remains of the capital, feigning concern for as long as it would benefit him. Perhaps she had finally managed to teach him something on their last day together; that it's really rather easy to twist the circumstances as well as everyone else's lack of understanding to your own advantage, but that he would use it like this, now of all times – it's below him. It must be. She had always thought it to be so.

It's a lifetime of biting back tears that keeps her in place; that keeps her from curling the scroll into a tight little ball or tearing it to pieces. "'Before he sets sail again'," she repeats, voice more brittle than she would have preferred it to be. "Is my brother leaving King's Landing?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I assumed he had told you already. Both Lord Tyrion and he will be sailing for White Harbour tomorrow morning on a diplomatic visit." He leans closer – too close, as if they're conspirators sharing a secret – and braves a smile. "On your orders, from what I've heard."

"Yes, of course. I didn't expect it to be quite so soon is all." It's the lie that bothers her, no matter how much Cersei tries to deny it – not the betrayal, not the stray questions about her person, not even the implication of those questions, but the fact that he's still keeping up the pretence of serving her. It hurts, plain and simple, and it won't stop just because she chooses to pretend as well, but it isn't like her twin had left her much of a choice. If this had been his message – an effort to keep her from seeming as alone as she actually is – she could have really done without it. "I wish them both a safe voyage. Ser Damion and I can discuss the rest when he returns."

"Yes, Your Grace. Will that be all?"

"That will be all."

She's still seething, fists turning white as she clenches them even tighter, and it's only Loren's laughter that reminds her that she's not alone as he scatters downstairs and into the cabin. Euron is soon to follow, a string of curses echoing into the cramped space as he disappears after the boy and soon enough, by some unspoken command, they're at sea and she's the only one left leaning against the decorative castle walls of the ship, trying to keep her body upright as the world disappears from view and only the waves remain.

It makes no difference – for all her efforts, she's still clutching to the raven scroll as she lowers herself onto the wooden floor, the blazing sun above her slowly lowering itself towards the sea surface just enough for the shadows it casts to hide her from everyone's eyes. She's their queen and the Ironborn allow no room for weakness, but there's not a single one of them to witness her now, just this once. Alone. It's what she's been craving for a small eternity and yet – a simple message later – it's the bitterest word she's ever had to taste.

~.~

Her husband's the one to find her, though that's not much of a surprise by now. It's long after nightfall – she had let him handle Loren for the night, just as he'd expressed the desire to do earlier, and the anxiety the decision had left her with eases somewhat when she sees him smiling. The fact that he likes to spend time with the boy had been thoroughly unexpected and it unsettles her, to a degree – children are easy enough at this age and much less so when they start being petulant about everything. His patience would likely run out by then, but even that isn't certain anymore. After all, Cersei had assumed that he would have lost patience with her by now.

She gets to her feet with a wince, body stiff from the time spent curled into the same cramped position. She can barely feel her legs and it's a relief in more ways than one to lean onto the side of the ship again and gaze down into the liquid blackness below. "He's asleep, yes?"

"Yes." Euron's arms wrap around her waist and she can feel the cold touch of steel against her side; a weapon, no doubt, but she can't gather enough concern in her to see it as a threat. "We're halfway to Great Wyk already."

"Houses Merlyn and Sparr." She had memorised it all, as well as the customs that worked best with each. "I'm hoping for another thousand men from them, at least. Manfryd has already sworn allegiance to you, I know, but his brother worries me. If he can't be persuaded to follow me—"

"He can be. He will be." It's the sort of unshakable, unquestioning confidence that infuriates her and Cersei bites back a retort before it can force its way out. Jaime would have never waved away such a possibility, but Jaime isn't here. She'll do well to remember it, no matter what news she had been brought from the mainland. It's all Damion's fault, really – him and his thrice-cursed need to make contact with anyone he deems even relatively useful. "Look south."

After so many months, it's easy enough to tell where that is and easier still to guess what he's trying to show her. "A storm," she acknowledges. It would be nothing special for the Iron Islands, only the sky is perfectly clear above them. "Heading for the capital, from what I can see."

"It's a good omen, wouldn't you say?" She gets a sigh for her lack of response, but he gets bored of his own irritation just a moment later. "I've brought you something."

That is enough to make her turn around, intrigue making its way through the whirlwind in her head. "Not the best time for gifts, is it?"

"I meant for Loren to have it," Euron shrugs, one hand lingering on the weapon she'd felt earlier, "but it's too heavy for him to hold and it looks like it'll be taller than him for another two years at least. In that time, I can have a battle axe made for him. You might as well have this one. It's a woman's weapon to begin with."

It's all she can do to stay rooted in her place when he unsheathes the dagger – more a sword than a dagger, truly, but it's too thin and its handle too small for Cersei to have a proper name for it – and places it into her hand. Her grip around the hilt is awkward, the move itself half-forgotten, but her hand remembers enough of Jaime's lessons to keep the weapon steady. It's a small, crude thing, crowned with a lion's head with a kraken's body wrapped around it all, the tentacles embracing the place where the blade itself begins. It would have been a fitting gift for Loren of houses Lannister and Greyjoy and less so for Queen Cersei, first of her name, but it's unlike nothing she's been freely given before and for once, it's rather easy to swallow the reproach before it gets the best of her.

"For all our sakes, I hope it won't get much use."

"Oh, it won't. Everyone we're going to meet has heard all the stories; all you need to do is prove them right."

"Stories?" The notion would have made her scowl even if one of his hands inching down from her waist and bunching up the fine fabric of her gown hadn't already done that. It's becoming far too warm for her usual heavy velvets and while she certainly isn't sorry to see winter go, the choices she must opt for now offer far too much ease of access. She had liked her near-armour far better, with how difficult it had been to remove.

"Mm. When my niece took back the Iron Islands in my absence, she must have pacified all those lords with promises of what the Dragon Queen would do for them once she took the Seven Kingdoms. And what happened to her queen? She slaughtered a city and got a knife to the heart from her most trusted ally for it. My queen is the one promising them the mainland. A weapon by your side would make the choice even easier."

He seems to relish the image far too much; enough to make her stomach roil. "I don't know how to use it."

She knows enough to kill, she's sure of that much. Then again, who doesn't? It's all rather messy, war when it's this up close, and far too slow for her liking, but few things can be as clean as poison and wildfire are. If it ever gets to that, it's not too hard to imagine herself putting it to good use.

"You don't need to. They just need to see."

So this is what it's about. Chances are, unless she finds a way to get the upper hand, all the travelling around the Iron Islands would prove to be less of the negotiations it had been in the Westerlands and more of her being paraded around as the prize given to the winner in a war she had taken no part of. It's been over twenty years since the last time, but it might as well have been yesterday for all the progress she had apparently made and the anger surges up again, far more widespread than it had been this morning. Robert, at least, had had the grace to start resenting her sooner or later. She's yet to understand why Euron hasn't gone down the same path. She's been a wife queen to him, certainly, but she had still failed to be a good one so far.

The most beautiful woman in the world, he had called her when they had first met. She supposes she can trust the judgement of a man who had seen it all, but surely it must get dull after a time? It's yet another thing she can't trust her judgement with, now that her twin isn't by her side. Jaime had wanted her, no doubt, as much as she had wanted him, but it had never been a matter of appearance. What it had been a matter of for him is a mystery, the more Cersei thinks of it. What had he ever loved about her? It must have been significant if it had let him confirm Damion's misunderstanding of his allegiance, but he's still hiding from her. He's as confused as she is, it seems, and it's nearly enough to drive her mad.

Very well. If he's still unsure of what he has to – wants to – do, she could easily show him that she'd made a choice. If he hadn't bothered to send a raven, then why should she? There are many other, similarly efficient methods of communication, she'd discovered recently. It's a question she had meant to ask weeks ago either way; if it gets her more of the support she needs, all the better.

"The day you were crowned," she ventures, one hand still gripping the edge while the other halts his progress down her side. With a little imagination, it could be more affection than irritation. "You said you drowned first."

"I did." The tone alone suggests that its nothing and it's no exaggeration this time, unlike the flair that usually follows in the footsteps of the stories he tells her. She can see it in his eyes once she turns to look at him. Another thunder sounds in the distance and he grins, gaze straying to the clouds ahead. The territory around the Iron Islands is prone to storms, Cersei had discovered, and she'd started relishing them as much as the Ironborn do, but while this particular one tears King's Landing apart, here in the Sunset Sea, it's nothing but a light drizzle for now. It feels like home; being surrounded by water from all sides. "For a time. The Drowned God brought me back. He always does with those meant to lead us."

"Was your brother one of them?" It's more curiosity than provocation and his irritation at the mention of his family shifts into a smile once he realises.

"He might have been, once. I suppose the potential someone has also comes into account. For years under the Targaryen rule, there were kings on the Salt Throne who were never drowned at all. Little Yara never dared, either." His eyes turn sly as he assesses her and even after all this time, it's chilling; more so than the rain slowly soaking through her gown. "And I kept thinking, how could anyone stand it? If they'd crowned me just like that, I would have spent my entire life roaming the world, wondering if I had earned it. I would have ended up drowning myself just so I could know. Good thing Aeron did it for me before I got to that."

"What was it like?" She has to know. It had been just a morbid source of fascination before, but she feels so much more open to it all now; so much more devoted to something she could never thought she could belong to. "Drowning?"

"You've never been lost at sea? Thought you wouldn't be able to swim back to shore?"

"Of course I have." Jaime had always been there to drag her out of the deep end, but the momentary surge of panic had never failed to rush through her all the same, along with the realisation that she wouldn't make it if he didn't get to her in time. It had been a child's blind trust, at first, and by the time it had turned into devotion, it had been far too late to do anything about it. Not that she would know – she had never cared to try.

"That's what it felt like, only a thousand times stronger. He held me down until I couldn't fight even if I'd wanted to and I took the sea in."

"How?" It sounds inviting, just not in the way it had been in her most desperate moments, back in the first years of her marriage. It had been the thought of her children and her brother that had forced her to stay put back then, but she had been well-aware that jumping into the water would mean certain death. It doesn't seem quite so set in stone anymore, now that she's had a taste of an entirely different world.

"I opened my eyes, drank up the water." It sounds like the simplest thing in the world. It must be, for an Ironborn – for a King, more like – and Cersei squashes down the voice that tells her that she's easily worthy of knowing as well. "My brother must have named me king while I was under; I don't know. I could feel the sea filling my lungs and I couldn't breathe, so I drowned. Next thing I knew, I was back by the seaside and they put a crown on my head when I got up. There wasn't much else to it."

"And in the meantime?" It must be a captivating thing, death, and the idea of having to face what lurks on the other side is as enthralling as it is terrifying. "Was there anything there?"

"Not from what I could see, no. I felt like I was dissolving into the sea, falling to pieces, until the Drowned God brought me to the surface again. Perhaps that was all he wanted to show me." His fingers trail down her arm and he turns her to him again, leaning down for a fleeting kiss to whisper the rest of his confession into her lips. "It was like nothing I've ever felt before. Words could never do it justice."

"Is that so?" Yes, yes, she wants to say, you're almost there, but she can't risk losing her composure now. "You know your god far better than I've ever known any of mine."

"They don't have to be your gods anymore if you've forsaken them already." His free hand buries itself in her hair until she's surrounded by him and it's too careful, too awestruck; suffocating, more so than his aggression tends to be.

She pulls away, not enough to offend him, but enough to regain the space around her. "No, they don't have to." It's easier to think when there's no one touching her. This must be what Jaime loved once. It's easy to imagine that it's what had made him worried, too, if not worried enough to actually come to her. She had always been capable of withstanding a storm, but he's the only one she'd ever welcome the occasional gentleness from. It's why he had left, in the end, exasperated by her disregard for anything but their continued survival. It's why he had stood by her side in all the years of her marriage, relatively subdued as she had been for the bigger part of it – perhaps she's easier to love when she doesn't want much of anything; easier to handle when she doesn't care about anything but her family.

And oh, how she had cared – about her children and her father, the vague memories that Mother had left behind, even; both her brothers, truth be told, after the truth of Joffrey's murder had been revealed to her. She had cared enough for it to hurt, and it had brought her nothing but resentment.

It's rather ungrateful of her, really, to refuse what she's being offered now, but love had always been such a bizarre, twisted thing for her to search for, that it's difficult to take it from someone she hadn't asked it from, even if it's offered on a silver spoon for her to feast on. She had learnt to lick it off of Lannister blades years ago.

~.~

The farther away she gets from the castle, Cersei had noticed over her months on Pyke, the wilder the island gets. It's inevitable – the castle itself is nothing but seemingly solid stone and the bridges that keep it all connected as if by magic and it's the only place that feels even remotely habitable. The island is a fortress all on its own, with its rocky shores, sharp cliffs and unexpected whirlwinds ready to drag anyone unfamiliar with the sea right into its depths and its savagery had long since stopped being a surprise, but it still manages to leave her in awe when she examines it at length.

You don't have to do this, she had been assured a thousand times, but it had all come from her countrymen alone; a fearful warning about a supposed danger that none of them could justify to her when she had asked them to elaborate. It's difficult to remember, sometimes, that not all of her bannermen are like her father; that the majority of them had only forgiven her for the Sept of Baelor because of the fanatics that had burnt inside it. She had seen them wander around the sept near the castle every time before they set sail, sending their prayers to the only gods they knew and expecting her to do the same.

She had indulged them at first, of course, for a long while. Cersei had made an example out of her own visits, but it had been different then – she had always remained ashore, biding them all good fortune and retreating back into the throne room as soon as the Iron Fleet melted into the horizon. She had never joined them before and it's only right for her to make a sacrifice of some kind. It doesn't have to be a bloody one to be precious, she had learnt at least that by now, and, truth be told, it isn't much of a sacrifice at all. If anything, it's an excuse.

Damion is the one to say it last, for what has to be the thousand time today. He had been saying it rather often ever since his return. "Your Grace, I must insist. Think it through."

"You really mustn't." Over the several months that had passed since they had first met, Cersei had managed to make him ease off some of the jittery nervousness that had plagued him when he'd arrived and although it had made their communication remarkably easier, she had also regretted it enough times by now to wish she could take the kindness back. He's too close, too familiar, too comfortable with giving advice even when she had explicitly asked him to keep quiet. "I've made my mind."

"Is it truly worth giving up your faith for an alliance?"

"There isn't much of it to give up, to tell you the truth. Tell me, what have the Seven got me?" Imprisonment and ashes and death; there's not much else that she can remember. There never has been, in retrospect. "I'm going out at sea. What better time than this?"

It's another visit, this time to a less friendly territory – not quite a raid, but close enough to one to feel significant. A raid is on the list as well, for the week after that – just one more, Euron had sworn to her, and you'll have your castle back. It's important. We need it. She had trusted him just this once, even though he'd refused to say something more on the matter, in the hopes that he would share more once they leave Pyke behind once more. If she can't trust him with her naval forces, what could she possibly do it with? It's what he's best at.

"Never might be a better time, if you'll allow me." It doesn't seem to matter whether she would or wouldn't, either because Damion feels that he's family enough to be entirely open with her or because he's spent enough time around her to know that she wouldn't have the heart to hurt him now that they know each other quite so well. "This is a travesty. Ser Jaime—"

"Did Ser Jaime tell you to follow my every step lest I make a decision he might dislike?" She hisses the words out, aware of the audience that had gathered by the time it had taken her to reach the water, and her cousin's eyes widen with a somewhat amusing mix of terror and guilt. He's told you just that, hasn't he? She had known there had been a reason for him to keep up the impression that she had been the one to send him up north, but had never guessed just how low he'd sink to get what he had wanted. "Best remind him that he can deliver such advice himself, then. I can't quite hear him from here."

Damion holds her by the elbow when she makes to turn her back on him and it's an age-old gesture; so Jaime that for a moment, she can almost believe that he'd listened and appeared in front of her, as if by magic.

There's no magic but the one she weaves herself, however, and they're short on time. They're being watched, she's acutely aware of it, and it's not the least bit surprising – it's not every day that a queen no one had expected to be ruled by made a change this big. "Let me go."

"Your Grace—"

"I'm ready." It's directed more towards the priest waiting for her rather than her Lord Commander now and the man beckons her closer. She had seen it done before, once or twice, and it had left enough of an impression to give her just the confidence she so desperately needs when she's so far away from everything she's ever known.

But this is what she knows now – the sea and the harsh land she reigns over; the severe faces of the Drowned Men and the crown she wears now, light enough for her to barely be able to feel its presence. Cersei takes it off now, but keeps it clenched firmly in one hand as she wades through the waves and stands before the man, not daring to look away once he meets her gaze.

"Cersei of the House Lannister, you would this day consecrate your faith to the Drowned God?"

She had done it already, all that time ago, on her first night on the Iron Islands; had felt the God's blessing far more clearly than she ever had with any of the deities she'd been raised to worship. None of them had responded when she'd called, but he had and it's an easy enough thing to give up; a faith that she had been told to believe and resent at the same time. The presence of something different, something better, makes it easier still. "I would."

"Kneel."

The shock of the cold water against her skin is almost soothing as she obeys and it doesn't matter, suddenly, that it soaks through her skirts and that quite so many people are watching it happen. Her husband must have arrived by now too, she's sure. If he had, he hasn't made his presence known; everyone is still eerily quiet. It must be disbelief, Cersei supposes – the sight of a Lannister kneeling for anyone isn't a familiar one, but she needs to be more than a Lannister now, and certainly more than a queen with her sights set on the Westerlands and little else. She needs to be their queen.

"Let Cersei, your servant, to be born again from the sea as you were." She closes her eyes as the water pours over her face and drips down her hair and she doesn't need to hear his blessing to know it for what it is – salt, stone, steel. It's all inside her; always had been, it seems, if she dares to look far back enough. Had Jaime deigned to voice his concerns in person, he would have never stopped her. He knows her too well for that – still must know her, no matter how intently he had made sure to let her know that she had been the one to let it all wither away. If he still cares as much as he claims to, he should have made it clear by now. It would not fall to her to keep setting fire to everything at his whims, only to have her twin snuff it out again.

But he shouldn't matter now. Nothing should, come to think of it – it's her turn to speak again, and Cersei opens her eyes.

"What is dead may never die."