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Chapter Text

Jaime had always followed her brother; she had been destined to do since the moment she slipped into the world after Cerion, tightly gripping his foot. The two were indistinguishable then; they might have been mistaken for identical, had one not been male and the other female. Jaime saw no such distinctions as a child. She was half of Cerion, and he was half of her, and together they were collectively ‘I’, because their needs and wants were the same. More specifically, what Cerion wanted, Jaime wanted. What Cerion did, Jaime did. What Cerion declared, Jaime agreed with.

Cerion was the first of the twins to speak, shrieking ‘Mama!’ at their mother, who smiled with pride, but Jaime was the first to walk, or better put, run, stumbling into a mad dash towards their father when he entered the nursery with his wife. She collided with his knees and grinned up at the man, and although Jaime knew she should not be able to recall such a thing, she had a distinct memory of Father laughing and scooping her up. She remembered what he smelled like, and the rumble of his voice in his chest.

It was the only memory she had of her father showing affection towards her, so false or not, she treasured it jealously. Jaime supposed her childhood had been happy for the first seven or so years. She didn’t remember anything awful. She remembered how everyone crooned and cooed over her and her brother, how they slept in the same bed at night, limbs tangled together, how their mother combed out both of their heads of golden curls each morning, singing softly under her breath a song about Lann the Clever.

She remembered the tourney held to celebrate the king’s tenth year on the Iron Throne, held in King’s Landing. They had never been to the capitol before then, and Jaime had been so excited. There would be knights and jousting, two of her very favorite things. Jaime had never been very good at being a proper little lady. She disdained needlework, broke into wild giggles whenever she was instructed to swing sweetly, and while she enjoyed dancing, she’d never been very good at ‘showing restraint in her movements’, which Septa said was very important, so no one would mistake her for a wild colt. Aside from that, she was absolutely dreadful with the high harp, and the idea of ‘managing her husband’s household’ bored her terribly.

She much preferred it when she and Cerion pretended to be one another and switched lessons. Cerion’s needlework was excellent and he was the far better singer, although a somewhat clumsy dancer. He had far tidier handwriting and was much better with sums, and he played the high harp very well indeed. Jaime liked swinging a sword and riding. She loved riding above all else. Cerion didn’t like horses much; he said they smelled awful and were stupid. Jaime didn’t think that was true at all, but she’d never enjoyed arguing with her brother, as he tended to win by default of being her elder by one minute and Father’s heir.

She didn’t understand why he wasn’t excited about the trip to King’s Landing. Even if it meant she was being fitted for new dresses what seemed like every day, Jaime was thrilled at the prospect of traveling across the Westerlands. “Mother says I may ride Loreon for a little while each day,” she told her brother eagerly. Loreon was what Jaime had named the fine white pony she’d received for her sixth birthday; Cerion had been gifted a miniature bow and arrow set, which he was already very proficient with.

Cerion scrunched up his face into an expression of disgust. “You’ll smell terrible. You’re supposed to stay in the wheelhouse with Mother and Aunt Genna and me.” The emphasis was on the final part of the sentence; Cerion disliked it immensely when he and Jaime were separated, even if only for a short while. Jaime didn’t like being away from her brother either, but the prospect of riding Loreon was too tempting to pass up. Besides, who wanted to spend an entire month of travel cooped up in a stuffy wheelhouse?

“It won’t be all day, Mother won’t let me,” Jaime pouted. “You could ride outside too. Don’t you want to see the mountains? We might even see a pride of lions,” she added brightly.

“No, I don’t care about the mountains,” Cerion said, as if she were simple, although he did look a little intrigued at the mention of lions. “They all look the same, and we’re going to have to sleep outdoors in tents, and it’s all just to see the stupid king and the ugly queen.”

“The king’s not stupid,” Jaime protested, “And Mother says the queen is beautiful.”

“Of course the king’s stupid, Father is the one who really rules,” Cerion retorted loftily. “Everyone knows that. And Mother has to say that, she used to be one of the queen’s ladies.”

Jaime didn’t know how to argue against either of those statements, and so flopped back onto the bed the two shared, staring at the ceiling. “I wonder if the king and queen are twins like us?” Everyone knew King Aerys and Queen Rhaella were siblings. It was queer and blasphemous, according to Septa when she thought they weren’t listening, but it was simply the way Targaryens did things. Jaime didn’t understand why it was alright for them but no one else. She’d told Mother she was going to marry Cerion before, but Mother had just laughed and said all little girls said that about their brothers.

“I don’t think so,” Cerion flopped down beside her, their curls mingling together. Four identical green eyes stared at one another. Then Cerion slowly smiled. He didn’t smile so readily or as often as Jaime, which made her both excited and wary.

“What?” she demanded, and then, “Ceri, tell me!”

“I know a secret,” Cerion sang, rolling away from her.

This was too much to bear; she couldn’t stand the thought of her brother knowing something she didn’t. Jaime snatched up a pillow and buffeted him with it, but he laughed and dodged, scrambling off the bed and running around it. Jaime gave pursuit and leapt on him, tackling him to the floor. The two were the exact same size, and so, evenly matched, and Jaime quickly pinned him on the lion skin rug. “Tell me!” she demanded.

“Fine,” Cerion sighed, and then his eyes gleamed. “You have to give me a kiss first.”

Jaime snorted and pecked him on the corner of his mouth. They had always been freely affectionate with one another, although Jaime was old enough now to begin to realize that most siblings were not quite so close as them. “Now tell me,” she ordered, squeezing her brother’s wrists.

Cerion bucked underneath her and freed his arms, shoving her off as he scrambled triumphantly to his feet. “You’re going to marry Prince Rhaegar and be queen!” Jaime stared up at him blankly. Her brother groaned. “The prince! The king’s son!”

Jaime didn’t understand. “No, I can’t,” she reasoned with a frown. “He’s too old.” She wasn’t sure exactly how old the prince was, having never met him, but according to Father he was almost a man grown, old enough to carry steel and wear armor.

“Not now,” Cerion rolled his eyes. “When you’re older, stupid. Father told me.”

“Why would Father tell you and not me?” Jaime asked uncertainly, finally getting to her own feet.

“Because he thinks you’re dull,” Cerion shrugged. “And I’m in charge of you, anyways. You’ll marry Prince Rhaegar when you come of age and one day I’ll be his Hand.”

Did Father really think she was dull? The thought stung, but Cerion had never lied to her, so what he said must be true. What bothered her more was the notion of marrying the prince. Jaime had always secretly hoped that she and Cerion would be able to marry some day and rule Casterly Rock after Mother and Father were too old. Their parents were cousins; siblings couldn’t be that different.

“But I want to marry you,” she said plaintively. “Not a Targaryen.”

“I’ll be your husband’s Hand, so it will be almost like we’re married,” Cerion argued. “We’ll still be together forever.”

That was a little comforting, but some of Jaime’s enthusiasm for the trip had dampened, until Aunt Genna told her that the prince wouldn’t be at the tourney; he was visiting his cousins in the Stormlands. Jaime could tell her aunt expected her to be disappointed, but it was hard to hide her delight. Now she didn’t have to worry about any of that, at least not right now.

King’s Landing was everything Jaime had hoped for. Everywhere she looked there were fine lords and ladies, decked out in silks and jewels, and men in shining armor with swords strapped to their sides. The Red Keep was a wondrous place for a girl of six, especially when one was Tywin Lannister’s daughter. Cerion rarely strayed from Lady Joanna’s side, but Jaime was always running off and having to be called back before she got lost in the winding corridors of the castle. But she found her brother to be at least partially right about the king and queen. They were not what she had expected. Jaime had grown up on tales of the Targaryen kings and queens of old, and had expected to see a pair like King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne from the old tales.

King Aerys was a loud and boastful man, and exceedingly vain and proud. He was handsome, but he looked nothing like Jaime had imagined a king to look. People whispered that he had many mistresses and that he blamed the queen for being unable to bear him brothers or sisters for Prince Rhaegar. Queen Rhaella was not ugly, but Jaime agreed with Cerion that their mother was far more beautiful. The queen was pale and painfully thin, with sad violet eyes and a downcast air, as if in perpetual dread of what her husband would say or do next.

Jaime did not see much of the king and queen; her mother kept the twins away from the royals, and she spent much of her time playing with the other children present at court or exploring with Cerion. They gaped in awe at the massive seat of melted down swords in the throne room, wandered through empty feasting halls, and pestered the servants in the kitchens for scraps of pastries.

A few days before the festivities were due to end Jaime awoke to hear her father’s voice raised in anger outside the bedroom she and Cerion were, as usual, sharing. She heard her mother’s voice as well, much more subdued but sounding displeased as well, and shook Cerion awake. The two crept over to the door to listen, but all they could make out was an angry mention of Aerys.

“How dare he-,” their father’s furious tone was muffled.

“He’s a drunken fool, but you cannot-,” their mother was insistent, before dropping down to a murmur.

There was no more shouting after that, and the twins reluctantly went back to bed. An hour or so late their door creaked open, and Jaime pretended to be asleep as she heard her mother’s light footfall as she approached the bed. She was crying, Jaime realized with a start, but she couldn’t let on that she was awake, so she laid there silently as her mother wept, sitting on their edge of their bed, before she learned over and kissed both of them softly on the forehead.

Father remained in King’s Landing while Mother accompanied them back to the Westerlands, and she was unusually short and terse during the journey home. Jaime felt unsettled by it, but tried to put it out of her mind, and had successfully forgotten about the odd end to the tourney by the time they arrived back at Casterly Rock.

Several weeks later a maid found Jaime and Cerion kissing, and things suddenly got much worse. It had been Cerion’s idea; not the kissing, as neither could remember who had first proposed that, only that it had seemed like a natural progression when they had been sleeping in the same bed and bathing together for years, but to do it only in secret. Jaime understood that they were likely to be in some sort of trouble if caught, but she did not understand just how much.

The maid who found them was a girl no older than fourteen or fifteen, who shrieked when she walked in on the two kissing while sitting on the floor, toy soldiers and knights still scattered around them. Cerion immediately shoved Jaime away, but it was too late; the maid stared at them wildly for a moment, as if unable to believe her own eyes, and then ran out of the room.

“She’ll tell Mother,” Jaime said, when she could make her tongue form words. There was a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach, as if she’d eaten something gone bad.

Cerion was silent, and looked as if he was torn between screaming or bursting into tears. He brought his knees up under his chin and buried his head in his arms. “What should we do?” Jaime asked tearfully, but he said nothing. Finally she gave up and went over to sit on the other side of the bed, knowing there was no point in trying to hide.

Mother did not take long. She walked into the room, skirts swishing, and took one look at them. Jaime avoided her gaze as she shut the door behind her and sat down slowly on the bed. “Is it true?” Mother finally asked.

It was the only time Jaime had ever heard her mother’s voice tremble.

“Yes,” she said, just as Cerion spat out “No,” at the same time. She ignored her brother’s stare, which was as close to hateful as it had ever been while directed at her. He wouldn’t stay angry forever. They loved each other; why should they lie about it?

Mother looked at them as though she did not recognize them; she was pale and her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Finally she shook her head. “This... ,” she trailed off before starting again. “This must never happen again. Do you understand? The two of you… you will never be left alone together again.”

“But Mother,” Jaime said desperately, ignoring Cerion’s angry stare, “How can it be wrong for us if it is right for the king and-,”

“Enough, Jaime,” Mother spoke more coldly than Jaime had ever heard her speak before, and the fury in her green eyes. “We will speak no more of it. The two of you are far too old to still be sharing a room. If I ever-,” she hesitated, and then went on, expression darkening, “If I am ever told anything about the two of you… doing such a thing, ever again, I will be forced to tell your father.”

Jaime knew better than to argue any further, and did not protest when her mother took her by the arm and led her out of the room that would become Cerion’s only. Mother pretended as if it had never happened at all in the days following, but Jaime knew what the guard posted near her new bedroom door was for. Then Father visited and Mother announced that she was pregnant with a brother or sister, and Jaime’s childhood ended entirely some months later.

Chapter Text

Jaime met her husband to be three years after Mother died in childbirth. She did not like to think about Mother at all; it was too painful. Father was much different now, and so was Cerion. Colder, yes, but there was something else in her brother since their mother’s death and baby Tyrion’s birth. Something that she did not like to dwell on. Cerion had been closest with their mother, but Jaime could not understand his rage towards Tyrion- an innocent babe, not matter how ugly and deformed- in the wake of her death.

“Because he killed her, Jaime,” Cerion would snap, green eyes flashing as if she ought to have understood his hatred perfectly. She didn’t, regardless. Many things came easier to her brother than they did to her, and hate was one of them. Of course she missed Mother, but what was the sense in dwelling on the past? No amount of rage would bring her back. And Tyrion was a sweet little boy, and clever as well, if one got to know him. Gods knew Cerion and Father didn’t. Cerion actively went out of his way to be cruel to the child, and Father acted as though he didn’t exist.

Jaime was still disturbed by Cerion’s behavior when the Martells had visited, shortly after Mother’s death. She’d been out of sorts herself, hiding her grief behind a taunting smile and poking sly fun at arrogant young Oberyn Martell, who was thirteen and very handsome. His older sister, Elia, was plainer in terms of looks and temperament, more quiet but very well-spoken, although she seemed rather frail. Cerion disliked both Martell children immediately and only willingly interacted with them when he ‘showed them the beast’.

Jaime had slapped his hand away, hard, when he’d hurt Tyrion, and seen the momentary shock ripple across his face. She hadn’t hurt him, not really, but this was different from them tussling about in play when they were small. She’d been deadly serious. “Leave him be, Ceri,” she’d said, and she knew that he knew that she meant it. Later he’d told her that Princess Loreza had asked after betrothing Jaime to Oberyn, or even Cerion to Elia, although there were nine years between the two.

“She wanted you for her stupid son!” Cerion had raged, while Jaime worked her hair back into the rough braid she preferred, when not expected to be seen by guests. “Father would never let you marry a Dornishman.”

She knew better than to tell her brother that she had quite liked Oberyn Martell, even if he’d flirted with all the young ladies and even the maids. And she’d caught him staring at a few of the squires as well. Of course she didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t want to marry anyone. Well, anyone besides her brother. Even if she did not feel as close to him. She still did, when they kissed, but they didn’t play together as they once had. Cerion seemed to think he needed to grow up in a hurry, to be the heir that Father needed, and had no time for the games Jaime wanted to play, unless they involved touching each other.

Three years later, the royal court came to Casterly Rock, as Queen Rhaella had finally given birth to a healthy child, a second son, Viserys. Father was holding a great tourney in the king’s honor. Jaime was torn between excitement for the tourney, for all the greatest knights would be participating, and dread, because this time there was no avoiding an introduction to Prince Rhaegar, who would be accompanying his father to the Westerlands. Cerion was pleased. Jaime pretended as if she were unbothered by the sudden flood of new gowns she was being fitted for, most in shades of green to compliment her eyes, or girlish pink. Her golden curls were brushed until they shone, and she was strictly forbidden from ‘mucking about in the dirt’.

On the first day of the tourney Jaime sat in the seats directly beneath the royal party, with Aunt Genna to one side of her and Cerion to the other. Her brother covertly squeezed her hand as the opening trumpets sounded, and Jaime smiled at him before squeezing his in turn. She could feel the Targaryens looming behind her like storm clouds, and couldn’t bring herself to turn around and crane her neck back to glimpse them. She’d only seen the king and prince from a distance, and all she’d been able to tell was that King Aerys’ hair was much longer than it had last been and that the prince was very tall and wore his hair long as well.

Riveted by the action, she watched as her fierce Uncle Tygett, who’d given her rides on his shoulders when she was a little girl, rode out against the Prince, who wore intimidating armor of black and crimson. “When you are his queen, he’ll joust with your favor tied to his arm,” Aunt Genna murmured to her, and smiled faintly at Jaime’s flushed face.

To the shock of the Lannisters watching- and much of the crowd- Rhaegar quickly defeated Tygett, and after him Uncle Gerion, who always knew how to make Jaime laugh, and who was so kind to little Tyrion. The crowd roared in response, but it was a roar of triumph, rather than dismay. Everyone loved Prince Rhaegar. Jaime heard the ladies tittering over his good looks, his sweet voice, and what a fine form he cut in his armor, terrifying and mysterious and beautiful, in a strange way, all at once. He only lost the final joust, to Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, whom Jaime looked upon as a god walking among men. Ser Arthur crowned his younger sister, Ashara, Queen of Love and Beauty, violets in her dark hair.

Jaime was formally introduced to him at the opening feast that night, as Father looked on with the barest hint of an approving smile. Feeling duty-bound to make him proud, she swept into what was quite possibly the deepest curtsy of her young life, and bowed her head demurely. “Your Grace,” she mumbled, and then glanced up at him, hoping her reluctance would be mistaken for girlish shyness.

He was beautiful, it was true. His face was fair and solemn, with eyes like his mother’s, only darker. His hair was silver and bound in an elegant braid that passed his shoulders. He was not as brawny as some man, but even as lean as he was, he was tall and broad-shouldered enough, with a trim waist. His hands looked pale and soft, and long-fingered. “Lady Jaime,” he said, and only his voice reminded her that he was just seventeen, only recently a man grown. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Despite her inclination to dislike him, Jaime gaped at him all the same, before blurting out, “Yours as well, Your Grace.” She knew her face must be scarlet as Aunt Genna ushered her away.

“You did very well,” her aunt congratulated her. “He seemed charmed.”

“He- he’s so much older than me,” Jaime said, frowning.

“That will matter much less in several years,” Genna laughed. “I was wed at fourteen.”

Aunt Genna thought her husband, Lord Emmon, a fool and a coward, and had not even taken his surname, which everyone knew. But Jaime was not so reckless as to point that out to the older woman, who had tried her best to be like a second mother to the twins for the last few years.

Jaime took her seat again, ignoring Cerion’s prying looks, and wishing Tyrion had been allowed at the feast. The official excuse given had been that he was far too young, being only three, but she knew that Father did not want the king to see his greatest shame. She picked at her food for the rest of the night, drawing jests from her cousins, since she was usually a voracious eater who made her brother look like a dainty bird in comparison.

As the evening drew to a close, Prince Rhaegar was called upon to play his harp, and those in attendance went utterly silent and still as the young man began to strum. It was the most beautiful, haunting melody Jaime had ever heard in her life, and she was shocked to find her eyes watering when it finally came to a close.

“You love him already,” Cerion whispered in her ear, and she had no idea whether he was satisfied that everything was going according to Father’s plans or irritated that she appeared so taken by someone other than him.

But it wasn’t that at all. She’d cried not because she was infatuated with the prince but because his music- it had reminded her of Mother, and her lullabies, and everything was lost to her now. Besides, she was far from the only person who appeared teary-eyed. Even the usual unruffled Genna looked taken aback. When her aunt had composed herself, she leaned down and told Jaime that she was certain that her and Rhaegar’s betrothal would be announced in a few day’s time, at the final feast.

Jaime felt ill then, and did not touch any of the desserts laid out.

She was in a terrible mood for the next few days, and had no interest in seeing the rest of the tourney events, much to the dismay of her friends, and assigned companions, Jeyne Farman and Melara Hetherspoon. Jeyne was only nine, plump and blonde and annoyingly timid, shrieking at every little thing and always convinced they’d get in trouble. Melara was much closer in temperament to Jaime; she was eleven, a year Jaime’s senior, and skinny and dark-haired, with a liberal amount of freckles all over her pale face, like one of the smallfolk. Both of them frequently declared Cerion the most handsome boy they had ever met, excluding Prince Rhaegar himself, and Jaime knew both of them were only friends with her in part because their families hoped to marry into the Lannisters.

Still, they usually went along with whatever she said, and for once she was in charge. They groaned and groused when she insisted on riding out in the hills surrounding Lannisport. This was, of course, very much against the rules, given the fact that they were unchaperoned and outside of the city walls, but Jaime saw no danger in it. She was Tywin Lannister’s daughter, and only brigand or bandit would be mad to attack them. Besides, everyone was inside the city, so the landscape was utterly devoid of people.

Jaime reined in Lore and dismounted, straightening her skirts, which she’d hitched up to ride astride. Melara’s snickers and Jeyne’s scandalized looks had not been enough to deter her. She patted her pony’s nose and collapsed onto the tall grass in a heap of of pale green skirts. She despised this dress. She despised everything right now, actually. Even the good weather, and the warm summer afternoon sunshine.

“We’re just going to play in the dirt like children?” Melara asked with a dramatic sigh. Jaime rolled her eyes. Just because Melara had flowered early didn’t mean she was automatically a woman compared to the rest them.

“At least the flowers are pretty,” Jeyne pouted, reaching down to pluck up some wildflowers.

“Let’s make crowns,” Jaime suggested, propping herself up on her elbows.

“Why couldn’t we go see that fortune teller?” Melara complained, although she was already picking daisies. “Don’t you want to hear all about your wedding to His Grace?” She tossed an errant bud at Jaime, who batted it away like a cat.

“No,” she said coldly, doing her best impression of Father and Cerion, “I don’t.” What would old, mad, Maggy the Frog tell her anyways? About her dreadful her life would be in King’s Landing, separated from her brother and married into the Targaryens? She scowled in a very unladylike fashion and busied herself with weaving her crown.

Her mood improved as the sunlit afternoon passed by, and she was in a cheerful enough mood as they headed back to the walls of the city.

“When I’m Lady Lannister, we can host a tourney just like this one for you and Rhaegar-,” Melara was saying brightly, although Jaime knew she was doing it just to jab at her.

“Melara, shut up,” she interrupted her as they passed through the gates, ignoring Jeyne’s little gasp. “Father would never marry his heir to a Hetherspoon.”

“You must be the only girl in the Seven Kingdoms who doesn’t want to marry the prince,” Melara began incredulously, but Jaime was already letting Lore work into a brisk trot, navigating the crowded streets.

When she saw a familiar figure in the crowds, however, she stopped abruptly, Lore neighing in confusion. “Cerion!” she called out- it had to be her brother, judging by the fine scarlet doublet and the curls glinting in the sun. He looked odd as he made his way over to her, as if he’d recently been ill. “What are you doing?” she asked, frowning down at him.

“Nothing,” he said curtly, and grabbed her reins, before quickly sliding onto the pony behind her. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“She’s not,” Melara tittered, freckled cheeks pink. “What about you?”

Cerion barely glanced at her. “I went to see that mad old witch.”

“Maggy the Frog?” Jeyne squeaked.

Jaime had not thought her brother the sort to put any stock in magic or witchery. “Did she tell your future?” she asked curiously. “What did you ask her?”

“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,” he sneered, and refused to say anything more about it.

Chapter Text

Jaime was eleven when Cerion was sent away. She did wonder if it was due to her father hearing murmurs about her and her brother, but she could not believe that Cerion would allow so much as a whisper about them to escape his notice. He might be still a boy, but by eleven her brother had already established himself as a harsh taskmaster with the servants. No one dared cross Tywin Lannister’s spoilt heir, or his sister.

No, it was far more likely that Father felt it was high time that Cerion begin to take on the trappings of a man, and that meant becoming another lord’s squire. In this case, Lord Sumner of House Crakehall, nearly a week’s ride south of Casterly Rock and Lannisport, down the Searoad. Jaime had been to Crakehall before, and knew the family to be dark haired and stout, in a proud castle on a cliff overlooking the Sunset Sea. They were one of House Lannister’s fiercest allies in the Westerlands.

“Father says Lord Sumner will make a man of me,” Cerion reflected sourly, deep in the bowels of the Rock. Jaime had been so angry upon receiving the news that she had burst into embarrassing tears of rage. Now she was putting her anger to work with a blunted practice sword smuggled from the armory, hacking at a dummy made of crumbling straw. “I don’t see what I could learn from that fat old pig.”

“You are a man,” Jaime snapped under breath, lunging at the dummy again. Her golden curls were escaping their braid and her face was flushed and damp with sweat. “Or nearly one, anyways.” It wasn’t fair. Father couldn’t do this to them. They had never been apart, not ever. They were meant to be together, always. Cerion was her best friend, her only friend. They kissed far more than they played together, now.

Jaime knew that within the next few years she would flower, and then she’d be a woman, and Cerion a man. And- well- she couldn’t help but think that then they’d have to… to do something, wouldn’t they? She wasn’t going to marry Rhaegar. The king had refused Father, told him he would never marry a prince of the royal family to a mere servant’s daughter. Father was still furious, and determined to change the king’s mind, but Jaime was thrilled.

She didn’t care. Perhaps it made her selfish, and a terrible daughter, but all she wanted was Cerion, and now Prince Rhaegar- beautiful and gallant he might be- was no longer between them. Part of her still held onto the hope that when they turned sixteen she and Cerion could run away somewhere. To Essos, perhaps, where no one would know them or care how they lived. Then they could be together, and happy.

“And you are nearly a woman,” Cerion snapped, “So stop swinging that stupid sword around.”

Jaime stopped, heaving for breath, and flung the sword at him in irritation. He caught it, although he had to use both hands. For a few moments they glared at each other, each daring the other to say something, before Cerion’s expression softened, and he dropped the sword carelessly onto the stone floor. “Jaime,” he said in a much quieter, gentler tone, and she ran to him.

The two embraced and sunk to the floor together, mere feet from where the lions had once been caged, long ago in the time of their grandsire. But the last lion had died shortly before Mother, and now the chamber was as empty and silent as a tomb. Jaime stared into her brother’s green eyes, before turning and resting her pounding head on his shoulder. He wrapped a long arm around her.

“I will miss you,” she finally said, fighting to keep herself from becoming teary again, for Cerion hated tears more than anything else, especially hers. “Promise you’ll visit often.”

“I promise,” he muttered to her rumpled hair. “Nothing will ever keep me from you.”

“Swear it,” she said fiercely, raising her head and looking up at him, “Swear on- swear on Mother’s grave that you will never leave me, not forever.”

After a split second, he nodded. “I swear.”

She laid her head back down and listened to his breathing, much slower than her own. By the time hers had finally matched his, her eyelids were fluttering. In the morning, Jaime saw her brother ride off with Lord Sumner, who, stout or not, made an intimidating figure in his dark armor. Cerion seemed very young and small beside him, barely old enough to ride a tawny yearling.

Without Cerion, Casterly Rock seemed much larger and much quieter. She could not creep into his room in the morning to crawl under the covers beside him and tangle her legs and arms with his while they dozed. She could not think of funny things to tell him after her lessons with Septa Saranella. She could not eat her meals with him, as even when he was home, Tywin Lannister rarely ate with his family. She could not stay up late into the night whispering with him.

Aunt Genna was especially kind to her in the wake of Cerion’s departure, and even foul tempered Uncle Tygett seemed to have more patience for her moods. Uncle Gerion did his best to make her laugh, as he always had, and she spent much more time with Tyrion than usual, although he was only four. It was hard not to notice how much happier her baby brother was with Cerion gone, and to assuage her own guilt for not interceding more, she doted on the child. He could already read entire passages at four, which stunned Jaime.

She had always struggled with reading and failed to completely master it until the age of seven or eight, which Cerion had always mocked her for. The letters had never made all that much sense. She was a bit better with sums, but she had a short attention span and little patience for sitting still and scratching away on parchment. Cerion had mastered reading and writing much faster, although Jaime would never describe him as ‘bookish’; Cerion hated to feel stupid, and learning new things made him feel inadequate for not knowing them already.

But Tyrion… Jaime thought he’d make a fine maester or septon someday. He was very, very clever. He was of an age with Cleos, Aunt Genna’s eldest son, but the other little boy was shy and not particularly advanced for his age to boot. Jaime doubted the two would ever be friends. But that was alright. When Tyrion was older, perhaps he could make some. Lannister coin went a long way when it came to winning people over. Melara and Jeyne spent time with her because of her surname, not because they liked her.

Tyrion enjoyed reading to her, and she enjoyed listening to him carefully sound out each word, as he sat on her bed, stunted legs swinging gaily. Jaime would lie back and stare up at the ceiling, trying to block out the sounds of men training in the nearby yard. Her days of pretending to be her brother and swinging a sword were far behind her now, but she still clung to a few childish dreams of one day becoming a knight.

She was fast, and strong, and tall for her age. Of course, that would no longer be the case when she was older; everyone knew girls stopped growing before boys. But… there was no sense in bemoaning it. Father would be very angry if he caught her with a sword or dressed in breeches. He’d take it as an embarrassment, and Jaime was not so stupid as to not know what Father did when he felt shamed or humiliated. Of course she was his only daughter and she supposed he loved her, as a father should… but she wasn’t his heir.

Cerion kept his promise and visited when he could, which was every few months, usually, and only for a week at a time. He said that Lord Sumner was dull but fierce enough when it came to combat, and that his fellow squire was some fat idiot Frey boy who he’d swiftly put in his place. He was taller, and stronger as well, his face no longer as round. For the first time Jaime felt as though he really was the elder brother, as their difference in height and weight became more pronounced.

Nearly a year after Father sent Cerion to Crakehall, he arrived home to bring Jaime back to King’s Landing with him. Jaime knew something was wrong when Aunt Genna informed her that her father wished to speak to her, immediately, mere hours after his arrival home. Before Mother had died, she and Cerion had anxiously waited from one of the castle’s many balconies to see Father and his men returning. Those days felt like a lifetime ago now, and Jaime was quite used to not seeing her father until days after his return home. She looked at her aunt to try to read her expression, but Genna Lannister was as inscrutable as always. “Change your dress while I bring in a girl to fix your hair,” was all her aunt advised, so Jaime put on a red gown she’d always loathed and fidgeted as a maid carefully brushed out her tangled hair.

Father was in his solar, as always, and clearly waiting for her. Jaime always felt vaguely as though she ought to curtsey, or bow her head, which was of course, ridiculous. He was her father. But she saw no affection or even pride in his eyes, only evaluation, as if she were being tested. Jaime despised not knowing what was the test even was.

“Welcome home, Father,” she said quietly. She was always meek to the verge of timid with Father. Of course, even Cerion didn’t dare outright argue with him, but he was never afraid to ask Father for something or voice his opinion, even if Father looked as though he’d rather hear anything else. Jaime preferred to make sure she didn’t give Father a reason to be displeased. Cerion was Father’s pride and joy, and Tyrion was his scorn and shame. She was shielded as the daughter- to an extent.

“My daughter does not slouch,” he said brusquely, and she immediately raised her shoulders and made eye contact, hoping she wasn’t scowling or glowering at the intimidating man. Father strode out from behind his desk. “You’ve grown since I last saw you,” he commented. Coming from most fathers, it would have been a sign of affection. From Father, it was just a statement of fact.

Jaime nodded jerkily.

“I have an early name day gift for you,” he said then, to her surprise. It wasn’t as though Father neglected her and Cerion’s name day. Rather, they had always been spoiled with toys and clothes and the like, but it had always felt very impersonal and distant. Father rarely sat down to dine with them, nevermind personally gave them his gifts.

For a few moments, she dared to hope. Perhaps now that she was older, more mature, closer to a young woman than a little girl, Father would… well, perhaps she’d be less of a disappointment. But there was nothing in his hands.

“Father?” she asked uncertainly.

“You’re not a child anymore,” he told her. “And it’s time you learned to behave as fitting your title. You will be a woman grown in several years, and you cannot stay at Casterly Rock playing children’s games forever.”

Jaime’s stomach began to churn as if she’d just eaten something rotten. “Father-,”

“When I return to King’s Landing after your brother and your name day, you will accompany me,” he said calmly.

Jaime couldn’t help it; she crumpled, not in tears, but in anger, like a balled up piece of parchment. “Father, you can’t! I don’t- I won’t belong there, I don’t want to-,”

She realized too late that she’d awoken the slumbering lion. “You won’t belong there?” he repeated darkly, and she saw now that it was the worst thing she could have said, confirming all the whispers and rumors, that they were a greedy, upstart family, groping desperately for power at the king’s side. “You are a Lannister- you are my daughter, the daughter of the Hand. You don’t belong anywhere else. You will accompany me to court, and you will remain there until your marriage is secured.”

“But the king-,” Jaime didn’t dare finish that sentence. She did not think he would strike her, but he was so angry. The last time she had seen him this angry had been after that ill-fated tourney, nearly two years ago.

“The king will come to see that you are the only acceptable choice for a Targaryen bride,” Father all but growled, “Be it for his first son or his second.”

His second? Little Viserys? He was barely more than a babe, Jaime thought desperately. She’d be an old crone by the time he was old enough for her to wed. It was madness- “Father,” she pleaded, “Please, let me have more time here. I- I haven’t learned enough yet, I’m not ready-,”

"It is time you stopped behaving like a reckless child, and started behaving as a lady of House Lannister,” he told her in a very cold, very low voice, looking down at her, and she stopped talking. “I will not allow my daughter to idle away her time here when she ought to be at court. Your mother served as a companion to the queen, and so will you. Mayhaps it will put some sense into that empty head of yours. I will not be shamed by my only daughter, Jaime. Is that understood?”

He bore down on her, expecting an answer.

Jaime mutely nodded, and then cleared her throat, eyes burning. “Yes… Yes Father.”

“Good,” he said, exhaling sharply, and turning away from her. “Go to your chambers.

Cerion arrived home in time for their twelfth birthday, two weeks later. A lavish feast was held, as usual, and a minstrel commissioned. They were allowed a cup of wine each, and Cerion was presented with a proper sword and scabbard, not a boy’s practice blade but live steel that glowed in the torchlight. Jaime was gifted an entirely new wardrobe for her court. She smiled and laughed at all the right moments, because there was nothing else to be done, with everyone watching. It was her duty to pretend everything was alright, always.

She only got the chance to talk to Cerion once before they would both leave, and they fought terribly. He was upset that she would be in King’s Landing for the foreseeable future, but it was not the raw anger she had expected. Rather, he seemed to think that it was unpleasant, but ultimately necessary.

“Don’t you see?” he demanded, as they walked down a darkened dungeon passageway, the only place where they could be confident no one would overhear them. “This is all part of Father’s plan. You’ll charm the court and the king will have to accept you as a bride for Viserys.”

“Don’t YOU see that I don’t want to be betrothed to a toddling babe,” Jaime hissed. “You’re as mad as Father. The king will never permit it.”

“It doesn’t matter who you marry, so long as we can be together,” Cerion retorted, “And that can only happen if you marry someone at court, a Targaryen, a prince. Do you want to be shipped off to some castle in the Reach or the Stormlands or gods forbid, the Eyrie? We would never see each other again. This is the only way.”

“It’s not,” she spat. “You’re just too cowardly to go the other way-,” He grabbed her by the arm, fingers digging into her skin through the thin material of her nightgown. She shoved at him. “Let go, you’re hurting me!”

“I’m not a coward,” he scowled, but let go. “You’re acting like a stupid little girl. We can’t just run away and live happily ever after, Jaime. That’s not how the world works. It’s not like one of your bloody legends or stories-,”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t let Father do this to us,” she cut him off savagely. “If you loved me, you would-,”

“I would what?” he demanded. “Plan our grand escape? You’re an idiot. I want what’s best for us. Both of us. You’re going to King’s Landing with Father.”

She stared at him for a moment, shoulders heaving up and down in fury, and stalked away. “Jaime!” he hissed after her, likely wary of raising his voice, but she broke into a run, and did not stop running until she was back in her room. She bolted the door shut and shoved one of the trunks that was being packed for the trip in front of it for good measure. When her brother pleaded with her to open the door in desperate, whispered tones, she held a pillow over her head and ignored him until he cursed and went away.

They did not speak again in person for three years.

Chapter Text

Jaime quickly came to despise King’s Landing. Upset as she was, after a month of travel it was hard not to feel at least some excitement upon approaching the city’s gates, and Father allowed her to ride in at his side on Loreon, surrounded by the proud Lannister guard. While she had spent plenty of her childhood in Lannisport, the Western city seemed meager compared to the sprawl of the capital- and much cleaner.

King’s Landing was a thousand smells all combined into one unpleasant jumble, at least for a girl of twelve who had not been to the city in six years. It had seemed like a grand adventure when she was a little girl. Now it was her prison. People stopped and gawked at them in the streets, and while there were some cheers for the Hand of the King, there were also more than a few dark looks and murmurings. Jaime knew little of her father’s current reputation, but it bothered her that complete strangers could look at their house sigil with scorn.

She smiled brightly and waved at the common children in dirty rags who peered up at her from street corners, and ignored the rest of the rabble. She was a lioness of the Rock, and their opinions didn’t matter. All that mattered was the impression she made at court. It was autumn, but it was still warm enough in King’s Landing to go without a cloak, and the sleeves of the carmine dress Jaime wore barely reached her elbows. She abhored riding side-saddle, but her flowing skirts made it impossible to sit astride, nevermind the dainty slippers on her feet, rather than proper boots.

It was slightly cooler within the confines of the Red Keep, high atop Aegon’s Hill, but not by much. The court was still decked out in summer finery, and the trees in the gardens and courtyards were only beginning to turn red and gold and umber. The red walls were so high that Jaime felt that she could only see half of the blue sky overhead.

Jaime was presented to the king and queen in the throne room, and almost did not recognize Aerys Targaryen at first. His silver hair had grown even longer and more unkempt, and his face was lined and wrinkled in a way it had not been when she had last seen him six years past. For a man in his early thirties, he looked two decades older. Queen Rhaella appeared much the same, thin and pale, although she still raised her head proudly as Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand to the King, Warden of the West, and Lady Jaime Lannister, were announced.

“So this is Tywin’s lovely daughter,” the king was not smiling at her. Jaime rose from her deep curtsey to stare back at him boldly for a moment, before a sharp look from Father caused her to drop her gaze. “She’s… quite tanned,” Aerys finally settled on, a hint of a sneer evident in his tone. “And those tangled curls; are you sure this is your daughter, and not a runaway milk maid?”

The onlooking court tittered and guffawed, and Father’s grip on her shoulder tightened.

“She looks to be a lovely girl,” the queen finally said softly. “I hope your time here is pleasant, my lady.”

Jaime glanced up at the woman, pale and powdered and clearly reluctant to be seated beside her husband, who everyone said was getting madder by the day since he’d been freed from Duskendale. She looked weak, and frightened, and helpless. Jaime saw her future in her, and hated her for it. But she smiled anyways, and inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Father was busy, as usual, during Jaime’s first night in the Tower of the Hand, and she was bored senseless after supervising the unpacking of all her belongings. However, her plans to explore the castle were cut short by a messenger in Baratheon black and yellow; Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana of Storm’s End were at court, and kindly extended an invitation for her to sup with them.

Jaime knew who Lord Steffon was; he had been friends with Father in their youth, and he had three sons, the eldest of whom must be near a man grown by now. But she had never been to the Stormlands, and if she’d ever met Lord Baratheon, she had no memory of it. She was certain she had never met the man, upon being escorted to his and Lady Cassana’s lavish chambers, as Steffon Baratheon would not be an easy man to forget.

Lord Steffon was a tall, well-muscled man, with jet black curls and a beard to match, save for a few silvery streaks. Jaime was not sure if that was due to age, or because his mother had been a Targaryen herself; Lord Steffon was a cousin to the king and queen. His eyes were an unusually dark shade of blue, or maybe violet- it was hard to tell in the evening light. Either way, he was a handsome man with thick eyebrows, a well trimmed beard and a square face. He smiled broadly upon seeing her, and seated her at the table himself.

Lady Cassana was a small woman, at least, in comparison to her husband. She was not beautiful, Jaime thought critically, but she was certainly pretty, with chestnut brown curls, a heart shaped face, and striking green eyes, although they leaned more blue-ish green than Jaime’s own. She too, was as quick to smile as her husband, and greeted Jaime very amiably.

“But you are a pretty thing,” were the first words out of the brunette woman’s mouth.

Jaime would have liked to be offended, but Cassana Baratheon was charming enough that she found it difficult to dislike her.

“It’s a shame that we could not meet Tywin’s children earlier,” Steffon agreed, “But then, Casterly Rock is quite a ways from Storm’s End,” he chuckled.

Jaime found it a bit hard to believe that a man this lighthearted could have ever been close friends with her father, who she did not think capable of laughing. Still, she could not be rude, and they did seem genuinely interested in what she had to say, which was rare enough. Jaime was used to being ignored or dismissed as a silly little girl, always trailing after her brother. The Baratheons were kind to her, and they were not even her family.

They explained that they were due to set sail in a few days to Volantis, one of the legendary Free Cities, in order to find a bride of Valyrian blood for Prince Rhaegar. Jaime brightened immediately at the mention of a bride for the prince, but also at the mention of Volantis, which she had heard stories about.

“Is it true they ride elephants instead of horses?” she demanded. “And that they have no lions or wolves, but tigers instead? And monkeys? And that no one walks on the ground?”

The Baratheons glanced at each other in amusement before answering her questions, although they confessed they had never been to Volantis before, themselves. Jaime was mesmerized, allowing herself to be swept away in a story of a heat so hot that their air itself was like sweat, of elephants in the streets and tattooed slaves on every corner, of the Old Blood of Valyria, and of lush jungles where tigers prowled at night.

Jaime ate very little, she was so caught up in the whole thing, but to her delight she was allowed a cup of wine, and the dinner stretched on long into the night, until the fire had nearly died down and a chill began to creep into the room from the breeze fluttering through the open balcony across the room from them. Jaime’s throat hurt from talking and laughing so much. She had not been this genuinely at ease and happy since she had left Casterly Rock. Lady Cassana embraced her as if she were a favorite niece.

“I am certain you will do very well at court,” she told Jaime with a knowing look. “Even if you are less sure. The queen would welcome your company, and I believe it would do her good, to have a young girl around. I know what it is like to have only sons myself,” she smiled.

Jaime wished her well on her voyage, and Lord Steffon brought her back to her rooms himself. She felt almost like a real, grown lady, taking his brawny arm, and when they had reached her door he paused. “You are a good deal like your mother was as a young girl, my lady. I hope your father realizes that.”

Jaime had never been compared to her mother before in terms of anything other than looks. She was taken aback by the man’s frankness, before nodding slowly. “I... I hope so as well, my lord.”

“With any luck, we will be back at Storm’s End before the year’s end,” Lord Steffon said. “You and your lord father are welcome any time. My lady wife adores entertaining guests, as I’m sure you’ve surmised after tonight.”

Jaime giggled as she pushed open the heavy door to her rooms, and waved goodbye to Lord Steffon as he disappeared back down the winding tower stairs. She slept well that night, although she woke up very late the next morning, and was confused for a few moments before she realized that she was no longer at Casterly Rock. She dressed quickly and after a hurried breakfast, hastened outside to the gardens. Winter was coming, however slowly, and she intended to make the most of what warm days she had left before she was trapped indoors for however many years long this winter would be. The last, when Tyrion was born, had been three, and that had seemed like an eternity, as a child. She could only imagine how torturous this one might be.

There were more flowering plants and trees in the royal gardens than could be found in the natural surroundings of Casterly Rock, although Jaime was unimpressed with mere flowers and burbling fountains alone. She desperately wanted to go out riding in the kingswood, but this was not home- she would need permission, and an escort, and a chaperone- thankfully, Father had deemed her too old at twelve for a Septa, and so she was free of at least one hindrance.

She roamed through rows of lavender sweet alyssum, sunny goldenrod, pale pink heather, blue monkshood, peachy chrysanthemum, and vermillion pansies. They smelled lovely, but they weren’t terribly interesting. She remembered when she had made flower crowns with Melara and Jeyne, and wondered if she’d ever see either again. With little care for her skirts, she crouched down and began to weave herself a new crown, and that was there the queen and little prince found her.

Viserys was a child of two, and as Jaime had never met the boy before, she blinked in surprise at the sight of the little silver-haired boy scampering over to her. He was small and skinny for a toddler, but his eyes were unusual, even for a Targaryen- a shade of purple so pale it could only be described as lilac, unlike his mother’s, which seemed more indigo. Jaime realized much later that Viserys had his father’s eyes, although he had his mother’s small nose and pouting mouth.

Rhaella was not far behind, her ladies and guards lingering in the distance. Father had told Jaime that the queen kept far fewer ladies now than she had in her youth, as the king trusted few to be around the little prince. Rhaella was not dressed in the dark crimson and black Jaime had last seen her in, but in a much softer and lighter gown of pale amethyst, with golden detailing on the shoulders and bodice. She lifted her skirts as she walked, in small, ladylike steps, and smiled almost shyly at Jaime.

Viserys had snatched up a handful of pansies that Jaime had plucked, and showed them to his mother with a beaming, “Look, Mama!”

Belatedly, Jaime realized that the queen might not be pleased to find her pulling up flowers, but Rhaella didn’t look irritated or annoyed. “I used to do the same, when I was young,” she told Jaime instead. “I always loved sweet alyssum the best.”

“I like goldenrod,” said Jaime, uncertainly. “But alyssum is very pretty, Your Grace.”

“Goldenrod to match your hair,” Rhaella observed, and as Viserys pulled at her skirts, scooped him up into her arms.

She really was quite frail looking, Jaime observed, looking at the woman’s skinny arms and dainty hands. Her gown exposed her neck and collarbone, which jutted out against her pale skin, which looked all the more white as snow in the sunshine. “Your mother and I used to spend hours in these gardens,” the queen continued, “Along with Princess Loreza. We were inseparable as girls.”

Jaime had heard whispers that her mother had been sent away from court shortly after marrying her father, although she did not know why. But if the queen had had any grudge with Joanna Lannister, she did not show it now. “Your mother was always the bravest of us three,” Rhaella confessed with a smile, “And Loreza the cleverest. I was… well, I supposed I was the shy one.” Her smile turned slightly pained.

“I’m sure you were the kindest, Your Grace,” Jaime said. “Everyone speaks of your kindness.”

“It takes nothing at all, to be kind,” Rhaella replied, ruffling Viserys’ pale locks, the look on her face distant. She glanced down at Jaime as if shaking herself out of a daydream, and set Viserys back down, although he whined in dismay. “But you must be hungry, it is past noon. Will you lunch with me, my lady? I am always eager for stories of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime stood up immediately; one did not deny the queen of Westeros, and then went to crumple the flower crown in her hands. But Rhaella took her hands in her own; her skin was cool and soft to the touch. “Keep it, Lady Jaime. When you are a woman grown, you will regret not making more.”

In the following months, Jaime begrudgingly came to find she had developed some sort of bond, odd as it might be, with the queen, who in some ways did not seem so much older than her. When the news came of the Baratheon ship sinking in Shipbreaker Bay, they wept together, although Rhaella had known Steffon Baratheon all her life, and Jaime had only met the man and his wife for a single evening.

Chapter Text

Jaime had been at court for near a year, and over the course of those months, five separate men had approached Father for her hand. Three of them had been offers from grown men, all having come into their lordships and seeking a pretty young wife from a powerful family.

Two had been a decade or so her senior and handsome enough; one had been a fat widower approaching forty. The other two offers had been from over-eager young knights, who must have known Tywin Lannister would be a fool to waste his only daughter’s hand in marriage on either. And a fool he was not, for he rejected them far less politely than he had the lords.

This relieved Jaime greatly, although she knew it was only because he thought that if they simply bided their time, Aerys could be talked into promising her to Viserys. Jaime thought it was quite possible that by the time Father accepted that she would never wed a Targaryen, she would be considered by most an old maid.

After all, Viserys was ten years her junior. By his sixteenth birthday, she would be twenty six, an age at which most women were already married with several children. This bothered her much less than it should have. Perhaps if she was written off by all as undesirable as wife, too willful or too soft in the head, she and Cerion could be together, if not ever publically, than at least privately.

But deep down she knew that she was being as foolish and naive as always. Father would not let her go unwed, even if it was not to a prince. He would arrange her marriage to the heir to another great house, like Cerion had said, and she would be sent off to the Reach or Eyrie or even the Stormlands. That thought horrified her almost as much as the thought of being betrothed to a little boy and being forced to remain in King’s Landing for the rest of her life.

Against her initial disdain, she quickly found herself a constant companion to the queen. Jaime wondered if it was guilt on Rhaella’s part, for having effectively exiled her mother from court so long ago, or just a need of the frail woman, to feel loved. For Rhaella had so little love in her life.

Rhaegar was rarely around court, and Jaime had only been in his presence a few times, nevermind actually conversed with him. He was always surrounded by knights and squires, and that red-haired young lordling, Jon Connington. Truthfully, she could hardly blame him for not wanting to bear witness to his father’s instability, and she was happy enough to not be forced into interacting with him by Father.

And Viserys loved his mother, of course, but he was newly three and as selfish and moody as any three year old. Jaime couldn’t help but pity the woman, saddled with an ill tempered child inclined to sulk and sob at the slightest provocation, an ill tempered husband who grew more erratic and cruel by the day, and a gracious but distant grown son who could do little to protect or aid her until he came into his throne. The king’s health was far from secure, and Jaime thought he likely wouldn’t live to see his fortieth year.

If the king died, Father would no longer be Hand. She doubted Rhaegar had much love for her father, although he had always been polite. They would be sent back to Casterly Rock. She would see her brother again, no matter how much they had fought in the past. Aerys dying, Jaime quickly decided, would be the best thing to ever happen to her. Or at the very least, it would free her from life at court.

No matter how kind Rhaella was, the Red Keep amounted to a golden cage, and by thirteen Jaime had prowled every inch of it. She’d been in every tower, inspected every meandering passage, slipped in and out of the kitchens and armory and stables too many times to count. It was beautiful and grand but she hated it all the same. She wanted the Rock and her old bedroom and her old maids and she wanted Cerion and Tyrion and even Melara and Jeyne, at times when she was very lonely.

The arrival of the Dornish princess changed things quite a bit. Princess Loreza, lady of Sunspear and ruler of all of Dorne, although the king’s word would always triumph over her own, arrived with her daughter and a miniature army of men at arms, ladies in waiting, servants, and minstrels. The strained court was suddenly a much livelier place, full of laughter and strange music and gowns that were considered far too airy and revealing by most prudish Westerosi.

Jaime loved it, and loved the Dornish all the more for the fact that it was quite clear that Elia Martell was here to be betrothed to Rhaegar, forever freeing Jaime of that beautiful burden. She had not seen the older girl since Elia was seventeen, and she seven. Not since Mother’s death and Tyrion’s birth. She still remembered how the quiet girl had smiled fondly down at Tyrion while her brother japed, before Cerion had… before Cerion had been Cerion, as usual.

Then Elia had been a skinny girl with a soft voice and a loud laugh. Now she looked a bit more womanly, although she was still quite thin, and dressed more lavishly, mostly in pale golds, rich oranges, and warm browns that brought out her black eyes and glossy dark ringlets. Jaime had heard her called plain before, but those whispers tended to die out quickly once Princess Loreza got wind of them.

Loreza Martell was nearly fifty, with the lines in her olive skin and grey in dark hair to prove it, but despite her rather small frame Jaime found the woman properly intimidating, although she had a rattling cough that could not be shaken. Even Aerys did not seem willing to openly antagonize her, although it was common knowledge that he was less than pleased at the prospect of a Dornish bride for his heir.

“Elia has Targaryen blood,” Rhaella explained to Jaime as they broke their fast one crisp morning. They were only a few weeks into the new year, and while it was still autumn, the maesters warned that by the year 280 it would be winter.

Jaime frowned around the sweetbread in her mouth, and then swallowed more hastily than she meant to. “How so, Your Grace?”

Rhaella smiled. “To ensure peace with Dorne, King Daeron the Good married Princess Mariah Martell, and his sister Daenerys wed her brother, Prince Maron. Daeron was my great-great-grandfather, and from Daenerys and Maron descended the Martells that rule Sunspear today. So there is Targaryen blood in Elia Martell and her brothers, and however faint, a trace of Dornish blood in myself and His Grace the king.”

Jaime tried to recall if a Lannister had ever wed a Dornishman or woman, and could not. She supposed it was possible. Many of the greater houses shared blood. “Do… do you think the prince likes Lady Elia?” she asked instead, pushing around the sausage on her plate with her cutting knife.

“Yes,” said Rhaella, “I believe he does. Elia is a sweet girl, and I am told she enjoys reading dusty scrolls and old songs almost as much as my son. She will be a good wife to him, I am sure of it.” She hesitated, while pouring more milk into her cup. “Of course, Rhaegar may only marry with His Grace’s permission, but I am sure… I am sure Loreza will convince him.”

It was clear to Jaime that Rhaella was heartened by the older woman’s presence at court and looked up to both her sharp tongue and her determined nature. Loreza Martell had ruled Dorne for decades now, and was one of the very few woman Jaime had ever met who seemed to not care what any man thought of them. She reminded her a bit of Genna, whom she missed very much.

Father was furious, and Jaime knew very well why; his last hope of her marrying Rhaegar had now been extinguished. When their betrothal was officially announced, he was in as much of a state as Jaime had ever seen him, snapping at servants and glowering if she so much as crossed his path.

Jaime did the wise thing and kept her distance, and then did the unwise thing and ran into Nymella Toland, a red haired, olive skinned, plump girl of fifteen, who had a devious lilt to her smile when she invited Jaime to join her and the other ladies for supper. Jaime recklessly agreed, because she was bored and because regardless of whether or not it was some sort of trick, she wanted to see what these Dornish girls were like, and what Elia Martell was like, six years later.

Elia was surrounded by ladies; Nymella was the youngest. Larra Blackmont and Delonne Allyrion were both brown-skinned, darker in complexion than Elia, and both lithe, although Larra was seventeen, round-faced, and small, and Delonne was eighteen, long-faced and willowy. Of the two, Larra was much more inclined to smile freely and jest. Ashara Dayne was seventeen and the palest of all of them, although she had startling purple eyes and hair as black as night, the darkest hair Jaime had ever seen, which fell in waves to her waist.

Jaime felt very young and very silly in comparison to all of them; even Nymella seemed years older than her. They bared their arms and far more of their chests than Jaime had ever seen outside of a whore on the street. She knew she was supposed to be scandalized and disapproving, but it was difficult when they were so… free. Not just with their bodies, but with their speech as well.

Dornish women said what was on their mind. They were not afraid to jest like men, or sharply voice their opinions. Dornish women inherited the same as men; lands and titles went to the eldest child. Nymella, Larra, and Delonne would all inherit and lead their houses. Their children would take their surnames, and their husbands would heed their words. They were beholden to no men.

“Even if it was that way in Westeros, my brother would still inherit,” Jaime reasoned, finding that she liked their sour wine very much.

“Ah,” Larra smirked, “But you would choose your own husband, in Dorne.”

“Or no husband at all,” Nymella chimed in gleefully. “My aunt has never wed- she’s kept a string of lovers instead.”

Jaime gaped. “And it’s permitted?”

“Well,” Delonne sniffed, “We don’t flaunt it in the streets, but yes, it’s considered quite normal to have bedmates before marriage.”

“But what about bastards?” Jaime demanded, then flushed for putting it so crudely, while Nymella snickered. Ashara arched a dark eyebrow and said nothing, although her queer purple gaze seemed amused.

“In Dorne, nearly every house has a few Sands, and most are treated no different from their trueborn siblings,” Elia explained patiently. “It’s not encouraged, of course, as we still worship the Seven, but…”

“Every man has needs,” Larra insinuated with a grin. “And every woman.”

Jaime briefly wondered what Dorne thought of needs pertaining to one’s siblings, and then put it out of her head. The Dornish were wild, yes, but not that perverse. That particular sin was reserved for her and her brother- and the Targaryens- alone.

Elia, casting an exasperated look at Larra, swiftly changed the subject. “And how fare your brothers, Lady Jaime?”

“Very well,” Jaime answered brightly, as she had been trained to do. “Cerion squires for Lord Crakehall, and Tyrion is very advanced in his studies at Casterly Rock. He wants to be High Septon someday.” Of course, most people did not bother to ask after her brothers, but rather, just her brother

Elia smiled, and Jaime thought it was genuine. The princess clearly chose all her words carefully, but she seemed rather honest and warm at heart. If anything, Jaime would wager that quiet, laughing-eyed Ashara was the cunning one. Girls that beautiful were always either foolish or crafty. Jaime knew she was solidly the former. Cerion had always done all the plotting and scheming for the two of them, and she’d always been content to let him.

But if she’d been Dornish… well, Jaime couldn’t help but think that perhaps things would have been different, even if he still would have been the heir.

Nymella and Delonne taught her how to play cyvasse over the span of the hour after dinner, and Jaime quickly lost track of time. It was hardly as if Father was likely to check if she was really abed or not, and he often stayed up late into the night himself. She had just won her first round, to her delight, when Loreza Martell entered the room, and the ladies immediately rose in recognition. Jaime, slightly fuzzy from the wine, belatedly joined them.

Loreza nodded and the girls sat down once more and promptly resumed their chatter, and took a seat in a chair beside Jaime, who stilled.

“For a moment, I truly thought I was looking upon Joanna Lannister once more,” the woman said dryly. “You are your mother’s daughter to a fault.”

Jaime ducked her head. “Thank you, Princess.”

“I ought to have been like an aunt to you,” Loreza waved her hand irritably, “And would have, if not for your fool of a father. Leave those tired titles be.”

Jaime slowly raised her head in shock; she had never heard anyone other than the king himself directly insult her father so casually. She knew she should be affronted, but she was too surprised to anything but stare.

“You cannot wholly blame a man for how he acts in his grief,” Loreza huffed, “But it has been six years. I loved your mother like a little sister, and so I mourned, and then I let her go. She was a rare woman indeed, especially amongst those in Westeros. Do not let them tell you otherwise; your father may be Warden of the West, but it was Joanna Lannister who reigned in Casterly Rock, as silver-tongued and golden-haired as Lann the Clever himself.”

Jaime had never heard her mother described in such a way before. Everyone always spoke of Joanna Lannister’s beauty and grace, not her power. What power could she possibly have had?

Loreza looked as though she’d read her mind, and laughed. “Here they teach their women that the only power they have is to marry well and make many babes. But there is always a way. Every rock,” she studied Jaime carefully then, “Has its cracks. Spaces for things to slip in- and out. You’d do well to remember that, child.”

“I will,” said Jaime, because she was half drunk and confused, and only years later did she begin to understand what the princess had meant. That one did not need to be Dornish to be like sand; gritty and enduring and everywhere all at once.

Chapter Text

Jaime was newly fifteen during what they called the year of the false spring, when the snows melted and the winds died down. Trees began to bud, and the grass started to grow green once more. The winter had thus far lasted a year, and it had been a bitter one, although the court had been busy with the wedding of Rhaegar and Elia. It had been a splendid affair by all accounts, and Jaime had been rather exhausted by the end of it all, having to look dismayed for Father and thrilled for the king and queen.

But she had danced with nearly every man there and received several drunken professions of love, which had been all the more frequent since her flowering and last growth spurt at thirteen. Jaime was slightly taller than average for a Westerosi woman, and her blonde curls hung down to her waist. She knew her green eyes were all the more lovely now that her face had lost the last traces of baby fat and settled into a heart shape, with fine, high cheekbones and a graceful neck. They said she was the most beautiful girl at court, and wasn’t it a shame that Aerys had scorned her for his son?

Jaime wanted nothing more than to wring their necks. She was not so foolish as to want to be queen, especially not after her time as Rhaella’s companion. The woman’s life was miserable and horrifying. She’d glimpsed the bruises, although they were never on the queen’s face. Both she and Rhaella felt the loss of Elia and her ladies, since almost immediately after the wedding the prince and princess had traveled to Dragonstone, before the winter weather got any worse, to set up their household there.

“With any luck,” Father had said one night at dinner, “The Dornish girl won’t withstand the birth of an heir.” Admittedly, he was into his cups a little and would never have said such a thing sober, at least not aloud, but Jaime stared at him in open disgust for a moment, since he was looking into the fire, brooding.

How can you say such a thing, she thought, after what happened to Mother? Was he really so fixated with the notion of her as queen, to wish for an innocent young woman’s death? Elia Martell’s only sin had been to marry the prince, and while Jaime doubted the couple loved one another the way she and Cerion did, they had seemed fond of each other at the wedding, smiling and talking. It would be a much better marriage than that of Aerys and Rhaella. And she wanted Elia to be happy. Over the course of her stay at court, the Dornish woman and her ladies had been nothing but kind to Jaime, when they had very little reason to be.

She had even danced with Ser Arthur Dayne, Ashara’s brother, at the wedding feast. He had the same mesmerizing violet eyes and jet black hair as his sister, and it was he who had beaten Rhaegar at the tourney at Lannisport in honor of Viserys’ birth, all those years ago. He was twenty four years old, and Jaime thought him one of the most handsome men she had ever seen; far more handsome than Rhaegar. He danced as elegantly as a lord, and, rather than complimenting her looks, told her that she had to be the most graceful girl in the Seven Kingdoms.

Jaime was infatuated, of course, but told herself that it was alright, since Ser Arthur had not leered at her like other man and been every bit the courteous, chivalrous knight. He likely though only of battle and honor, not silly little girls with stars in their eyes for him. She would have liked to dance with him more than once, but then Richard Lonmouth insisted, and she lost him in the crowd.

And then the wedding was over and Rhaegar and Elia and the Dornishmen and women were gone, and the court was quiet and somber once more. Elia birthed a child, but it was daughter, Rhaenys, not an heir. And then the Kingsguard rode out to defeat the Kingswood Brotherhood, who had kidnapped a highborn girl and her septa, once and for all, and Jaime heard news that Cerion and Lord Crakehall were with them. A few weeks later came word that the Brotherhood was defeated, and Cerion knighted for his valor in battle. Father was pleased, but it was Jaime who was rendered speechless with joy when she realized her brother would be visiting on his return to Casterly Rock.

A joy that was only marred by Father’s comments about how Lord Tully would be pleased to have a knight and future lord of Casterly Rock for his daughter.

“But Father,” Jaime said sweetly, although she did not feel very sweet at all, and was rather aggressively sawing through the fish on her plate, “Lord Tully’s daughter is betrothed to Brandon Stark.”

Father’s lip curled slightly. “Hoster Tully has two daughters, Jaime. If Cerion cannot have the elder, the younger will do. They say she is a rather charming little thing. She’ll make a fine lady wife for your brother.”

Jaime had never hated anyone more, in that moment.

But then, several days later, Cerion was riding into the keep atop his pitch black warhorse, looking every inch a knight in his shining golden armor, and it was all Jaime could do from running to him as he dismounted. Yes, the last time they had been together they had fought terribly, but Jaime had never been overly fond of grudges. They had been children, it had been years, and they loved one another. Surely that was all that mattered. Surely he still felt exactly the same towards her now as he had then.

His embrace was safe and reserved. He squeezed her shoulder fondly as she took in the sight of him, now towering over her, looking closer to seventeen or eighteen than fifteen. “I’ve missed you, sister,” he said, and then turned to greet Father, and Jaime’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure what she had been suspecting, but surely- surely more than that. He hadn’t looked at her the same. He did still love her, didn’t he? Had he forgotten her, in his time away? Looked at other girls, even laid with them? She had never- girlish crush on Ser Arthur aside, who was a member of the Kingsguard and had thus sworn off women- she had never forgotten Cerion.

But his conduct towards her, while polite and amiable, was nothing but brotherly. He had not even kissed her on the cheek! He could do that, at least, without reproach- siblings greeted each other thusly all the time. But he spoke more with Father at dinner than he did her, talking about his time with Lord Crakehall, the clash in the Kingswood with the bandits, and his visit to Riverrun, wherein he agreed that Lysa Tully, soon to be his betrothed, was a sweet, shy girl, with hair like copper and a delicate beauty.

“She barely spoke two words to me,” Cerion said, in between sips of Arbor red, “But she likes me well enough, judging by how she blushes.”

Jaime fought to keep the smile of sisterly affection on her face. “I can hardly wait to meet my future good sister,” she said, instead of screaming and slapping him, which is what she would have liked to do. “I am sure we will be dear friends.”

“Of course,” said Cerion. “You have always wanted a sister, haven’t you, Jaime?”

His smile was warm, but she could not read the look in his green eyes at all.

After dinner, she brooded in her room, unable to make up her mind. Should she go to him? Should she wait? Was there a way she could send him a message? They had never written to each other- Jaime had little patience for flowery letters in the first place, and they could not risk said letters being discovered, anyways. Still in the crimson velvet gown she’d worn at dinner, she paced furiously, having banished her maids for the night. The fire crackled almost menacingly in the grate, reflecting her dark mood.

And then, as she stared angrily out the tower window, looking over the city below the castle, the scattered lights wavering in the night, someone wrapped their arms around her. Jaime jumped and would have shrieked, but a hand clamped over her mouth, and as she struggled to turn, she realized it was her brother, dressed in a simple shirt and breeches, curls framing his face. He let her go with a smirk. “Surprised to see me, sweet sister?”

“You- you absolute arse-,” she hissed, and made to slap him, but he caught her wrist and pulled her to him instead, drawing her into a kiss that made her stomach constrict and her knees weak. She hadn’t known how much she’d missed him, everything about him, until now.

“Oh Jaime,” he murmured hungrily against her mouth, “How I’ve missed you.”

Jaime half-heartedly tried to push him away, but instead ending up slipping her hands under his shirt and pulling it up over his head. They had seen each other nude countless times, but they had been children then. He didn’t look like a boy anymore. Similarly, he was loosening her stays, and she quickly discarded the dress, stepping forward in her chemise as he sat down, shirtless, on the bed. Then she stopped to glare at him in her best imitation of their father. “You- you were cruel,” she accused in a low voice. “Acting so distant at dinner.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come now, Jaime, one of us has to restrain ourselves. We’re not children anymore. We simply cannot behave so closely in public, and especially not in front of Father. He’s not a fool.”

“He has never suspected anything-,”

Her brother took her hands in his own. “And we’ll keep it that way.”

Jaime jerked away. “Still. You didn’t have to prattle on about Lysa bloody Tully like she was the Maiden herself-,”

Cerion sighed. “Don’t be so dramatic. If she’s to be my wife, I’ll have to at least pretend to be pleased with her. For all our sakes.’

“So you don’t like her, then?” Jaime asked eagerly, knowing how desperate she sounded, and ignoring it.

“Lysa Tully,” Cerion said, “Is a kitchen wench, compared to you.” His hand trailed up her chemise, towards her chest. “You didn’t have these before.”

Jaime swallowed hard. “And you didn’t have-,” she gestured at his muscled chest, heaving up and down with every quick breath he took.

Cerion pulled her into his lap with a muted squeal. “We’ve both changed. But I still love you, Jaime. You must know that.”

“Of course I do,” Jaime said, in between kisses, “It’s just not fair, any of it. I hate it here.”

“You’re perfect here. Everyone loves you.”

“They don’t know me!” she protested, as he pushed her down onto the bed, undoing the laces of his breeches with the other. “I’m not some singing little bird to entertain everyone. I want to go out riding and hunting again. I want to go home- Ceri, wait!” she snapped suddenly, shoving at him. “What are you doing?!”

He scoffed. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Jaime stared up at him. “I just- we’ve- we’ve never done this before-,”

“I know,” he said, “This might be our only chance, Jaime. Don’t you want this?”

She did. She had just- she had expected them to kiss and touch each other, perhaps, but she had never thought he’d be so set on it. She would wed, eventually, and her husband would expect her to be… well, pure.

As if he had read her thoughts, Cerion smiled. “There are ways to do it without getting a babe on you, Jaime.”

“But if I don’t- if I don’t bleed on my wedding night-,”

He was kissing her neck, now, and it was difficult to concentrate. “They say sheep’s blood is very useful, in those situations. Don’t be foolish. Any man with you in his bed,” and here he tensed slightly in jealous anger, which made her love him all the more, “Won’t even think to ask. You’re like a goddess. You’re perfect.”

Jaime smiled, although she was crying a bit, and she did not know why. She supposed they must be tears of joy. Finally, finally, they were together. “So are you.”

The plan came upon her in the early hours of the morning. “I have a way,” she murmured to him, stroking his head, fingers lost in his golden curls, “For us to be together, Cerion. Forever.”

He rolled over to look at her with a slight frown. “What are you talking about?”

“The Kingsguard has a position to fill,” she smiled. “And you have already proven yourself a worthy and honorable knight. This could fix everything, Ceri. You won’t have to marry that Tully girl, and we can be together, here.”

All of the content tiredness left him, and he sat upright in bed, pulling her up with him. “Have you gone mad?” he demanded. “Join the Kingsguard? Jaime, I am Father’s heir!”

“But you could stay with me, then!” she argued. “Isn’t that what we always wanted? To be close to each other? You don’t have to be Hand of the King to do it, now! It’s perfect. The queen is very fond of me, and she has influence-,”

“I will not let Casterly Rock pass to the Imp, Jaime,” Cerion sneered. “Father would die of shame.”

“Father doesn’t give a damn about us!” she snapped. “Only what we mean for him! It’s just a lordship!”

“A lordship?” he repeated mockingly. “Just a lordship? It is everything! It’s what I was born to do.”

“We were born,” Jaime said shakily, “To love each other. To be together. You’ve said as much yourself-,”

“And we will be,” he said, “But not like this.” He clambered out of bed, shaking his head. “Jaime, we have to think of our future. Of the future of our house. We are Lannisters.”

“We are lovers,” she was close to tears now, “After tonight, we are lovers. I will never love anyone the way I do you, you must know that. I can’t lose you again. I’ll go mad.”

He looked at her as if she were a petulant child, as if he had not cried out her name mere hours ago, and vowed that he would love her always, and never leave her. “Jaime,” he said, “You are not losing me. After I wed Lysa we will come to court, and everything will be alright. You must be patient. These things take time.”

Jaime didn’t want to be patient. She had waited long enough. She wanted him. But he- he wanted her, but he wanted Casterly Rock, his titles, his pretty little wife- he wanted all of those things more. She was sobbing, when he left, and pretended to be ill for the next several days, until he was gone, back to the Rock, back to their home. And she remained.

Chapter Text

Jaime dreaded the end of the year, as the Lannister household at King’s Landing set off for the month long journey to the Riverlands. Cerion Lannister would wed Lysa Tully, and a few weeks later the Tourney at Harrenhal would begin. Jaime still had enough childish love of knights and feasts and dancing to look forward to the tourney, but her misery at her brother’s swiftly approaching marriage was difficult to hide. Father assumed it was misery at not being married herself, having recently turned down yet another offer for her hand. Jaime thought if she heard one more lecture on patience and being a princess of House Targaryen she would scream.

Cerion seemed dismayed by her mood, but kept his distance, as they were on the road and had much less privacy than usual. Jaime was glad of it; had he tried to speak with her she was sure she would have flew at him in a rage. Instead she settled for snapping at servants and picking at her food at meals, ignoring Father’s disapproving stares and Cerion’s pained glances. Both of them, conspiring to ruin her life. Claiming they loved her and wanted what was best for her. She was completely and utterly done with men. They were either lust-driven fools or scheming monsters.

The muddy and dreary landscape reflected her sour mood; the melting snows had left the rivers raging and grey, and while she warned time and time again against riding on the unstable banks, Jaime did so anyways, urging Loreon to a canter alongside the river, ignoring the mud splattered up on her blood red cloak. Loreon pulled up short at a downed tree, and nearly veered into the rushing water, had Jaime not snapped out of her reckless state and urged the pony up onto more solid ground.

Cerion was waiting there, on his massive warhorse Tybolt. “You could have been drowned,” he snapped, although his furious tone belied the worry in his green eyes. “Father ought to give you a proper mount, and have that old nag made into a pie.”

Jaime simply adjusted the hood of her cloak, pushing back her damp curls from her flushed face, and said nothing. If she spoke, she’d curse and shriek at him. Loreon’s flanks were heaving, poor thing. He was only nine, although it seemed like a lifetime ago when she had first climbed atop his back, laughing with glee, while Mother and Father looked on, smiling. She dismounted and led the pony around her brother and back towards the main procession, so he could cool off. Her boots sunk into the mud.

“So you intend to never speak to me again?” Cerion demanded, wheeling Tybolt in front of Jaime and her pony. “Stop being such a child. You know I love you.”

“No,” said Jaime tightly, “I don’t. Get away from me.”

He sighed and offered a gloved hand to her. “Come sit in front of me. Father will be furious if you ruin another gown.”

Once Jaime would have flushed with joy at the chance to sit side-straddle before her brother, with his arm around her waist. Now she swatted his hand away and made to go around him and his horse again, expression cold. She didn’t get very far; Cerion dismounted, bodily picked her up, shrieking, and threw her over his shoulder while he tied Loreon’s reigns to Tybolt’s. Jaime slammed her fists into his broad shoulders and back, and debated biting his ear, before kicking furiously as he dragged her up in front of him.

“Do I have to tie you to the horse as well?” Cerion asked sarcastically, pinning her back to his chest with one strong arm while he set Tybolt off at a brisk trot.

“Let go of me,” Jaime snarled, “Or so help me I will-,”

“You’ll what?” he mocked, and groped at her breast with one hand. She could feel his grin against the back of her head. Jaime stiffened, and then slammed her head back into his smiling mouth. He yelped in pain, and pulled on her long hair sharply. She gasped and fought harder against his grip, before giving up, slumping back against him. “Behave, sister,” Cerion said savagely in her ear, “Or do I have to pay you a visit tonight, to fuck some sense into you?”

“You’ll have to wait for the bedding at Riverrun,” Jaime snapped back, “Because those are the only legs that will open for you, brother.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he laughed, and then loosened his grip on her as they came into view of the main party. Jaime slipped down from Tybolt as soon as she could without risking a bad fall, and hastily un-tied Loreon’s reigns, while her twin smirked down at her.

Riverrun was a far smaller castle than Casterly Rock, but it was well constructed and virtually untouchable when the moat was filled, which would turn it into an island. The sandstone gave it a peachy glow in the morning light, and the Lannister party was greeted with much fanfare as they rode through its gates. To Jaime’s relief, her father and brother were scarce, off hunting or hawking with Hoster Tully and his heir, a red haired, cheerful boy of twelve named Edmure. Another boy was often with them; short and slender, with laughing eyes. A Baelish, Jaime had heard, a ward from the Vale.

Jaime was left with the company of the Tully sisters; Catelyn and Lysa. Catelyn was a tall, willowy girl of seventeen, who wore her auburn curls down to her waist. Lysa was smaller, with a pouting mouth and a rounder face, but still pretty, although Jaime took some pleasure in knowing that she was far more beautiful than Cerion’s soon to be wife.

Catelyn, or Cat, as she insisted on Jaime calling her, was by far the more talkative of the two, and loved most to talk of her own upcoming marriage, to Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell. Jaime found the older girl irritating, although she was kind and considerate. Lysa was more shy and tongue-tied, but also more giggly, and asked incessant questions about Cerion; what he liked to do, if he preferred riding or reading, his favorite foods…

Jaime smiled and lied about nearly everything, hating the girl all the while. However, she was left alone with Lysa when Catelyn was summoned by her father for some reason or another, and Jaime was forced to look up from her skewed embroidery when Lysa asked impulsively, “Do you think I will make him happy?”

Jaime stared at her; the question was genuine, and there was real anxiety in the red haired girl’s light blue eyes, as she bit at her lower lip. She looked younger than fifteen, nearly sixteen, in that moment, more like a girl of twelve or thirteen, freshly flowered and frightened of men. Jaime found it hard to loathe her as much, in that moment, and instead of smiling and offering hollow words, simply shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Of course you will, Lysa. You’re very pretty and very sweet.”

It was still a lie, all the same, but it was a kind lie. She did not think Lysa would make Cerion happy. She thought the image of Lysa would, but she knew her brother, and he had little patience for her own more emotional and impulsive nature. He would crush sweet, timid, giggly Lysa Tully underfoot, and if she did not give him an heir or disappointed him in any manner he would not stay his cruelty. Marriage would not be kind to the girl.

For the first time Lysa seemed to doubt her assurances, however, and glanced down at her lap, wringing her hands together. “I know he would have preferred to wed Cat,” she burst out with. “She’s the eldest daughter, and prettier, and more clever. Everyone thinks so.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Jaime, although it was obvious that Lysa was the forgotten middle child in her family, with an older sister and younger brother both doted on by her father. Jaime wished her own father would forget her more often. It would make her life much easier. “Cerion will come to love you for who you are, you’ll see.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth.

“I hope so,” said Lysa earnestly. “I do want to be a good wife to him. He’s so perfect, Jaime. So handsome and beautiful and gallant. He dances much better than me, and he rides like the wind. And Casterly Rock is magnificent, all the singer say so.” She hummed a little of The Rains of Castamere under her breath, and giggled nervously.

Jaime said nothing, because she saw herself in Lysa’s hopeful, wide-eyed gaze. Longing for a boy who looked beautiful, but was anything but. She could not deny it anymore. She loved her brother, but she did not adore him anymore, or admire him. He had hurt her too much. His sharp edges had left hidden cuts all over her skin, even inside her. She loved him, and perhaps he did love her, but it was not the love of songs and romantic tales. It was not a self sacrificing love, a love that put others before yourself.

Her rooms at Riverrun were much smaller than her rooms in the Tower of the Hand, but they were cozier and looked more lived in as well, and she liked sitting in the windowsill to stare out as the reflection of the moon on the river, silvery reflection rippling. There was a quiet, almost timid knock at her door. Jaime knew who it was, but rose and slowly opened it anyways. Cerion spilled into the room, half drunk and on the verge of tears. She had never seen him like this, and when she sat down on the bed after hastily closing the door behind him, he laid his head in her lap like a little boy and wept. Against her better instincts, Jaime ran her fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, “Jaime, I am, truly. I’m so sorry. I never meant for it to be like this.”

“I know,” said Jaime, although she didn’t know. But he had not been this vulnerable with her, when they were not fucking, in years, and she was desperately grasping at the moment. She held all the power, right now. Not him. “I know you didn’t, Ceri.”

“I love you,” he said, staring up at her, green eyes so sad and handsome face so wounded. “Only you. You’re the only- the only one, Jaime, it’s only you, I love you. I used to dream of wedding you. Only you. I wish it would be you, tomorrow, not her. I still dream of you in white.”

Jaime was in white, but it was her nightgown. She leaned down and kissed him, crying a little herself, and the love they made that night was almost mournful, whereas the times before had been impassioned and wild. He murmured her name into her hair like a prayer, and his tears mingled with hers and left the pillows wet. She stared up at his face the entire time, but his eye were closed as he gasped out her name once more, shuddering against her. In the dark, he did not look like her other half. He looked like a stranger.

Jaime fell asleep beside him, and the morning he was gone and she felt overwhelming disgust with herself. A few sweet words and wine on his breath and she’d let him slip inside her once again. But he had seemed as though he’d truly meant it; Cerion was not such a good liar as to manufacture tears while drunk. He really had been crying, for her or for himself, she wasn’t sure. One of her maids looked at her sympathetically as Jaime bathed that morning. “You mustn't cry so, milady,” she tutted. “You’ll be a woman wed yourself soon enough, don’t you worry.”

Jaime smiled blandly up at her, scrubbing in between her legs until the skin was raw.

The wedding was a splendid affair, conducted in the sept, which was bathed in rainbow light from the stained glass window, turning Cerion’s golden curls green and red and blue. Lysa smiled joyously beside him, but Jaime could see the girl’s dainty hands shaking with nerves as the septon pronounced them man and wife. “One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” he said with a broad smile, as the couple broke free of their chaste kiss.

Jaime felt as though her own heart had been ripped out, but she did not cry. Rather, she smiled like the good sister she was meant to be, and applauded with the rest of the guests as the bride and groom left the sept. She almost wished Tyrion were here, for company, but Father would never let his shame be present at a wedding designed to impress the Lannisters’ wealth and power. The sun was setting as the feast began, held half indoors, half out, in Riverrun’s impressive gardens.

Jaime was seated between Catelyn and Edmure Tully, and ignored the boy’s blushes whenever he glanced at her, although when he asked her to dance, after Cerion and Lysa gracefully led “Fair Maids of Summer”, she accepted with a smile. He danced well, for a boy of twelve, although he didn’t even come to her shoulder. After him she danced with Lord Hoster to, a portly man whose brown hair and beard were streaked through with grey. He praised her grace, and then she danced with Father, and neither spoke a word.

Then it was “The Maids that Bloom in Spring”, and she found herself in Cerion’s arms. He kept a respectful distance between the two, and Jaime smiled brightly, as if she were a normal sister thrilled at her brother’s good fortune, to have such a lovely wife. Her gown was a rich fern green and had flowing sleeves that tapered at her slender wrists and which were cut to reveal part of her sunkissed arms. The skirt flowed as she spun in his arms. “You look beautiful, sister,” he told her, loud and clear enough to be heard by their fellow dancers.

“Thank you, brother,” she chirped. “And you make a fine groom. Lysa is very lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” he jested, but his broad grin did not reach his eyes.

When the call for the bedding went up, Jaime averted her eyes, but was tugged to her feet by a laughing Catelyn Tully. “Come on, we must see them off!” the older girl declared, smiling, and Jaime followed reluctantly with the crowd of giggling, squealing women stripping her brother of his clothes as they tugged him along towards the marital chambers. Elsewhere, Lysa was shrieking as the men did similarly. Jaime met her twin’s eyes briefly as he was pushed, shirtless, into the room, but then she stalked back towards the feasting.

She drank until she was tipsy, and danced with Marq Piper, Lymond Goodbrook, and Patrek Mallister. She even danced with the Baelish boy they all called Littlefinger. When she fell into bed at the end of the night, she was relieved that she did not dream. In the morning, the bride and groom entered the hall to raucous applause. Cerion was grinning and jesting with the other men, but Lysa Tully was simultaneously flushed and pale, and her smile was strained. Jaime watched her for a long time. The tourney at Harrenhal could not come quickly enough.

Chapter Text

Jaime was riding to Harrenhal with the combined Tully-Lannister party scarcely a month after her brother’s marriage. Her spirits were a bit improved, as she’d be better able to escape the tortured looks Cerion kept giving her when no one was looking. He was being foolish; Jaime suspected that tittering, fragile Lysa was a good deal more observant than she let on, and while the girl would be mad to accuse her new husband of anything… It was likely that cracks in that marriage rockbed were already forming, although the newlyweds were all smiles in public.

That said, Jaime thought it entirely possible that Lysa was already pregnant, given the fact that she and Catelyn spent half the journey to Harrenhal whispering to each other. She tried her best to quell the churning in her gut that the thought of Lysa bearing a child with her brother’s gleaming green eyes caused. She really was perverse, she reflected grimly, to be sickened at the thought of Cerion getting his wife pregnant, rather than his sister.

She had never laid eyes on Harrenhal before, and it was truly massive, the largest castle in Westeros, everyone said, and somehow frightening as well, looming over the Gods Eye lake, which was giant in its own right. Jaime did not understand how a family like the Whents, who were wealthy and numerous but still just one line, could possibly fill up the entire castle. There had to be scores of empty rooms and feasting halls. Nevertheless, the majority of the guests pitched their tents outside Harrenhal’s menacing walls, and Jaime was glad of it. She had no desire to be inside a dark, damp castle when by all signs, spring had come.

The grass was green again and the trees were budding leaves, and it was warm enough that there was no need for a cloak. Jaime separated herself from the rest of the party as best she could, and recognized a few familiar faces from the Westerlands- including a familiar freckled girl. “Melara?” she called uncertainly, and then grinned when her old friend whirled around. She had the same amount of freckles, if not more, but Melara had blossomed from a pretty young girl to an attractive young woman, her dark hair shining in the sunlight.

“Jaime Lannister?” she arched a dark eyebrow. “Still hiding from Prince Rhaegar, I see.”

Jaime considered slapping her for a moment, but then laughed. Melara smirked. “I’ve heard tell your father is still holding out for a Targaryen groom.”

“I’ve heard tell that you’re betrothed to a Ruttiger,” Jaime retorted, “And Jeyne wed already- is it true?”

“Wedded, bedded, and already with child, last I heard,” Melara scoffed. “But she always was the motherly sort.” She shrugged. “Raynard had best not mind waiting- I’ve no intention of letting my figure go at such a tender age.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty three. Hair like copper- bit like these Tullys- and very tall. He has a fine beard, though,” she reasoned.

“And do you like him?” Jaime pressed.

Melara rolled her eyes. “He’s a bit serious for my tastes, but he’s loyal enough.”

“I’m happy for you, Melara,” said Jaime, and it wasn’t quite a lie. She and Melara had spent most of their time bickering, but they’d never truly resented one another, and she was glad the other girl’s future was secure, although she had likely hoped for a greater match than a landed knight.

The dark haired girl studied her for a moment, as if wondering whether or not she was lying, and then linked her arm through Jaime’s as she might have done when they were little girls. “Tell me all about court. I’m still furious I wasn’t allowed to go as one of your ladies. You’ve no idea how dull it’s been in Lannisport.”

Jaime could only imagine.

The attendees were hosted in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, which was inaccurate, as Jaime counted no more than thirty five. However, it was the largest feasting hall she had ever been in, and Casterly Rock had some truly cavernous halls. The chatter of what had to be over a thousand guests echoed off the walls and it was difficult to hear anything else.

Jaime noticed first that her father was not at their table, but decided he had to be off somewhere with the king, who was also absent. She sat with Catelyn and Edmure once again, although Catelyn kept giving longing glances off in the direction of the Starks. Jaime had never seen of them before, but there were four, long faced, dark haired, and wild looking. “Which one is Brandon?” she asked Catelyn, who beamed.

“The tallest,” the older girl said, blushing slightly.

Jaime looked him over; he was very tall, taller even than Cerion, and broader in the shoulders as well, with thick dark brown hair that he wore long, and a beard. He was laughing uproariously at something the smallest of the three Stark boys, who looked about the same age as young Edmure, has said. There was another boy who appeared to be in between the other two in age; he was not as handsome as Brandon, or as skinny as the youngest one.

He was talking to the sole Stark daughter, whose hair fell in brown ringlets around her long face. She was not traditionally beautiful, but Jaime thought her striking nonetheless, and many of the men in attendance seemed to agree, from the looks they sent the girl’s way. However, she was oblivious, chattering to her brother loudly- Jaime caught some snippet about a horse race.

“That’s Lyanna,” Catelyn said. “She’s half a boy, apparently- Brandon says she’s always riding off somewhere. She’s betrothed to Robert Baratheon.”

Jaime searched the hall for any sign of the Baratheon heir, whom she’d never met before but had heard was strong as an ox and quite the rogue, especially when it came to women. “Poor thing,” she said dryly, when she saw no trace of a black stag. “He’s likely off upstairs with some Whent wench.”

Catelyn pressed her lips together in an attempt to restrain herself from laughing aloud as she sipped at her wine.

The hall only quieted slightly when the faint sounds of a harp could be heard, and eventually all conversation died away and every head turned in the direction of one of the hearths, where Rhaegar had been coaxed into playing his harp. Jaime had heard him play before, but never quite like this. She leaned back to try to locate Elia, who she eventually caught a glimpse of looking down from the upper gallery, although she couldn’t make out the expression on her face.

The song Rhaegar was playing was sweet, and sad, and oddly haunting, and Jaime found the melody linger in her head for the rest of the night. Half the women in the hall were in tears by the end of it, and to Jaime’s surprise, Lyanna Stark was amongst them, prompting snickers from the youngest Stark boy. She promptly poured what was left of her wine over his head.

After that the musicians started up again, and dancing began. Jaime danced with two Whents, and then caught sight of Ashara Dayne, smiling and dancing with the middle Stark boy- Ned, she thought she’d heard him called. She waved to the Dornish girl before another man approached her, and after a moment she realized this was none other than Robert Baratheon himself.

He really was a massive man, towering over her, and Jaime was not a short woman. He was also slightly drunk, to her amusement. “Don’t you have a Stark daughter to dance with?” she asked with a small smirk.

“Can’t find her,” he replied with an easy grin. He had bright blue eyes, a handsome, square face with a strong chin, and curly black hair. Even if he was a bit drunk, he danced well, his hands so big on her waist that his fingers seemed to reach all the way around. He did not ask stilted questions about her marriage prospects or inquire after her father or brother. He did attempt to feel her up at least once, but stopped when she stepped down hard on his feet.

“You dance well for a Lannister,” he said when the song was ending.

“You dance well for a drunkard,” Jaime retorted, and then, to her shock, he snorted and kissed her, although he caught the corner of her mouth more than anything else. She jerked away from him in irritation, but he just laughed, and turned to another girl as she walked away, rubbing at her mouth.

Cerion was suddenly in front of her, and Jaime forced a smile onto her face, because he didn’t look pleased. She wondered if he’d seen the drunken kiss, and thought about how she might enjoy watching Robert Baratheon lay her brother out flat with one blow if Cerion challenged him. But that was not what he had sought her out over. “Father wants to speak with you,” he said instead, and jerked his head towards one of the doorways.

“Cerion, I love “Maids of Summer”!” Lysa exclaimed nearby. “Please, let’s dance this round-”

Jaime was already headed in her father’s direction, wondering what could be so important that he wouldn’t wait until after the feast, and then her stomach dropped. If he had managed to secure a betrothal to Viserys- but Father’s countenance was even grimmer than Cerion’s, as he led her out of the feasting hall and down a darkened corridor. Finally he stopped and turned to her, the shadows from the torches playing on his face. He looked older than she thought he ought, somehow, his hair more grey than blonde.

“I’ve resigned,” he told her flatly.

Jaime stared at him. “You’ve resigned as Hand?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “As Aerys refuses to see sense. I’ll be returning to Casterly Rock.”

Jaime found it difficult to restrain her glee. “So we’ll be going home after the tourney-,”

“Your brother, his wife, and I will be returning home,” Father corrected sharply. “You will remain at court.”

“Father!” Jaime was unable to control herself any longer. “This is absurd! The king will never-,”

“You will remain at court by order of the king,” Father snapped, his tone cutting her off completely. “You are a lady in waiting to the queen, and she has not dismissed you from her service. Aerys has made it quite clear that if I remove you from his household without his express permission, it will be looked upon as treason.”

“What does the king care-,”

“Because he plans to use your continued presence at court to ensure my obedience,” Father barked. “That is why he cares, Jaime. And so you will stay, until a solution is reached.”

Jaime turned away from him, certain she was either about to burst into tears or scream. If not for your stubborn pride, she wanted to shriek, we would not be in this situation. She did not want to be wed, but if he betrothed her, she would have to leave court to be wed. But he would not. Not yet. Because to do so would admit defeat, that he, Tywin Lannister, had failed, that his daughter was unworthy of the title of queen. If she had thought she had been alone at court before…

Jaime feared her father far more than she loved him, but she had always known that he would not allow any harm to come to her. She had no such guarantee without his presence at King’s Landing. The king was quite mad, and grew worse by the day. She had no desire to be subject to his flames. Her only chance, she thought wildly, lay with Elia. If she could entreat the princess to ask the queen for her to serve as Elia’s companion instead, than she would be on Dragonstone. Elia had a newborn son and a toddling daughter. Surely she could use the company. And Dragonstone was far safer than the Red Keep.

Chapter Text

Jaime had nearly lost her nerve to approach Elia about joining the Targaryen household on Dragonstone, after that business with the joust. She had watched alongside the rest of the raucously cheering crowd as their silver prince was victorious… and then watched as his fine white destrier trotted past his wife and to there the Starks sat. Catelyn Tully had gasped quietly beside her, but Jaime was staring at the Stark girl, Lyanna, who sat stiffly, expression unreadable, as the prince crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. A hush had rippled over the crowd.

“Oh, but he can’t,” Lysa had hissed in dismay from behind Jaime. “The princess…”

Then Jaime had finally looked away from Lyanna Stark, who had not touched the flower crown sitting in her lap, and at Elia Martell. She was smiling, faintly, politely, but her eyes were not. Even from a distance, Jaime could tell that much. Elia had always been an even tempered young woman, but there was hot anger in that gaze of hers now, despite the gracious look on her face.

Nevertheless, Jaime had no choice but to ask. The queen and Prince Viserys were not in attendance at the tourney, and who could blame Rhaella, for wanting a precious month or so away from her mad husband? Jaime did not fancy the idea of riding back to King’s Landing surrounded by men. Still, she was far meeker than usual, when she was permitted entrance to Elia’s lavish tent, rippling in the breeze as servants scurried about packing for the return to Dragonstone.

“Lady Jaime,” Elia greeted, handing the silken scarf in her hand off to a maid who was folding clothes and placing them nearly into a trunk. “It’s been too long.”

Jaime curtsied deeply, and then looked uncertainly at Elia. Any trace of anger or outrage had vanished from her, but she looked even frailer than Jaime remembered. She had heard that Prince Aegon’s birth had nearly killed the woman, and was frankly shocked that she’d been in well enough health to attend the tourney at all. Still, Elia’s bearing remained proud and unruffled, and her smile seemed genuine enough, so Jaime pled her case.

She was surprised when Elia immediately agreed, but knew better than to question it.

“Dragonstone can be quite lonely,” the Dornish woman said, “And Ashara is returning to Starfall, so I will be in need of company. Rhaegar-,” she hesitated slightly for a moment, and her smile wavered, “The prince travels often, but the children need me. I should not have left them at all for this- but you see, Jaime, I had never attended a tourney before.”

Jaime did not know where to look, and settled on the ground. She was almost incensed on Elia’s behalf; what kind of man humiliated his ailing wife at such an event? Particularly when he was a prince, not a drunken fool of a lord with no good sense. She had never liked Rhaegar, but she had never taken him for a dullard or a lout. At least Lyanna Stark had had the good sense to look ill at ease about all of it, regardless of whether or not she was flattered. Silly girl; Jaime would have thrown the crown back in his face.

Jaime traveled with Elia and her household down the God’s Eye River by ship, then onto the Blackwater Rush before they were out into the bay and sailing for Dragonstone. Jaime enjoyed it, primarily because Elia saw no need for them to stop in King’s Landing and because Rhaegar took a separate, quicker route by horse towards Duskendale. It was quite obvious as to why; Jaime didn’t think any man in the world was fool enough to be near his wife after a stunt like that.

The princess and her servants were pleasant company, and Jaime was too relieved to be free of court for the time being, although she could easily be summoned back at any moment, to care either way. Elia spoke fondly of the children, Rhaenys, who was nearly two now, and little Aegon. Princess Loreza had passed from a stroke earlier in the year, and she wanted Rhaenys and Aegon to grow up knowing their uncles and cousins.

“When my health permits it, and Rhaegar is king…,”

Much will change, what was the look on her face said. Jaime almost believed her.

Elia did not speak of Rhaegar until they were nearing Dragonstone. Her revelations about her marriage were presented under the guise of almost sisterly advice for any young woman of noble birth, but Jaime knew better. She could feel the undercurrent of fury underneath: Do not make the mistakes I did.

“I never thought of marrying the prince,” Elia said, sitting in the cabin of the ship. “I did not have the balls and the suitors many girls have, with my… perceived infirmity,” she shrugged lightly. “Many assumed I was barren. But Mother was determined to make a fine match for me, and she and the queen had been dear friends… I suppose now that it was really her plan all along, to betroth me to Rhaegar. And of course I agreed; he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He still is,” she corrected herself.

But a handsome face is not everything, Jaime finished the statement for her in her own head. It seemed she and the princess had both learned that, and what a hard lesson it had been. “Any man would be lucky to have you as his wife,” she said instead, as if they were still jesting. “I almost wonder if His Grace is too fortunate.”

“I’m not sure I believe in luck,” Elia said. “Or fate, for that matter- I nearly fell for Baelor Hightower. But I was just a girl, then, really. It seems so long ago.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap; they were pale and fragile looking, like two wounded birds, Jaime thought. “I only wish to warn you, Jaime, that you never truly know a man until you share his name and bed- and even then, it can be difficult to... ,” she appeared to be grasping for a phrase that would do justice to her feelings, “Reach an understanding.”

Jaime had no idea what her own expression looked like, but it made Elia swiftly add, “Of course, Rhaegar has never been anything but kind and courteous to me. He is a fine man, truly, and he adores the children. It is just… well, some men always hold themselves at a distance, I suppose. Difficult to reach.”

Elia had not exaggerated; Dragonstone was quite lonely, and even more grim. Jaime stood at the bow as their ship docked, blinking away the cold spray of seafoam; the weather had turned since the tourney had ended, and there was no sign of green grass or budding leaves on the desolate island that lay before them. The castle that loomed over them cast a dark shadow, and on the journey up to its gates Jaime realized that the ancient structure was literally covered with gargoyles, all in the shape of dragons, some big, and some small.

The wind was fierce as they approached the keep, and Jaime’s curls were a tangled mess as she pulled the hood of her cloak closer. Elia, when she stepped down from the wheelhouse, looked to the castellan who’d come out to greet them, a thin, greying man.

“His Grace has been awaiting your arrival-,” he began, but Elia simply said, “I should see to the children first- we have been apart for some time now.” With that, she led Jaime in the direction of the nursery, bearing serene, despite the glances of some of the servants. Jaime suspected that news of Harrenhal had traveled swiftly enough, given the length it had taken them to return with their slower route and the worsening weather.

The nursery, as opposed to what Jaime had seen thus far of the menacing castle, was warm and light, and the toddler Rhaenys lit up with a bright smile at the sight of her mother, running to her with a squeal. She looked a good deal like Elia, although her hair was a shade lighter, with a single silver gold streak running through her tousled curls, and her eyes were not Elia’s black or Rhaegar’s violet but a warm brown that shone up at her mother lovingly from her round, olive-skinned face.

“Mama,” she babbled, as Elia picked her up, crooning a greeting, and holding her close.

The only children Jaime had ever been around were Tyrion and her younger cousins, but now she felt something catch painfully in her throat. Regardless the state of her marriage, Elia loved her children more than anything, and they her. Jaime wondered at that, the love a child had for its mother. Children had to love their mothers, didn’t they? Their mothers were all they knew. She wondered briefly what that might be like, to hold a child with golden curls and bright green eyes, staring up at her in adoration and pure affection, a child who would love her no matter what, call her Mama and run to her when she entered a room, smile bright and trusting.

Rhaenys looked at Jaime over her mother’s shoulder, and smiled, and Jaime, in spite of her unease, grinned back. “Here, hold her while I see to Aegon,” Elia said, and handed the toddler over to Jaime, who stiffened in alarm at the unfamiliar weight and unfamiliar smell of a small human being in her arms. Rhaenys appeared much more at ease than she, and was content to peer curiously at Jaime’s face, poking at her fine Lannister red cloak, with snarling lions embroidered in gold along the mantle, and at her damp hair.

Elia returned with Aegon, and Jaime looked in surprise at the sleepy infant boy; he was much paler than his mother and sister, with the platinum white Targaryen hair to match, and his half open eyes were Rhaegar’s violet. But she saw Elia and Rhaenys in his nose and ears, and in the smile that slowly spread across his little face.

“They’re beautiful,” Jaime said honestly, as Rhaenys squirmed in her arms and she set the girl down.

“I always wanted a son and a daughter, one of each,” Elia said, looking intently at Aegon’s face, as if searching for something. “I never thought to have children- the maesters said I would never survive the birthing bed.”

Jaime glanced at Rhaenys, who’d stumbled and briefly reverted to crawling before pulling herself up again with the help of an armchair in front of the hearth. “But you did. They were wrong.”

“I did,” Elia agreed, “And I will never birth another, but Rhaenys and Aegon are enough.”

Her tone for the latter statement struck Jaime as odd; it was almost… defiant. As if daring anyone to challenge the fact that she’d only been able to birth two children, and one young male heir, at that. She supposed the princess must have felt tremendous pressure to give Rhaegar a son, after Rhaenys’ birth. But Aegon seemed a healthy, big babe, and provided he stayed so, the Targaryen line was secure.

“Of course they’re enough,” Jaime said fiercely, feeling an almost protective rush towards this hurt woman and her happy, smiling children. “Aegon will sit the Iron Throne one day, and Rhaenys will be a Princess of Dragonstone. The envy of the entire realm,” she predicted confidently. And how could they not be, the result of a match between two powerful houses. Rhaenys was fortunate to have Martells for her maternal side; they would not let her be used as a mere broodmare or political pawn.

She reflected that these children, no matter the feelings between their parents, would grow up happy, and safe, and loved, and the thought that his could have been her and Cerion tore through her briefly, before she pushed it aside. There was no changing the past, and no sense dwelling miserably on her present predicament as a practical hostage of the Iron Throne.

Aerys would not be king forever, and it was obvious his health was in rapid decline. She doubted he’d see another five years on the throne, never mind another decade. And Rhaegar had his faults, like every man, but he would surely prove a better ruler than his father, or at least a far milder one. Jaime would be home soon enough. She simply had to bide her time.

Chapter Text

Jaime thought herself more upset than Elia was, when the news came. Rhaegar had disappeared to gods knew where with the little Stark girl. Had Jaime thought the prince the sort of man to vanish into the night with a maiden, she would not have picked Lyanna Stark. From what she had seen of the girl at Harrenhal, she had been bold, stubborn, and hotheaded, possibly even more so than Jaime. Certainly not the type to be swept off her feet, no matter how charming and handsome the suitor.

Then again, the girl could be no older than fifteen, and while Jaime was only newly sixteen herself, she knew a child when she saw one. Lyanna Stark had lived a sheltered upbringing in the lonely North. She likely knew nothing of court politics or alliances or men’s schemes. The more she thought about it, the less Jaime was surprised. But Elia- had Jaime received news that her husband had run off with, or abducted, a girl, she would have raged long and hard, enough to make Dragonstone shake around her.

Elia was in fragile health, with no family or close friends to support her, and two little children to look after, one not even half a year old. If Jaime had been in her situation, she was certain she would have lost her mind, knowing that by now the entire realm must be hearing of Rhaegar’s folly. Yet Jaime heard no trace of rage or fury from Elia. But the princess’s warm smiles were few and far between, and she spent much of her time writing letters to her family in Dorne.

Jaime was not a nursemaid, but she tried to keep the children happy, having grown fond of them, particularly Rhaenys, who was a clever little thing who reminded her of Tyrion. She constantly asked after her father, and Jaime did not know what to say, other than that she was sure the prince loved her very much, since she was such a sweet child. “Papa come back?” Rhaenys asked her mother every morning at breakfast, and Elia’s answer of “Soon, sweetling,” never wavered.

But Rhaegar did not return. Perhaps he had written Elia, but Jaime doubted it, for the tension in the woman was evident, despite her serene countenance. When a raven did arrive, it was from the king, not the prince. “We’ve been summoned to King’s Landing,” Elia told Jaime in a calm, even tone, but Jaime noted that there was a slight tremble in her hand. She did not blame her. The last nobility to be summoned to the capitol had been, among others, Lord Rickard Stark, and now word was spreading that the king had burned them all- Stark and his heir and two hundred others. Jaime was not sure if she believed the rumors, but with Aerys on the throne…

“His Grace the King would never harm the children,” Jaime said. She cast a glance towards Aegon’s gently rocking cradle. “Least of all the heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Of course not,” said Elia swiftly, putting the letter down on the table. “No, I- I imagine His Grace wants every member of his house close by, if it is to be war.”

Jaime did not see how there was any question of it now, if Aerys really had butchered all those Northron lords. Eddard Stark yet lived, and his friend Baratheon had been betrothed to Lyanna… They had always said the Baratheons were not ones to cross, for their rage was a storm of its own.

Nine months later, Rhaegar died in the blood stained waters of the Trident, and the rebels turned to the capitol. Jaime’s first thought was for herself, and that if Father had not declared for the king yet, then her only hope lay with the rebels. She knew there had been Westermen present at the Trident, and she suspected it was because the king had told Tywin it was that or his daughter’s head on a pike, but she’d heard nothing of her father or brother being on the battlefield. Once she had scorned their plans. Now she desperately hoped they had one, because her survival seemed uncertain at best.

Elia wept at the news of her husband’s death, but it had been accompanied by the news of her uncle’s death as well, and Jaime wondered who the tears were really for. Several days later, she found the fire in the princess’s chambers burning unusually high, and Elia sat beside it with a cup of Dornish strongwine, dark as blood. “It’s one of my lord husband’s favorite harps,” she nodded to the crackling flames.

Jaime said nothing, only looked at the wooden pieces turning to ash in the hearth.

“He sang me many sweet lies with it,” the princess murmured, “and mayhaps many more to the Stark girl.” Her gaze was dark and hot, somehow, like dying coals, subdued but still enough to burn.

“He died valiantly,” said Jaime, for that was true enough. She’d had no love and little admiration for Rhaegar, but at least he had not cowered in hiding. No one could have foreseen the rebels winning in the Riverlands.

“He ought to have died here, if he was going to die,” Elia replied sharply, “In defense of his children, if nothing else. Now they are coming for us.”

The queen and Prince Viserys had disappeared in the middle of the night, and Jaime suspected it was to Dragonstone. The only reason Elia and herself remained were as hostages, or likely the Dornish, and possibly the Lannisters, would already be at their gates.

“Yes,” said Jaime, and asked for a cup of wine herself.

A fortnight later, her father and brother appeared outside the city, and the sack began. Jaime woke up to the smell of smoke and ash, and coughing, sat up in bed and stared out her open balcony doors at the black sky outside, and the fires burning below. There was a frantic knocking at her door, and pulling on a silken dressing gown, she opened it to find the grand maester, Pycelle. Jaime stared at the old man for a moment, before he hurriedly said, “My lady, you must come with me,” and took her by arm.

Jaime shook him off as he pulled her out into the hallway. There were distant shouts and screams, steadily growing louder, and the sound of horses and men in the yard. “Where is my father?” she demanded. She had suspected Pycelle was one of her father’s plants for some time, but Aerys opening the gates to the Lannister forces had all but confirmed it. Who else could have counseled the Mad King to do such a thing?

“Commanding his men in the streets, but your brother-,”

Both maiden and maester drew to sudden halt at an armed figure standing at the end of the dim corridor, but his helm was a snarling lion, and Jaime said, uncertainly, “Ceri-,” as he pulled it off.

Regardless of her resentment and anger towards her brother, the sight of him was an undeniable relief, and Jaime ran to him like a little girl. “You’re alright,” he breathed, an armored arm wrapping around her, and she nodded against him, before pulling back.

“Cerion, what is going on?” She glanced down at his sword, which was soaked in fresh blood, and drew back.

“The king is dead,” he said simply.

Jaime gaped at him. “He-,”

“My lord, you killed him?” Pycelle quavered.

“Of course,” said Cerion, with a savage half-smile. “He was about to destroy the city with wildfire. I had no choice but to stop him and that pyromancer rat.”

Jaime felt as though the floor were giving way beneath her. She wavered in shock, staring at her brother and his bloody sword and triumphant look, and finally said, “Then the throne falls to Aegon. Do the people know? Have you declared for him yet?”

“Sister,” said her twin, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sometimes I think you part Targaryen, for you say the most mad things.”

Jaime had not the patience or the energy to debate the line of succession with him at the moment. “We must fetch Elia and the children,” she urged her brother. “The princess must be terrified- half the city is burning, from the smell of it!”

Cerion laughed shortly at that, and if Jaime had been frightened before, the dread that crept into her now put that to shame.

“My lady,” Maester Pycelle said. “I… I do not think…”

“I scaled the walls with Clegane and Lorch,” Cerion told her. “I’m sure they’ve fulfilled their orders by now.”

Jaime just looked at him, uncomprehending, but the terrible, choking dread only grew. “Why would Father send-,”

“To retrieve you, of course,” Cerion said, as if it should be obvious, “And to deal with the rest of these dragons.”

Jaime turned and made to run towards the nursery, only a few floors above, but her brother easily caught her by the arm and pulled her back, struggling.

“My lady, you must calm yourself,” Pycelle insisted, before Jaime delivered a stinging slap to his withered face and whirled on her brother.

“Let go of me! Cerion, let GO!” she shrieked, kicking and scratching at him like a wild beast, frantic in her attempts to escape. “How can you- they are innocent, brother! A woman and two little children! We have to stop this!”

“It’s done, Jaime,” her brother snarled, pinning her wrists together with one hand. “Stop this foolishness. They were nothing to you, and that Martell whore took everything from us.”

Jaime spat in his face. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You bastard, you are a knight, sworn to protect women and children, not butcher them-,”

Cerion had never hit her before, not counting their fights as little children. She had often won those. Now he hit with the strength of a tall, strong young man, not a little boy. Admittedly, she considered later, he likely could have hit her even harder, but as it was, the blow was enough to not only silence her but leave a bruise on her cheek that remained for days afterwards, and he had not even used the back of his hand but his palm.

After that, it was all a blur of tears and a sharp, lingering pain in the side of her face. She stood stiffly beside her brother as he sat the Iron Throne, as more and more westerman and rebels filled the Great Hall, until at last the murmuring, weary crowd parted like a sea. Ned Stark rode through them, right up to the base of the throne, where Jaime stood on the steps weeping like the terrified but grateful maiden she was supposed to be, rescued by her heroic brother from the horrors of Targaryen madness.

When she saw Ned Stark on his plain grey mount, she wiped at her face. He was clad in full armor, but he wore no helm, and the look on his face was one of cold fury as he stared up at her brother. In that moment, Jaime thought wildly that if he meant to kill Cerion right then and there she would not only stand aside to let him do so, but offer to take off his head herself. Images of Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon swam through her mind, smiling, laughing.

They were dead, and she lived, all due to chance and a family name. She should have been with them. Of course she would have stood no chance against two battle hardened knights, nevermind that Gregor Clegane was called the Mountain, and not for naught, but- perhaps she could have given them time to escape. She knew more of her way around a sword than most girls. Better to have died with them, then stand here now, mere feet from her murderer brother.

Ned Stark said nothing, and after what seemed like an eternity to Jaime, she heard the creak of metal as her brother rose from the throne he’d sought for so long, and sheathed his bloody sword, stepping down from the seat. Once Ned Stark had taken the throne in her twin’s place, he glanced down at her, and his expression softened slightly.

“Are you alright, Lady Jaime?” he asked.

“No, Lord Stark,” she said hoarsely, and felt a hysterical laugh bubbling at her lips like blood. “I am not.”

She was told she fainted, then, and might have impaled herself on the throne had her brother not caught her in his arms.

Chapter Text

Jaime was brought back to the Rock with Cerion as soon as the city had been secured. She did not speak to anyone; not her father, who she thought had seemed almost relieved to see her safe, and not her brother. Tywin seemed to believe she was in shock, and she overheard him telling Cerion to keep a close eye on her. “I won’t have rumors that she’s gone mad. Make sure she is presentable upon your return home, and don’t let her out of your sight,” he’d said curtly.

“Of course not, Father,” Cerion had assured him.

The stares and whispers had no effect on her; Jaime rode in front of Cerion on his warhorse with the same blank look on her face day after day, and ate in silence every night while her brother tried in vain to engage her in conversation. Her marriage to Robert Baratheon was all but assured; Ned Stark had gone in search of his sister, but even if she lived, she would be utterly ruined and no fit wife for a king.

“You always hated Rhaegar,” he told, or accused her, slightly drunk one night, across the fire. It was spring, and the evenings were still cold, but summer was quickly approaching. Jaime felt immune to the chill, and watched the flames instead, as she had once with Elia, while the older woman broke down in silence. “Perhaps a stag will be more to your liking than a wyrm.”

“Jon Arryn will be Hand, not you.” She barely said it at all; it was a fragment of a whisper, a brief rasp in the dark and the cold, obscured by the shadow of the flames.

Cerion stared at her. “What did you say?” he demanded, and she knew he’d heard her.

Jaime didn’t look up at him. He stalked around the fire and yanked her roughly up by the arm, fingers digging in through her thin gown. “What did you say to me?” he hissed, and his breath was hot and reeked of wine.

Jaime looked at him then, and let her open disgust contort her features. Cerion looked like he was about to strike her, breathing hard, but let go of her instead, and went into his tent.

She returned home to find things very different from when she’d left six years past. Tyrion had grown from a little child of five to a boy of one and ten. He would have been off squiring for some lord, if not for his deformity. She embraced him all the same, in full view of Cerion, whose scowl she could feel on the back of her neck. Her aunts and uncles were wary but kind enough, looking at her as though she were the one who had come back from war and not her brother.

“I always took you for an empty headed little fool,” Genna told her a fortnight after her homecoming, when they dined together in private. She viewed Jaime critically from across the table.

“Aunt,” Jaime smiled faintly, “you wound me.”

“Unlike your father, I am very capable of admitting when I was mistaken,” the older woman said sharply. Her hair was shot through with more silver than Jaime remembered, but her green eyes were as sharp as ever. “An empty headed little fool would have made a lovely princess. You, however, have the making of a queen.”

Jaime laughed at that. “Because I survived court under Aerys? I smiled prettily and cried often, and hid behind the queen and the princess’s skirts like a child.”

Rhaella was still on Dragonstone, with Viserys, under siege by the Baratheon navy. Jaime had heard tell that the queen was pregnant, the last living piece of the Mad King still in her womb. If they took the island, they would kill them. Once, she would not have thought so, but now she was certain. She had been an idiot to think otherwise. War spared no one, least of all the weak and unprotected.

“You did what the circumstances called for,” Genna said. “You played the role given to you, and you kept your head intact on your pretty neck. Weaker girls would have gone to pieces.”

I am in pieces, Jaime thought. Only no one can see them.

She was not sure what had broke her, but she knew she was not the same. For years, she had done as Father and Cerion had told her. She had never failed them. She had smiled for Rhaegar and the king and the queen and danced and sang and played the high harp and in the end she was not going to wed a Targaryen but a Baratheon but no one cared because she would be queen. It wasn’t even her they wanted on the throne but themselves. She was simply something to be prodded about like a dumb animal.

“Jaime,” her aunt spoke, almost maternally, and leaned across the table to put a warm hand on her arm. “You have suffered, and I am sorry. Your father-,” she paused, and the continued, “your father has made many mistakes. With both you and Cerion.”

“Cerion has never disappointed Father,” Jaime muttered. “Unlike me.”

“He would have disappointed Joanna,” Genna said flatly.

She looked at her aunt in surprise. “Mother-,”

“Your mother was every bit as ambitious as Tywin,” Genna continued, “but she would have fought tooth and nail to keep you by her side. That, I believe. She loved you all dearly, and not because you are Lannisters, but because you were hers.”

Jaime was not sure if she believed her, but she bore it in mind.

Then there was Lysa. Since Jaime had last seen her, her good sister had given birth to a daughter, Joanna, now a girl of newly two. The servants murmured that Lord Cerion had been ill pleased with his wife for failing to give him an heir first, and Jaime was not surprised. A daughter was useful, of course, but her brother wanted his son. The fact that Joanna looked every inch a Tully did not help matters, although her red curls were a shade or two lighter than her mother’s.

Lysa was a good mother, as far as Jaime could tell, refusing to let maids tend to the girl and preferring to keep her with her whenever possible. But as for her marriage… whatever love Lysa may have believed herself to have for her handsome lord husband had been washed away. Cerion frequented her bed often enough, but the maids told a story of hushed arguments and many tears.

Jaime did not want to know the specifics of it. She did not want to know if her brother hurt his wife, if he forced her into bed with him, if he called her names while he fucked her. Lysa’s puffy eyes and wild looks whenever he entered the room were proof enough that the marriage was far from happy. Jaime accepted that a good deal of the blame likely rested on her shoulders. How could Lysa ever compete with Cerion’s own flesh and blood?

Still, the Tully girl seemed happy enough for her company, and Jaime enjoyed spending time with little Joanna, as much as the name pained her. The girl was already high-spirited for a mere toddler, and she hoped that spirit was not broken in the years to come. She would need it, with a father who resented his wife both privately and publicly, and Tywin Lannister for a grandsire.

“Cerion says Joanna may wed your first son with the king,” Lysa told her one warm morning as they broke their fast on one of the Rock’s many airy balconies. Joanna smeared jam across her mouth in her mother’s lap. Cerion did seem fond of the girl, despite her lack of Lannister looks, so Jaime supposed some solace could be taken in that.

“How clever of him,” she said, barely trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “He is always thinking of our family’s best interests.”

“I should like to be the mother of a queen,” Lysa said, but she did not sound wholly convinced. Still, she tried her hand at comfort; “They say His Grace is the Warrior made flesh, Jaime. You will be the envy of every woman in Westeros.”

“Even you?” Jaime asked, and then felt a stab of guilt at the way the other girl’s expression crumbled somewhat.

“Of course not,” Lysa murmured, her blue eyes dropping down to her meal. “I have the most gallant and kind lord husband.”

The new summer breeze ruffled the table covering. “Lysa,” Jaime said quietly. “I am not my brother’s eyes and ears. You can speak freely with me.”

Lysa glanced up at her again, and pressed a kiss to Joanna’s coppery curls. “I- I love Cerion, truly. But he-,” she hesitated, and the continued, “he is rarely pleased with me, and I cannot- I don’t know how to make him happy,” she admitted. “I am trying to give him a son, I am, but Joanna is not even weaned-,”

“You are only eight and ten,” Jaime said with a frown. “There is time a plenty to get with child again.”

“Of course,” said Lysa, and for the first time Jaime heard some bite in her usually melancholy tone, “but your brother is not a very patient man.”

“That he is not,” Jaime agreed, taking another sip of her warm milk.

When Cerion inevitably slipped into her room one night, she rolled over to face away from him and said nothing, even as he climbed into bed beside her. His hand skimmed up her leg and traced the curve of her hip before settling on her backside. Jaime still said nothing. His hand was hot to the touch, and she’d be lying to claim that he failed to arouse her, even now. She truly was pathetic. She saw him for what he was, and yet he could still make her wet.

He seemed to know as much, and kissed her neck. “It’s been too long,” he whispered in her ear. “Jaime, please. You know how I am without you.”

“I know what you are, always,” she murmured. “With or without me.”

This did not deter him, and he rolled her over, pushing up her chemise. Jaime grabbed his arm, and leaned up to hiss in his ear, “I will scream this castle down.”

He smirked. “Then perhaps we should find a use for your mouth, sister.”

“If you want to get a son on your wife, I’d think again,” Jaime said sweetly, “because I will bite your heir-maker off.”

He growled in frustration, shaking off her hand. “Why are you being so difficult?”

“I don’t want you,” she hissed, “That is why.”

“That’s a lie,” he snorted, but she jerked away when he tried to slide his fingers between her legs. “Jaime!” he snapped, dragging her back under him, and settling his weight atop her legs.

She looked up at him. “Do what you like,” Jaime snarled, “but do not think you will make me enjoy it. If you paid half as much attention to Lysa, perhaps she’d be with child by now.”

He slammed a fist down into the pillow beside her head, and his fingers tangled in her curls. But he rolled off her, and stalked out of the room, closing the door roughly behind him.

Word came that Ned Stark had returned to the capitol with his sister’s bones. Dragonstone was taken, but the last Targaryens were not. Rhaella died in the birthing bed, but the children, the prince and the newborn princess, were gone. Jaime sewed her maiden cloak with her good sister and aunts, and prepared for a final journey to King’s Landing, her bane since she had flowered.

When they rode into the city, the smallfolk spit on the ground at the sight of the scarlet and gold banners, but they cheered raucously at the sight of Jaime, flowers in her golden curls and a bright smile upon her face, all in gold with black lacing, in honor of her new house. She was still smiling when they entered the Red Keep, and she thanked her twin graciously for helping her down from Loreon.

Robert Baratheon’s hair was longer than she remembered, and his beard wilder, but he was tall and broad, although not as handsome as Rhaegar or even Cerion. She almost preferred that. He did not look like a king. He looked like a lost soldier. But he greeted her properly, pressing a rough kiss to the back of her hand. “My lady,” he said.

“My- Your Grace,” Jaime corrected herself swiftly, and sunk into a low curtsy, but she did not look away from him. “I have been eagerly awaiting this day.”

“Have you?” he almost seemed about to laugh. There was something brittle to him, despite his obvious strength and deep voice.

“Just as much as yourself, I am sure,” she chirped, and turned to smile at her family, while her husband to be’s forced mask of courtesy was cleaved off his face.

Chapter Text

Jaime kissed her husband and turned, hands still in his, to face the crowd. The Great Sept of Baelor was flooded with late afternoon sunshine, the massive doors opened to allow the crowd in the courtyard outside a view into the sept. The great lords and ladies filled the pews, and the smallfolk waited outside, roaring in anticipation as the newly wedded couple stepped down from the dais. The sweltering heat and the clamor was enough to make her slightly dizzy, although not in an unpleasant way. She felt almost drunk, as if this were not really happening, as if someone else was controlling her steps.

The Baratheon cloak fell heavy around her slim shoulders, and Jaime struggled to keep her head high and her smile unwavering, weighed down as she was. A necklace of gold glimmered around her neck, resting on the bare skin of her chest. The cut of her wedding gown dipped sharply between her breasts, with only a little scrap of lace keeping it from scandal. The bodice was shimmering golden thread and embedded with tiny rubies, and the sleeves were long and billowing, reaching to the floor. Jaime rarely wore her hair up, but it was piled up atop her head in a braided crown, a few errant curls escaping, the roses in it wilting.

She had never felt more beautiful, more powerful, when they stepped outside into the hot sunlight and the crowd burst into an even louder uproar, cheering and crying, “King Robert!, Queen Jaime!”. Women stared at her husband as if he were a god among men; Robert had trimmed his hair and shaved his beard for the ceremony, and with his black curls, strong jaw and bright blue eyes, one would be hard pressed to find a more handsome man. Men looked at her… well, men looked at Jaime the way they always had, but it was different now, because she was their queen. There was something a bit more apprehensive, lustful as their stares might be.

Jaime decided she rather liked the newfound wariness she had inspired in the opposite sex. A pretty young maiden invited longing. A beautiful queen demanded respect. Rhaella Targaryen had been a good woman, given her circumstances, but she had been mostly absent as queen. Jaime intended to be different. She might not rule in the same sense as Robert would, but she had the highest title of any woman in Westeros, and she would use it accordingly. Now that she was a woman wed, she could not be so easily dismissed or ignored.

Now that she was not a Lannister, she was no longer a tool. But she doubted Tywin or Cerion agreed with that summation. They, along with Tyrion, Lysa, Jon Arryn, and Robert’s brothers, grim Stannis and young Renly, had fallen in behind the new king and queen as they exited the sept. Jaime did not look back. She was done with looking to her father or twin for guidance. Both were consumed with their own self interests, and had been happy to make her miserable for years so long as they saw her, and by extension themselves, on the throne.

All Jaime had wanted was to be with Cerion. She had just wanted them to be happy. And now she was Robert’s queen and he future Lord Paramount of the westerlands. Jaime was not happy. Yet she was not miserable either. Her eyes had been dry all day, and there was no lump in her throat. Robert was not her first choice, nor he hers, but he had been perfectly amiable thus far, although she had seen the look on his face when the High Septon pronounced them man and wife. He had been envisioning another in her place. And some small, pathetic part of her had been pretending the man who removed her maiden’s cloak was fair-haired and green-eyed.

But the reality was that she was wed to Robert now, and he to her, and childish dreams of lost loves were not going to help either of them. Jaime understood that it was now her duty to make Robert love her, or at least grow fond of her. It was her duty to bear his children and to help ease the fact that a dynasty that had lasted nearly three centuries had been upended and replaced with a rebel king and his bride. Jaime was not pleased with this, but she could accept it. What she could not do was sit idly by any longer.

“The people love you,” Robert told her then. It was carelessly kind of him, and she was beginning to understand that this was the crux of him- he was careless, in words and actions. He was neither cruel nor compassionate. Robert was simply a creature of impulse. In that sense, she thought, perhaps they were more alike than anyone could have foreseen.

Jaime glanced up at him; she was a tall woman but he still towered over her, and smiled. “They would love any woman who stood in my place. It is you their hope rests in.”

A shadow passed over his face, in spite of the sunlight, and Jaime turned to wave to the crowd.

Jaime sat at Robert’s side through their feast, but after the dancing had begun, which they led gracefully, she found Lysa, clad in deep emerald, who looked at a loss without Joanna in her arms. The child was likely already abed. Lysa looked as though she would have preferred to be abed herself.

“It’s a shame Lord and Lady Stark are not in attendance,” Jaime said sympathetically.

Lysa pursed her lips. “I expect they are very busy, settling into Winterfell. And my sister has her son to look after.”

A son, unlike Lysa. Jaime had heard the boy was called Robb, after her own husband.

“I had thought we might visit them, after our stay in King’s Landing,” Lysa continued, “but Cerion- well, he thinks it best we return to Casterly Rock.”

Jaime squeezed the smaller woman’s shoulder. “When you are with child again, I would like you to return here. I will need ladies in waiting, and court will be good for you.” A whirlwind of amusing distractions, if nothing else. Lysa would fade into the stone at the Rock. Court might be a welcome reprieve.

“I would like that,” the redhaired girl smiled tentatively, and then Jon Arryn asked Jaime to dance.
After him she found herself with Stannis Baratheon, who looked as ill at ease as a boy of ten, rather than a man of twenty. He barely said a word to her for much of it, until she asked whether he had decided on his household on Dragonstone yet, and the man tightened like a key in a lock.

“Finding those willing to serve a Baratheon on the island has been… difficult,” he ground out.

Now Jaime understood. He viewed it as an insult, that Robert had given him Dragonstone, and Renly, the child of seven, Storm’s End, the ancestral seat. What man wanted rule of an island that had traditionally been a Targaryen stronghold, and was likely still rife with loyalists?

“It is a daunting seat,” she agreed, “yet such is the responsibility of the king’s heir, would you not agree, my lord?”

He frowned. “I fail to see what-,”

“Gods willing, I will give His Grace many healthy babes,” said Jaime innocently, “but until then, are you not your brother’s heir, next in line to the throne? Dragonstone has always been the seat of a crown prince, and although they call you Lord, that is what you are, as a king’s brother.”

Stannis was silent and she nearly tripped due to his unwieldy handling of her as the dance came to an end, but Jaime continued to look at him steadily. “I cannot know Robert’s heart,” she told him, “but I would consider Dragonstone a gift well-meant, even if it is a heavy weight to bear.”

He did not agree with her, but he did not scowl and contradict her either, which she took as a good sign.

By the time the bedding was called for, it was obvious enough that Robert was drunk. Jaime was tipsy herself, having never been one to avoid indulging. She had drank with Melara Hetherspoon and burst into peals of girlish laughter so as to not have to dance with Cerion, who had been all smiles during the ceremony, but now as the consummation drew near, seemed to have finally realized that for the marriage to be considered valid, Jaime would have to let another man between her legs.

Jaime was not exactly looking forward to the entire deal, but she’d bedded Cerion drunk before, and while there would be no love in it, she was not some timid maiden who had never seen a manhood before. However, that was exactly what she needed to act like, so she conjured up a shy blush as the male guests descended on her. Cerion was among them, although he was obviously restraining himself. The last thing they needed was for the whole thing to fall apart because he couldn’t handle the concept of delivering his sister to her marital bed.

Luckily, Stannis reached her first, and rather stiffly picked her up, to everyone in attendance’s surprise, including Jaime’s. There was no lust in it, and he walked very quickly, the rest of the men following and pawing at her, yanking at the ties of her gown and pulling down her hair. Jaime understood that it was her goodbrother’s strict adherence to morality and justice that led him to shield her so, but it was a kind gesture all the same, and quite worth the look on Cerion’s face, to see her in Stannis Baratheon, of all people’s, arms.

“Thank you, my lord,” she grinned when he finally set her down inside the chamber, and leaned up to kiss him chastely on the cheek. Stannis went from wan and pale to scarlet in a matter of seconds, and marched out of the room, forcing the crowd of jeering onlookers back as he did so. Jaime locked eyes with her twin for an instant, and raised her chin imperiously as he scowled.

Robert stumbled in already missing his shirt, his curls tousled, and roughly slammed the door behind him, blocking out the sound of the lords and ladies in the corridor. Jaime was dislodging the remainder of the rose petals from her curls when he caught her with a kiss, hot and hungry and forceful. Her hands curled into fists at her sides before she backed into the bed and braced herself using his shoulders as he struggled to undo his laces.

“Let me help you,” she whispered, and did it for him, then gasped when he bit her neck, hard enough that it would leave a bruise come morning.

Jaime wrapped her legs around his waist, and bit him back, scrabbling at his chest as he pulled off her chemise. He took her like a tavern whore, not even entirely on the bed, and Jaime cried out like one, gritting her teeth as she closed her eyes and fought back the name on the tip of her tongue. Robert was not so careful, and gasped “Lyanna” into her hair when he came. She let go of him and his grip on her thighs loosened as they both sank back down onto the bed.

He was too drunk to care, that much was clear, and she was too drunk to work herself into outrage over it. They both stank of wine and sweat. She was still half in love with her brother, despite all the grief he’d caused, and he was still consumed by a dead girl he’d likely never even gotten the chance to kiss. She wanted to cry, and she wanted to scream.

Robert looked at her blearily. Jaime laughed out of pity for both of them, and cupped his hot face with her hand. “Shall we try again, until you know my name?”

“Jaime,” he muttered, but she cut him off with a hard kiss and rolled over to straddle him, meek virgins be damned.

Chapter Text

Jaime found that marriage was somewhat easier than she had anticipated. Robert was easy to get along with, despite his temper; he did not lash out quite as readily as Cerion, and she found rather malleable in that she didn’t have to work particularly hard to manipulate them.

Robert was genuinely pleased when she readily agreed to his offers of riding and hunting, genuinely pleased when she initiated sex, genuinely pleased to please her- he was selfish, yes, but it was an almost oblivious sort of selfishness that she found more tolerable than her brother or father’s.

Her first tentative grasp for power was to assemble her ladies in waiting. Robert left this entirely up to her, stating that she knew women far better than he did; “Are you quite sure, Your Grace?” she’d asked him with a sly smile, and felt rewarded by his laugh.

Robert demanded respect and craved affection, but he was not insistent on controlling every aspect of her life. He cared not one whit how she spent her days or what color her gown was or if she wore her crown or not. So long as she was available to him, both physically and emotionally, he seemed unfazed by her habits.

Jaime found no small amount of relief in this. Robert did not insist she stay cooped up in some tower; rather he seemed pleasantly surprised that she was a fine horsewoman and a huntress of middling talent.

He praised her loudly when she struck a large hare with an arrow from across a stream, and displayed no annoyance or discomfort that she might enjoy a hunt just as much he did. In this sense, their relationship was rather amiable, something Jaime had never had with a man before. He was not necessarily falling over himself to please her, but nor was he quick to censor or criticize her either.

They were capable of carrying on conversations and enjoyed dining together. Jaime preferred it that way because she found he drank less when he took his meals with her, as meals often ended in his bedchamber, and no man wanted to be so deep in his cups that he could not enjoy sex.

And letting Robert fuck her- and fucking Robert- was enjoyable. She did not feel the surge of emotions and joy and grief she’d always felt with her twin, and she supposed she only had one other man to compare him too, but he was certainly popular with women for a reason beyond his good looks. He was not a terribly considerate bedmate, but then again, neither was she. They both took selfishly and in turn cajoled one another to be more generous.

Two months after the wedding, she began to suspect she was with child. With the frequency that she and Robert ‘attended to their duties’, she was not surprised that it had happened so soon. She was a healthy woman of eight and ten, and he’d certainly sired children before; she’d heard of a girl in the Vale, at the very least. The fact that he had bastards didn’t particularly disturb her; he had not yet sired one within the confines of their marriage.

Once she’d awoken to find that he’d woken before her, a rare occurrence, and had propped himself up in bed to stare down at her. Usually her husband was an open book, but the expression on his face had been indiscernible. She’d smiled at him and murmured a good morning, and he leaned down and kissed her, before clambering atop her while she laughed and kicked away the bedcovers.

She told him after a meeting with the maester. Jaime refused to been seen by Pycelle, and while Robert could not eject the man from the Small Council without petitioning the Citadel, as the queen she had the right to demand whomever she liked as her personal attendant to her health. So she was seen by Orsin, a balding, slender man who was a Flowers by birth. When he confirmed her suspicions, she smiled graciously and sent him on his way, and then the reality sunk in.

By all rights she should be ecstatic to be bearing Robert’s child. But she had always… well, ever since she was a little girl, the child in her arms had been blonde and green-eyed, just like her and Cerion. It had been something of a comfort, to imagine that her and her twin would one day create a perfect mix of both of them, something truly all their own. Of course, that could not, could never be, and she no more wanted Cerion’s child any more than she wanted to be queen.

Should this babe be a boy, he would sit the Iron Throne as king. She should take pride in that, at least. She would go down in history as the mother to a king. Jaime tried to picture the words etched out on parchment, and then banished the thought. She wanted more than that. She wanted more than a brief footnote; a loving wife and gentle mother. She wanted change. She wanted justice for the victims of Rhaegar and Aerys and her father.

And she had some idea of how to go about getting it.

Robert had returned disgruntled from a council meeting. Jaime was desperate to be included in them, but had thought it best not to push her luck until she had borne him a child. A wife was to be humored. A mother was to be obeyed. It would be much more difficult for him to dismiss her when she had a Baratheon babe at her breast, a trueborn son or daughter with his dark hair or piercing blue eyes.

“I have something that will cheer you,” she told him over dinner, deftly cutting into her roast. She’d worn her hair down and simple, which she knew he preferred, a few curls hanging in her face. Her pale blue gown was low-cut but elegant in its draping. She’d miss gowns like these, after she was a mother.

She was well aware that a woman with a child, particularly the queen, could not be seen dressing quite so… enticingly. It was ridiculous, as if men lost all attraction to their wives after they’d birthed a son or daughter, but there were expectations of her. Of both of them. A heir chief among them.

He eyed over his cup of ale, thick brows furrowed.

Jaime reached over and took his large hand in her own; it dwarfed hers as she guided it to her stomach, then down slightly further. For a moment he seemed lost, but then his eyes suddenly darted up to meet hers and she could see the realization like a flash of lightning across his face.

Sweet words had never come easily to Robert, but when he took her up in his arms, ignoring the clattering of dishes and her yelp, Jaime felt almost assured. The king was charmed by his bride, all the courtiers spoke of it, and the minstrels sang of their love, and was it so wrong to want to believe in it, even for a few brief moments? They were to share a child, after all. Even if they had loathed it each other, that might have brought them ever so slightly closer.

Cerion and her father arrived in court when she was five months along, the swell of her stomach visible through the rich green of her gown. Lysa was not with them; Jaime was not sure whether to be relieved or discomfited by this fact. At least, she reasoned, her goodsister may have something of a reprieve for the next several months.

Robert had been good, if somewhat distant, to her over the course of her pregnancy. He seemed to know very little about pregnant woman, which Jaime assumed ws due to growing up with only one sibling for most of his life, and a sibling a mere year younger than himself at that. Still, he liked her body well enough in bed, mayhaps even more so now that her breasts were bigger and, so he claimed, her hair thicker and lusher.

So she allowed herself a haughty tilt of her chin as her husband rested a proud, if heavy, hand on her slim shoulder and the two men who had controlled so much of her life bowed, however stiffly, before her. Father congratulated her, she thanked him, and he and Robert departed for a council meeting. She disliked letting her father have her husband’s ear alone, and furthermore, this left her alone with her twin, although there was a Kingsguard at the door, however far away and muffled that might be.

Cerion was staring at her openly, hungrily, jealously. “Joanna will be so happy to have a little playmate,” she simpered, if only to stoke the fire a bit more.

“The Hand is gone,” he cut her off coldly.

“Yes,” she said, “to Dorne, to make peace before we have another rebellion on our hands.”

“Let them rise,” he sneered, “and we will ground them into the sand they wormed out of.”

“I see you’ve forgotten House Martell’s words, then,” she japed humorlessly.

“Father is concerned,” he said, “Clegane’s missing.”

Jaime smiled gently up at him from her seat. “I suppose the raven must have gotten lost.”

Cerion’s gaze went from irritated to disturbed in the blink of an eye. “What?” he snapped.

“His Grace hardly needs to consult with a lord before taking the heads of a few of his bannermen’s heads,” Jaime gave a tiny, careless shrug. “Still, it was only polite to send word afterwards.”

“Clegane and Lorch are dead?” he hissed, eyes wild.

She humored him with a slow, patronizing smile. “Yes, brother. I thought I had made it rather obvious.”

“On what charges were they executed?”

“Well, murder and rape, among other things,” she drawled. “There were no shortage of testimonies at the trial. Clegane would have demanded a trial by combat, but he took ill in his cell. He was a feverish wreck by the end, I’m afraid.”

“Jaime,” Cerion was furious, “how could you?”

“I hardly swung the sword, brother. We generally leave that to the likes of Ser Ilyn.”

He slammed a hand down on the armrest of her seat, and Jaime refused to flinch away, breathing steadily in his handsome, enraged face. “When Father hears of this-,”

“When Father hears of this he will be very supportive of the king’s decision to execute two known oath-breakers and child-killers in the interest of appeasing the Martells,” Jaime snapped, “because to do otherwise would be to admit some degree of involvement.”

“They were our men! Do you have any idea how valuable Clegane was to furthering our house’s interests?!” His fist had migrated from gripping the armrest to gripping her arm, not hard enough to bruise, but a reminder of when he’d struck her, in the wake of the sack, when she was still screaming for Elia and the children.

Jaime ignored the steady throb of attraction and the shame that welled up alongside it, deep within her. His lips were so close to her own, the heat of his breath on her mouth. She thought of little Rhaenys, and his lips were like worms. “Release me. I am your queen.”

“You are my sister, you little ungrateful fool,” he retorted. “This is how you repay all that Father has done for you, by undermining-,”

“Release me,” she snarled, “or I will call for a man to break every finger on your hand.”

He released her, and stepped back slightly in shock. Jaime pushed herself up to her feet, and stood in front of him, angry and pregnant and unafraid. “I am sure Sandor Clegane will be more than willing to take over his brother’s seat,” she said, “and as for the Lorchs, well, they did not seem very begrieved over the loss of poor Amory. His thick skull will be put to better use on Doran Martell’s wall.”

“I’m sure you think yourself quite clever, hissing in Baratheon’s ear while he’s spilling his seed in you,” Cerion’s hands were twitching slightly, as if he was barely restraining himself from grabbing and shaking her. “But this will not be forgotten, Jaime. You have a duty to-,”

“My duty is right here,” her hand massaged her bump, “and lest you forget yourself yet again, brother, I am a woman wed now. I do as my husband commands, not my father or sibling.” In her triumph, she felt a thrill she had not felt since she’d been ten and sparring with a wooden sword. This was a battle won, however small and cheap a victory, however ill-begotten.

Cerion left speechless with rage and slammed the door hard enough in his departure that it rattled on its hinges. Jaime sank back into her seat and called for a maid to draw a bath. Her back was aching and her feet sore. Still, it was said that few had ever seen the queen more content than at dinner that night, chatting gaily while her father and brother’s dark looks could have set the hall around them ablaze.

Chapter Text

Jaime’s daughter was born while the king and much of the royal court were visiting his mother’s family on the island of Estermont. It was a long, tedious labor, although not unduly brutal or traumatic. By the ninth month of her pregnancy Jaime was quite certain that she never wanted to go through with any of it ever again; the early months had not been so bad, but the bigger she got the more frustrated she felt, and confinement did not suit her.

“For gods’ sake, open the window,” she gasped in between shrieks of pain while birthing the child, and was surprised to see Cerion swiftly crossing the room to do so. Jaime had initially screamed at her brother to get out when her waters broke and the midwife insisted she stop pacing the room and lie down, but she’d felt so terribly alone, and with Lysa scurrying into the room to hold her hand, newly pregnant herself, Cerion had been close behind.

Two more pushes, and the babe slipped into the world, followed by a ragged cry. Jaime released the breath she had not realized she’d been holding, and sagged back, eyes watering, against Lysa, who was tearful herself. Cerion drew near the bed, but he was looking at Jaime, not the child the midwife was tending to, before declaring, “A hale little princess, Your Grace.”

A silence settled over the room, only punctuated by the babe’s cries. “Give her here,” Jaime said hoarsely, and was handed the bundle; the girl was big, which she supposed should come as no surprise, given who her father was. It was a lazy summer afternoon, and a breeze from outside stirred the bed curtains. The princess had a shock of matted dark curls, fat cheeks, and a fierce grip on the finger Jaime gave her.

“She’s beautiful,” said Lysa earnestly. Cerion, upon seeing the child’s face, swiftly left the room, as if he’d secretly been hoping the babe would look all Lannister at birth. Perhaps so he could pretend to himself that it was in truth his child, although that was impossible. Jaime had not laid with him for several years now.

Mariam, Jaime named the girl two hours later. A strong, Baratheon name, for that was what she was. This girl would never look anything like her, Jaime knew, and some part of her mourned that. On the other hand, perhaps she would have felt even worse had it been a son. A son would never truly have been her’s. He would have been a future king, heir to the Iron Throne, his father’s boy.

Mariam was not Robert’s boy. He did little to hide his displeasure with a daughter, although he insisted it was due to the girl being born first, before any sons. Jaime did not have the patience or the time to try to reconcile him to that fact. If anything, with her breasts aching terribly and her body feeling as if she’d been thrown from a horse, her temper flared more than it ever had in their nearly a year of marriage, which seemed to catch her husband completely off guard, as if he had assumed the only emotions she felt were amusement and lust.

They quarreled, fiercely, and the rumors that, upon receiving the raven from King’s Landing that he had a daughter and not a son, the king had gone to one of his pretty Estermont cousins for comfort, did little to help matters. Jaime saw now for the first time how Robert reacted when things did not align with his expectations: poorly, sullenly, like a child deprived of a promised gift.

He was impatient for her to return to the way she had been before Mariam’s birth, to eagerly welcome him back to her bed, to give him a son. Jaime understood that it would have to be within the next few years, but she had little intention of immediately becoming pregnant again. She had little interest in sex in the first place, not with a child to feed and tend to.

She loved Mariam, she thought, more purely than she had ever loved anything. Mariam was innocent and perfect. She knew nothing of the world or its cruelties. Jaime was determined that she would want for nothing, and never go through what her mother had, feeling used and abandoned in turn, over and over again.

Robert was fond of the girl and certainly never scorned or disdained her, but she knew he did not feel what she felt. He might be happy to have a daughter that looked like him, but Mariam was not the son he’d envisioned. He was disillusioned, and when Robert was disillusioned he amused himself with drinking and hunting and women, all the things he enjoyed.

Jaime was prepared to let it go, at first. She could understand that he would turn to whores if his wife was unavailable to him. If he had been subtle, discreet, and still afforded her respect, she was certain she could have overlooked it.

However, subtlety was not one of her husband’s strengths, and while he never mocked or shamed her in public, the first time she entered his chambers with Mariam, five months old, in her arms, and found the king and two tavern maids in his bed her screams could have brought the entire tower down.

She did not hate Robert. What he did was not personal. He did not hate her, either. But any chance at their match developing into something deeper, more intimate, Jaime felt, vanished like a flame blown out at his behavior following the birth of their first child. Perhaps if she had given him a son it would have been different.

But in a sense Jaime doubted that as well. Robert had fawned over her at the start of their marriage because she was an easy, glimmering distraction from his grief. From both of their grief. But her shine had dulled for him when she had grown too pregnant to lie with him and had failed to deliver the son he’d been anxiously awaiting.

And Robert, Jaime realized quickly, was not interested in things once they had lost their initial allure. She wasn’t as desirable to him anymore, because now he had seen her as she really was, spiteful and thoughtless and furious at times, and the same was true for her.

She busied herself with doting on Lysa, who gave Cerion the son he had so desperately wanted when Mariam was half a year old. It was an easy enough birth; “Easier than Joanna’s,” Lysa told her, with a wan smile, cradling the tiny boy in her arms. Cerion pressed a perfunctory kiss to his wife’s forehead, as if she were a child who’d made him proud, and named the boy, with his fair hair and oblivious smile in his sleep, Gerold.

Jaime had made it quite clear to her brother that she wanted him nowhere near her daughter, which he did not protest. She suspected he was able to tolerate Mariam’s existence because she was not a son but a daughter, and likely even took some perverse pleasure that Robert still did not have his heir, while he did. Every time he looked at her, she could see it glittering in his eyes, as if to say, ‘You see? You thought yourself well rid of Father and I, and now you are saddled with a beast of another nature.’

He was right. But she still preferred Robert’s drunken rages to Tywin’s cold silences. At least when Robert was angry, he made sure you were well aware of it. Her husband was never one to wait and scheme. If she’d upset him, she would know immediately. Jaime rarely backed down from an argument with Robert, the least of which was over his determination to see Rhaegar’s siblings, in hiding in Essos, killed.

“They are nothing to you,” he spat at her one evening, after Mariam had been put to bed and Jaime felt free to viciously snipe back at him as much as she liked. “Dragonspawn-,”

“Were Elia’s children dragonspawn then, Your Grace?” she hissed, digging her nails into the embroidered back of her chair as she stood behind it, glaring at him. She’d heard the rumors of his reaction to the deaths, and had never been sure how much to stock to place in them. Now that he was a father she could not readily imagine him taking any pleasure in the death of a child, but-

Robert could not meet her eyes, which confirmed and denied nothing but, she felt, his own cowardice.

“You have the throne,” she said. “Two children running for their lives are no threat to you.”

“In ten years time,” he snarled back, taking a step towards her, “Viserys Targaryen will be a man of nine and ten, a child no longer. The Mad King’s son will seek his throne.”

“Then meet him in battle as you did his brother,” she snapped. “Gods be good, Robert, what kind of man sends assassins after a little boy-,”

He nearly hit her then. She saw it, and he saw it, from the way he surged forward, fist raised, and Jaime scrambled back to the doorway, too angry and outraged that he would dare even consider striking her, his queen, to be frightened. Robert faltered, and they stared at one another, breathing heavily, as they had many times before, only now it was not with reckless lust but an anger and dismay that ran far deeper.

“If you ever,” she began, but he was shaking his head.

“Jaime, I-,”

“No,” she said tightly. “I am not a drunkard’s cowering wife to be slapped around like a common whore. I am the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and if you strike me I will invite every member of this court to look upon the marks you leave.”

He flushed with rage and shame, and she tried to see the fierce young man she’d married, behind the beard and the fury that made him seem bigger than he really was. It had not even been two years. Were they really lost to one another already? She might never love him, but she had thought to reach an understanding with him.

She left him standing there, slamming the door behind her, and went to the nursery. To her surprise, she found her brother there, staring down at his infant son in his cradle. She would not have thought Cerion, who was cruel and vindictive and at times, she thought, as mad as any Targaryen, capable of a look of such love, possessive and proud though it might be.

But he did not hear her at the door and for a few brief moments she let herself imagine that it was her child he was smiling down at. He looked so much like a king, standing there in the moonlight. Then he turned and saw her, and the look was gone, and he was simply her twin and scorned lover again.

“Did he strike you?” he demanded in a whisper as sharp as a blade’s edge.

Jaime mutely shook her head, and then, to her disgust, let him draw her into an almost chaste embrace. She should have pushed him away, should have ordered him out, but he was not trying to kiss or grope her, only holding her the way a brother might hold a sister who he loved purely and cleanly, and she sank into it.

“If he ever hits you,” her brother whispered into her hair, “I’ll kill a second king.”

“You wouldn’t,” she murmured tiredly against his chest. “Don’t be foolish, Ceri.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he told her, and she knew it was a lie, but even to be lied to so sweetly was almost a comfort, and when he did pull back and kiss her, she let him, even reciprocated for a few moments before breaking away.

“No,” she said, a hand on his chest. “We can’t.”

“We could,” he said hungrily, but then little Gerold stirred in his sleep with a whimper, and Mariam woke up with a sharp cry, and they both glanced to their own children, a daughter and a son, with a different father and a different mother.

Jaime went to her daughter, and when she turned with Mariam in her arms, singing softly under her breath to her as her own mother once had, he was gone. She nearly missed him, but she pushed it aside as she gazed down at her child’s face. This would have to be enough, if she would not, could not have her brother, and had never really had Robert in the first place.

Chapter Text

Jaime was suitably impressed with Highgarden, as she stepped down from the wheelhouse, her daughter in her arms. She had never spent much time in the Reach as a child, and seeing the splendor of it in the summer made her almost sad; the air almost reeked with the scent of a thousand different types of wildflowers, and the fields were golden and wavering under the heat of the sun. The people were content and happy, and why should they not be? The realm was at peace, and the summer showed no signs of ending.

A butterfly wafted through the air in front of the procession entering the grandiose white stone keep, and Mariam giggled, reaching out a chubby hand for it. “Too slow, sweetling,” Jaime told her with a smile, and pressed a kiss to the toddler’s warm brow. Lysa and Melara were just behind her, with their children.

Lysa was six months pregnant, and Joanna skipped along at her side, a strong-willed girl of five, her coppery curls gleaming in the sunlight. Gerold was a babe of one in his mother’s arms, peering curiously about. He looked so much like Cerion that Jaime was always a bit unnerved when confronted with him.

Melara had been wed for five years now, and had two daughters, twins, Hanna and Petra, one as dark-haired as her mother, the other as ruddy-haired as her father. They had both inherited their mother’s tendency to freckle in the sun, and Jaime predicted they’d be practically speckled by the end of this visit. There was also a boy, Gerard, who was barely half a year old, with his mother’s dark hair and his father’s strong nose, which looked somewhat out of place on an infant’s face.

“It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Lysa murmured, as the Tyrells seemingly bounded out of the shrubbery to greet them. There were many of them, perhaps not as numerous as the extended Lannister relatives, but certainly close to it. They were an attractive family, most with rich chestnut hair. Jaime’s gaze, however, was focused on the reason for their visit; a full-figured girl whispering and giggling with her cousins.

Janna Tyrell was the late Luthor Tyrell’s youngest daughter, and Mace Tyrell, the man who’d sieged Storm’s End for months on months before rather hastily surrendering at the approach of Ned Stark’s grim forces, youngest sister. She was fifteen, with a round face that easily gave way to slightly impish smiles, and her curls hung down around her shoulders. Not so beautiful as Alerie Hightower, Mace’s tall and slender young wife, perhaps, but a pretty girl all the same.

Jon Arryn had suggested Selyse Florent for Stannis, but Jaime had swiftly put an end to that. Robert’s brother would take it as a slight that he was given a Florent in marriage, and not a Tyrell, and she had met young Selyse before. Cruel japes about her looks aside, Jaime had found her the sort of girl who, at seventeen, acted more like seventy. She was just as proud as Stannis, impatient and irritable to a fault, and not particularly inclined to court life.

Granted, Jaime admitted, Stannis was quite similar and his behavior was only excused because he was a man and a powerful lord. But that aside, she knew a poor match when she saw one. Stannis could do with someone strong-willed, yes, but also more light-hearted and gregarious then himself, because gods knew the man was not one for making friends when he could make enemies. It wasn’t strictly fair to expect any woman to change his nature, but in purely pragmatic terms, one who could balance it would be preferable.

She dearly hoped Melara’s measure of Janna Tyrell had been correct, but Robert had not seemed to particular care who Stannis wed, so long as they were of the appropriate birth and from a powerful Reach family. A marriage was sorely needed to settle the tension.

She glanced over at Stannis, who stood with his brothers, looking as if he were attending a battle meeting, rather than meeting his bride to be. He caught her gaze, and scowled reflexively. Jaime smiled brightly back at him, silently willing the man to, if not beam, at least not glower for the rest of the day.

Mace had already greeted Robert, chatting away as if they were old friends and had not once been at war with each other. His wife Alerie hung back with the children; Willas, the eldest, a quiet boy of about fourteen, Garlan, a plump boy of nine or ten who was teasing Loras, the third born, who could only be three or four, with curls down to his shoulders, and then tiny Margaery, the little girl, who tugged on Willas’ breeches until he scooped her up in his arms. Lady Olenna Tyrell, Mace’s infamous mother, looked on shrewdly, a small, stooped woman whose grey hair was fast going white.

Jaime approached Alerie, whose pale blonde hair hung in an elegant plait down her back, trying not to feel any sharp twinge of jealousy or resentment at the gaggle of children surrounding her.

It had only been three months since she’d lost the babe.

Of course, there was no telling whether it’d been a son or a daughter, at that point, but in her dreams, it was a little boy with Robert’s dark hair and square face but her smiling green eyes. When he’d spoken, he’d sounded like her brother, and she woken with a gasp.

But had the pregnancy continued she would have been showing by now, a proud mother to be of a little prince or princess. She loved Mariam with all her heart, but the longer it took for her to give Robert a son, the more the whispers would grow, especially since Stannis remained his heir.

Robert adored Mariam and it was not that she thought he would pass over his own daughter, were she to bear him only girls, but the rest of the seven kingdoms would not be pleased to see the crown passed down to a woman.

Jaime wanted it no more than any of them. Queen she might be, but she did not want the weight of that on Mariam’s young shoulders. Let her remain a princess, innocent and sweet and oblivious to the consequences of power. But if Janna should give Stannis sons, strong Baratheon boys…
Jaime could easily see the schemes to put a nephew of Robert’s on the Iron Throne unfolding.

“Your Grace,” Alerie said respectfully, curtseying gracefully; she was a good deal more subdued in nature than her husband. They seemed a well-suited match; Mace was a handsome man, although he’d gained a good deal of weight since the rebellion, and Alerie seemed to draw her strength from her children. The boys bowed, even little Loras, and Jaime laughed to see Margaery incline her head sweetly; the girl could not be more than three years.

“You’ll excuse me, Your Grace, if I do not curtsey and flounce,” Lady Olenna said dryly, looking up at Jaime through hooded hazel eyes. “At my age, it’s ill-advised.”

“Of course, my lady,” Jaime said sweetly. Here she must be the confident, well at ease young queen. Any sign of discomfort or upset, and they would latch onto it. “I’m so pleased to be joining our families together.”

“Oh?” asked Olenna archly. “I wasn’t aware that young Stannis was part Lannister. He certainly doesn’t look it.”

Highgarden was not lacking in food, elaborate rooms, minstrels and singers and jesters, horses, gardens, or ladies. Above all, ladies. Jaime found herself rather surrounded; there were Alerie and Olenna and Mina Tyrell, now Redwyne, Mace and Janna’s middle sister, who looked as though she and her husband Paxter could be siblings, and cousins Lady Elyn Norridge and Lady Lia Serry and Lady Lysa Meadowes, and Lady Victaria Tyrell and Lady Alys Beesbury…

Jaime could barely keep them all straight, and settled for riding and hawking with them instead. Robert had tried to forbid her after she’d lost the babe, which had prompted another vicious fight. If they were on speaking terms for the course of the wedding, it was only so as not to start rumors that the marriage was already faltering. There was enough talk of his whoring as it was.

At the very least, the Tyrell women were a pleasant enough distraction from her worries. ‘Leisurely’ would have been an understatement to describe their lifestyle. Their house was wealthy, their position of favor assured with this marriage, and they were overflowing with grace and flattery, complimenting Jaime’s beauty, her skill as a horsewoman, and her excellent aim with a bow.

They cooed over Mariam, and Jaime could admit that it did give her some joy, to see Mariam and Margaery playing together among the flowers. She wanted Mariam to have this, to have an easy, carefree childhood in the sun. At the very least, she had two parents who loved her, which was more than Jaime had ever had. The thought of dying in childbirth and leaving Mari motherless terrified her.

The wedding itself was a lavish affair, held in Highgarden’s legendary sept, the first to be built in Westeros. Stannis, from what Jaime knew, was not a religious man, and perhaps had good cause to discard the gods, with what he’d lived through, but he said his vows solemnly.

If Janna Tyrell was less than pleased to be marrying Robert’s shorter, less attractive, colder brother, she did not show it, all beaming smiles in her elaborate, flowing gown, roses in her hair. It seemed like a very long time since that hopeful bride had been Jaime.

The ensuing feast was held in the gardens, and Jaime held her own court at the table of women, enjoying her wine and the fact that the younger children, including Mariam, had since been sent to bed. Lysa was in better spirits than Jaime had seen her in some time; she assumed this was due to the fact that she’d been well away from her husband for the majority of the visit, and that, as she was pregnant with potentially another son, Cerion was being rather ingratiating as of late.

“You’d think he’d at least show some eagerness for the bedding,” Melara murmured to Jaime, as they eyed Stannis and Janna. Janna was speaking quite animatedly to him, and he seemed to be torn between displeasure at what he likely deemed ‘women’s chatter’ and surprise that a pretty girl of fifteen was speaking to him for an extended length of time.

“Hush,” Jaime whispered back. “She looks happy enough, likely because her brother told her to smile her way through the night, but they make a good pair. He can hardly complain now that Mace Tyrell’s handed over his baby sister.”

She looked away from the couple and her gaze wandered over to Robert… or where Robert had been sitting. He had vanished now, and when she called over one of his squires, she knew the answer from the way the boy’s face reddened.

Lysa was looking at her worriedly, and Melara had launched herself into forced idle conversation with Mina Tyrell. But Jaime was well aware of the pitying look Elyn Norridge was giving her. Something broiled inside her. She was being pitied... by a Norridge. They all knew. All of them. Everyone here was aware that Robert was off fucking one of the Tyrells, or Florents, or Redwynes, or Rowans, or perhaps one of the serving girls or Flowers running around the place.

It was the humiliation that got to her, more so than the knowledge that he was being unfaithful yet again. They were at his brother’s wedding, surrounded by fellow nobility. It wasn’t as if he’d gone off into the city and wandered into a whorehouse. This was different.

Later, she found it was Delena Florent. Much later, she heard of the girl’s pregnancy, a child conceived among the briars and brambles of Highgarden’s impressive hedge maze. But for now, it was a summer night, and while many saw the queen leave the festivities as the call for the bedding went up, they must have assumed she’d retired to her chambers in mortification. Instead, Jaime wandered into the labyrinth. If anyone noticed Cerion follow, it was never commented on. Perhaps, Jaime reflected years later, they assumed it was to comfort her.

That was one word for what happened.

The heat of the day was finally fading, and there a breeze rustled the leaves above. Everywhere Jaime turned, it was green. Much like in King’s Landing, where everything she turned was red. Here, at least, she was alone. The sounds of the feasting faded away into the dusk, and all she heard was the chirping of birds and insects as the sun set.

Jaime had not been this alone in some time. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it. She was always surrounded, always in the company of others. She could not even go out riding alone, as a man might. No, a queen had to be protected, looked after, kept in confinement. A luxurious confinement, but a prison all the same.

She wanted to huddle on the ground like a child and scream into her hands. She wanted to run away. But there was nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide. They should have made someone else Robert’s wife. Father had been wrong. He had always been wrong. Jaime had never been meant to be queen, or anyone’s wife, really. If she had been meant for a man- well, if she had been meant for a man, then she knew who that was, and what the cost of loving him had been.

“Jaime.”

She didn’t turn around.

Her brother’s arms slid around her waist neatly, as if they fit there. She felt his breath warm on the back of her neck. Jaime simply stood there. She wanted to hit him, scream at him, tell him this was all his fault. But Father had set him on his path just as he’d set her on hers, and neither of them, for all the supposed Lannister bravery, had never had the nerve to defy him on any matter. Except just one.

“Tell me to go,” Cerion said roughly. His mouth was nearly on her neck. His grip on her waist tightened. She should have jerked away, should have ordered him away, but all around her was green and she imagined she could hear Robert grunting while he spilled his seed in the girl. Did he call all his whores Lyanna, or just her? Did Cerion call Lysa Jaime? Did it even matter at all. It was like a children’s game at this point, chasing one another, round and round.

There was something old and ancient about the maze. It was like being in a godswood. The Gardeners, who the Tyrells and all the rest here descended from, they had worshipped the old gods. Jaime wondered what the old gods had thought of brother and sisters lying with one another. They were the sort of gods who had demanded sacrifice. Perhaps they would have approved.

“Jaime,” Cerion said her name again, like a prayer, and she could feel him through her gown. It brought the loathing up like bile, but this was a familiar feeling, one she’d grown used to long ago. One she’d come to anticipate almost eagerly. Her hands came down on his arms, and her nails dug in. He did not let go, and she turned in his half-embrace, half-cage, and much like as when they were children, was not completely sure who kissed who first.

Later, they picked leaves out of each other’s hair, silently and meticulously, while the first stars appeared overhead.

Chapter Text

They were met with sleeting rain from summer storms as the party made their way up the coast towards Lannisport. Jaime had not been back to the Rock since her marriage, of her own choice; she doubted Robert would have raised any objections if she insisted on visiting home.

But Casterly Rock had not been home to her for some time, and the only reason, aside from politeness, that they were making the journey now, after the wedding of Stannis and Janna, was because Tywin Lannister would not tolerate any grandchild of his being born at Highgarden, as Lysa was rapidly nearing her time, and because Jaime had not seen Tyrion since her wedding, and she dearly missed him.

He was nearing a man now, and while his marriage prospects were grim, she thought it’d do him good to spend some time at court. There had been some… some rumors of something occuring, some business with a girl, but she was not sure what to believe.

She told Robert as much, during one of their hunts during the journey there. An uneasy truce had been declared between husband and wife, primarily because Jaime had been stricken with a mixture of terror, guilt, and self-loathing upon waking up the morning after the wedding with a nasty wine-induced headache and the feeling of her brother lingering between her thighs. Of course, no part of that reaction had been new to her. The last few time she and Cerion had fucked had been much the same.

She wasn’t sure why she had expected any differently, and if it had been different, it had been because it had been born out of spite and rage, on her part, at least, and not the black pit of tender, hateful love that it had been before. It could have been any man, she insisted to herself the next morning. It would not have mattered.

But it had. For once, she had the sense that she had used her brother as he had been using her, for years now. The thought should have given her some vindictive satisfaction. It did, but not enough to combat the guilt.

The guilt should have been due to being unfaithful to her lord husband and cuckolding him with her own brother. Instead she felt… she felt like an errant young girl who’d been coaxed into lying with a man before she was wed, and would then be paralyzed with the fear of having gotten with child.

She felt ashamed and mortified. Drunk or not, furious or not, there was too much to risk to have acted so. Before, when it had just been her and Cerion, what had she cared for the repercussions? If they died for love, so be it.

But now she was a mother. She had children. Responsibilities. Had they been discovered, and they easily could have… she had sworn she would not leave Mariam motherless due to a bloodied birthing bed, and she would not leave her motherless due to blood on her thighs, either. The realization that she loved her daughter more than she loved her brother, more than she could ever have hated her husband, was shocking. More shocking than it should have been.

She’d choked the moon tea down all the same. Stupid, foolish girl. It would have been a catastrophe to be impregnated by her twin when she was unwed. It would be apocalyptic to have such a thing happen when she was queen. With Mariam as dark-haired as she was, a light-haired, green-eyed child would be strikingly different next to her, and tongues would wag. They always did.

She was already seen as too outspoken, too strident, too combative. Her interference with Stannis’ match had not gone unnoticed. She’d met Jon Arryn’s implacable stare with a heated glare of her own, but it made no difference. At this point, Arryn would likely much rather Robert have married a biddable young Tyrell himself.

“We have rewarded the Tyrells past their due,” he’d told her, pointedly.

“Better to keep them fat and happy then furious and passed over for the Florents,” she’d retorted. “They have ruled the South since the time of Aegon I, and they will not be easily ousted.”

“Stannis is not the man to make niceties with Mace Tyrell-,”

“Mace Tyrell has suffered under harsher tongues than the likes of Stannis,” she’d rolled her eyes.

Robert had agreed with her. Purely for shallow reasons, of course- he’d thought Janna a more suitable bride, compared to sour Selyse. Yet he had agreed with her. Over his own Hand. A dire mistake, many would say, for a man to heed his wife and not a man of proven wisdom, like Lord Arryn.

And perhaps it had been. Jaime knew she was arrogant and pigheaded and rarely pragmatic. A stupid girl who thought she could fix things with a sharp command and a beguiling smile here and there. And perhaps she was.

Yet Robert had heeded her, on that, and that was perhaps the rawest spot of her guilt, as they rode north up the coast and the moon tea roiled her stomach like the skies overhead. Robert was not a man for apologies, and Jaime had never been graceful with receiving them. Yet she could not help but feel that his suggestion for the two of them to ride out alone to hunt was something like an attempt at peace.

The negotiations had might as well begin, she thought bitterly, as she reigned up Loreon and glanced up at him. Bad weather had never bothered him, but she supposed that was to be expected from a born and bred Stormlander. The rain ran in rivulets through his hair and down his face; he’d trimmed his beard for the wedding. He was still handsome, still hard-jawed and straight-backed.

“I had thought to bring my brother back to court with us,” she told him, quietly, eyes tracking the rushing river. They were near Goldengrove, and they’d dine with the Rowans tonight. “He is quite clever, and my father has ground him under his heel for too long. He’s just a boy, really. Fourteen this year.”

“Jaime,” he said.

“I hope your brother is pleased enough with Janna. She seemed such a sweet girl, and quick to laugh.”

I was once quick to laugh, Jaime thought. Now I am quick to scream and shriek and spit.

“Jaime,” he groused in frustration, and she turned sharply to look at him.

“We will have lost the fox by now-,”

“I don’t give a damn about the bloody fox,” he snapped, and then sighed. Her blonde curls were plastered to her face with the rain, escaping her long plait. He reached out as it to touch them, and then stopped.

He knows, she thought wildly for a moment, although she had brewed her moon tea herself, for she had never trusted servants, not since she was a child and that girl had walked in on her and Cerion and screamed so loud. But that was ridiculous.

Had he known, she’d be dead already. If he ever found out, he’d kill her, or Ser Payne would. But of course, there were likely some things that, if she found out, she’d want him dead. So perhaps they were even now.

“You need not fear having to wrestle me into bed,” she said tartly, “for I would much like to leave Casterly Rock a mother to be once more. It has been long enough, I expect. The maester said, after-,”

“I should not have,” he interrupted her shortly. “I should not have gone with the Florent girl.”

Delena Florent was a pretty, if pinch-faced thing of sixteen, with a dusting of charming freckles, the classic Florent ears, and hair that leaned more copper than russet, compared to much of her family.

“You should not have,” she agreed. “Or at the very least, you could have waited until after your brother was bedding his Reacher.”

“He’s furious with me,” Robert admitted. “On both your accounts.”

The thought of Stannis somehow defending her made her want to laugh, and cry a bit as well. If only he knew. “Ours is the fury,” she quipped humorlessly, and then sighed, because Robert looked as lost as he ever did, with these matters.

She was never going to get the eloquent speech she might have desired, on how wrong he had been, and on how it would never happen again. And if they were going by what was just, she was as guilty as he now, although he could never know.

“What was your Lyanna like?” she asked instead. She had not spoken the name in- well, she was not sure she had ever spoken the name.

He stiffened, and she waited for the rage, but none came, as if the rain was leeching it from him. Instead he said, “Wild. All Northron. She said what she thought, consequences be damned. No one could deny her anything. She rode like the wind. The first time I saw her ride, I took her for a squire of Ned’s. I wanted her like nothing else, and I had her- I would have. We were to marry. She was- she was always polite, knew her courtesies, but- she had little desire for the match.”

“Because of your whoring.”

He laughed bitterly at that. “Aye, although I- well, if I could not have her, I’d have others. I thought in time, she would…,” he sounded half a boy when he trailed off, although Jaime had only ever known him as the man he was.

“Mayhaps she would have come to like you,” she suggested. “You would have had more time, at Storm’s End.”

“Mayhaps,” he agreed.

“When you look at Mariam, do you pretend that she is Lyanna’s child?” The words were about before she could gather them up and shove them back into the deep recesses inside of her, the places where only her twin had ever been, and even then, never truly seen what was hidden away.

Shock rippled across his face. “No,” he said flatly. “No. You are her mother, that’s clear enough. She’s got your nose, and your laugh.”

“She’s two,” Jaime snorted.

“I know her laugh,” he insisted, and then was silent for a moment. “I never heard Lyanna laugh. We were never…”

There was silence, and the rain, and the river roared dimly by. “I want your children. I want to give you a son,” Jaime told him, plainly. “I care not about the bastards, but you cannot- when I am present, you cannot be with a highborn girl. I will not have it. I will not tolerate it. And the people will talk. They already do.”

“I should have been with you, when you lost it,” he said, after a moment.

Jaime flinched as if struck. They had not spoken of the babe. “You were at Storm’s End. There was nothing to be done.”

“I was not there when Mariam was born, either.”

“It is not as though she were your heir-,”

“I should have been there,” he repeated angrily. “She is my child. I- I have a girl in the Vale, Mya. She must be near seven by now. I used to visit her. I was- excited, to see her, when she was born. Bastard or not, she is my blood, and there is little Baratheon blood left.”

“When we are back in the capitol,” Jaime said, “you could bring her to court, if it please you. I will not raise objection to it.” He loved the girl, she thought, the bastard child, sired on a commoner. He loved her as much as he loved his trueborn child. Perhaps he did not love either as well as he should, but it was love all the same.

He stared at her. The rain had lessened to a drizzle. “You would not-,”

“It was long before we were wed,” Jaime admitted. “And she is just one girl. Mya Waters, she would be, but…”

He kissed her then, almost sweetly, and they stayed like that for a few moments, until she shivered, and they rode back to their guard. Nothing had been forgiven, but Jaime waited for him in his tent that night.

You are only fucking him to absolve yourself, Cerion hissed in her head, but she ignored his echo, just as she had been ignoring his physical self since they’d left Highgarden. He did not seem upset, likely still on the crest of having had her once again, after such a long drought.

She supposed Cerion thought this was the beginning of the end. That she had cast aside Robert permanently and would allow him into her bed on a regular basis now. And what frightened her was that she could easily see herself doing so. Why should Robert be the only one to bed whoever he pleased? Why should she have to play the dutiful wife at all times? Didn’t she deserve some pleasure in her life, however shallow?

But when she looked at Cerion in the light of the day and the stark contrast in the way he treated his young children, with loving pride, and his wife, with impatient contempt, she found no pleasure in it at all. The man he was with her alone was not the man he was with others. The man who kissed her and told her he loved her and who always took special care in her pleasure was the same man who’d helped Clegane and Lorch butcher Elia and the children. Her friend.

Of course, had Elia known that Jaime had once made a regular habit of lying with her brother, she likely would have been disgusted, But Jaime had come to terms with that by now, that the person people thought she was could never be her true self. Because truly, she did not think she was much better than her brother. Had she been born a man, she was not so sure that she would not have been just as easily manipulated and contorted by Father, only with a sword in hand, and not in pretty gowns.

Lysa’s waters broke early, as they were riding through Casterly Rock’s gates, which Jaime admitted made for a rather exciting entrance. The babe was nearly born in the courtyard, but managed to wait long enough for his mother to be carried into the closest bedchamber. Jaime found herself comforting Joanna, who was quite distraught at the sounds her mother was making, while Melara’s twins cooed and prodded at Gerold.

“They are calling him Tyland,” she told Tyrion, when she finally tracked him down. He was in the library, as usual, reading. He looked more a man than he ever had before, lack of height or not. She’d heard many things about her brother, mostly his proclivity for whores, which unnerved her a bit, as she felt that Tyrion was still the sweet little boy of five or six whom she remembered so fondly.

“I would stop in to see my nephew,” Tyrion remarked, “but I somehow think our dear brother might take offense to my presence at such a joyous occasion.”

“Cerion is annoyed the babe is another redhead,” Jaime said dryly, and crossed her arms across her chest as she came a little closer. “But what of you, brother? I had heard…,” she paused, uncertain of how to approach the subject.

Tyrion was completely silent, seemingly focused on the tome in front of him.

“Have any young ladies caught your eye as of late?” she finally settled on, only half-joking.

He slammed the book shut, got up, and waddled out of the room as swiftly as his stunted legs could take him, without so much as a glance back at her. She stared after him in shock for a few moments, before a sound of amusement made her whirl around. Cerion was glancing after the direction Tyrion had gone in thinly veiled satisfaction.

“You always did know just how to worm under a man’s skin, sister. Even a half-man, at that.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Jaime accused, feeling as though this was only the latest iteration of a fight they’d been having all their lives.

“Telling you what?” he snorted. “About our imp of a brother’s fondness for whores? About the one he tried to marry?”

“What?” Jaime demanded, arms falling to her sides in surprise. “He- Tyrion has been married?” she hissed in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, if you can call it that,” Cerion rolled his eyes. “He took a liking to the little slut, and convinced some drunken, mad septon to declare them wed. Then he tried to secret her off to some quaint little cottage by the sea, all under Father’s nose.” Her brother’s tone indicated that their father had not remained oblivious to this for long.

Jaime stared at him. “What- where did he meet her?”

Cerion shrugged. “Oh, on the road. It was before Lysa and I came to court after Gerold’s birth. It does figure, if you think about it, the one time I deign to go out riding with the creature, and he stumbles upon some half-dressed peasant girl being chased down by brigands-,”

“So she wasn’t a whore?” Jaime asked sharply.

“They’re all whores, in the right circumstances,” Cerion laughed. “Still, they like would have slit her throat after they all had a go, so I cut the poor bastards down while he went after her. Of course, I hardly expected him to fuck her himself, and then decide he was in love.”

His voice took on a mocking lilt. “Tywin Lannister’s second son and a small crofter’s daughter… it was like something out a song. Father put a quick end to it, though. Had the entire barracks take a turn, and sent her on her way.”

Jaime felt as though she might vomit. “And did you-,”

“Did I fuck her?” Cerion sneered. “No, don’t be ridiculous. A true Lannister of the Rock does not soil himself with some diseased little bitch-,”

Jaime slapped him hard, in the mouth. She felt his spittle on her fingers, and her hand closed into a fist. Her brother was feeling at his mouth in shock. “It was a kindness,” he snarled, “and more than he deserved, for me to tell him it was a whore I’d hired. The only kind thing I’ve ever done for-,”

“The only kind thing you’ve ever done,” Jaime repeated in disgust, and turned to stalk away. He caught her arm, roughly.

“Don’t be so cruel, Jaime. After all, we’re soon to share-,”

Jaime turned back to face him. “To share what?” she asked flatly, feeling suddenly as though she were much older than he. He looked like an eager boy, in truth. He still wore his hair long, as he had as a lad of fifteen, or sixteen, only he was one and twenty now. He still would not grow a beard.

Cerion frowned. “But you are with child, Jaime. You eat like a bird as of late, and I heard you complaining of a headache to Melara two days past. You were just like that with the girl-,”

The girl. Not even Mariam. He could not even address his niece by her name. Jaime felt as though she’d been plunged into scalding water, but that wasn’t quite right. No, it was more like she’d been in a pot steadily growing to a boil, all the time, and now she felt the heat at last, and realized what it was.

How sick and wrong was it, she wondered, that her twin had realized she might be with child again before her? She’d had little sickness in the morning with Mariam, after all. And it had been nearly two months since the wedding. He thinks it is his, she thought, with a cold, quiet certainty. She felt old, now. He thinks you are going to bear his child. He thinks he finally won the game you two have been playing all your lives.

His hand crept up to cup her cheek. “This is how it always should have been. It will be a son. I’m sure of it. My son will be a king, just as that mad-,” His eyes were alight with something like joy.

Jaime reached up and took his hand. And dug her nails in deep. He blinked in surprise and started to jerk away, but she would not let go. “Your son is dead,” she leaned in and told him, in a small, sure voice, her breath ghosting over his ear. “I killed your bastard that very dawn. If there is a king in me, then his father sits the Iron Throne as we speak.”

She let go of him, and he almost stumbled away, as if winded. “You-,” he stammered, he who was always so confident and sure, and she thought this must be what her brother sounded like in grief, because his deep, golden voice had fractured.

“I am your queen,” she whispered, because she could not afford to scream, “not your broodmare. I am not- I am not your anything, not ever, not now, not anymore. You will never touch me again. You will never speak to me as anything other than a brother again. You will never come to court again, unless you have my permission. If you defy me, gods help you, brother.”

“You treacherous bitch,” he moaned, before it turned into a growl worthy of an injured lion. “You- you killed my son, you treacherous, deceitful whore, how could you, I LOVE you, you are ruining EVERYTHING-,”

“No, Ceri,” Jaime said, and forced herself to breathe in and out, slowly, as his fury unfolded before her like a tapestry, “no, we ruined it long ago, and now I am putting an end to it, because you never will.”

Chapter Text

Mariam woke up to the bells tolling. It was early morn, and the light filtering in through her bed curtains was airy and vaporous. She sat up with a start, and Parisa, whose head had been resting on her chest, whimpered in her sleep. The sisters had shared a bed since Parisa was old enough to leave the cradle. Mariam threw back the covers and ran a hand through her tangled black curls.

“Risa, wake up,” she said gently, reaching over and giving the little girl a slight shake. “Come now, you have to wake up.”

She could hear footsteps in the corridor outside, servants scurrying about. The bells were still tolling, and King’s Landing was lively and foul outside, the scent of bread and shit and the river carried in on the breeze. Parisa murmured again and slowly woke up, blinking her big, dark eyes. Her eyes were so large on her small face that it made Mariam envious; Parisa was a painter’s dream, with eyes like blue forest pools, a mop of black curls, and a smattering of freckles.

“It’s still early, Mari,” Parisa whined, rubbing at her eyes with her five year old fists. “Why’s it so loud?”

Mariam had jammed her feet into her silken slippers and was rummaging through her chest of clothes. She had very few black things; some dresses would have to be dyed. “Jon Arryn’s dead,” she told her sister, glancing over her shoulder. “That’s why. Quickly now, we’ll be expected to be in the sept all morn.”

Parisa was still blinking in shock when their mother bustled in, two maids not far behind her. Mariam had always longed for her mother’s looks; her fair hair and lovely green eyes, her proud smile and swan-like neck. Mariam was more round-faced than she would have liked, thick-hipped, and shorter as well, not tall and delicate like Mother or Risa or even Lyonel, despite all her siblings having Father’s hair and eyes.

“Sweetling,” Mother greeted her warmly, drawing her into a hug; her face was drawn. “Lord Jon has passed. Your father is with him now, but we must pay our respects before we break our fast.”

Mariam was saddened by this; Lord Jon had always been kind to her, a sort of grandfather, since Father’s father was long dead and she rarely saw Mother’s father, whom Mother hated anyways. But of course, he had been very old, and sick for several days past, so it was not entirely unexpected. Still, Mother seemed upset, and not just by her grief, for Mariam knew Mother and Lord Jon had rarely seen eye to eye on things.

Something else was bothering her, but Mariam was too busy dressing and restraining her hair in a thick braid to wonder what, while Parisa thwarted the maids’ attempts to comb out her ringlets. They met the boys in the corridor; Lyonel and Gareth, their brothers, and Ormund, their cousin, son of their Uncle Stannis, who served on Father’s small council. Shireen and Jocelyn, his sisters, were there as well, both withdrawn and tearful. Ormund and Shireen took after their father and thus were slow to smile even on pleasant days, but Jocelyn was always cheery, and so Mariam looped her arm through hers to comfort her.

Lyonel was dry-eyed but stone-faced, and Mariam felt badly for him, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder. “He’s at peace now, Ly.” Lyonel was eleven and the heir and thus had spent more time with Lord Jon than any of them, for he would be king one day, and rule from Father’s seat. Mariam knew Father thought Lyonel rather too bookish, but he was proud of him, nonetheless. Lyonel always did his duty, after all, and duty was something Mariam had always found tedious.

He nodded stiffly. Gareth was far less visibly upset, but had enough sense to fidget far less than usual as they were led into the sept by Mother and her ladies- Lady Melara and her girls, Hanna and Petra, whom Mariam was dear friends with, and her son, Gerard, who was rather arrogant for a squire, and Aunt Janna, holding the hand of little Denys, who was only two, and followed by a maid carrying Cassana, her and Uncle Stannis youngest, and Lady Allyria Dayne of Starfall, who was seventeen and had been at court for several years now, and who was betrothed to Mariam’s Uncle Tyrion.

When they sat she could turn and see Mya, her half-sister, who was a bastard but due to marry a Frey nonetheless, and offered a brief smile. Mya smiled back, blue eyes glinting in the dusky light of the Sept; she was seated beside Joy Hill, who was Mother’s little bastard cousin from the Rock and who was spending time at court until Grandfather had need of her, which Mother said would hopefully not be for some time, because Joy was a sweet girl of ten who ought not to be used as one of Lord Tywin’s pawns.

Mariam had never been the most devout, which Mother said was perfectly fine so long as she remembered her prayers and showed proper deference to the gods, but she did try to pray for Lord Jon, that he would know peace in death, and that his heir, Ser Harry, would rule the Eyrie well. She had met Harold Arryn (although he was in truth a Hardyng by birth) before and found him a bit of a pig, but Mother said some boys grew out of that. Father had once thought to betroth Mariam to him, since Lord Jon had always been like a father to him, but Mother had put an end to that. Mariam was promised to another.

They must have spent most of the morning in prayer, before finally they were allowed to leave to eat, and Mariam took her meal with Mother and her siblings in private, in Mother’s quarters. She slathered jam on her bread while Lyonel was scolded to eat-

“You are a growing boy, so you must not starve yourself,” Mother told him in exasperation, pouring more milk into his cup. “I know it’s sad, sweetling, but Lord Jon lived a good, long life.”

“He was getting better,” Lyonel muttered, and something passed across Mother’s face.
“He was,” she conceded, before telling Gareth off for prodding Parisa about something or other.

“Who will be the new Hand?” Mariam asked, in between bites, and then wiped at her lips at the look Mother gave her.

Mother hesitated. “Your father would name Lord Stark to the position. So it may be that we set off for Winterfell before the next month is out.”

Mariam brightened; she’d not been to the North since she was she was eight, and that seemed like decades ago, to a girl of thirteen. Besides, she’d be flowered soon and a woman grown. This time she would be allowed wine with her supper and everyone would ask her to dance.

“I don’t want to go,” Gareth complained; he was nine, and fond of complaining, as well as sarcasm, having recently discovered it. “I won’t be able to spar with Gerard-,”

“Good then,” Mother interrupted him with a knowing look, “you are too young to be sparring with anyone, and he is rough with you.”

“He is not!”

“Gods,” said Lyonel irritably, “be quiet, Gar-,”

Parisa then knocked over her cup while reaching for another sausage, and Mother dismissed the rest of them from the table, excluding Mariam. Mariam wondered idly if she was in trouble, but Mother didn’t look angry for her, and they had always gotten on well, as Mariam was the eldest daughter, and Parisa was so young.

“Mariam,” Mother said, and reached across the table and took her hand in her own; Mother’s hands were always warm and soft, perhaps even softer than Mariam’s. She looked begrieved, and she was biting on her lower lip in the way she did when thinking hard. “I- you are near a woman now, so I will not treat you like a child.”

Mariam pulled her hand back. “What is it?” she demanded. “What’s happened?”

“Listen to me,” Mother said sharply, “and keep this between us, do you understand? Not everyone at court has our best interests in mind. Lord Arryn is dead, and so your father means to name Ned Stark, yes. We will travel to Winterfell, yes, and as Ned Stark has never been one, in my memory, to refuse your father anything, he will agree, and likely bring some of his children south with him. The eldest girl is between you and Lyonel in age, and I would not surprised if your father pushes for a betrothal-,”

“To a Stark?” Mariam was surprised. Starks did not go south. Everyone knew this. They had not since the last war. They preferred the bitter cold of the North and its wild beasts to the Southron courts and their knights and tourneys.

“Yes,” said Mother plainly, “and I will not counsel him against it. It will be a good match, and your brother will need a queen one day, as all kings do.” She paused. “But I suspect your uncle will be joining us.”

Mariam frowned. “Uncle Tyrion? Why wouldn’t he-,”

“No,” Mother’s face darkened. “Lord Cerion, and his wife, your aunt Lysa.”

Mariam had not seen either since she was five years old. Parisa had not even been born yet. Her memory of her uncle was faint, but she could recall his cold, imperious look, and her aunt’s watery blue eyes, and their gaggle of children, some blonde like their father, others red like their mother. “Oh,” she said, uncomfortably, because this was clearly disturbing Mother greatly.

All she knew was that Lord Cerion was Mother’s twin, and that they had had some falling out since Mother’s marriage to Father, and that Mother no longer spoke of, or to, him. As Mother would speak to just about anyone, and was quite fond of speaking in general, Mariam thought he must have said or done something truly horrendous to warrant the queen’s cold avoidance.

“Lord Stark’s wife is Lady Lysa’s sister,” Mother continued, “and they have not seen each other in some years past. I cannot forbid the woman from visiting her own kin, and as for your uncle-,” she sighed, “Mariam, there are some things- there are some things that would do you more harm than good for me to speak of. But pay him proper courtesy, and no more than that. And your brother- keep Lyonel away from him, if I am not present.”

Mariam stared at her. “What- why would- you think he would hurt Lyonel, Mother? Why?”

Her mother shook her head. “Not hurt- no. Your uncle is hungry for power, Mari. And power does strange things to men- and women, for that matter. And your brother will one day be the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Your uncle would much rather see himself as Hand to the King than Lord Stark, and while I do not think your father will indulge him…,” she trailed off. “I only ask that you look out for your brother, and that… well, when we return to King’s Landing, I think it is time, and your father will likely agree, that you go to Sunspear.”

Mariam was torn between excitement and fear. She had been waiting for, and dreading this, for years. “But I-,”

“You may well be flowered by the time we reach Winterfell,” Mother countered, with a small, sad smile, “and much as I loathe to admit it, it is time. I would have you know Quentyn Martell before your wedding, and grow accustomed to the Dornish people, for when you are wed they will be your own.”

Mariam was alarmed to see that her Mother looked almost tearful. Mother never cried. “Mama,” she said, as if she were a little girl again, and stood up and went to her. Her mother stood as well, and while she still towered over Mariam, wrapped her in her arms and rested her chin on Mariam’s head. “I love you so much, Mari,” Mother whispered. “I know you can be brave and clever, can’t you?”

“I can,” Mariam promised. “I will.”

She almost felt it- brave and clever and near a woman, privy to women’s plotting and women’s whispers, and let in on at least some of Mother’s secrets. Mariam suspected, for all her mother’s bright smiles and quick laughter, that she had many. And secrets, she thought, were a lovely, dangerous thing. Particularly when they concerned family. Particularly when one was a princess of House Baratheon of King’s Landing.