Notes: /Title taken from Hozier's Be, which also sort of serves as background./

Not much to say about this. Second - and last - chapter coming tomorrow or later today, hopefully; would have posted it as one, but it'd mess with the format I'd established of 'each of the Lannister trio gets the same portion of the fic' because Cersei is definitely getting twice the amount. Hence, she gets a POV in both chapters, and she'll share the next one with Tyrion. I do mean the summary - this is meant mostly as a character study, but it's very very Cersei-centric at its core and is mostly about exploring the direction things could have possibly gone in had Tyrion's plan worked in canon. I preemptively apologise for any typos and/or mistakes - this was edited quite late but, to be honest, I was too eager to post something after two months of absence and also have far too many finale-related fics ready to go to just let them pour out all at once.

Hope you guys enjoy it and, as always, feedback is most welcome!

Nearly two days pass before they find the first strip of land and, pathetically small as it is, Jaime is relieved nearly to the point of tears as he tries to show Cersei how to turn the boat as best as he can. They're still days away from Pentos, there's no doubt about that, but it'll do them good to stop for a while. It's been difficult enough so far and even though they'd pushed through it, everything has taken its toll – leaving King's Landing behind, watching as the sun had set behind the flames, pushing through the remains of the Iron Fleet until they'd ended up far away enough to feel truly safe – and they're both in desperate need of rest.

It's only when they tumble out and collapse on the sand that he notices that his sister's hands are shaking. She's trembling all over, really, but it's subtle enough that he knows she doesn't want him to see, as if keeping the struggle within the constraints of her body has ever been of any help at all. It's what makes it even more unbearable a display – the way she turns away from him, face cast in shadows as her breathing calms. They're both tired and hungry and very nearly out of water but, for the lack of a better option, she's been the one propelling them forward – the two of them, their limited clothing and a ridiculous amount of gold – towards the city supposed to be their salvation. It's not the kind of work that she's ever been used to, but Cersei endures it as she does most of the truly difficult things in her life – in silence.

"Help me," she says now as they sit by their boat, revelling in the blessed steadiness of the ground under their feet. She's tugging ineffectually at the hem of her dress and it suddenly dawns on him just how restrictive all that velvet must be in the warmth of the afternoon around them. It's a far cry from summer, unmistakably, but the sun feels far hotter here. He can only imagine what Pentos would bring. It shouldn't be that different, but it would take some adjusting to after the years of autumn and winter they'd endured. "I need—"

"Here." There's no unlearning this and he digs under the bright decoration of the collar to unclasp it. It's almost muscle memory and the next natural step has always consisted of him roughly tugging her clothing off until she's bare in front of him, but Cersei gets to her feet and does it herself instead; pulls the dress over her head, peels the rest of her countless layers off and heads towards the water.

It's impossible not to smile at the sight she makes despite it all – regardless of the need for respite, the hunger and the hint of cluelessness for the future that everything is tinted in. Under all her finery, heavy and unforgiving and impenetrable, Cersei is the same she's always been when in contact with the sea – her bony shoulders fold in as she wraps her arms around her body as if it'll be enough to help her stay warm, her face scrunching up in discontent while she adjusts to the temperature. Her every movement is graceful even now; a queen to the bone, if a runaway one, and Jaime can't help himself – he sheds his clothes as quickly and quietly as he can, following her example even as his sister draws a deep breath and dives beneath the waves just as he'd expected her to do.

By the time she resurfaces, he's there waiting for her. He'd been quiet enough to startle her, much to his pleasure, and it doesn't end there – Cersei's frustrating lack of real reaction to anything finally crumbles once she takes a quick, assessing look at him, eyes widening as she realises, "You're hurt."

"It's nothing."

It had very nearly been something – it had very nearly been a deathly blow, if he's honest – but there's no use of mentioning that now; not when he already knows that she'll pry the rest of the truth out of him either way.

"Who— Was it during the battle?" Her hands hover over his sides, unsure what parts of him are safe to touch. She settles for his face in the end, her grasp firm enough to force him to meet her gaze. The look in her eyes is so intense that it takes his breath away; she takes his breath away, if he's honest, no matter how weary it makes him feel – just her, here, stripped of everything but him in the last light of the day. "Back in the North? Did you—"

The laughter, bitter as it is, escapes him before Jaime can rein it in. "Not the North, no. Your betrothed turned out to be more dangerous than the army of the dead. Then again, the dead weren't quite so easy to provoke."

Warding off the mindless mass of wights had been a feat so nightmarish that looking back at it now feels like a half-forgotten dream, too overwhelming to be real. On the other hand, their escape from the Red Keep and all the obstacles he'd met on the way had been so viscerally nerve-racking that Jaime's quite sure every step he'd made would haunt him for the rest of time.

"Euron?" Cersei's voice breaks through his musings and he scowls at her; all the response she could require. "I thought he was dead." Westeros is far behind them by now – so far that Jaime can barely see the smoke still rising above King's Landing from here – but her carelessness still gives him more satisfaction than he would readily admit to. "Why would you go after him?"

It's not entirely fair to pin this on her, he knows, not when she hadn't known that either of them had been on their way to her, but, "He is dead; I made sure of that. Because he was coming after you. If I hadn't been there already, you might have had an easier time rowing that boat to Pentos." Euron and his two good hands. They hadn't been of much use to him in the end and he'd slowed him down almost enough for it to be too late, but his sister doesn't seem concerned with any of that just now. If anything, she looks more unsettled than she'd been while the city had been crumbling around her. Whether it's caused by the possibility he'd just painted for her or the image of him wasting his time on a duel while the world had burned on the other side of the secret entrance he'd used, he's not entirely sure, and he gets his answer a moment later.

"Jaime." It's just his name, but she sounds so awed and appalled at the same time that his hearts stutters painfully in his chest. The fact that she doubts his abilities to the point of fearing for his life would have been enough of an offence for him to pull away, but he can't bring himself to do anything of the sort when her touch is as tender as it is; when he's missed all of this too much for words. "He could have killed you."

"He could have killed me?" She's exhausted, Jaime tries to remind himself; exhausted and hungry and pregnant and lacking the crown and kingdom she'd had less than two days ago and perhaps he could stand to be a little kinder. His grip on her arm tightens almost imperceptibly. "Cersei, you sent a fucking cutthroat after me!"

She snorts derisively in response, entirely unapologetic, and the tension dissipates. "Bronn is no cutthroat; he's a manipulative little leech. He would have never killed you." She thoughtfully traces one of his wounds with her fingertips, following the line that Euron's blade had left. "I just wanted you to know that I was capable of doing it. And that you and Tyrion were all the same to me now."

It's exactly the kind of explanation he'd expected, and really, "You didn't kill him either." He'd heard the story of the execution of Daenerys's handmaiden a handful of times during his hours in captivity and Cersei's noncommittal shrug is the only confirmation that he needs. It's the infuriating calm of it all that frustrates him the most and there's more of that to come, the admissions piling on top of one another as she unveils the past few months of her life to him.

"Of course I didn't kill him."

He understands, that's the worst part of it – for all her lying and plotting, this is what it all eventually boils down to. Family. Those she's lost and those still here and, he thinks, more than a little thrilled as he wraps his arms around her waist, those still to come. He presses his forehead against hers, trying his hardest not to respond to the sly curl of her lips; the kind of smirk that always means she knows she's won.

"He was the one who brought me to you, did you know that?"

"I guessed. It was one of his better ideas, I'll give him that, although he should have known better than to side with the Targaryen girl to begin with." The self-satisfied expression turns a little sadder, now, as if the sympathy that had slipped through is less than welcome. "He has too much faith in people. It could kill him one day, even if I didn't."

It is unwelcome now that she's voiced it and Jaime's face falls before he can school his features into something remotely comforting. "You don't think it's going to kill him now?"

"Not this time, no." And the glint in her eyes is back, as malicious as it is triumphant. "If anything, I'd bet his sudden lack of faith has already killed her. Oh, spare me," his sister waves him off when he raises an eyebrow, half-disbelief and half-bewilderment, "it was never going to last for her once she was backed into a corner like that. Had she not caused so much chaos so quickly, it might have even happened soon enough for us to stay. It's only a matter of time before one of her generals sees the destruction for what it is and I can guarantee you who is going to whisper the encouragement in that general's ear right before she dies."

And just like that, it all clicks into place; the fact that he'd found her still in her chambers when he'd arrived, the strange calm that had reigned over her ever since they'd left the Red Keep and – more than anything – the way she'd looked at the destruction in front of her before he'd pulled her away. She'd looked terrified and shell-shocked and victorious and it all makes sense now that he knows just what she'd been thinking at the time.

"You," he accuses as her barely noticeable smile blossoms into the sort of unholy grin he's missed far too much and he knows he's the perfect mirror of her just now; knows that he shouldn't be, that he should have clung to his disappointment from the last time they'd met before the city had been sacked and done something to steer her in a better direction now that they're so far away from it all, but he can't. For better or worse, this is what she is, this is what they are, and he doesn't think he's ever been as drunk on it as he is now. "You're—"

"Yes?" Cersei prompts him and although it's still a joke to her, as much as everything apart from their lives always is, there's a challenge in her tone too; a challenge and a question all wrapped into one as her eyes burrow under his skin like they have countless times before. What am I to you, now that you know? It's nothing but mockery, if they're honest with themselves; mockery and needless answers and the thought sends an age-old thrill running through his body. He's always known.

A lesser man would drown her right where she stands, Jaime thinks, and tilts her head up to kiss her instead.

~.~

Every inch of her body burns.

It's the boat and the rowing at first; the vast, empty stretch of sea that had surrounded them from all sides as she'd pushed through the exhaustion and the deep-seated ache in her arms. The brief moments of rest had somehow managed to make it even worse, as had the endless patience that Jaime still seems keen on, patience and near-reverence at the fact that she's there despite his lingering resentment at her actions. He clings to her with a surprising ferocity, both literally and by watching over every move she makes, anxious about every decision, no matter how insignificant. He's afraid and hopeful and happy and perhaps a little angry and frankly, he can keep wading through his feelings forever for all Cersei cares. She doesn't regret a single thing.

Daenerys Targaryen is dead, just as she'd expected. A city had paid for her displeasure before someone – Ned Stark's bastard of all people, from what she'd heard – had intervened, but she's dead. A man had been trialled and exiled for it, her brother had assumed leadership while still in chains for his betrayal – a Lannister through and through, even in his darkest hour – and a new king had been chosen, namely Brandon Stark. The Queen had likely died in the attack, everyone says. She'd watched over the city until the last possible moment, even after she'd surrendered it, according to the few survivors of the Red Keep; even after the army had given up, their Queen had been there until the Keep itself had crumbled over them all.

No one had seen it coming. The same can be said about the day the Sept of Baelor had gone up in flames, she supposes, but it's different this time. She could go home, Cersei suddenly realises – they could both go home, return to Casterly Rock and assume their places as Lady and Lord as they had always been meant to. Everything they'd ever done, no matter how atrocious, pales in front of the measures taken against yet another Targaryen that had threatened and – for quite a portion of the population – destroyed their safety. The people had accepted her as Queen and they would accept her as the Warden of the West if she chose to claim her birthright. She'd proven herself as a serious enough ruler too many times to count, as much as Jaime had proven himself a worthy Commander. He would like that too, she could bet, and as for their child...

Cersei chances a look in her brother's direction and receives a tentative smile in return. The many pains of their voyage and the current necessity to get to their first destination on horseback (it's a side saddle and she's always found it greatly uncomfortable, but it's not like she has much of a choice – every piece of clothing she still possesses is a gown of some kind) fade away by a fraction at the sight of him. There are still months to go before the child arrives. With any luck, they'll have it all figured out by then.

"This could do," Jaime says and for a fleeting second, it almost feels like he's echoing her thoughts before they both slow their pace in front of what appears to be an inn. They'd passed a few already in the outskirts of the city, but none that had felt even remotely adequate. Better than what they'd had until now, she supposes – they'd ended up reaching Essos an impressive distance away from Pentos and had made do with the horses they'd brought and the food they could get from any passing merchant before facing yet another night under the stars – but it's one thing to put up with the temporary misery of their circumstances when only Jaime can see her and quite another to be forced to sleep in some of the most disgusting establishments imaginable. Sleeping without a roof over her head Cersei can bear, but lowering herself to yet another public humiliation even if she's unrecognisable to the locals is not something her dignity would be able to take, she suspects. This place, however – with its tall fences, bright golden windowsills and unreasonably high prices – fits them perfectly. At long last.

"It will," she nods and gratefully climbs off her horse, making her way towards what appears to be the stables while her brother makes the arrangements for their stay. It doesn't take long at all and what feels like moments later, Cersei is back on familiar territory, barking orders at the servants they'd been provided with to draw her a bath at once. Everything about her feels heavy and dirty and infused with seawater and the distant remnants of ash and dust and she desperately needs to be clean to feel like herself once more. She sinks into the warm water and scrubs her skin red until it feels brand new again; until all she can smell is the heavy scent of the oils she'd poured liberally onto her body.

It doesn't take long before her peace is disturbed and Cersei smiles, eyes still closed, when she feels warm water tricking through the strands of her hair and over her shoulders, soon followed by a clumsy hand rubbing soap into her scalp until she gives up and leans back into the caress.

"You could always join me."

"Not enough room." There might be – just barely – but Jaime clearly has something different in mind. He washes the lather away and moves on to her shoulders and she has to bite back a displeased gasp when he presses into something altogether too sensitive.

"Don't," she says through gritted teeth and twists around to glare at him when he insists, only to receive a gentle push back towards her original position instead of a response. "It hurts."

"I know. Sore muscles," he clarifies when she refuses to let the tension go. "It'll get worse before it gets better. Trust me."

Always. It's a small admission and it's dangerously close to being voiced before Cersei redirects her line of thought towards a topic safer than trust. "You must have needed quite a lot of the same back North." A sound of acknowledgment. "You'll have to tell me all about it. I've missed so much."

"You did." It doesn't sound like an accusation; the words far softer than his touch is even before he allows himself a rueful laugh. "I've missed this."

Despite her better judgement, Cersei shifts in the bath until she can look him in the eye, batting his hand away when he tries to insist. She's missed it too – missed him, really – but he already knows that. He must. They had never been particularly good at separation and every day without her twin had stretched out longer than she'd imagined possible, each more painful than the last. Still, "You're the one who left."

"I was, wasn't I?" It's still there; that sad, cynical twist of his lips that makes her feel like she's looking in a mirror and Cersei wants nothing more than to erase it as soon as she can. There are few things as disconcerting as being reminded of herself when looking at him. "I thought it was worth it; fighting when the stakes were this high. I was right. And afterwards— I tried— I thought I could—" She waits, breath stuck in her throat as Jaime stumbles through what feels increasingly like a confession and finally, he spits out, "stay. It was— I wasn't welcome there, but it didn't matter. It was the first time I had time to think, and I thought that everything could wait – the war for the Throne, the Kingsroad, returning to King's Landing... right before Daenerys Targaryen decided that she needed to march on the capital immediately and you decided to spit on her at Dragonstone and Euron fucking Greyjoy killed one of her beasts—"

"He was acting on my orders." She might as well say it, she figures. He's definitely come to the same conclusion already, but it always feels safer to voice her worst deeds before he's had the chance to brush it all away. It had been her fault – all of it – and Cersei's heart feels like it's about to break its way through her ribs as she admits to it. She already had, back on those first days on the boat, but this feels far more important – they're safe and alive and uncertain about their place in the world and the more time they spend together, the more certain she feels that she needs to make sure that she's not leaning back into his arms blindly; that he's still here because he wants to be.

It's one thing to trust someone with your life and another entirely to believe that they'll be there for the future that comes after survival and, as much as she dreads to remind herself of that, his initial departure had shaken her to the core in a way that few other things had ever managed. The two of them separated had been a ridiculous idea to even consider before it had suddenly become the reality she'd thought she would have to live with for the rest of her life; attempting to push him away just to see if it'll be enough feels like the only option she's got.

It flies right past her brother's attention, of course, just like the majority of her attempts to provoke him, and she feels the knot in her chest loosen bit by bit when he speaks again. "I know. It was necessary; I know that too. For all of Tyrion's reassurances, I could never see her taking the city without spilling blood. I left as soon as I was sure that she wouldn't."

It's not a clear enough answer. It should be and greed doesn't – shouldn't – suit her now that she's stripped of everything that had shaped her life for so many years, but Cersei can't help herself. It's the necessity of him coming back that she doesn't understand; the implication that it's something beyond his control. It frightens her as much as it thrills her and nothing is worse than giving either of these emotions a name; nothing apart from the realisation that if she were to ask him to do the same, the response might end up being duty. "And in that time," she wonders aloud, sitting up in the bath so that they're nearly at the same height, him in the shadows that the fire casts over his face and her still burning from head to toe, "if there had been someone else—"

"There was."

His eyes fall shut as soon as he speaks and Cersei isn't sure if it's because he hadn't meant to mention it at all or because he'd dreaded her response; isn't feeling kind enough to spare him the trouble of worrying. When he looks at her again, she masks the irrational stab of betrayal but lets some of the irritation seep through, for his benefit more than anything else. It seems to have the desired effect – his pained grimace turns satisfied. It feels good to know you're wanted, even more so for him – few things seem to feel better than that, and she lets him have it. "And?"

Just like that, the smugness evaporates. She had expected it to, as well as the mild contempt that steals its way over his features, and holds her ground. Let him see. If he means for them to stay together, just like they had both always chosen to before, then they both need to know what the choice had cost. "And nothing."

And oh, she tries. Tries to keep her expression unwavering, her look as inquisitive and uninvolved as possible, but it's a lost cause – she's leaning forward before she knows it, head tilting to the side like the learnt gesture she'd reserved for only the most asinine of complaints that had been brought to her while holding court. Jaime must recognise it well enough after the months spent by her side in the Throne room and his eyes narrow, confusion mixed with resignation and the kind of sickly-sweet fondness that she somehow always manages to inspire in him. She tries to hold back the abrupt, half-stifled laugh that escapes her too, but it's no use. "Nothing."

It's not a question – she understands; it's the same desperate nothingness that had never spared her in his absence – but her brother nods all the same. Emboldened, she presses further. "What was she like?"

"Cersei," Jaime warns – or pleads, it's not entirely clear. It's become very quiet around them, suddenly; even the chatter in the tavern downstairs seems to have finally died out and her name is the only thing hanging in the air between them; the only sign she should have ever needed that he's here no matter what.

She's never been too good at being sated by what she's been offered, she knows.

"It's a simple enough question." Cersei reaches out, fingers hooking on the laces of his shirt to tug him closer. Jaime follows and his eyes stray to her lips like they always do, as if it's some unspoken command he's been born to follow. It doesn't make her feel better in the slightest, even if it makes her entire body stand on edge in anticipation. "It must have been different if you really were trying to forget."

"I never said that." He's the one holding his breath now and she wonders, for an instant, if she'd been too cruel without meaning to. It doesn't feel like it – if anything, he seems agitated. "I didn't want to forget, just to see if there was another—" He trails off at the unexpected lack of interruption and huffs, sounding too resigned for it to be anything but a display of exasperation. "It was different. Is that what you want to hear? You should know better than anyone what it's like."

Oh, he might as well have slapped her. In fact, Cersei rather thinks she would have preferred it. She prepares to strike back, only to recoil at the trepidation written all over her twin's face.

"I don't know what you imagine it was like for me," she says; an admission as well as an attack. He should know better after all those years. He does know better, really, but it wouldn't be him if everything she did wasn't somehow turned into a personal slight. "Survival is more important what I do or do not want. Since I doubt it was the same for you," and she hasn't let go of him yet, understands the implications of keeping him close while telling him to leave, but it's not an impulse she can overpower. It never has been. Her other hand darts out, quick as a snake, to slip into his hair and Jaime closes his eyes, breath leaving him on a trembling sigh as if he's been waiting exactly for this. She should feel guilty for it, perhaps, but the display of it makes desire coil somewhere deep inside her and she hates it, hates herself for it, hates him, even, and, "I can't help but wonder why you didn't stay."

Despite all her previous needling, it's this that raises his ire. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I don't want anything." It's a lie, of course, and the fact that he doesn't visibly react to it is a small mercy. "You can do as you please. What I wanted was to understand."

"I wanted to get back to you." The explanation so sincere, so simple; almost as if he doesn't realise just how much she craves to hear it. Almost as if it's not obvious that she'd made him voice it. "There's nothing more to it. I thought of the city burning and I thought of you burning with it and nothing," he's reaching out too, now, fingers sliding down her collarbone, wrapping around her shoulder to keep her near like she could ever think of pulling away, and it feels like yet another kind of fire. It's not different at all, really – Cersei remembers what the city burning had been like, remembers ash and death and terror and the most desperate kind of love she's ever known raising its head once more and sees it all in Jaime's eyes now, "nothing could have happened to stop me. I could have stayed. I could have given up more times than you realise." He's holding her tighter than before, with the same ferocity he'd displayed back on their first night in the open sea, angry and desperate and loving enough to bruise. It's a finer feast than anything she's laid her eyes on before. "If I wanted to leave, I would have."

The kiss, when it comes, is his doing, just like every other time since they had left. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like her choice to make and while she's sure she'll shake it off eventually, she lets it happen on his terms for now; lets him get up and pull her to her feet and appraise her with his eyes once she's standing in front of him, bare of any pretence she'd fought so hard for. It's angry and punishing at first, a wordless reprimand that only gets more insistent when her lips part under his and her brother's fingertips dig into her cheek, but it melts into something else entirely before long and Cersei trembles in his arms.

It feels rather unfair for him to still be so overdressed and she does her best to rectify that immediately, relishing in the breathy, delighted laugh it gets her in return, somehow still surprised by her need for him after all those years. Jaime's eyes are alight and it's not unlike giving themselves entirely over to a life completely different than anything they've ever known; not unlike being born anew.

Cersei thinks back to the hesitation in his eyes when they'd stopped for the night and the ever-careful question he'd posed, the way his tentative hope pales in front of the blazing heat she's faced with now as he presses her to his chest, and finds herself grinning back despite her better judgement. It's wild and unrestrained and terrifying and she dives right in. Oh, yes. This will most definitely do.