His sweet dream lifts away slowly. Brother stills with practiced ease, slowing his breathing, only moving his hand over to feel for her. He knows not to disturb her, how much she would hate that, especially now that her little prince steals her slumber more often than not.

He only opens his eyes when fingers find nothing but silk and space on the daybed next to him. Through breathing as shallow as he can stand, his nose finds sour milk first amongst the powder and lavender hazing the dry heat of the nursery.

She always wants to look at him. Even in the late afternoon, while daylight and opportunity still splay and hang halfway in the air, there's no brightness she prefers better than the sun that lives in her, their, boy's hair.

From here, though, the point of view is a bit different. Sunlight spills over sister's shoulders where the straps of her bralette should be. Her immaculate skin flows divinely uninterrupted, neck to waist, save for their son's face at her breast. He watches, still scarcely breathing, as she smiles down at the boy, sighs in contentment as he grows quiet, winces at brushes of little cub's budding teeth.

The coos spiling from her mouth as she speaks to him are almost as high-pitched as the infant's own. "Better?" Of course Joffrey can't answer her, not with words, but he and his Mother never need them. He only belly laughs, her favorite soothing sound, Jaime knows.

"Come now," she murmurs to him as she traipses back to the daybed where brother waits, her eyes never leaving the bundled babe's face. "Father is sleeping, you and I should do the same."

It's only when she says that, "Father," that Jaime dares to make a sound. The gasp escaping his lips draws her attention. She never says it, not even when she can, not even at times like this. Their eyes meet finally, and little Joffrey's great green eyes are on his uncle, his father, too. She lets out a breath, almost a laugh, and it seems so heavy, almost as if it had been holding her to the ground, even though Jaime knows that he is. Their little pride, all three together now, is what keeps sister sane, safe, even embedded in the mania that is her life. Jaime clasps at her daintly ankle with his right hand, just as it was when they were born. His other hand wraps with hers around their son, and he knows that this, the way it always will be from now on, is preferable, no matter how complicated it might be.

When their eyes meet again, the corner of her mouth curls into the smallest of smiles, the sort that she might flash at him amongst others as a lark, the sort that no one else might notice from across a crowded room.

It is a secret that only the two know.