She'd dreamt of the storm again last night.

It had certainly not been the first time and Cersei strongly suspects that it won't be the last, but it's unsettling all the same, for the difference in the way it had played out if for nothing else. Her wedding night and the events that had transpired then haunt her frequently in her sleep, but the involuntary recollection had always been limited to the things she can actually remember; the feast, the storm, the sea, her own despair, the cluelessness of the following day. She had always woken up before it had gone any further than that – always, right up to this morning. It had begun just as every other time before, with the rain and wind and thunder raging all around her, the sea trashing wildly against the rocks, only the water had started rising eventually, boiling hotter and hotter as it had crawled its way up to her, until a shape had formed out of the waves.

A kraken. She had seen depictions of it before, of course, hundreds of them as they had approached the Iron Islands, but it had been just a sigil then; a painting meant to inspire fear. Up close, it had seemed almost human, its tentacles wrapping around the jagged edges of the cliff face, not quite a climb but not too far from one either. Breathless with fear, Cersei had leant in closer, though it hadn't helped much – it had been unimaginably large, the shiny dark surface of its skin seeming to channel every lightning that had flashed above her head until the sky had finally melted into the water and surrounded her from all sides. The rest of Pyke had disappeared as well until it had been just her tower standing tall as the space between her and the beast had narrowed more and more.

When the kraken had looked at her, inches away from her face as Cersei had finally braved the sight of it, Jaime's eyes had stared back.

She'd woken up in cold sweat, then. It had taken her hours to shake herself out of the terror of it and by all means, it should be ridiculous to worry about the dream at all. It had been a night like any other – surely someone would have told her if an ancient monster had risen from the deep in her absence – and, as she recalls every detail there is of it, her perception twists bit by bit. Jaime's eyes are more grey and blue like her own, in the right lighting; a splash of colour unlike hers and Tyrion's solitary green and it's highly unlikely that it's her brother she's seen in her sleep. He's been on her mind for months now, in quite a different manner when compared how the thought of her twin had haunted her, but it has nothing to do with the life she's been leading for nearly two years now.

No, Tyrion belongs in a different realm entirely. It's even more obvious as she leaves the rookery with yet another scroll clutched in her hand and heads back towards the castle proper instead of her own rooms like she had been planning to. When she thinks of him, she sees King's Landing, endless, impersonal negotiations and everything she'd lost, the home she's yet to reclaim towering over it all. Her life as it is now is a thousand miles away from anything he's ever experienced and for months on end their occasional correspondence, direct or not, had managed to become another part of a routine she'd done her very best to become comfortable with. For all the travelling, the sudden familiarity with the people she rules over, and the change of scenery, there are countless days when it feels like the Red Keep all over again. She has the sea to resort to this time, right here at her disposal instead of a distant sight through her balcony window, but what use is it when she can't sail alone? Her time for acquiring such relative privileges is running out and once they get to the Westerlands—

Well, that's just it, isn't it? The time for figuring that out is rather scarce too, though she'd considered plenty of possibilities. It's Loren that troubles her most of all. Her husband she would handle; try to convince him that it would be best for both of them to rule over their own lands, perhaps, though she would rob him of his heir that way.

And what an heir he's become to them both. He's young, too young to understand much, and he would forget it all should she bring him home for good, but it doesn't feel quite right anymore. To be confined to a castle when they can have it all is precisely what she's trying to avoid for both of them. He had been given an opportunity that none of his siblings had had despite their better circumstances and Loren is as used to chasing sailor around ships to parrot Euron's commands to them as he is to sitting by her side near the throne and busying himself with any little task she would him. Hiding half of it away to suit her own needs is not an option she wants to consider at all, but it's the only one remotely palpable.

There is, by now, the matter of Jaime as well. She had received two messages – one from Brandon Stark himself, in the name of peace, acknowledging her as Queen of the Westerlands should she choose to take the title, and another, far less official, directly from Tyrion, informing her that Jaime had decided to make the trip to the Iron Islands and then follow her to Casterly Rock. He would deliver the rest of his intentions when he arrived, she had gathered and had then carefully tucked the message away as she'd made a turn for her husband's study. He would be pleased, she suspects, particularly so on the eve of this final move before her return home.

The room is a whirlwind of paper and iron when she enters; so much so that Cersei is briefly distracted from her goal as she watches him emerge from under the half-formed model of something she can't quite make out just yet. She locks the door before she speaks, ever so careful with sharing too much when she's not sure which of his guests are still roaming the halls, but her satisfaction shines through the news once she delivers them.

"The King of the Six Kingdoms has chosen to stand down," she announces, raising the scroll so that he can snatch it out of her hand, "as has his sister. Someone will be sent for final negotiation once we take the Rock, but it's for diplomacy's sake at best. They've both opted for peace."

The initial pleasant surprise had worn of so suddenly that it makes her tense in alarm. "The Queen in the North too?"

"Of course." Sansa Stark had never felt like as much of a problem as the rest of Westeros could be – her kingdom is still too young, too recently revived for her to risk her people's safety – but it had been pleasant to be proved right all the same. "They don't have the numbers or the strength. It was a matter of time."

"Then it's a matter of time before you take the rest of Westeros back." Thought alone is enough to make him smile, but the look in his eyes is still grim. "We should have waited. Taking over the North would be easier without a truce."

"It's a peace offering, not a truce. What use do we have of the North? The Westerlands have rich, good land and enough resources to last us centuries. A barren wasteland and all its people willing to revolt against me are a responsibility I can do without."

"And once we reach the Westerlands, where would you have my men go? Your bannermen are happy enough to work with the Iron Fleet now, but it won't last long if they're made to live side by side with them for good. As their king, I'm the one who should provide them with hunting ground."

In a way, she understands. Raiding and stealing had been part of the Ironborn's way of life for so long that they don't know any other way; keeping them restrained to their own islands would not be an easy feat. It's not worth risking her neck for, but it's a valid enough concern – there is nowhere else for them to go.

"I'll find a way," Cersei assures him, easing her expression into something more reassuring than anxious. "Once we are back on the mainland, the new borders will need to be defined. In the meantime, quite a few ships can reach the Narrow Sea without being questioned at all. Any of the Free Cities that they can reach will be richer than any region in a war-torn continent."

"It's a lot more effort, isn't it? And if the borders are decided by the time they return and they're not allowed passage anymore, would you go to war for their home?"

"Without a second thought." Truth be told, she's not quite sure, but it's easier to be affronted than to admit it. It's an unpleasant reminder, for him at least – that he'll rely on her more than the other way around once she sails away from Pyke – and Cersei had preferred to keep it away from his attention until she had successfully arrived home with Loren by her side and nothing but further gains to look forward to. Despite her efforts, the thought of Jaime's presence had thrilled her beyond belief; the idea that he'd responded to her call, veiled as it had been, overshadowing the worry of how much he would unsettle the delicate balance of her cautiously safe existence. She hadn't thought of what would happen afterwards and neither had he, clearly, or he wouldn't have offered himself for this task at all, but she had still hoped for it to last a little longer before Euron could have the time to wonder about the same thing. "They are my people as well, now, and being plunged into yet another conflict is the last thing they need. We've been biding our time for months; it's unwise to throw it all away for nothing."

"Do you know what would be wiser?" It's the same indulgent, mocking tone Euron had used on her back at the very start when they had barely known each other; when every word leaving her mouth had seemingly amused him and frustrated him at the same time. It's a game Cersei knows well – look away, don't bare your teeth, shut your mouth to begin with, all it does is make him angrier, all you ever do is make him angrier – but she'd grown bolder since the last time she'd had to play it. He wouldn't hurt her, not with intent, anyway, and for all his flaws, he's not Robert. "Marching to Winterfell while the little king's entire court is still there and killing them all. If my nephew managed it while rebelling against his own king, imagine what a proper army can do."

For an instant, she has half a mind to agree – control over all of Westeros is what he had tried to push her towards ever since the start and Jaime had likely already departed from the castle if he means to reach her before they leave for Casterly Rock and the chances of intercepting him are rather low – but it's the thought of her brother that puts an end to the idea as soon as it takes root in her head. It's Jaime he wants to get to, truly, no matter what other ambitions it's hidden away with and Cersei reaches out to cup her husband's face in one hand; forces the smile back onto her own face. It doesn't particularly matter how tortured it looks. Few people had ever been able to tell the difference.

"It would be efficient," she allows, if only to ease the blow. "But not particularly clean. How easy do you think it would be to keep the continent under control if we slaughter every other monarch on it? They want peace now, but there's no telling what would change if I turn from yet another queen into a conqueror. My brother—"

"I'd think he's spied on the rest of them long enough for now." He'd cut her off with a laugh, but there's a dangerous gleam in his eyes now; one that challenges her rather than making her step away as she once might have. It's different – he's different – but not different enough. "That's what all your lackeys assume he's been doing all this time, either way. Your Lord Commander relies on it a whole lot and you never said a word about it."

The accusation – and it is one, no matter how welcoming her husband is trying to make himself look – makes her falter for all of a moment. He had been there, of course, when Reginald had given her his father's letter and had informed her of the rest of their family's whereabouts, but she had been too preoccupied with the news from King's Landing to pay anything any mind.

"It's what Damion does," she manages at last, voice feebler than before. "He keeps an eye on everyone I keep in contact with; it's how he upholds his vows and how he keeps me safe. Besides, it was Tyrion I spoke of. He's too important to be killed so unceremoniously. Jaime does tend to be unpredictable, but he's not worth the kind of carnage that another war would cause."

It might just be the most daring lie she's ever said; daring enough to hold, hopefully. Every ounce of blood they'd spilt to keep their secret safe had been worth it, no matter how often she had tried to deny it in front of either him or herself, and she would gladly do it again should the need arise. She had rather hoped that it wouldn't, but it wouldn't be the first time her own expectations had let her down. The last time, when she had braced herself to tell her twin she was with child again, she had been hopeful enough for the future for it to fill her entire being and she had paid dearly for it. Another similar attempt might just be the end of her.

Euron scoffs. "You said it yourself; they don't have the men to oppose us. They wouldn't expect it, either. You'll be a conqueror as it is; this is your best chance to get more than you were hoping for. And if it truly is the Kingslayer's allegiance that worries you, then you're wasting your time." He brings her closer by the waist; bites at the shell of her ear when she tilts her head back, half-fight and half-defeat. "I'm going to gut your brother like a fish."

~.~

The more time she spends on the edge of her window – or beyond it, as it happens every now and again – the more it reminds her of the very same view when she had seen it from her chambers as a child. It had been just as enticing back then, with its promise of something unknown and forbidden and the thrill that had followed, even if her heart had been far lighter, and she can easily lean into her memory whenever she needs to. She had certainly felt that need today.

So many years had passed since the first time; nearly too many for her to remember. It had been a day just like this one, ridiculously warm and beautiful given the whirlwind of emotions wrecking everything inside her, and she hadn't been alone for long – soon enough, Jaime had followed her to the cliff's edge, ready to share everything as always. He had been charming as a child, she had seen it even back then – the sight of his wide, eager eyes, his hesitant grin, the endless stream of energy beaming out of him – and his arrival had brought out a reluctant smile out of her as well.

"You shouldn't stand here," he had said with all the wisdom a four-year-old could produce. "If you fall without meaning to—"

How do you fall and mean it? It had felt incomprehensible; almost as strange as the loss that had plagued her, and understanding wouldn't fully arrive for over a decade. "I would drown," she had conceded, "and then I would be gone. Like Mother."

"Gone where?" His confusion would have been endearing if she hadn't experienced the consequences of the same cluelessness less than a day prior.

"Dead," she had clarified. "Gone means dead. And that means never coming back."

"Not ever?"

She had wanted to lie; try and spare her twin the heartbreak, but what use would that have been? She had been kinder with the news, at least. "Not ever. It's what Father says."

Cersei had expected him to be devastated, as much as she herself had felt, but instead, Jaime's eyes had widened in terror. "Then you mustn't go. I don't want you to never come back."

"I wouldn't," she had assured him. It had always been half a lie, but she'd been too young to realise it back then, mercifully enough. "I wouldn't leave without you."

"Swear it!"

"I swear it."

He had changed his tune a few years down the line, of course, when they had been too stupid and carefree to remember death as the threat that it is. Still children enough to forget that it had ever been an option, from what she can recall, and Jaime's smile had turned wicked and tempting; exactly the sort of smile that could have convinced her of anything. She can almost hear his voice now, if she closes her eyes, and feel the warmth of his hand in hers as the very same sea rises invitingly towards her and recedes to reveal the golden sands below. You just have to jump, he'd whispered, low and nearly seductive, already half-aware of all the things he could make her do, and the water will be there to meet you.

She had finally understood, though it had taken her a little more time. She'd been the one to bring her brother to the cliffs outside the Rock the day before they would have to leave for King's Landing to face her future husband and the reality of her wedding. She would enter the Great Sept as Cersei Lannister and emerge as a queen, and queens, to the best of her knowledge, did not tend to jump off of cliffs to amuse themselves. They had both been older, then, and already familiar with war and all its terrors, but none of it had mattered, if just for a little while.

The sea had called to her even back then. She'd been just a girl still, easily thrilled and ready to do anything (not much had changed, much to her dismay, not deep down below the pretence of caution), and she'd refused to close her eyes as she'd let go of Jaime's hand and made that final step.

No matter how hard she had tried, no matter how many years she had spent clinging to life after that, Cersei had never managed to replicate that precise sensation again.

The water had rushed towards her faster than anything she had ever imagined. Her heart had raced quickly enough that she'd been sure it wouldn't survive the fall, but she'd remained whole, somehow; had had enough time to twist around in the last possible instant, just in time to reach out in a wordless invitation to Jaime a hundred feet up into the sky, right before she'd broken the surface and her breath had left her entirely.

Silence, at last. It had been the sweetest bliss she'd ever felt outside of her brother's presence. For a few blessed moments, nothing had existed but the shimmering blue surface above her and the relentless rhythm of the underwater currents in her ears. Nothing had mattered, either; not her marriage or family name or the fact that she could easily never see her home again. She had been nothing and no one, at least before a hand had been extended towards her and she'd gripped it to pull herself up.

The first gulp of air she'd taken had been sharp and cold and painful and Jaime's arms around her had been the only thing helping anchor her and, while she'd gasped desperately for breath, he'd started laughing in that infectious way he'd had; the one that had always infuriated her beyond words as much as it had made her soar.

He's on his way. Tyrion had said so and if her brother had managed to get on a ship already, he would be safe. Protesting too much about Winterfell and a potential raid would only draw more suspicion and put him in more danger and really, she should be above trying to protect him now. Even if he had decided to join her after all, he had still left her to die when it had mattered most. It would serve him right if she were to do the same; answer his indifference with some of her own. She had never managed it before – indifference is an emotion so foreign that it's nearly incomprehensible – and had never attempted it when it had come to him, not even when she had been as angry as she could get. Now that she's far more desperate than she could possibly be angry, it's not even worth her consideration.

It would be so easy, too; to just forget. Cersei had been content enough to do so for months after his betrayal in an effort to keep surviving through everything the world had thrown at her and the mere mention of him had blown her relative peace to bits. It's no wonder that Euron had thought that the idea of killing him wouldn't be upsetting to her at all – anyone in their right mind would have hated him by now. Instead, she had clung to every sign of his continued existence with the same kind of unshakeable certainty that had already betrayed her once. Jaime hadn't been there in her most desperate hour, and yet—

And yet, nothing had made her more ecstatic than the latest news from Winterfell. She'd wanted him here for months, even when it had been with the sole purpose of telling him that she would prefer to never hear his name uttered again instead of enduring his vague advices passed on through various members of their family, and any encounter she had imagined had had him brimming with life as always; the only way Cersei had ever known him. Trying to imagine him dead is as difficult as imagining one's own death, she had found when suddenly forced to consider the possibility – it's a wasted effort. If it ever happens, there wouldn't be enough left of her to comprehend it.

It wouldn't be much of a loss at that point, if she's being honest. Her life had never been worth anything at all when by itself – not to her, in any case – and Loren's future is set for him with or without her. Perhaps he would fare better than all the rest of them without her there to guide his hand into an uncertain claim and a rule he wouldn't be fully prepared for. After all the deaths she'd left behind, her absence might just be his best chance. Robert had never felt any fondness for the children he'd perceived as his, but it's different now. Euron would make an Ironborn out of him, and a king as well if she's to leave this world without making him doubt who had fathered the boy. Fighting back would only harm everyone further. It always had. It's a simple enough fact, one that had been repeated to her so many times to her, too, and she'd never once listened, always with the stubborn belief that it wouldn't last forever despite her blind stumbling into the future; despite each and every time she'd managed to dig herself further into the consequences of her choices.

This is as close to home as I'm ever going to get. If Jaime weren't there to see it happen, she would never see the Rock again. It would be far more painful to step through the front gates and introduce their son to what he'd always been owed and do it all alone. Cersei had brought him into the world, had cherished every day she had got with him as the unexpected gift it is, but she wouldn't manage to this for him and continue lying for the rest of her life. Becoming her mother instead seems a far more preferable option, all of a sudden – better a fondly remembered, flickering presence of a woman he would never know than a living ghost for him to suffer with for years on end.

She has her answer now; had had it for nearly as long as she'd had a crown on her head. It's rather easy to fall and mean it. What would they tell Loren? Better yet, what would they tell her people? Her husband would assume it to be an accident, no doubt. H had never realised how close she can stand to the edge without slipping past it. He'd always enjoyed life too much to imagine someone – her, of all people – putting an end to it without any hesitation because it had taken a turn for the worst. The thought alone is enough to make her smile. He would never again be able to claim that the Drowned God had approved the match when challenged; not if the sea he loved so much had been the one to finally snuff her out when everyone else had failed. It would be a puzzling notion after everything she had already survived, but believable enough – only one of them is Ironborn, after all. Loren, on the other hand—

"Your Grace?"

The voice makes her flinch violently enough that the world sways around her for a moment, but Cersei recovers soon enough to ease the panic in her expression before she turns around. She had never heard the door of her chambers opening at all, but there the girl is regardless – one of her fussier handmaidens, the sort that tends to wander around to be helpful even when told to leave the royal family undisturbed for a time. She'd rarely been fonder of a servant than she feels just now and Cersei stifles a hysterical bout of laughter at the thought – you of all people.

"What is it?"

"The King was asking after you. He said you seemed unwell when he last saw you; if you would like me to send him to you—"

"There's no need for that. Tell him that I'll come to him shortly."

"At once, Your Grace."

It's just one last time. It's easier to think now that she's not quite as caught up in her own mind and the world seems far steadier than before; she would need this last night to make sure that it would stay that way.

"Jacline? Stay in my chambers tonight and keep the prince with you. Don't leave the castle under any circumstances, no matter how often he asks for something. I will come take him later."

"The whole night?" The girl's endeared smile dies a quick death at the scowl she gets in return – all her handmaidens love to coddle him too much to refuse anything he demands – and she nods hastily. "Of course, Your Grace. I can keep him safe."

You better. There isn't anyone she can trust here outside of the people she'd brought with her and even her best bet isn't too spectacular. "I'm counting on that."

~.~

As spring had slowly started blossoming into summer, the relentless heat reigning in every room on Pyke outside of her own chambers had become more and more difficult to bear. Cersei had been reminded of it yet again as she'd gone to return to her marriage bed, but it's too late to do anything about the heavy, layered gown she had chosen for tonight apart from picking at her collar in yet another restless, aimless gesture. A prisoner by choice, even in my own clothing. It's a bleak image, though not as bleak as the sight of the room as she enters – the fire is lit yet again, throwing odd shadows around the King's apartment. She finds her way to the balcony easily enough after all this time; leans on the window frame without a word just quietly enough to startle her husband into facing her.

"There you are. If your girl hadn't found you, I might have had to send a search party."

"I had quite a lot of work to do. We're departing soon enough, I presume; leaving the Iron Islands unattended would be inadvisable." The admission that she's willing to leave to follow his plan gets her a grin and a kiss, though it doesn't last long once she continues. "I spent some time with Loren, too. He wouldn't understand why his parents have suddenly disappeared unless there's someone to explain it to him, and he needs to hear it more times than you'd expect." She had experienced it before; the endless repetition before a piece of information managed to stick. It would certainly take him a while and it would cause a lot of confusion, but he'd manage in the end. Lannisters always do. "Children his age forget so easily."

"He doesn't have to." He'd started toying with the endless laces to her dress, frowning down at the elaborate shapes they make. The fabric is stiff and restricting, exactly as she likes it, and Cersei reaches around to release the knot at her back, one hand sliding over his to keep him still. It's a habit he and Jaime share, describing all sorts of future atrocities and trying to be alluring at the same time, but she had never been afraid to give her brother a piece of her mind if it became too much. She hadn't ever considered biting her tongue in his presence – not given that both of her marriages had turned it into the only option. "He can come with us. Let him see what is being done in his name."

"He can see when he's older. He can't understand any of it now as it is." The bulky shape of one of Euron's rings, bearing his house sigil, digs into her palm, but she refuses to budge until she'd moved his hand to the loosened front of her gown again. Every sensation feels heightened now – the heat, the relief of the wind coming from the sea, the hot touch to her bare skin, the long, twisting tentacles carved into the metal under her fingers – and her heart is beating so fast that he must be able to hear it already.

"Are you leaving him with your Lord Commander, then?" It's a challenge, but there's a bitterness to it that she hadn't seen coming. Not bitterness – anger, white-hot and barely suppressed, all for her behalf. All because of her, too, but the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive by now. "So that he doesn't see the rest of his mother's family slaughtered for treason?"

Slaughter. Of course. She hadn't needed a confirmation to be sure of her suspicions, but it had come just in time all the same.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I? He has enough people to look after him and Damion and his men can be fine teachers when they want to." Her grip tightens, but her other hand's touch turns gentle. It's a comfort, though for whom it's intended, Cersei can no longer say. "I would rather teach him how to rule before he learns how to kill."

That brings a laugh out of him and she responds. It's a short, breathless sound, but it's all she can manage. She can feel her nails digging into her own skin now, nearly drawing blood, and it's only fitting, really. "Is there any difference?"

"There has to be." There's not enough space and she hadn't thought this through – hadn't had the time, no matter how much she had tried to draw it out. It's easier than it had been during what she remembers of her lessons, but then again, her weapon is must lighter now. She feels lighter all over, as if she'd finally been allowed to breathe out after months and years and decades on end. "I just haven't found it yet."

By the time realisation dawns - it's right there, in the incredulity of his bright blue eyes, in the sudden, desperate grip around her body - it's already too late. It really is a woman's weapon, this sword he'd given her. The blade tears through the fabric of her skirt easily enough when she pulls the handle up and it's too small, too quick to be stopped when she twists it around until it's turned towards him and it tears through skin just as easily - she watches, equally horrified and fascinated, at the wound her own hand had inflicted as blood starts seeping through Euron's clothes before he can make a sound. It was the right place to hit, at least. She had wanted it to be over quickly.

When he loses his footing and falls, Cersei follows him.

"You," he gasps and he's laughing now, more blood staining her hands as he coughs it up and she should really try to keep him quiet, but she can't. If he's got anything left to say, she might as well hear it. She had never wanted to owe him anything, but she owes him that much at least. "You."

It's a curse, as it is so often when it's about her, and it stings more than it should.

"Me," Cersei agrees. That stings, too - she had always meant to end it somehow (him, somehow), but not like this. "I never saw it coming either."

It doesn't take long after that. She'd done too much damage for him to keep breathing for long and there is far too much blood for him to fight back, but she waits until she's sure it's over; until his chest is still and she can feel his heart stutter through its last beat. She can't linger for long - she'd picked out a victim (a murderer, in fact, even if he doesn't know it yet) before she'd entered the room and it's only a matter of time before she draws his attention. The sooner it is, the better, though it would require quite a lot of noise.

It should be easy enough, Cersei thinks as she wipes her hands on the skirts of her dress to get a firmer hold on the sword and turns it towards her own body. She would have to be careful - it's a thin line between a survivable wound and a mortal one and she's not entirely sure she can balance herself on it - but still convincing in her suffering, both literal and emotional. And how can she not be? Despite everything else the gods had decided to send her way, she'd never been subject to this specific kind of pain. She hadn't had the time to prepare for any of this – just this morning, she'd considered inflicting something that she would never recover from. Being careful when so much is at stake – when there are rather a lot of things she's looking forward to – is just new enough for her to be unsure if she can manage it.

It's too late to wonder now. I've gone too far to stop. Her fingers shake around the handle but still manage to hold the blade in position against her lower stomach and once she's drawn a breath – enough of it to turn into a scream when she needs it to – Cersei thrusts it in.