Notes: Ever since I played around with the outline some (as in, the order of events and what happens in which chapter - the plot itself is the same), I was trying to figure out how to write the next few chapters without making everything very rushed and crammed and mood swing-y or altogether too drawn out and I think I've found the solution. This chapter and the next one will be somewhat shorter than usual - like an interlude - and will be mostly strategy and introspection of equal doses, from both POVs, before getting back to the usual pace. Naturally, it's sort of angst-heavy, but hopefully this format will still work.

I hate the fucking North.

For over a year – nearing two by now, truly – he had been staying near Winterfell, leaving the newly-freed region and wandering into the Six Kingdoms (five by now, and likely to become four in the foreseeable future) only to returns once more, but it's yet to become anything but unbearable. It grows on you, Brienne had assured him, but it's an easy thing for her to say – for her, the beginning of Westeros's descent into complete chaos hadn't begun right in this castle. Worse, she hadn't been the one to start it.

Her presence – she hadn't been around when he had arrived, but she tends to stay closer to her Queen, typically – along with Tyrion's serve to make the return into it a little easier, but he isn't particularly thrilled with the familiar sights in front of him either way, especially not at the prospect of the Stark siblings debating over food and soldiers. He's had enough of such discussions in his time as both Kingsguard and Commander of the Royal armies and while he had been certain that he'd be inevitably dragged into it, it had been easier to hide away for the time being.

It's something he does a lot of, once he comes back up past the Neck – hiding away. It makes him feel dangerously purposeless, but it's better than facing the tension that his presence tends to bring about. He's a dangerous company to keep; Jaime had realised it a long time ago, but it's all the more obvious now that the tensions in Westeros grow higher by the day; now that, once again, a part of his family is to blame for it.

It's enough to bring him out of hiding, eventually – as per usual, he doesn't have much of a choice.

"Forgive me for doubting you, but this makes no sense. You're saying they're strong enough to take King's Landing, so why wouldn't they? Would your sister make her intentions clear if that was the case?"

"That is an excellent question."

"It's a yes or no question, Lord Tyrion." Jon Snow – where he had come from is anybody's guess, but Jaime had already been far too exasperated to ask by the time this conversation had started – seems to grow more and more agitated as the day draws to a close, as if they hadn't chewed over this same matter for the entirety of it. "And what about the North? Winterfell has been attacked by the Ironborn before. My sister worries—"

"Her Grace has nothing to worry about. If my sister is planning on taking over anything, it's going to be the capital."

"So why hasn't she? You don't have the means to stop her, for all she knows."

"And she would know enough; we don't. I have yet to breach the matter with Dorne and this is giving me more time to do so, but I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you. I don't know why she would wait."

"Because it's not King's Landing she wants." The uncomfortable silence that the reminder of his presence usually triggers falls over them once more, but Jaime pushes through it. If they hadn't wanted to hear him speak, they shouldn't have let him have a say. It's always been the world's biggest mistake, since the dawn of time – letting a Lannister talk for too long. It's what's brought them all here. "When the Iron Fleet leaves Pyke, they'll be sailing for Casterly Rock."

"Yes, as a starting point. We still need to consider—"

"No, as an ending point." He doesn't quite believe it, truth be told, but it's not very likely that Cersei will ever set foot in King's Landing again if she has a choice, so it's not as much of a lie as he had feared. Tyrion seems more confused than offended by the interruption and it's enough to prompt a clarification. "Damion told me all about it. The Westerlands. That's all there is to it."

"That's quite a lot, wouldn't you say?"

It's Brienne's voice that breaks the disquiet and he's grateful, even if the matter she poses is likely to start an entirely new discussion if he's not careful. Jaime isn't sure he's got the strength for it – certainly not after a month on a ship. Neither Sansa nor Bran Stark are present, having retreated to make their deals in peace, but being surrounded by their advisers is enough to leave him feeling as if the room is suddenly crowded. "I would. But it's better than everything, isn't it? It'll be bloodless, at least."

If Tyrion had heard anything at all from the exchange, it doesn't really show – when he turns back to Jaime, his expression is so contemplating it's nearly dangerous. "Why would Damion discuss the Iron Fleet's movements with you?"

"He served under my command. Who else would he discuss them with?"

"I was under the impression that he doesn't serve under your command anymore."

Definitely crowded. "He doesn't. That doesn't mean he can't trust me."

"He certainly didn't trust me with anything of the sort."

"You're Hand of the King, Tyrion, what did you expect? Cersei has named him Lord Commander, it's natural he would assume—"

"Excuse me, is this strictly relevant? We have important matters to discuss."

Tyrion finally redirects his gaze towards a new target. It's enough to let Jaime slump back into his seat as his brother sighs. "I should be the one apologising, Lord Snow; you're quite right. If you would all give me a moment with my brother. It's growing late as it is. We might as well continue tomorrow."

No one seems particularly eager to leave, but one by one, they shuffle out of the door. Jaime almost follows, but it would be much wiser to face whatever it is that has piqued Tyrion's attention now, given that the alternative is carrying it out in public. It's a bit too late to try and save every familial dispute from becoming a spectacle, but he's still willing to cling to the shreds of privacy they're occasionally allowed.

He's far less thankful for them when Tyrion turns on him again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Did it need saying? We both knew Cersei would want to head back home."

"Home could easily mean King's Landing too. She spent half her life there."

And lost everything in the process. "It wasn't much of a life."

"Yes; last I spoke to her, she seemed to despise the taste of absolute power." It's mockery at its core, but a single look in his brother's eyes is enough to bring out the bitterness and frustration that Cersei had somehow managed to wring out of every person who had ever tried to love her. "She might not be able to reclaim the physical seat she once held, but I don't suppose that it'll matter all that much now that she has no one left to oppose her."

"Dorne is still an option, as are the North's armies, should Sansa Stark decide to help." It's not particularly likely, given her – somewhat justified, Jaime has to admit – fear of potential raids, but the North isn't a force so easy to discard. "You're far from defenceless. And it doesn't matter either way; King's Landing doesn't particularly matter to her anymore."

"And what matters to you? I doubt Damion would have shared the Crown's immediate plans unless he was sure you would be on their side."

"I did nothing to convince him otherwise."

"I gathered that much." He would prefer it if Tyrion would occasionally get angry, Jaime thinks; properly angry at the possibility of being betrayed, instead of being resigned to the certainty of it. "If it comes to a war, you'll have to pick a side. You understand that, don't you?"

"Why should I?" It's easy to be flippant when he's staring intently at the table, steadily avoiding any attempt at connection from his brother's side. "The North is likely to remain neutral. I thought you preferred me here. What was it? I'm happy you're happy."

"I did think you were happy. Content, in the very least. You might still be that; I don't know. But you won't be content to sit on the sidelines and watch this unfold. Whatever it was that Bran told you, did it tell you what would happen after—?" Over a year, and he still can't bring himself to say it. After King's Landing fell. Jaime shakes his head. "So you would have no reason to hold back this time. If we do end up at war and Cersei attacks the capital—"

"It's not war she wants." It would be a laughable statement to anyone else, but it's different with Tyrion. If there's one person in the whole wide world who would understand, it's him. For all their flaws and all the gaping divides between them, the Lannister children had always spoke a language of their own. "And it's not King's Landing, either."

"Then what does she want?"

"What does everyone want?" Home. Freedom. The ability to keep running and running and never having to look back. Perhaps not everyone, then, but his sweet sister had always been a rather isolated case.

They had rarely spoken about home, back at the Red Keep. There had been a quick, rather pragmatic discussion before they had decided that it would be easier to give it up for the time being, but before that? It would have hurt too much and there had been weeks – months, years, sometimes – when their lives had only been held together by threads so fragile that everything could have fallen apart at the barest show of weakness.

The only time Cersei herself had brought it up had been the day he had returned from Dorne. He had stayed with her through the night, for once careless about any risk that his presence could bring. Would it matter? His sister had been dragged naked through the streets for her crimes as it were; he had been reminded of it every time he'd stroked her hair and had reached its abrupt end at the back of her neck as she had trembled in his arms.

He had never seen her cry quite so much before. Public humiliation hadn't managed to break her, nor had the worst years of her marriage or the death of her precious Joffrey (as much as he hadn't wanted to admit the undeniable, Jaime had always known it; she had loved the boy more than anyone else in the world, undeserving as he had been of it), but this – Myrcella and her sudden loss – had finally managed it, it had seemed. She had clawed at his shirt, fists clenching and releasing with each new bout of sorrow that came forward and Jaime had only started dozing into an uneasy sleep once she'd quieted, only to be woken again when she had spoken.

"Tommen was right."

"Hm?" Dragging himself back into the real world had been a chore, but he had managed somehow, sobering up entirely when he had met her frantic eyes in the sickly grey light of the near-dawn. "Right about what?"

"I should go back to Casterly Rock; leave him here on his own. You can keep him safe better than anyone else. He has his Small Council and Uncle Kevan—"

"Cersei." He had been horrified, if fully aware that it would be the last thing she'd need to see just then. She had always trusted him to be there, an anchor in the storm that was her life. She'd been the one to unsettle the sands he'd sank himself into, but it hadn't been an excuse to let her float away. "You want to abandon him here? You risked everything so you could stay when Father wanted to make you marry, and now—"

"I'm not abandoning him." She'd disentangled herself from his grasp, suddenly cold, and had turned her back to him. He'd followed without a second thought, arms wrapping around her shoulders even when she'd tried to shrug him off. "It would be safer that way. This is my fault. I should have never— She warned me it would be this way."

"She?" She had mentioned a prophecy of some kind earlier, and a witch, but he hadn't asked her to elaborate. It hadn't seemed like a particularly good idea to bring it up in the middle of the night, either – he had had a voyage's time to get used to the pain; to replay the image of Myrcella collapsing into his embrace again and again every waking moment, no matter how much he had tried to set it aside to keep his sanity. Cersei had had less than a day. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but it certainly hadn't been this. "When did any of this happen?"

"Years ago, so many— It was just a stupid game. I wanted to know my future. One of my maids spoke of a witch that lived in the forests and I brought Melara with me so I wouldn't be alone. She warned me not to do it. I should have listened, but I didn't and what she said— I didn't understand, at the time. The king would have twenty children, she said, and I would have three. Gold their crowns—"

"—gold their shrouds." It still hadn't made sense, not to him, but he had understood. "Everyone dies eventually, and all Lannisters are buried in gold. It doesn't have to mean anything. You were a little girl. If she truly was a witch, of course she would want to scare you."

He had believed it, too, until she'd shaken her head, choking on another sob. "It's more than that. First it was Joffrey and it was not— he was not—" He was the kind of person someone would try to poison, she had surely been thinking, but she would have rather died than say it. "But Myrcella? She's never done anyone any harm, Jaime, they wanted to hurt me and they took her instead— I shouldn't be here."

"Cersei, this is madness." Leaving her on her own in this state had been unthinkable, prophecies and children and kings be damned. He would have followed her if it had came to that, but he had never imagined it happening like this – their childhood home serving as her self-imposed prison before she would have to stand trial anyway. "You weren't responsible for any of this."

"But I was. None of this would have happened if I had never—"

"What? Met the witch? Had children? Attended a wedding?" There hadn't been a lot he could have said about Tyrion's trial, but she had been nowhere near worthy of such a mad thirst for revenge over Oberyn Martell's personal choice; he had been sure of that much. "Lived at all?" She had gone quiet enough to trouble him even further and Jaime's hold on his sister had tightened desperately. "There's nothing you could have done."

He could have said anything at all and it wouldn't have mattered. She had been far too lost to care. "Perhaps not, but the least I could do is stop. I'm going to lose him too; it's only a matter of time. I should go before I—" She'd stared down at her own fingers where they'd been gripping onto his forearms, seemingly surprised they still belonged to her, so cold to the touch that for a fleeting moment he had felt as if he had lost her too; as if she had been only a memory for him to cling on to, slipping further and further away from the world of the living the more grief and loss chipped at her. She had turned around to face him and her eyes had seemed colourless too – bottomless, terrified pits for him to lose himself into, once again welling up with tears. "I've destroyed everything I've ever touched."

Not me, Jaime would have said, had he been able to reach back into his own past, I did it all myself.

"Peace," he says at last, at Tyrion's unspoken plead for a response. "What she wants is peace."