A.N.: To Shadowdancer456, Rossi's Lil Devil, Hoegh, GoodQueen, Jaimsafan, Moshi, and my unnamed guest - thank you! This second chapter is dedicated to all of you.

BTW: I make no apologies for the food-porn! I am an unabashed foodie and the way Martin utilises food to show seasons, wealth, status and plot is amazing!

Gilded Steel

02

Steak seared and still blushing, sliced wafer-fine and served with peppery rocket and pomegranate jewels. Crispy chicken thighs cooked with blood-oranges and fat green olives from Dorne. Suckling piglet with apples. Huge mushrooms stuffed with crab. Herb-crusted cheeses, and a small goat's cheese with fig, oozy ones with a layer of truffle, sharp, salty creamy cheeses, and a crumbling nettle one, with slices of pear, small white peaches, honey and crisp white wine from the Arbour served chilled. Nests of shaved asparagus and courgette with pea-shoots, olive-oil, toasted hazelnuts and silky buffalo cheese. A small pie of chicken and ham-hock with buttery pastry. A salad of herbs and nasturtiums with peas and tomatoes the size of his thumbnail with a lemony dressing. Individual set custards of saffron and cardamom with a delicate cold caramel sauce, decorated with a dried rosebud. Fresh berries, and stewed rhubarb with thick yoghurt. A baked cheesecake topped with sliced candied kumquats and violets. Nectarines, griddled and served with more yoghurt, and sticky honeyed pistachios.

"Whose cook did you steal?"

"You can't steal a cook. They're a person, not a piglet," Tyrion chided playfully, grinning from across the table, which groaned with so much food Jaime felt nauseated at the sight of it. After a year on battlefield rations - and a despised prisoner's rations besides - the opulence and variety of his brother's table made him uncomfortable. His stomach must have shrunk to the size of a pea since he left Ned Stark in the dust all those months ago, fleeing King's Landing to join his father's army… Tyrion gave him a telling look. "You're not hungry."

"You remembered my favourites," Jaime said, smiling sadly. "I'm grateful, brother."

"But not hungry," Tyrion said, frowning. "I don't know why! When I first tasted free air after my ordeal at the Eyrie, I found myself famished. The rabbit Bronn caught us was the finest meal I thought I'd ever tasted!"

"I am glad you found someone to fight for you in my stead," Jaime said, gazing earnestly at his brother. He had always believed Tyrion the very best of them. Mother would despise Cersei for her treatment of him; it was Jaime's belief that it would have broken his mother's heart to learn how their father treated him… Tyrion was braver than he knew, and clever. Too clever; another reason Father hated him so much. No man looked upon his reflection, truly, with any favour. And in wits, Tyrion outmatched the Old Lion. They all knew it in their bones. In spite of his whoring and drinking and gambling, Tyrion had come into this world meant for so much more. The gods had given him one gift, and it wasn't his cock; it was his mind.

He was using it now to great effect, running the city Cersei had no grasp of, and doing his utmost to slip the leash back on the putrescent little pimple that was their new King.

"Oh, as am I!" Tyrion sighed. "So, are you going to tell me why you have no appetite? Aside from the obvious, having been fed gruel by your captors, of course."

He sighed, almost in defeat, closing his eyes, and shook his head.

"A part of me wishes I was still in my cage," Jaime admitted quietly, opening his eyes, but barely meeting his brother's gaze.

"The dream you envisioned of your return is so much sweeter than the reality," Tyrion guessed, always so succinct. Jaime glanced up.

"That. Other things."

"What things?" His time with Brienne had left its mark. Not a physical one, not like the scar of his amputation he would carry the rest of his life, the reminder of the man he had once been… His time with her had brought out the kind of man he had always known he had it in himself to be, could have been…if not for his family. For the father he loved, and the woman he had killed for. Almost killed…those dark, frightened eyes, his gasp…

"I can't…be the Kingslayer anymore," he said quietly. The wretched knight, the notorious oath-breaker, the man without honour. Once, had been the Young Lion, golden and proud. Not of his House; of himself. At sixteen he had been named to the Kingsguard, one of the youngest in history… His single entry into the White Book was the act of murdering his own king. Burn them all…

"If not the Kingslayer, who would you be?" Tyrion asked thoughtfully.

"A better man."

"Ned Stark was a better man. Joff took his head. Consider that due warning," Tyrion said coolly. Jaime heaved a sigh, shaking his head. Ned Stark, executed. The people of King's Landing, slaughtered in the streets, babies' blood colouring the cobblestones. Burn them all… "Jaime…you've always been the best of us. The only one truly ruled by their heart…of course, you're likely the only Lannister to have one… But you have been known to act on impulse before…"

"What've you heard?"

"Nothing Father wouldn't rejoice to hear."

"Do you think it could be done?"

"You wouldn't be the first Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Joffrey has cast out," Tyrion said, and Jaime closed his eyes. For twenty years Jaime had served as Kingsguard, alongside his White brother Ser Barristan. He was a legendary swordsman, and a good man; he took his oaths seriously. He had a few crumbs of respect left for Jaime, after his Kingslaying…he had seen Aerys for what he truly was. Wherever the great warrior had gone, whoever he decided to serve, Jaime hoped they were worthy of him. Ser Barristan gone, Jaime's sword-hand gone…he no longer recognised the Kingsguard. Cersei and Joffrey had filled it with hateful, seething brutes, not the Seven Kingdoms' elite warriors. The exception, ironically, was the Hound. "What does Cersei have to say about this?"

Jaime admitted, quietly, "I haven't been to see her." It had been weeks since his return. In his body he was becoming stronger; everything else, his recovery was left to be desired. He woke choking on his screams, nightmares so vivid he was dug into them like a tick, covered in sweat, shuddering. The old traumas had returned in full force, as if to punish him for his new freedom. The loss of his hand wasn't enough!

All he'd wanted was Cersei: Upon his return, her coldness, her disdain, her selfish disregard for anyone but herself, her disgust for the injury he had sustained fighting to return to her… He was starting to see her for what she was.

He mourned the woman he had loved with his entire being. She was a ghost, now; she had died in the dust when he had fled King's Landing. He was no longer the man he had pretended to be when he had left this city for Tyrion. She had not changed; she just treated Jaime the same way she had always treated everyone. Love had blinded him to it. The things we do for love…

"It's been weeks since your return. After so long a separation, surely our sweet sister is anxious to while away the hours with you," Tyrion said, giving him a sidelong look. Jaime winced as he caught his stump on the arm of his chair, the pain shocking a gasp from him. Cersei had been anxious for his return; but for the return of the former, gilded Jaime with two hands and no exposure to Brienne of Tarth to slowly tease out the conscience in him, coaxing him to be the man he let no-one see. Not even Cersei. She wouldn't have the patience for that Jaime. He felt that truth in his marrow.

"I don't wish to see her," Jaime admitted softly, chancing a glance up, into his brother's eyes. For a man of diminished stature, Tyrion had a greater perspective of the world than most. Tyrion concealed his expression behind a goblet of wine. It was uncomfortable enough, this hated revelation about Cersei, without her seething across the banquet-table at him. He needed the space to decide what to do next - for the first time in his life, not taking into account what his decisions about his own life would mean for his twin.

Jaime sighed, glancing at the food spread out, suddenly hungry. It would be rude not to eat; Tyrion had arranged for his especial favourites, after all. And, he noticed on closer inspection, everything was either sliced small enough to eat in one bite, or he could tear the flesh from the bone. No cutting required; no second hand required.

"That's the spirit!" Tyrion said with gusto, as Jaime started to help himself, clumsily, to the food. The beef was succulent, and the finest he'd eaten in years. "If not our sister, what shall you do with your time, should Joffrey be so obliging as to release you from the Kingsguard?"

Jaime groaned, as much from the juicy, rich flavour of the blood-oranges and olives and the succulent chicken, as from thoughts on what came next. The Kingsguard should have always been his life; it was what he had wanted, what he had been proud of when he was too young to understand what it meant, what he would be giving up… It was the first time in his life he had to think about what he would do next. To not be just Ser Jaime, Kingslayer, of the Kingsguard; but to be Ser Jaime Lannister, firstborn son of Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. He realised what Tyrion had said, the implication, and shot him a dangerous look. It was one thing to think it; another to say it. The walls had ears in King's Landing. Two of the children he had given Cersei remained in the city, the smallfolk's hatred seething. All it took was one rumour, one spark and the city would be consumed by wildfire.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head. Tyrion gave him a stern look. "Tell me honestly, brother…you don't intend to take the black?"

"What?!" He surprised a laugh from Jaime, possibly his first since returning to King's Landing… He had laughed more with Brienne than he had in an age, and that hurt his stomach peculiarly.

"There's a one-armed blacksmith at the Wall, and he does the job suitably," Tyrion shrugged. "Made Robert's war-hammer, the brothers told me. See - they'd have a place for you. Man of your skills -"

"Former skills," Jaime said, his eyes on the stump of his arm.

"You've two hands, Jaime. If Donal Noye could arm the whole of Castle Black with one hand and a forge, what could Ser Jaime Lannister do?"

"I'm nothing without that hand, Tyrion."

"And where is that written?" Tyrion asked, sounding like one of their old maesters. Jaime heaved a sigh.

"I saw Lady Sansa the other day," he said quietly, glancing up at Tyrion, who gave him a careful, measuring look.

"And what did you make of her?"

Jaime sighed, glancing at his stump again. "She's learned to be terrified of kindness," he said softly, glancing over at Tyrion, who pulled a face, nodding in agreement.

"That she has. Our dear sister has taken her under her rather absurdly long and cumbersome silk sleeves," Tyrion said ironically. "Pity they're not of steel, to deflect a Kingsguard's blows. Or wings, to take flight and fly North to safety."

"There's no safety in the North, or anywhere else," Jaime said quietly. "Certainly not in King's Landing."

"Never for Starks, anyway," Tyrion said darkly, and Jaime flinched, remembering the screams as Rickard Stark burned, and his son Brandon strangled himself, trying to reach the sword to free him… Brandon had had the Stark look, dark-haired, sharp-eyed and grim like his silent black brother Benjen, like the bastard boy Jaime had forgotten, sent to the Wall, no place in the world. He remembered the grim set to his handsome features, the dark curls, the long nose… There was more of the Stark look in the Snow boy than in Lady Catelyn's true-born Stark children. Vaguely, Jaime wondered who his mother had been; Ned Stark was nothing if not a man of honour… The bastard did not fit.

Ned Stark had raised his children with the misguided belief that all men were like him. Honourable, loyal, fierce in the defence of their loved-ones and of the innocent. Decent, and generous-hearted. Ferocious on the battlefield, gentle but unyielding at peacetime.

"How many times did he have her beaten, Tyrion?"

"Before I arrived? Who'd dare say; it's the King's justice," Tyrion said mockingly. "I will give credit where credit is due; Lady Sansa may survive us yet."

Jaime bit his lip, thinking, watching his brother eat. He ate more and drank less since assuming the position of Acting Hand: for the first time in his life, his little brother was truly engaged in what he was doing. He enjoyed it; and he was very good at it. It should have been him, born first, born tall and striking and handsome, beloved by their father. "Did you know about her hands?"

"Oh, the - " Tyrion set his cutlery down, flashing his palms, mimicking the action of digging his fingernails into them. He reached for his goblet, giving Jaime a telling look. "Yes. Saw it when she's been scribing my correspondence for me - very elegant hand."

Jaime's eyebrows rose. "She's been your scribe?"

"Said she would be Joffrey's Queen one day, and wanted to learn the job. Really I think she wanted to get away from her flock of maids - and Joff doesn't visit the Tower of the Hand," Tyrion said, shrugging.

"Possibly she's drawn to your legendary good looks," Jaime said, his lips twitching. Had Sansa Stark come to the Tower of the Hand, in the hopes she may steal parchment, a quill, ink to pen a plea to her brother? No… She was too frightened to look him in the eye, let alone attempt to send illicit correspondence. The risk of it being intercepted was too great. Joffrey would have her head in the Throne Room, if he didn't think of something more creative to excite him.

"I didn't want to flatter myself that that may indeed be the case," Tyrion grinned. "I suppose being here, I can keep an eye on her. Two, as often as I can spare them."

"Why not spare a guard or two for her protection? From Joffrey…from flinging herself from a parapet," Jaime frowned.

"Sansa Stark is stronger than that."

"You've seen more of her than I have to know."

"Everyone at court has seen more of her than you have," Tyrion said gloomily, and Jaime glanced up sharply. The idea of Sansa Stark being stripped…titillated him - to see that creamy skin, the swells and curves of her body hinted at by her modest gowns. Since their interlude in the godswood, Jaime had found himself unaccountably dreaming of her. Of that sheet of rippling fiery hair, of the tempting swells of her breasts…he remembered her sapphire-blue eyes and the coolness of her skin and of her perfume, he remembered her terror, and he wanted…he wanted her.

He wanted to bury himself in someone who understood his trauma as their own.

Everything he had heard of happening since Joffrey became King, he had experienced a lifetime ago, under Aerys' reign. He had experienced the one reign of terror; Sansa had been enduring this second, until Tyrion's return. Catelyn Stark had the two unlikely Lannister brothers to thank, the two most absurd heroes in Westeros, for protecting the one daughter still accounted for.

"It's true, then. He humiliates her." Beaten and stripped in front of the court, her porcelain skin…those large breasts.

"Less often since my return. Our sweet sister did nothing to curb his crueller appetites," Tyrion said. Fidgeting in his chair, Jaime cast a sidelong look at Tyrion, noticing his eyes were on Jaime.

"And the whores?" he asked, to divert Tyrion's shrewd attentions.

"He shan't receive another name-day gift from me," Tyrion said curtly, not without irony. Jaime bristled, remembering Rhaella. Tyrion continued, "Interestingly, I do believe Lady Sansa had a champion before my return. Joff's loyal dog."

"Clegane?" Jaime stared at him. The idea was absurd. The Hound?

"I believe he may covet her," Tyrion mused.

"What red-blooded man wouldn't?" Jaime said, rolling his eyes. After his recent experiences, his own brutal mutilation, he thought of the Hound, and didn't wonder that he lashed out so viciously. "I can't imagine the Hound's seen much beauty in his life."

"Not that he hasn't paid for first," Tyrion said. "Lady Sansa certainly is a beauty."

"I'd noticed."

"You'd no- You, my dear brother, who's never looked at a woman but to see a blemish?!" Tyrion blurted, staring at him. His eyes twinkled with irony. "Captivity has changed you."

"That it has," Jaime agreed quietly.

"You've been at war before. The outlaws, the Greyjoy Rebellion…" Tyrion said quietly, frowning at him. "It's not just that you're crippled, is it?"

"I'm seeing things differently for the first time," Jaime admitted.

"I imagine that's rather uncomfortable," Tyrion said gently. He was being diplomatic. He sighed, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "Why this sudden interest in Sansa Stark?"

"Her mother freed me on condition that I vowed to keep her daughters safe," Jaime reminded his little brother. As acting Lord Hand it was in Tyrion's interests to help him promote the safety of their only Stark hostage, if they had any hope of ending the war favourably; he could think of no better ally.

"Daughters. They'll learn soon enough that we don't have Arya. According to our sweet sister, she was never accounted for when Ned Stark's household was massacred. Sansa's told me she hasn't seen Arya since that morning. Said Arya was taking lessons from a Braavosi dancing-master…"

"I don't remember the other's face," Jaime admitted. He had never paid the Stark children much attention; the bastard, he remembered fleetingly. Dark curls, and a lifelong oath to protect people who would never know his name, or that he had died for them. There was no glory in the Night's Watch; only honour.

"She had the Stark look. Like Benjen, and Jon Snow."

"I'd forgotten about the bastard… I mocked his vows," Jaime sighed regretfully. Absurdly, he had the thought, "Can you imagine if Ned Stark had taken the Iron Throne?"

"You'd be the one wearing black, losing your testicles to the cold," Tyrion said lightly, alluding to the time years ago when Ned Stark had wanted him stripped of his white cloak and sent to the Wall: Robert had pardoned him instead, and married his sister. He glanced over at Jaime, seeing that he was serious for once. "It was the last thing that Ned Stark wanted."

"Perhaps that's why he should've taken it. He'd have taken it seriously, at the very least," Jaime muttered.

"And I wouldn't have nearly as much work to do," Tyrion groaned.

"You'll help me, won't you?" Jaime asked, glancing across the table at his brother. Tyrion gave him an inquisitive look. "When I become Lord of Casterly Rock? You're good at this, being Hand."

"Strangely enough, I find I'm enjoying it… But we were speaking of Sansa - these are her favourites, by the way: Lemon cakes," Tyrion said, as his quiet squire carried in a silver tray of dainty little square cakes barely bigger than a gold dragon, dipped in a pale-pink sugar icing and topped with a raspberry, dusted with lemon zest. The pink icing was made with lemon-juice; inside, the two layers of light-as-air sponge were stuck together with a potent raspberry jam. They were tiny and delicate and refreshing. Jaime gave him a dangerous look, and Tyrion grinned lecherously.

"I made a promise to Catelyn Stark…"

"To keep her daughters safe," Tyrion said, giving Jaime a look that said a thousand things.

"Father will never cease hostilities now, not now the North has lost their leverage. Sansa's in danger," Jaime said quietly.

"She's still heir to the North," Tyrion said, helping himself to a tiny cake. Jaime reached over - out of instinct, with his right; he sighed, drawing his arm back when he realised there was nothing there. He reached with his left, and even just the act of picking up the tiny cake with his left hand went against his instincts. How would he fare any better as Lord of Casterly Rock if he could barely scribble correspondence to keep the kingdom going?

"She's a frightened girl with no family. And Cersei's told Joffrey he can do as he likes. And that includes with her," Jaime said, frowning. "He's already killed Ned Stark, against everyone's advice."

"What are you suggesting?" Tyrion asked.

Jaime glanced at his brother, cautiously approaching the subject he had been mulling for days. "Could peace be brokered at this point?"

"Doubtful. You know our father. He's lost every battle he's fought against Robb Stark - for him, that's torture. It's his pride he's fighting for now, the family legacy… Why do you ask?"

"Could…a marriage be the means to sue for peace?"

"Marry Sansa to the boy who took her father's head? You'd do better to piss on Ned Stark's bones in front of his bannermen!"

"I wasn't talking about Joffrey," Jaime said quietly, slowly lifting his gaze to his brother's face. Shock registered, then careful consideration, mulling over the finer details, the advantages, the risks. Jaime had done the same; the greatest risk was that Robb Stark's army truly turned into direwolves in their rage at him taking their Northern daughter to wife, and pelting south.

"…You?" Tyrion breathed, staring at Jaime as if he had never truly seen him before. "To protect the direwolf from the lions, she must become a lioness? It rarely works that way, Jaime…"

"She would be Lady of Casterly Rock after Father's death. Her children would have claim to the West and to Winterfell. It removes her from Joffrey's cruelty," Jaime said, glancing at Tyrion as his squire soundlessly removed the empty platters.

Tyrion sighed, pouring himself a half-goblet of wine, leaning back in his chair to mull the idea over. "Dissolving Joffrey's Northern betrothal would leave the crown open to more valuable alliances. The Starks are always right; winter is coming. And the Tyrells have stopped shipments to the city… Father will be delighted! Our sweet sister, less so."

Jaime sighed heavily. "I've already broken every vow I've ever made, Tyrion… She's my last chance at honour."

"Well, then, you've chosen the perfect bride! Starks are renowned for their honour!" Tyrion grinned. "Do let me be present when you tell Cersei."

"Yes, I may need your protection. And I've heard you've a wicked way with a shield," Jaime said, his lips twitching toward a smile. He should have been there, when Tyrion was snatched by Catelyn Stark… The dark eyes, his gasp… He should never have pushed the boy in the first place. Ten.

"And I'd thought no firsts remained to me," Tyrion said, with a lecherous smile.

"She took you because of me," Jaime admitted, looking Tyrion in the eye. Closing his eyes, he sighed, shaking his head. "That little boy is broken because of me… He's dead, because I took his legs from him, he couldn't even run -"

"The Ironborn took Catelyn Stark's youngest sons from her," Tyrion said sharply. "And if you have a care for the future of any possible marriage with Sansa Stark you'll keep that truth to yourself."

"Catelyn Stark knows. So does the Young Wolf," Jaime said quietly. "Kingslayer. Oath-breaker… Child-crippler."

"You're crippled yourself now. You took his future; the gods have paid you back in kind," Tyrion said.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Jaime murmured, staring at the stump of his sword-arm.

"Jaime, if you're going to continue to be maudlin, might I suggest some more wine? It'll make the experience pleasanter for the both of us," Tyrion said, giving him a look. "You took Bran Stark's legs, not his life; had the Ironborn not butchered him, who knows what future he may have created for himself? Without the shackles of the Kingsguard's vows, what future may yet unfold for you? Life means endless possibilities."

"I was never meant to be Lord of Casterly Rock, Tyrion; you always had the brains. I'm just a soldier," Jaime said quietly.

"You're more than that," Tyrion said quietly, giving him a bolstering look.

"Will you help me?" Jaime asked quietly.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Help you tell Cersei you're going to marry Sansa Stark? Or help you rule the West?"

"Both."

"Let no-one say I am not a slave to my family's wishes," Tyrion sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well - if he manages to get out of this war our repugnant nephew has started, our father will never allow me to remain as Hand. He'll come here and rule for Joffrey, whether he and Cersei like it or not. We'll take Sansa and the Rock shall have its first Lady in thirty years. Perhaps you can fill Casterly Rock's gilded halls with a litter of riotous liowolves."

Jaime barely stifled the urge to roll his eyes. "What do you think of her?"

"She's much cleverer than she lets on," Tyrion said, examining another of the delicate little pink lemon-cakes. The raspberry and the sweetness from the icing and the lemon tang made it a refreshing end to the meal which had otherwise been very rich. He had helped himself to a morsel of everything, enough to taste it, but not make him ill. "I rather enjoy her, actually. Somehow, there's a certain sort of innocence to her. Sweetness. And steel beneath."

"I saw that," Jaime admitted. "One could almost forget she's a direwolf."

"The Southern silks give the illusion she's one of Myrcella's painted dolls," Tyrion said quietly. "Much prettier, though… She's courteous and collected; and is learning. She's been borrowing books from me; her education was cut short when Joffrey cut off her septa's head. Do you know, she's quite good at High Valyrian. And she's learning the game, through trial and error."

"The game," Jaime repeated softly. The game of thrones…

"She's a polite, educated girl with romantic inclinations and an industrious nature, otherwise living in utter terror of everyday humiliation, torture and execution," Tyrion said, sipping his wine. "One wonders at the woman she'll become should she survive all this."

"Hopefully not a monster," Jaime muttered.

Tyrion sighed to himself. "What I dread is that she will forever associate kindness with cruelty. She has come to expect that there cannot be one without the other."

"She should be wary," Jaime said. "That's the way of the world."

"Not always," Tyrion said. "It doesn't have to be. It shouldn't be… Tell me, what happens - after you've torn off that white cloak, and reclaimed your inheritance, and married Sansa Stark… Will you take her back to the Rock? Live out your days as Lord and Lady of the West?"

"We can't leave this city while siege is imminent," Jaime frowned.

"I would imagine leaving this city before the siege is the best thing you could do for the safety of Sansa Stark, your intended bride," Tyrion said, raising an eyebrow. He was challenging Jaime, he knew it. Leave the city before the siege, leave…leave Cersei unprotected…

"I leave and who commands the army in the defence of the city?" Jaime retorted, and Tyrion frowned, sighing. "Meryn Trant? He's a child-beater. The others are sheep."

"Marry Sansa Stark tomorrow and leave for the Rock," Tyrion advised sternly. "Unless you wish to see her butchered and raped like Elia Martell and Rhaenys Targaryen."

"No invading army's going to touch the Stark girl," Jaime said.

"You know full well what a man is capable of when his blood is up," Tyrion said fiercely. "I had one taste of bloodlust and what I needed most in the world when the fighting was done was a nubile woman to bury myself inside. If this city falls, your oath to Catelyn Stark is broken. You might as well rape Sansa yourself and send her bloody and broken to her mother."

"Tyrion," Jaime said softly, startled. Tyrion gave him another stern look.

"Jaime - they are going to attack us! I cannot send Sansa Stark away as I did Myrcella! You know this; or you would have asked me. If the city's defences fail -"

"Then the defences will have to hold," Jaime bit back. "Tyrion, I'm the only experienced military leader you have in this city."

Tyrion was staring at him, a thousand thoughts warring behind those clever eyes, and Jaime felt himself flushing as he fiddled with his wine goblet.

"Is it the city and its people you're so reluctant to leave…or someone in particular?" Tyrion asked quietly. Jaime gave him a dangerous, guilty look. He wasn't sure. Abandon Cersei to her fate, in favour of protecting Sansa Stark? He had never put anyone or anything above her, not even himself; yet, he was now considering doing just that. To remove himself from the Kingsguard, to claim his rightful place at Casterly Rock…would remove him forever from Cersei. To protect Sansa Stark…

Sansa. For the first time in his life, he had looked upon another woman and felt his body stirring with desire. Always, he had compared any woman to Cersei. Always.

And yet the two were incomparable. Cersei and Sansa. One gilded; one aglow. Gold and copper. One inextricably intertwined with him, his life; the other, a perfect stranger years younger than him…but beautiful. Strong.

He had never wanted anyone or anything but Cersei. He had given up the Rock for his white cloak, to be near her when she married Rhaegar…he wondered whether their marriage would have been true, and faithful; whether Jaime would have had any part in Cersei's life beyond acting as a protector swathed in ghostly white.

Jaime knew his love for Cersei had always been pure, unquestionable. Before. Now, he wondered when Cersei had decided to invite him into her bed…how she had known he would do anything for her, kill anyone…push little boys out of the window to keep their secret, keep her children safe… Loving Cersei was as natural as breathing; but…had she known, even when they were young, that she could use his love against him?

He remembered fucking her the morning of her wedding to Robert.

As her marriage deteriorated, she had turned more and more to Jaime, whom she had always known loved her without question, without expectation, without any thought for himself. Only her.

But she had wed Robert, taken him into her bed and into her body. She had relied on Jaime to find the woman who had cleansed her of Robert's seed. Ignored and despised by Robert, she had turned increasingly to Jaime, for the unquestioning love and loyalty he gave her.

And while he had festered in a cage in his own shit in Robb Stark's army camps, she had taken lovers…had rejected Jaime on his return, for daring to do so…altered.

You took too long…

Had she been playing him all this time?

It was no secret Cersei craved power, believed it was her due and despised anyone who did not show her the deference she believed she deserved, blaming her gender. Cersei was shrewd, but lacked judgement; she had cunning, but her pride was her downfall. She mistook patience for cowardice, and believed difference of opinion indicated defiance. She was wildfire, raging and volatile.

But predictable: Wildfire destroyed everything in its path - before it burned itself out.

And as much as power, Cersei had always craved love. Power and love. With Jaime, his love gave her the thrill of ultimate power - over him.

When her spies had told her what he intended, Jaime wondered how quickly Cersei would go from raging, to trying to coax him back into her bed.

To seduce him into believing it was all his fault, for returning to her mutilated, that of course, he shouldn't have expected her welcome to be anything but shocked and disgusted.

His hand. Her love. His life. Her lie.

A.N.: Because although Jaime's love for Cersei is pure, Cersei's treatment of Jaime is definitely emotional manipulation, and we all know Cersei is more than willing to use sex as a weapon.

How to start the next chapter?

Cersei, or Sansa?

I'll sleep on it…