He's nearly out of the gates by the time Jon Snow catches up with him.

There's not much he's going to miss about the North, truth be told, but it's still a strange thing; leaving behind a place that had served as a temporary home for nearly two years. Jaime had hated most of it – the aimlessness, the hostility, the cold – and despite the dangers of his next destination, seeing the last of it is more a relief than anything else.

"Lannister!"

Of course he's not allowed to do it quietly.

He halts his horse and casts an impatient glance down at the man, ire dissipating when he notices his ragged breathing. He must have ran all the way out through the courtyard and now that he's finally reached his destination, he hands him a piece of paper, expression guarded enough that he can't quite determine what he's about to read.

As his eyes skim through the message, apparently addressed to the Queen in the North, his body grows faint enough that he has to tighten his grip on the reins lest he falls off the saddle. It's short and to the point: an attack on Pyke – not a war declaration, just treason. The King had been killed, the Queen – wounded but stable enough to take over for the time being. There's just one missing piece.

"The child," he says, a question and a prayer. If it is treason, then the heir is the most vulnerable target – just an infant boy, his infant boy, Cersei's change of heart when all she had wanted had been to fight and die. If I've lost him, I've lost her too.

"Your son is unharmed." Snow sounds nearly bored, but there's a kindness to it that hadn't been present before. "Rather convenient, I think."

"You? Or Sansa Stark?" For all his supposed experience, he's still the same body he had been when Jaime had first met him – he's still capable of taking anything at face value unless she steers him towards the supposed lie beneath the surface – but there's less of the morbid awe that he'd felt back then and more of an understanding that Jaime had never seen before. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. It must be easier for him, his Targaryen queen had actually managed to slaughter the city before he'd stopped her from going further, and being near his sister had clearly made it easier still. It's a natural progression of events, it seems. "Your Queen's ever so suspicious."

"I serve no Queen," he counters immediately, as he had every time someone had questioned him on the matter, though he sounds guiltier now. Ned Stark had been just as obvious, if less bold about it.

"Neither did I, for a time." After everything that had happened, it's unlikely that his encouragement would have any credibility to speak of, but it makes Snow look even more torn, some of the contempt usually painted on people's face when family is mentioned in front of him seeping out in favour of faint, reluctant sympathy. "Go back to your sister, Lord Snow."

It's high time he does the same.

~.~

The Iron Islands had barely changed in the decade since Jaime had last seen them. He'd go as far as to say that they hadn't changed at all, but there is a slight deviation, at least on Harlaw where he first sets foot.

It's where the first signs of Cersei's presence start to appear.

The banners catch his eye at once – a flag with the Greyjoy sigil greets him at the harbour, but the gates of the castle are decorated with both the Lannister lion and the body of a man dangling from a rope on one of the spikes. Though he'd clearly died elsewhere, he'd been there a while and Jaime gets his explanation as soon as one of the workers on the boats approaches.

"The Queen's serving justice to the traitors. Wouldn't leave anyone in peace until she saw him dead."

It's only then that he sees the sigil on the man's cape. He must have been the Lord of this island once, before he'd managed to anger the royal family beyond repair. "Is he the one who murdered the King?"

"One of his men, but he took the blame. Must have been trying to get rid of the Queen instead. Everyone knew he hated her." When he doesn't respond, too caught up in the implications, the man prods further. "You wanted to get to Pyke."

It's not a question. For all he knows, they might keep track of everyone making such a request given the tension in the region. "Yes. As soon as you can."

"For what?" There's no one to answer; by the time he turns, the sailor is already striding back to his boat. He's not alone – he wouldn't be able to row it on own and he clearly doesn't expect the effort from Jaime, though he'd made sure to hide his golden hand, and it's impossible not to wonder what the locals see in him. It's been a while since he's had a chance to see for himself, but compared to these people, he might well still resemble their Queen enough to be suspicious.

There isn't much time left to wonder, however, and he climbs in before he can talk himself out of it. It needs to be today. He can almost feel her now that he's this close; a two-man crew is nowhere near intimidating enough to stop him.

So he sparks a conversation despite his better judgement, acutely aware that he has no idea what he'll find once he's back on dry land once again. A scroll, a dead body, and a pile of rumours can't do much when it comes to a place he's been afraid to even approach for so long. He had always explained it away to himself – Cersei's life had been in danger before and there's no way to tell if that's still the case; the best he can do is ask.

It's another thing he'd always wanted to know, really – what Cersei looks like to them. She's well-loved, Damion had told him, but how much of it had kept after their king's death he's yet to see. He had watched her from the side for so many months during her reign, perched like a doll on that enormous, ugly chair of hers, as her people had made their announcements and demands, and had often wondered what it would have been like to take their place.

"The Queen," one of the men scoffs when he finally dares. "She's a Lannister. Very nice to look at and completely mad."

"Careful." His companion seems more amused than reproachful, although there's still an edge to it that Jaime can't quite define. "Or you'll end up like Harlaw."

"If she makes it."

"She'll make it."

"How would you know? You've never met her."

"Of course I have." There's a hint of pride to his tone now; so near to gloating that he's once again reminded of the bloodthirst that tends to plague these parts. "I was there the night of the attack."

"Like hell you were!"

"I was! She woke the whole castle; wouldn't let anyone talk over her until she was sure she'd get her revenge and still didn't shed a tear when she sent the King away into the sea. It just made her angrier. Could barely walk with that wound still bleeding everywhere and still started asking about the kingsmoot as soon as he sailed away."

"Lannister." It's a good conclusion as any, it seems, and one of them spits over the edge of the boat to seal it. Jaime cleans his throat, suddenly uneasy. Of course had been scared and a frightened Cersei is a furious one, but the doubt that he had managed to keep at bay for so long still manages to settle in.

"The kingsmoot?" He asks, rather feeble. "It's today, then, isn't it?"

"It sure is. 'S a joke, really; they'll give it to her anyway."

"If she makes it."

"There's no way she won't. From the day the King brought her here, he was always saying that the God had taken to her as well. He must have known she could do it."

"Never let the rest of us make sure of that, did he? He wouldn't let anyone touch her. What's the point of having a Lannister wife if you won't share her?"

"If you'd ever wed a Lannister woman, you'd have known the answer to that."

It's an unceremonious exchange, so unapologetic that it enrages him as much as it makes him gloat, though he'd never admit it out loud. Completely mad, but you still want her. They're all half-savages here, he'd found that years ago; of course they had grown fond of her.

As they approach Pyke and it morphs into a distinct shape instead of the foggy blur that it had been so far and the hint of shouting begins to reach his ears, the thought of what he's going to find there starts pestering him more and more often. A kingsmoot. What would Cersei have to make it through? He had been taught about the Ironborn and their way of choosing their ruler, Jaime's sure, but it escapes him now, as all of his father's lessons tend to do when he truly needs them.

"There they are." One of the sailors nods towards the still-distant shore and the large swarm of people there. "If you want to watch, you'll have to hurry."

"Watch?" What is there to see? As far as he knows, it'll be talking and more talking; he'd much rather get to his sister when she's on her own after they've finished their stupid ceremony and tell her everything, do everything, that he'd held back for so long.

"Have you never seen the Ironborn crown someone?" He gets a wide, wicked grin in return for his confusion. "The queen might be the first with the guts to try it out of what whole bunch."

END OF DAY ONE

"I have no doubt." It doesn't matter what obstacle is put in front of her; Cersei would be always reach out to meet it if it's power and safety waiting for her on the other side. It's not difficult to imagine her doing the same to prove herself here – she'd spent a lifetime doing that to the rest of the world, after all.

It doesn't take much longer to reach Pyke, even if their destination is quite far away from where he wants to be and Jaime pays them both far too much, enough to likely raise suspicion, in his effort to get there as quickly as he can, but it doesn't matter anymore. Soon enough, they'll all know who he is either way.

The island is about as lifeless as he remembers it, rocks and already sun-burnt grass populating the landscape from end to end. The sound of voices, increasingly agitated, reaches him once more, all male save for one. It's as controlled and cutting as it's always been and it thrills him in the same distant, tentative way that seeing her from a distance had all those months ago. It's not truly, fully her unless he can reach out and take her in his arms, but it's been enough for so long; now that he doesn't have to settle for it anymore, it pales in comparison.

By the time he nears the shore again, the arguing has stopped and everyone has quieted down – so much so that from a distance, they're nothing but the greyish silhouettes that they had been the last time and, as Jaime catches his breath and starts his descent down the hill, his eyes wander towards the centre of attention in their circle. He can't see her yet, but she's bound to be there. She always is, when the crowd is this thick.

The Lannister soldiers circling the rest of the men part when he nears them. There's no sign of recognition – for all they know, he could be yet another local lord who had joined their council a little too late, though he hardly looks the part – and for the time being, he's grateful. Getting lost in the sea of faces would certainly work in Cersei's favour should she see him before she's done with her doubtlessly victorious speech.

It's precisely what he'd expected, but the place is still eerily quiet as he elbows his way to the heart of the circle. Someone moves and is quickly chastised and that's as much of a warning he gets before he steps into the clear space in-between the Ironborn.

He'd had no choice, really. He could have been looking for anyone at all and his eyes would have still fallen on her first, before he'd recognised anything else in his surroundings. In the sea of grey and brown, Cersei is a bloodstain bright enough to blind him – crimson, golden, and, for once in her life, completely still.

It is her, there's no doubt about that. He can't see her face from here, but the veil of blonde hair shielding her features is proof enough, sodden with seawater as it is. The gown as well – it's a paper-thin silken thing, plastered against a body he knows better than anything else in the world, but she's not moving, not even to breathe, and he understands what the man from Harlaw had meant. No one else would have been daring enough to brave a coronation like this one.

But she couldn't have done it either, surely. There are countless ways for a queen to prove herself, she's done it enough times before and even if the people she reigns over this time are far more difficult to please than the mainlanders had been, surely she could have thought of something.

But she hadn't. She hadn't, and he's oddly detached from the thought of it – for all his fears and elations and anxieties, he'd never expected to feel quite as betrayed as he does when faced with the sight of her body, still dripping from the final sacrifice she had made for the crown she'd reached out for her entire life.

It dawns on him, finally, what his father had told him all those years ago. The Ironborn drown their kings before kneeling, just to be sure that their god would approve of the choice they'd made. It only makes sense that they would do the same for the queen they'd picked as well, but it's all wrong – Cersei never would have, if she hadn't been sure that she would make it. It's a superstition, nothing more, and any mainlander in their right mind would have held their breath, pinched their nose shut, done something to block out the water before it overwhelmed them. It's such a simple solution that any Lannister worth their name would have found a way to cheat the death asked from them. It's the same scandalised denial that had plagued him after King's Landing had fallen, now even stronger with the knowledge that Cersei had been informed of his arrival. Had it not been for the sight he's been presented with, it would have been a ridiculous notion – that she would let herself meet such an end, any end, when she had known that he would be there to see it.

Bit by bit, reality settles into place. He's still numb to it and the world only rushes back in when one of the Lannister soldiers to his left shakes his head and makes to step forward. She could have been holding her breath, but it's been too long – it would have been impossible to stay that way so long and survive. No god would interfere with death to the degree they expect this one to do it and she should have known, should have waited, should have given up just this one time—

"Nobody fucking touch her," one of the Ironborn barks and the silence shatters what little peace he had managed to gather from his anger.

It's impossible to keep himself from speaking, then.

"What does it matter? She's dead."

She's dead. He's seen death so many times that it should be an easy enough assessment to make – she's not breathing, she's not moving, and they'd drowned her; she's dead. It's a rather simple process once he tries to imagine it all unfolding, too, but the last piece of his puzzle still fails to fit – Cersei couldn't have possibly let any of this happen without having her sights set on each and every way out.

Dazed, Jaime follows his soldier's example and tries to near her. She never would. There's no way she would be so horribly still and quiet if only she hears him there. Despite their last, bitter goodbye, despite this stubborn thirst of hers that he had never understood, despite death itself, she would never leave him like this when he had done everything in his power to keep her safe. She must have realised, must have known, but perhaps she hadn't – perhaps he hadn't done a particularly convincing care out of it if it hadn't been enough to change her mind and it's very nearly worse than losing her; the idea that it had happened before he'd had the chance to tell her all about it.

"Of course she's dead, that's the point. Step back before I—"

Before he can think twice, Jaime shoves him out of the way hard enough for the man's armour to dig into his palm and pushes past the last few people that separate him from his sister and he's so close now, close enough to feel the scent of the sea still clinging to her body just as someone pulls him back by the collar and hisses a warning in his ear, but it doesn't matter – their ridiculous ritual doesn't matter, their belief doesn't matter, nothing, truly, nothing but her and she had left him here. It hits him, at long last, that there's nothing he can do – for all his efforts, all the times he'd tried to change nothing but this one threat she'd always held over his head without even realising it, the only time it had truly counted, she had left him behind.

"Cersei." He's sunk to the ground now and he's so breathless that she's the only one who could have possibly heard him. He hates her, hates her more than he's ever hated anyone in this world; hates her almost as much as he loves her. Through the shimmering curtain of her sodden hair, her eyes stare blindly back at him. She shouldn't be there at all, not anymore, but he can see the same sharp, wilful glint in their depths that had plagued her their whole lives and Jaime grips onto it hard enough to hurt. That's it, he urges her through a battle that must be long over already, fight back. Fight back, if you've ever loved me, "Cersei, please—"

With a great gasp and a desperate lurch forward, his sister wakes to the world once more.

Everyone moves backwards, almost reverent, and Jaime follows, disbelieving and elated and so relieved that he could cry, before Cersei manages to stumble over him. She rolls onto her stomach, brings herself to her knees and heaves out the water still sticking to her lungs in several pained coughs, one hand braced on the sand and the other clutching at her chest as if she still can't shake it off. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot and fiery with life as each new breath shudders through her body and when she looks up, triumphant, the crown in the Drowned Man's hands is already being placed on her head as her subjects voice their recognition. It's a cacophony of sounds – the chant of her name, just her name, and the 'Long may she reign' by their countrymen following in its wake, and all Jaime can do is follow along, sing his praise with the rest of them, alone only in his reasons.

She had listened, of course. No god could have dragged her back from death, but she would have always done it herself if it's him asking. Doubting it had been as sacrilegious as believing that death could keep its hold on her at all and he would have hated her all the more for nearly making him let go of that belief if only he hadn't missed her quite so much.

"You promised me an estimate, Lord Merlyn." Her voice is still rough, but level enough to make them all fall quiet again. There's a coolness to it, too, the kind that always follows in the wake of other people's doubt in her, and the man she'd addressed squirms in his place.

"A week, Your Grace. A fortnight at most, if you would prefer."

"A week will do just fine." She rises to still shaky legs, still dripping wet, and grants them all a smile just distant enough to be both a promise and a threat. "Make sure you're ready by then. We've wasted enough time

END OF DAY TWO

as it is."

"As you wish." Lord Merlyn offers a hasty bow and, after a wave of her hand, the crowd quickly disperses. There's nothing more for them to do here – the Queen has given her first order and now that they've accepted her, the thrill of watching her silent, motionless fight for her life against their god is gone, replaced by the kind of unquestioning devotion that his twin tends to inspire in anyone willing to believe in what she's promised them. It's easy for them, as easy as breathing, and he's still frozen on the spot as they depart around him, eyes fixed on Cersei's form as she catches her own breath. He can't approach her, can't do anything but watch, drinking in the proof that everything he'd seen until now had been nothing but a temporary state, and when she turns to look towards the sea and faces him instead, everything around him screeches to a halt.

He understands, now, what they had seen to convince them that she would survive. If any god had ever walked this world, she's staring back at him through his twin's eyes.

"Jaime?" Her astonishment cuts through him, almost as sudden as her first gasp had been, and she stumbles towards him just as he gets to his feet, arms stretched out towards her. She's shivering and beaming and the uncertainty lacing the acknowledgment hurts, even if it's his doing alone. "You did come."

"Of course I did." Had he truly made her doubt? It matters little, at least for the time being, by the times she's in his arms, her presence surrounding him from everywhere. The mad rhythm of Cersei's heart against his ribcage makes him choke on a sob and all the while, she's there, hands clutching at his sides desperately, the familiar, light scent of summer and sea still clinging to her hair when Jaime buries his face in her shoulders. She's so impossibly warm, burning, really, and he holds her tighter still, until he can't remember any her that's different from this, here, now. He grips her by the shoulder, more helplessness than anything else. He had been so close, so close to losing her. It would have been the only unforgivable thing she'd ever done and just the risk of it, even retroactively, is enough to make him furious. "Are you insane?"

She's still shaking when he lets go. It would have made sense either way, she could be freezing or crying or terrified, and it's only when she looks up that Jaime sees it for what it is. His sister is laughing; a clear, genuine, infectious thing that he hadn't heard in years. It might just be the most beautiful sound in the world, second only to her voice when she speaks.

"No," Cersei says, the denial muffled by his chest once she lowers her head again, happiness mixed with the incredulity of someone who had jumped to their death and had grown wings instead. "I'm alive. Jaime, I'm alive."

~.~

The walk back to the castle proper is a short one, and thankfully undisturbed. He'd followed Cersei through four separate rope bridges, several steep staircases, and a number of locked doors before they'd reached what he imagines might be her rooms and in that time, though the strange giddiness that had taken over them both hadn't managed to dissipate, it had in part given way to the grim reality of their surroundings. His sister's tower is as isolated as it gets; a lonely, jutting rock at the very end of Pyke, half at open sea already, housing her chambers and nothing else and it's impossible to squash the thought of what it must have been felt like all this time, for someone like her, no less. She had always been used to cages regardless of who the keeper of the keys had happened to be and the images already forming in his head dissipate by a fraction in the face of her sudden liveliness as she pulls him forward decisively and steps past the soldier at her door.

"Leave us," she demands, gaze hardening when the man hesitates. "This part of the castle is to remain undisturbed unless the news you bring is crucial. Have the prince sent to me by nightfall."

"Your Grace." Clearly torn between the anxiety of leaving his charge and the fear of angering her further, the guard abandons his post a moment later. Pleased, Cersei leads him through the entrance and locks the door behind them, leaving Jaime to trail a few steps behind her. There are plenty of things for him to say, 'this place has made you reckless' being the first that comes to mind (although that's likely more her husband's fault than that of the island itself, whether he would like to admit it or not, because it's so like Cersei to only follow the worst example imaginable), and not one of them feels remotely safe. Finally, he settles for, "You need better protection than this."

If she had heard him at all, it certainly doesn't show. His sister rummages through her belongings, looking for something he can't determine, and the picture she makes is as alarming as her elation had been – the driftwood crown still rests on her head in stark contrast with the rest of her regalia, and she is not going to do this now. If she wants to play the queen, then perhaps it's time she turns to one of her closest advisors, provided that she still considers him that. "Cersei, are you listening to me? This place is a trap in the making; it's no wonder it's so vulnerable."

"I don't need you to tell me how to protect my own castle." Finally armed with what she had been looking for – a scroll, nearly flattened by both time and the amount of paper piled on top of the table near the window – she faces him again. Whatever had been left of the pure, unadulterated joy she'd felt by the seaside is quickly dissipating and Jaime nears her tentatively in an effort to reverse what he'd done before she'd tried to shut him out again. There are a million things he should be thinking of, countless questions that he should be asking, but the world had rarely felt narrower than it does now.

"What do you need from me, then?" It's both a challenge and a prayer. Tell me what you want me to be. "There must have been something, or you'd never have asked of me to come."

"I didn't ask anything of you; I just wished you a safe journey home. I'd rather hoped that two years would be a long enough time for you to decide what that would mean for you." Her tone is indifferent enough to fool just about anyone, but when Jaime reaches out to run his hand through her hair and lets it trail down to her chest, her pulse still races, bird-like, under his fingers. For once, she's as scared as he is, and it's a perversely pleasurable image. "I must say, it's a puzzling choice you've made, after months and months of hiding away, giving directions for each and every thing I did that made you uneasy." She thrusts the scroll out between them and he can make out enough of Damion's summarisation of their correspondence to wince at the sight of it. Of course he had told her; what Lord Commander in their right mind would not? "What I needed was for you to be here. I didn't need advice or scolding or you squabbling with Tyrion over what piece of land belongs to whom, I needed you, here. All you did was leave. My safety is none of your concern."

"Safety?" There's so much that she doesn't know, so much that he'll need to explain, but it's easier to give way to his anger instead. It can only be kept at bay for so long. "Is this what you call this? Barely surviving an attack and then sacrificing your life for a crown within the same month?"

For a brief, triumphal instant, she's startled into silence. It's short-lived, as her surprise tends to be. "I don't expect you to understand. I had to. If I'm to ever keep Loren safe—"

"He would be particularly safe as an orphan surrounded by Ironborn, I'm sure. Did you not think of him, at least?" And he should have really asked to see the boy before voicing his outrage, can see in the contempt in Cersei's eyes that she can see well enough that it's about him instead. He'd had his reasons to stay away and it's all easy enough to explain; nowhere near to the betrayal he'd nearly suffered at her hands.

That same contempt only grows fiercer and it takes a shake of her head for Jaime to realise that it's not directed at him at all. "I took the consequences into account, regardless of whether I lived or died. But," and, oh, it must be difficult, having to admit it; having to face the fact that they're one and the same in the way she detests more than anything, and yet, "I thought of you."

It should make no sense to him, of course, but then again, neither had any of his reasoning so far. They have all the time in the world for explanations and excuses and for now, he leaves it all behind; gathers her in his arms once again instead and waits until she lets it happen before leaning down for a kiss he'd waited for for the better part of an infinity.

Cersei's grip around his shoulders, when she responds to his caresses, is so vicious that it hurts and it's enough to make him laugh into her mouth once her lips part under his and her teeth graze over his tongue; enough to make him push her back towards the bed, rough and impatient and only barely cognisant by the time she hisses at the way he paws over every inch of her body. It's a sobering sound that even the frantic, hungry look in her eyes can't diminish, and Jaime falters. "You're hurt."

"It doesn't matter." Cersei sinks on her back under the canopy, face flushed with the strain of a wound she doesn't want to admit to, pulls him down on top of her until they're exactly where he'd wanted them to be, and she must be in agony. Whether it's the remnants of the sword that had struck at the core of her or the mere fact of his presence, Jaime can't tell just yet, but perhaps this is precisely what she thinks he can't understands; the story she wants to tell him – perhaps there's no difference between him and the weapon at all, in the end, if they'd both made her bleed quite so much.