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Twice a year, Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, left the capital and returned to the Rock to see to his own estates and talk to his brother Kevan, who ruled the Lannister holdings in his stead. Cersei would come as well, for Lord Tywin didn’t trust his old friend and King enough to leave his precious daughter alone in the Keep, and so was often glad to leave the gilded cage of the Tower of the Hand for her girlhood rooms in Casterly Rock, surrounded my middling cousins and old servants.
And, every time, she wished Jaime were there.
When Cersei was fifteen, it became suddenly most important to speak with Jaime as soon as possible. Lord Tywin had been writing to Hoster Tully for nigh on a year now, and Cersei had hoped he’d see reason and realize how insipid and unsuited that girl Lysa was to Jaime. But Father seemed quite taken with Lord Hoster’s offer of dowries and a strong alliance, should Aerys become dangerous, and he didn’t appear to care that the price would be to let that dimwitted girl become Lady of the Rock, the title that had been mother’s, that should have by right belonged to Cersei. She couldn’t let it happen.
She wrote to her twin often, and he replied quickly if with frustratingly short missives, and usually they managed to arrange to meet a handful of times a year. But lately Jaime had been busy, with Lord Crackenhall first and with Ser Arthur Dayne afterwards, chasing bandits, and when the time came for Prince Rhaegar’s Great Tourney at Harrenhall, Cersei’s best opportunity had passed them by.
It was Spring, or so they thought, and the fields were emerald green covered in silk pavilions of all colours, and in front of the King and the assembled court Ser Brynden Tully, hero of the war of the Ninepenny King, was named the newest king of the Kingsguard and hailed by a roaring crowd.
Cersei watched, and she did not smile. The Tullys have taken everything from me. That morning, Father had strongly suggested Jaime ask the Tully girl for a favour to wear tied to his armour. Jaime had looked bashful, avoiding Cersei’s eyes.
“Surely it is too soon, Father? Lady Catelyn’s betrothal has only just been announced. If Lady Lysa stole her sister’s moment, she wouldn’t thank her.”
Father’s eyes had gleamed dangerously across the table. “You will marry her, Jaime. I trust I will not need to remind you again.”
After Father left, Cersei had slid over to Jaime’s seat and leaned close, her breasts brushing against his arm. “If you win,” she’d whispered, licking her lips to draw Jaime’s eyes to her mouth. “I will be your Queen of Love and Beauty.” And then, as Jaime’s face moved closer, she’d pulled back. “No. You haven’t crowned me yet.”
But Jaime was fifteen and newly-knighted, and even he couldn’t defeat the likes of Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy and Rhaegar Targaryen, who unhorsed four of his own Kingsguard to claim the title of champion, and as the sun shone off his silver hair he looked like the Warrior come to life.
The admiration of the crowd turned into hushed disapproval as the Crown Prince, beloved of the nobility and smallfolk alike, spurned his own wife in front of half the court. The buzzing grew in intensity as Rhaegar rode slowly, before finally pausing in front of a dark-haired northern girl and dropping the crown of roses in her lap. He said something that Cersei could not hear, and when the Prince pulled back she saw Robert Baratheon looking furious.
Cersei rose from her bench and left.
“It’s not fair,” she told Jaime later, pacing back and forth in her large tent. “It’s not fair.”
“What is it?” Jaime looked worried. Between the two of them, Cersei was always the most composed, less prone to worries and flights of fancy. And yet she couldn’t seem to control herself enough to stay still.
“I hate it.”
“Sister.” Jaime walked to her and stood in the middle of her path, grasping her waist. “What is it? There will be other tourneys. I’ll crown you one day, I promise.”
Cersei at him.
“It’s not that. It’s not about a stupid tourney,” she spat out. “Don’t you understand?”
“I don’t.” His other hand was stroking her nape, gentle and steady. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“It’s… Father means to marry me to Rhaegar, you know. The Grand Maester is in his pocket, and reports to Father on the Princess’s health. They all fear she won’t survive this birth.”
Jaime shook his head, slowly. “But Aerys… after all he’s said about Father? He never will.”
“Father means to persuade him.” Cersei let the disdain she felt at the thought show on her face. She had always minded, truth be told, but swallowing some of their pride had seemed a worthy price to marry Rhaegar. But now… “He’ll keep me in that tower forever, until Elia is dead and buried or gods forbid, until that spoiled child Viserys is old enough to fuck. And it’ll all be for nothing.” She laughed, bitterly, in her brother’s face. “He has a mistress already, the Prince. That Stark girl, or if she isn’t his mistress yet she’ll be soon. And Father won’t care, he’ll throw me at Rhaegar anyway.”
She was shaking with anger, but Jaime’s arms were solid around her, holding her tight. “Jaime.” Cersei realized that she was crying. She despised tears, a sign of weakness, but she was never able to contain herself when she was this angry. “I don’t want to be…” Overlooked. Forgotten, waiting for another woman to die. “I won’t be second to anyone, Jaime.”
He tilted her chin up and kissed her. Cersei let him.
“You shouldn’t. You won’t be.” He kissed her again. “You’re beautiful, Cersei, you’re as intelligent as Father, and I would… I’d marry you if I could,” said Jaime, almost shyly. “I’d marry you tomorrow if you— I’d marry you tonight,” he said. “Cersei. You know we were made to be together.” His hands were caressing her face and his mouth was so close to hers, his eyes so like her own. At that moment, face filled with devotion, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, more handsome and valiant than even the Dragon Prince.
“Father would be furious,” she said, stroking his hair.
“Let him.” Jaime’s hand clasped around her own. “Let them all choke on it. We’re lions. He can keep taking the King’s shit and he can pretend to like it, but he knows as I do that we don’t have to play Aerys’s games if we don’t want to, and the whole kingdom can get screwed for all I care. There is no man alive worthy of you.” He grinned. “Besides me, of course.”
“This is foolish.”
Jaime’s grin widened. “You haven’t said no.”
“I…” She should. She should tell Jaime to stop this now, never speak about it again, and one day soon he’d be the Lord of the Rock and a stranger, with a dim, devoted wife and heirs of his own, and a whole life that had no place for her.
“We’re not Targaryen.”
“Good thing, that,” Jaime agreed. “We’re Lannisters. I wouldn’t see you in the colours of any other House.” The dress she wore was gold, like her hair, and Jaime played with the hem at her throat. “You are still not saying no. Sister.”
“Father will…” she couldn’t even put it into words. “We’ll make a fool of him in the eyes of the entire realm. He will be so angry, Jaime. They’ll sing of us like they do of the Reynes.”
“We’re Lannisters,” Jaime said, again. “He wouldn’t harm us. Lock me in the Rock for years on end, that is more like him. And you to the Silent Sisters.” He smiled wryly. “But we won’t give him the chance.”
This had all gotten too dangerous. They’d gone from would and might to will and now, talking about defying Father, going against everything they’d ever been taught they should want. But Jaime looked so passionate like this, pledging his life and love to her, and Gods help her, she was listening.
Cersei pulled back abruptly. She couldn’t think when he was so close to her, inebriating.
“What are you saying?”
“The Free Cities. No, listen—” Jaime held up a hand. “Listen. We’ll find a septon to marry us. We’ll send word to Father, and no one else. He will be furious. But we will… I am good, Cersei, you know this. The Golden Company will take me. We’ll…” He reached for her again, and she went. She looked up into Jaime’s eyes, open and painfully earnest. “It wouldn’t be easy. I’ve been on campaign, hunting down the Brotherhood with Ser Arthur. It was nothing like the Rock.”
Nowhere is like the Rock, she wanted to scream. If we leave, he’ll give it to Kevan. He’ll give it to the Imp…
Jaime was still talking. “We’d be short on coin, at first. You’d have to take jewels, something we can sell if need arises. But it wouldn’t be forever,” he said. “Father… you know he would never remarry. And he thinks badly of Tyrion. He’ll learn that he can’t have everything his way, and mayhaps one day he’ll send for us.”
The most frustrating thing about Jaime was that he made everything sound so easy. Lord Tywin was not known for being charitable, or forgiving.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he won’t. He doesn’t matter to me half as much as you do.”
It was ridiculous. It was mad. They’d be just as likely to succeed as they were to be brought back to the Rock in disgrace, dragged by a sellsword in Father’s employ. But Jaime had always been a romantic, and this plan of his sounded just like a song, the kind everybody knew but never ended happily.
“You sound like you’ve thought about this for a while.” She said it coolly, with all the control she could muster. It wasn’t much. Inside she was trembling. He’d give up the Rock for me, she was thinking, over and over with every heartbeat. And then: he’s asking me to do the same. Leave behind everything. She thought, I could be Queen.
“So I’ve thought about it,” Jaime spat out. “Of course I’ve thought about it. Do you think I want Lysa Tully?”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I want you,” he said. “Always you. And I mean it. Marry me. We can be in Saltpans by dawn and on a ship for Braavos tomorrow, and there’ll be nothing that matters except you and I.” He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
She took it.
In the dark of the night, no one saw them leave.