Their last few weeks on Pyke are nearly calm enough for Jaime to be suspicious. His arrival and the new needs arising around Cersei's voyage back to the Westerlands delay them for a while, but by the time they stand in the harbour, ready to set sail, the realisation that he might actually miss it when they're gone is as startling as it's expected. For a time, the peace that had reigned over them had been like nothing either of them had ever known before and he might have regretted the change if it hadn't been for the better circumstances still waiting ahead.

It's a strange feeling, and rather unfamiliar – this sort of bottomless hope that the thought of the future brings him now. It's only fed further by the present and this time, the sight of Cersei's abomination of a flagship makes him smile despite his best efforts to appear firm. His sister's fleet is difficult to make sense of, with how chaotic it is, and much to his misfortune, the majority of them are far from mutes. Despite their reverence during the Kingsmoot, his sister's newly acquired vassals are loud, rowdy and far too difficult to control, considering how close they feel to their Queen. If he wants them to stay in line, he needs to be as comfortable as he can in his surroundings and the pressure of it is almost bigger than the strange giddiness that the position brings. In just a few weeks, the local nobility had started accepting them as an extension of one another, accepting his orders even if they hadn't particularly liked them on the assumption that twin had commanded it.

It stretches out to the rest of his family, too, and for the first time in ages, it's not only Tyrion that he's thinking of.

The image of said family is what alerts him to anything but his observation of the preparations. It's quite the image, too, in the way it makes his anxiety spike even further as his heart swells.

"Yes?" Loren stands before him, uncharacteristically quiet, and Jaime lowers himself to one knee so that they're at eye level. The boy had liked him enough to be as talkative as he is with the rest of the royal household and, as he and Cersei had both adamantly refused to utter the word 'Father' in front of him before they leave the Iron Islands, the only thing that makes him falter is the uncertainty of how to begin the conversation. "What is it, Loren?"

"We're leaving."

"Yes, we are." Hesitantly, he reaches out, stroking through his son's silky hair. It's a clumsy enough gesture that he regrets it almost immediately, but Loren laughs and comes closer, holding onto Jaime's arm to keep himself steady on the edge of the quay. "Do you want to?"

"I don't know." There's not much that he knows, truth be told, but Jaime waits patiently for him to figure it out anyway. "When are we coming back?"

"We're not." The boy's eyes grow wide. "But your mother and I will be with you the entire time. Everyone else, too." He scrambles for any reassurance he can afford to offer. "Everyone you know. And when we take our home back, you'll be the prince of that land too. Would you like that?"

He nods, eyes lighting up at the word, and Jaime has only just allowed himself a sigh of relief when he speaks again. "And you will be king."

"Will I?" The answer is yes, of course, though his sister hadn't yet talked him through the specifics of how exactly it's going to happen.

"Mama is the queen. Queens need kings." While that's not entirely true these days, Jaime supposes this can wait for a lesson later in life. "If she gets a king, he'll be my father."

Don't let him see you freeze. Cersei had warned him right before he'd met Loren for the first time about just how inquisitive he tended to be; how he had become alarmingly good at determining how people feel for him. It only makes sense that he's as advanced as he is – he'd been given all the attention that the world has to offer. All he ever does is ask questions, most of them uncomfortable. Don't let it get to you.

He can't resist.

"Is that right?"

"Yes." If he keeps being this insistent, this entire ordeal might end up easier to handle than Jaime had expected. "You can be the king, Mama says."

So his sister has done half the work for him already. Jaime lowers his voice. "But then I'd have to be your father." It comes out far too presumptuous and he's being a little too brave but, "How about that?"

"You can be," his son allows, his imperious tone so like his mother's that Jaime has to stifle his laughter lest he offends him. It's nearly unbelievable; the fact that she'd managed to hide him here in plain sight. He's every bit a Lannister, the two of them carefully shaped into a new life yet again. "If she says yes."

"She will," Jaime says, a little more convincing than he himself actually feels. It's helpful for him too, saying it out loud, and he takes Loren by the hand as they turn towards the flagship again. What little cargo they have left is making its way on board, finally, and he knows they're just about ready to leave. "She has to."

~.~

Sailing isn't for him, Jaime decides once the night descends over the fleet and the last lights of Pyke fade back into the horizon. It's always been bearable in small doses, but he'd been at sea for far too long now and yet another trip had been the last thing he'd needed. It doesn't help that everyone is so loud and that, instead of trying to calm them down, Cersei had wandered out on the main deck quite a while ago and had yet to return. He'd been listening to her men's songs and drunken wagers for long enough now to know that she hadn't joined them and there's little to do but follow her out. He feels just about restless enough to crawl out of his skin and the breeze outside might do him some good.

It isn't too effective at first; not when it comes to improving his mood, though he does hear a few choice suggestions of what the crew should do with a drunken sailor early in the morning, soon followed by yet another toast to their new conquest and the Queen that had made it possible.

Half-savages; Cersei had warned him about that. What she'd do with them once they've arrived at the Rock is as much of a mystery as the rest of her plans are and Jaime's step quickens once he climbs out and away from their joint cabin.

His sister is a vision in the moonlight; nothing but a silhouette against the shimmering blackness stretching out in front of her as he approaches. Even after all those weeks – all those years – she takes his breath away and when he reaches her and pulls her into his arms, the relief it brings, just like always, is nearly too much to bear.

She doesn't flinch and it's the only encouragement he needs to press even closer, lips ghosting over hear ear. "Your men are insufferable," he informs her, casting a quick glance around them to ensure that they're still alone. "I heard at least two of them bet that they could drink you out of crown and country before we reach Lannisport. They seemed to think you'd be proud of them for it."

"We'll reach Lannisport before first light. If they manage it by then, I'd be impressed." She twists around in his hold until they're face to face, back pressed against the wooden side of the ship. "But not particularly surprised."

They are savages, Jaime realises, and she knows it well enough to be wary of them, but she still likes them. Enjoys their company more than she had with anyone she'd ever met in the Red Keep, in the very least. The thought makes doubt swirl somewhere deep inside him, subtle and yet dangerous. "Did you like it? Living on the Iron Islands?" Were you happy? is what he's really asking. If she'd noticed, his sister doesn't let it show.

"It could have been much worse. After the wedding, they came to accept me eventually. Both me and Loren; it had been so long since they'd had a royal heir to preach to that they loved having him there. Their King's death was unsettling, I'm sure, but they'd got used to the sight of me already by then. They know the Lannisters well, with all our shared history," a fleeting smile, just wicked enough to be contagious, "and it took nothing but a push to accept me as queen once I promised them the mainland."

The mention of home hangs between them, heavy and loaded, before Cersei gathers the strength to breach the topic that he knows had plagued them both all night.

"The mainland accepting them is a different matter entirely, as you well know. The good people of the Westerlands might have the same trouble with accepting me for a time, now that I've finally renounced their faith for good. It was a matter of time ever since the Sept of Baelor went down, but it's still a relief to have it out in the open." She takes a deep breath before finally taking the plunge. "I'm not going to appoint a High Septon."

It's not precisely the line of thought Jaime had expected and, well, "I don't think anyone would expect you to."

"No, but they'll still want their faith to be tied to their leaders, or it won't be a particularly convincing claim on my part. I've had well over a year to decide whether I want to return to Casterly Rock at all; if we're doing this, it'll have to last." When Jaime remains silent, waiting for her to take this wherever it is that she actually wants it, Cersei braves another look up at him. "I'll need you to represent the Faith of the Seven."

It starts to dawn on him, distantly, what she's planning. It's just like his sister – bold, arrogant and still indisputably following any law that they've ever deemed inconvenient. "All right," he says, still cautious. "And you'll represent the Drowned God, I assume."

It's just a little disbelieving, despite everything she'd done this far, but Cersei takes it in stride. "In a way, yes. When I was wed on the Iron Islands, I hadn't been baptised into their faith just yet, but Euron Greyjoy still put a crown on my head. It's meant to be a display of the sharing of power more than anything else, for my men's benefit more than for his own. A crown is a promise and someone they know – someone of their own faith, a leader they trust – handing it over to me was the only guarantee they needed. I'll crown you King of the Iron Islands and everyone who's sworn allegiance to me after I was drowned will have to answer to you. I'm your insurance in front of them and, in turn, you can be mine in front of the Westerlands."

So this is it; how she'd seen it happening. Their wedding. This one impossible thing that had always stood just outside their reach, landing right into his arms with one quick sweep of Cersei's machinations as if it's the simplest answer in the world. And it is, suddenly, as simple as breathing and he could kiss her, so he does.

This is simple too, now. Cersei's arms wrap around him without a moment of hesitation and Jaime hauls her closer, pressing them both harder against the side of the ship before he'd managed to lose his balance. Her tongue darts over his lips and as soon as he gives in, more than happy to grant her the lead she seems to always need, one of his sister's hands tangles into his hair, body arching up against his. It's a familiar thing, the frantic desire for them to melt into one another that often plagues him, and Jaime's too lost in her to care for the rest of the world, but it's her safety that still comes to mind first when he absently starts to bunch up the fabric of her skirts in his hand. It's muscle memory more than anything else and it's nearly beyond his control, but, "Here?"

He needs to know; needs to hear her say it. This is her home now, no matter how much she speaks of their return to the Rock – this ship and the freedom that it grants her to be everywhere she wants to be and drift away into the sea to her heart's content – and he needs to know that it can be his too, for as long as they're here. Home is wherever his sister is and he's never wanted the sentiment returned quite this desperately.

The answer, to his relief, appears to be an easy one and Cersei nods, forehead pressed against his, the jewels of her eyes catching fire under the dim light coming from the inside of her ship.

"Here."

~.~

The world around them is still greyish and foggy around the edges when the armada reaches Lannisport, the morning air sending a shiver down Jaime's spine as he watches all of Cersei's possessions being unloaded and transferred to the carriages that would take them all to the Rock. His sister had already found her way to a horse, steering Loren towards a litter as gently as possible while still maintaining her position. His sister looks uncomfortable enough that he spares a moment to wonder whether she's quite as self-assured as she'd like everyone to think, and her expression morphs into something far more defensive once she notices his worry.

"Travel by sea doesn't always agree with me," she announces to no one in particular, gripping the reins just a little tighter as Jaime mounts on his own saddle, still eyeing her warily. The sea hadn't seemed to bother her the night before, but he's not about to point it out. "It would have been safer to go straight home, I know," she adds before he'd managed to address what he knows is on both their minds, "but the people need to see us. Let them know who's fought for them and won."

It's the last warning he gets before the city gates swing open in front of them and the momentum carries them forward. Jaime takes a moment to compose himself – he'd spent enough time by Cersei's side to know what sort of picture they're supposed to make when it comes to the smallfolk and by now, it's almost a second nature – and follows her lead.

He hadn't been sure what would welcome them. The local Lords – the majority of them, anyway – had wanted them here; passionately enough to turn on Tyrion, at least. None of them had actually come home for too many years to count and a part of him had expected the place to be unrecognisable, all while he'd been fervently hoping to find a cure for the sense of displacement that had haunted everyone in their family – barring their father, perhaps; he'd thrived in the wasp nest of King's Landing – all through their years in the capital. It's only when he sees the people lining the sides of the road that he releases the breath stuck in his throat – the faces are new, that much is true, but it hardly matters when they're still quite so familiar.

Cersei takes her first step into the city, hesitant to none but him, and the hush that rolls over the crowd is enough to make him lower his guard by a fraction. It's not tension. It's not fear, either. It's curiosity and trepidation mixed with reverence; it's a sort of warmth that the Red Keep had not once offered them.

It's home.

"Cersei," he calls out, loud enough to reach her and her alone. She turns, her inquisitive eyes zeroing in on him instead of her new subjects, and he grins back without an ounce of care for the careful resolve she doubtlessly wishes they'd both display. "They know."

Everyone knows, now – she'd fought for this and she'd won. What's more important, Jaime thinks as they press forward, every step taking them closer and closer to the throne she means to claim, is that this time, Cersei knows it too.

~.~

Casterly Rock is bursting with life the day of their join coronation and, with the distinct lack of his sister by his side and the sudden reappearance of his brother, the entire ordeal is starting to feel just a bit overwhelming.

"The Starks?" If he'd still had it in him to be surprised by any political move made in the past few months, Jaime might have felt a little more alarmed by the direwolf stretched over the snow-white sails. "Who invited them?"

"The new Queen of the Westerlands, I assume. Or is it Queen of the Iron Islands now? I could never keep track." Tyrion doesn't sound anywhere near as bitter as he'd expected him to and it's enough to fuel the tentative hope that perhaps, just this once, the world might not need to fall apart around them right after it's all settled into place. "No matter; she'll be queen of both once she puts a crown on your head. It's only courteous to invite her northern neighbours. The soon-to-be yet again King in the North rid her of her only threat for the Throne, after all. Not this throne, but," his brother shrugs, anxious gaze sweeping the premises from their vantage point of view, "that's not what mattered the most in the end, I suppose. You're both right where you wanted to be."

There's little Jaime can say to that without sounding as smug as he feels. "Yes, we are. As soon as I pledge my allegiance to her and vice versa, this should all be settled."

No more disputes over power, no more wars, no more neurotic exchanges over ravens or squabbling over every inch of land. At least, not for now. He's not naive enough to think it's going to last forever, but a lifetime will do. A year, even. He wouldn't complain if he gets several months, truly, if it means having a semblance of the life he thinks he's owed by now. Over the days since their arrival and the weeks of preparations that had followed, it had become altogether too easy to imagine this becoming a habit – discussing the next best move they have with his sister and her hastily put together round table of advisers; coaxing Loren into yet more exercises of trust until he finally dares to say the word 'father' without being afraid of who would hear; spending his nights by Cersei's side without having to feel like a criminal in his own home. It's a refreshing change from the past two decades and it's had a pleasant effect on them both; almost pleasant enough for him to think that something must imminently go wrong.

But no, they're past that now. King's Landing and everything that had happened there is nothing but a memory now and there's no reason to let it infect their present. The bits and pieces of it that he keeps close to his heart are too many to count, but they all pale in front of what they'd carved out for themselves this time.

It's freedom, plain and simple. For all their attempts to acquire just that before, their lives had always been tangled in something too big for them to handle. Even when Cersei had claimed the Iron Throne for her own once and for all, it had been a constant struggle to remain where they had been without toppling under the weight of all the mistakes that had led them there. In comparison to that, Jaime can't bring himself to feel regret for what little blood had been spilled for their benefit on this final attempt.

Perhaps Cersei had been wrong, after all. Trying until they get something right had got them here; with just a few more already calculated pushes, it might be the last blank slate they'd ever need.

"You could just call it a marriage, you know," Tyrion offers, a little more clipped than before. It's difficult to say what precisely has irritated him this time, but Jaime has his guesses. Their sister's newest success in snaking her way out of consequences, giddy with a twisted sort of pride as it makes him, had never been one of their brother's favourite qualities about her. "Seems like less of a mouthful."

"I can't, actually. Damion made sure to specifically avoid that word in any announcement he's made, both here and in Essos. He also made sure to warn me about avoiding it about four thousand times." If he were a suspicious man, Jaime would have thought that the pretty badge that Cersei had pinned over his chest had gone to their cousin's head. As it is, he's just suspicious enough to watch him closely and reclaiming his own position as Lord Commander in the meantime. Whether he can be both that and King of the Westerlands and the Iron Islands is yet to be determined, but there's no doubt that Cersei can manage it – it's precisely the kind of loophole she'd fabricate in an instant if asked to. "It's a coronation, for me and for her. We'll share the power and each other's claim on the land and say our vows in front of all of our gods and our collective people."

"Anything in the name of duty, I'm sure." Tyrion pats him on the back, more patronising than it's ever been encouraging, and pointedly avoids his brother's scowl. "I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind. I'd like to have a word with our sweet sister."

It's a rather foreboding prospect; enough so for Jaime to stand on edge, but it doesn't last – it's Tyrion and if the past few years had proven something, it's that their brother doesn't have it in him to truly hurt either of them – and any worry that might have still lingered evaporates under the sun streaming through the stained glass of Casterly Rock's main hall as he steps in a little while later, as ready as he's ever going to be for a coronation.

It's packed. That should be the first thing on his mind, Jaime knows, the detail that Cersei had likely agonised over for days on end as she'd made the arrangements for the guests, and he does realise that they're being watched, but the sight of his sister, already waiting by their thrones all the way up the stairs, his crown clutched in her hands like it's a lifeline, makes it all fade to the back of his mind; white noise to the radiant light pouring all over him as he makes his way up to her in the silence of the hall. She's a blaze of red and gold, unmoving as a statue, but Jaime knows her too well to believe the pretence of it – under the cool grace of her presence, there's a raging pit of emotion begging to burst out; an impatience that he'd been watching build up for an eternity by now.

He had dreamt of this once. More than once, even – in the fog that shrouds the majority of his childhood memories, he'd wed her on these stairs a thousand times before. It's different when it's earned and by the time he reaches her, everything that had happened to get them here has become as irrelevant as the crowd watching them. Then again, it's not much of a surprise – everything is irrelevant when compared to this and it's only when Cersei's hand settles over his, warm and firm and grounding, that he allows himself to revel in it.

She understands, of course. She always had – they'd been here before, all the way back to when they'd been too young to know they'd ever been meant to exist apart from one another. It's a lesson they'd never quite managed to learn, in the end.

Jaime rushes through his oaths as quickly as protocol will allow and lowers his head when Cersei reaches up to crown him. It's a heavy thing, the sort of jewellery the Kings of the Rock had once worn, if not as complex as the one she'd chosen for herself. He only sees it in full once he'd perched it on her golden hair, and it's certainly a sight – her driftwood crown, half-melted into one of their ancestors's tiaras, the gold dripping in a halo of frozen trickles where it had burnt into the wood. It's the best representation of the kingdoms she's inheriting and it fits her much better than the last one had, he thinks – it's imposing and loud and forcibly held together through the power of her will alone. It's her, more than the jagged silver lonely ornament from before had ever been.

"Father, Smith, Warrior," Cersei prompts him and he snaps out of his stupor, though there's nothing for him to add. These are her oaths, once he'd sworn allegiance to the Iron Islands and her new faith. "Mother, Maiden, Crone. Stranger." For the first time in their lives, it sounds nearly like a prayer once she gets to the end. It's a long line of promises she has no way of making sure she'd keep after that and Jaime waits for her to be done before launching into his own part.

"In the name of the Seven," he stresses, should there be any room for argument from anyone listening, "do you swear to uphold your vows to the people of this realm?"

She'd made more than enough of them – about peace and wealth and a look into a brighter future. This time around, she might just mean it, now that the choice is hers to make. There's a world of difference between clinging to a crown for your life and accepting it with open arms and a weight seems to lift off of both their shoulders once the difference makes itself known.

"I swear it." It rings loud and clear and Cersei's lips curl into a smile bright enough to light up the hall. It's a challenge and a promise all wrapped into one and he almost regrets having to share it with their subjects once she turns to address them all. "From this day until the end of my days."

She doesn't end it with a kiss – they couldn't possibly, not right now – but the triumph that reigns over them is very nearly enough to make up for it.

~.~

It's almost twilight by the time Jaime catches his sister alone again. She's on one of the countless balconies, as always, as detached from her own celebration as she could possibly be. The setting sun is bathing her in even more scarlet than her dress already offers and she almost seems alight by the time he approaches, shaking her head when he offers her a goblet to match his own.

"I'd rather not. We've got a long night ahead of us."

"I'd hope so; it's only traditional." He knows what she means and their definition of what a long night should entail might vary deeply, but she's listening and for now, he can work with that. Jaime sets his own wine to the side, crowding her in against the edge and, when she slips away, follows her over to the large table with every bit of Westeros carved into it. She doesn't glance back at the map as she lifts herself to sit on the edge and it's all too easy to take advantage of that once he settles between her legs. "Any plans in particular? Another conquest or four?" He nods to the space behind her and narrows his eyes at the surprise that stares back at him when Cersei looks up, suspiciously earnest. "You've been studying that."

"I've been studying it all my life. No," she takes mercy of him when Jaime's hold on her tightens with a question he doesn't dare ask. "No. I kept wondering for the longest time— what I'd feel once we came here. Would it be home at all, after over twenty years? Damion kept asking, back before you came to the Iron Islands – once we take the Westerlands, what then? It terrified me to think about it; what it would be like to have what I want. And now—"

The silence feels deafening, suddenly, with nothing but the waves slamming against the rocks a hundred feet down below to break it. "And now?"

"And now we're here. It's all I could have asked for. I don't know what we'll do next, if this is what you're asking, but it doesn't matter. It's still terrifying." The ruefulness of her expression is only belied by the happiness that overwhelms it and Jaime presses in closer, breathing in the essence of her as he basks in the carelessness that they share for once. "And it's everything I've ever wanted. This is all I know. If it's enough for you, it's enough for me."

"It is." He has no answer for her that she hasn't heard a hundred times until now, but Cersei doesn't seem to mind as she falls back against the surface of the table with a laugh when he leans over her, hair fanning over the far reaches of Westeros like rays of sunlight as she sets her crown aside. "It always has been, you know that."

"I do." It's the only confession they'd ever needed, truth be told. Cersei braces one hand on the ridge that the Eyrie makes under her palm, the wildfire in her eyes meeting its flame once they're eye to eye, and when Jaime pushes her backward with another kiss and climbs up right along with her, he sees her fingers splaying over the Reach as she keeps them both afloat. "I know."