3 A Cry of Loss

Rhaella Targaryen

The king was a stubborn man.

"I am never going to be queen, but he will not let me marry for love." Rhaella had maintained her tenuous thread of dignity throughout the duration of court. Smiling graciously when she was called to stand before her grandfather on the iron throne; Princess Rhaella was the very epitome of courtesy when he explained his plans to marry her to her brother, Prince Aerys. She even thanked Jenny of Oldstones for bringing forth the woods witch who hailed the prophecy of her child being the Prince that was Promised. "It's all lies. Azor Ahai is nothing but a fable from some old book of Asshai. My son will not be the Son of Fire reborn."

Joanna Lannister, one of the princess's ladies-in-waiting, brushed the tangles from Rhaella's hair and smiled into the frosted mirror at the reflection of the Targaryen beauty. "I believe in the stories of Azor Ahai." The fair-haired lioness carefully placed the thick-bristled brush on the table and sat beside Rhaella. The two had become fast friends since Joanna had come to King's Landing, and the princess trusted her lady-in-waiting utterly.

"I will have to tell him, won't I?" There was an insufferable sadness lingering in Rhaella's voice, as though she felt the weight of her royal status a sudden and overwhelming burden upon her shoulders. She looked tired and withdrawn from all hope of finding a solution. The night had arrived, and it was this time when Rhaella was at her least composed. Only Joanna ever saw her like this; forlorn and lost. Elsewise she remained the picture of strength and serenity.

"Yes, my lady. Ser Bonifer deserves to know you are no longer a free woman."

Rhaella snorted. "I have never been a free woman, Joanna." Despite not being in line for the iron throne, Rhaella was closely watched and guarded by her grandfather Aegon V and his men. In part, she felt that ser Bonifer was to blame. If he hadn't named her the Queen of love and Beauty at the tourney of the Hand, she would not have been spotlighted by her grandsire's spies. But the rest was her own doing; foolishly using the King's Gate to come and go from the city. Of course it was the most heavily guarded by the City Watch, but Princess Rhaella had never had to think much of soldiers and spies.

Joanna rose and took a candlestick in its little brass holder, slipping her finger through the little hoop with which to hold it safely off the mantle of the princess's great hearth. The fire within crackled gently; a soothing sound that oft helped the princess ease into a dreamless sleep. There was something about fire that always calmed Rhaella; she had always assumed it was her Targaryen blood. In fact, at that very moment one of her cousins was making arrangements to leave for Summerhall; one of her favourite castles that her family owned, with plans to attempt to hatch a dragon egg he had been given as a child. Rhaella found the whole idea fascinating, and begged her father if she could go. He granted her permission to do so, but now Aegon had seen an end to those plans. Rhaella knew in her heart she would never forgive him if her cousin was successful and she missed the first dragon in thousands of years being born into the world once more. Never.

"Might I give you some council, Joanna?" Rhaella turned on her little wooden stool to face the lioness and smiled sincerely. Joanna nodded and lifted the candle closer to her face. "If you are arranged to marry a man you do not wish to—..." The princess fell silent. Joanna's eyes were glued to the rushes lining the stone floor of Rhaella's room, an unusual expression sweeping across her face. "What is it?"

Lady Joanna looked up and regarded the princess a moment. "I am returning to Lannisport after you are married, my lady. I am to marry myself."

"Who? Who will you marry?" Rhaella was concerned that Joanna too had been forced to marry someone she did not love, or even care for at all in fact. But the way Joanna smiled suddenly, and her cheeks turned a rosy colour that only accentuated her Lannister beauty led Rhaella to believe otherwise.

"I am promised to my cousin; Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, my lady." Casterly Rock; perhaps one of the richest places in all of Westeros was certainly a fine place to be a wife. Rhaella could not help the slight pang of jealousy that crept up her spine. One thing that brought a smile unbidden to her face was the thought that perhaps Aerys did not know about this arrangement, and she would be the first to tell him. Aerys was rather fond of Joanna, despite the Lannister girl never once giving him cause to believe his feelings were reciprocated.

"I wish you a very happy life, Joanna." Rhaella stood and took Joanna's free hand in hers, lacing their fingers together like a lover might. Joanna smiled graciously and inclined her head a touch, before raising her fierce green eyes to meet the princess's deep violet ones.

"Might I offer you some council, my lady?"

Rhaella grinned and said "Please, do!"

Joanna freed her hand and tucked her fingers under Rhaella's chin. "Go to him, Rhaella. Tell him you love him, and never to forget you. Then you must return to the Red Keep and never speak to Bonifer Hasty again." Her tone was not unkind, nor was it void of any emotion at all. Joanna was strong, and Rhaella knew that if it was not above her position in the kingdom, Joanna would speak her mind on a lot of things. For one, Rhaella knew that Joanna didn't have much time for King Aegon. The princess had noted more than once how Joanna would tut exasperatingly under her breath whenever he ordered the entire castle and its rats to court just to hear that month's expenditures.

The princess's smile was waning. She planned to meet ser Bonifer soon in the Street of Seeds. She could not bring herself to imagine his reaction when he learned of her engagement, if he did not already know. His affections towards her were not unknown, and she herself had been careless in the potential for their discovery. She bid Lady Joanna rest and then took leave of her room to creep down the hall, still slipping her brown roughspun cloak over her dress and lifting the hood over her hair. In the dark, she attracted much less attention when wearing dark colours and her old handmaiden's cloak proved an ample disguise to see her safely onto Shadowblack lane. It was only a short walk from Aegon's High Hill onto The Hook, and after slipping silently down a couple of cobbled alleyways, the princess found herself on the end of the Street of Seeds.

Her heart was thumping fast in her chest as she cautiously wondered down the empty street, noting the fat black cat that hissed and spat as she approached. Keeping her hood up over her silver hair, Rhaella kept walking until she came to the house with the red door. It had been abandoned for years; save for the rats that now graced it with their presence. And of course now the little house played host to the intimate affair of a lowly knight and a highborn princess. She stopped before the door and knocked three times in three different places, as was her custom. Once above the brass doorknob, another in the top right corner and the third between the two great iron hinges. She waited a few moments, until the sound of heavy footfalls could be heard and the door opened. Before she could speak, Bonifer grabbed Rhaella's wrist and pulled her inside, slamming her against the door as it closed.

He kissed her then, not gently but not unkindly, and pressed her wrists against the wooden frame behind her. "Tell me it isn't true." He whispered between kisses, crushing his mouth against hers and tightening his grip on her wrists. Rhaella wriggled beneath his iron grip and freed her lips from his to answer him.

"It is true, my love." The last word caught in her throat, and it wasn't until he kissed her against did the dry feeling subside. He released her wrists and pulled her close; wrapping his arms around her waist. Rhaella cupped his face and kissed him back.

"Didn't you hear me? It's true, Bonifer." Sorrowful tears pricked her eyes and threatened their release, but Bonifer's unwillingness to listen turned them to tears of anger. She pulled away, and leaned against the arm that held her, pushing Bonifer back by his shoulders. "I am to marry Aerys."

"Why?" He sounded so childish, as if her simple sentence was littered with obfuscation. She frowned and shoved him harder this time. Bonifer was tall, but skinny—he was not as strong as he liked to think. He was also too kind for his own good; something that both enticed and repulsed the princess.

"It is Targaryen tradition." She answered plainly.

Bonifer let her go. He stepped back and rubbed his hand over his mouth, as if trying to process everything swimming around in his mind all in one single second. "Yes, but why?"

Rhaella sighed. "My grandsire is King of the Seven Kingdoms; he doesn't have to have a reason why." The house was insufferably small; Rhaella was beginning to feel closed in. The small hall was narrow and sparse, and the two rooms leading off it were empty and unusable. The fire that had demolished much of the bakery beside the house with the red door had left the two rooms littered with debris, and since then a thick layer of dust had accumulated. The stairs were creaky and every third one was broken as though someone had stepped right through it. The upstairs area was one large room with a single feather bed and a chest of drawers. Bonifer had lit the hallway and chambers with candles, but elsewise it was dark and cold and lonely.

"Don't lie to me princess."

"Don't call me that!" Rhaella stamped her foot, ignoring the fact she herself was now acting like the child. Bonifer smiled and tilted his head, before stepping closer and cupping her face with his hands and kissing her again. This time his kisses were soft and gentle like a lover's.

"The men in the inn told tales of a woods witch brought to the capital by your uncle's whore."

Rhaella nodded. "She hails from High Heart. I never liked that place."

"What does she say, this... witch?" Bonifer wasn't smiling anymore. Rhaella was now questioning whether he'd been smiling at all. With his face against hers, she hadn't had the opportunity to see his expression. Perhaps that had been his plan?

"She says a lot of things, my love. She told my grandfather the Prince that was Promised will be born from the line of Aerys and me." And that was when she finally cried. Bonifer held her, but Rhaella could sense his unease as he wrapped his arms around the princess while she sobbed against his chest. She reached up and tangled her hand in his short brown hair, running her fingers down over his bearded cheek. "I'm so sorry my love."

"Run away with me, Rhaella." The sudden strength in his voice made her jump, and she looked up to see a wild sense of passion in his dark brown eyes. He held her at arm's length, looking deep into her purple eyes.

Rhaella spoke quietly. "Where would we go?"

"Across the Narrow Sea—to any of the Free Cities you desire. We'll raise our children free and happy and we can be together like we planned." They had never planned that.

Rhaella was a princess who was born and raised and would most likely die in the capital with her family. She loved Bonifer dearly, but she could not fathom leaving the city, no matter how much she hated being oppressed by the politics of the realm.

"That is no life for a child; being on the run across the Narrow Sea. Especially any child of mine." They could force her into ruffles and heavy skirts, they could even force her to marry Aerys, but no one would dictate to Rhaella how to raise her children. She was determined to be as good a mother, as her father was a sire to her and her brother.

Bonifer cupped her cheek with his calloused hand. "I will help you, my love. I love you, princess. I love you, I love you." Kissing her between each word, Bonifer's grip became more desperate, as if he knew he was losing her.

Her words fell against his lips. "I told you not to call me that."

"My queen, my queen—you will always be my queen." Rhaella could not help but laugh. Queen Rhaella sounded so alien to her, being the daughter of Aegon's second son. The only way she'd be queen was if she married her uncle, and he was preoccupied with Jenny of Oldstones. Her father had married a woman he loved, and Rhaella was brought up to believe she was eligible to do the same. Aegon had taken that right from her on the words of a woods witch who didn't even have a name. It sickened her.

Rhaella wriggled free and slipped passed Bonifer's grasp as he reached for her to pull her back. She leaned on the bannister of the staircase and sighed. "This will be the last time we can meet, my love." Her eyes scoured the floor, refusing to look at the inevitable pain that would be tarnishing her love's handsome face. "Now that I am betrothed, I will be guarded more than I was before."

"I see." Bonifer said, and Rhaella noted the way his voice cracked as he cleared his throat. She looked up just as he brushed his finger beneath his eye.

"Do you? Do you really Bonifer?" She stepped forward and took his hand, bringing him closer towards her. "Come with me, my love. Make love to me one last time, and then leave for the Stormlands and never return." She pressed his hand against her chest, allowing him to feel how he still made her heart flutter. Bonifer looked away.

"I'm not leaving the capital."

"Bonifer, if you do not my brother will find you and kill you. He doesn't like other men playing with his toys."

Bonifer sighed. "You're not a toy, Rhaella."

"I am to him," she looked down again, picking at the wood of the bannister; scratching her nail along the grain "you should have seen his face when the King forged our betrothal. He enjoyed watching me suffer and pretend to be thankful."

"You played your part with ease, I am sure." He was trying to hurt her now, perhaps to save himself some face when she inevitably left him. In truth, she could hardly decipher who was getting the better end of the bargain. She would leave the abandoned house and return to the Red Keep where she would lose Joanna and then marry her tyrannical brother. Bonifer would leave a free man; return to the Stormlands and marry a pretty girl from one of the lesser houses who would give him strong sons and sweet daughters. Her child would be the Prince that was Promised, apparently.

"If you love me—..."

"...if? Have I not proved my love for you already?" He stepped closer, clearly masking the pain he was feeling with this new sense of anger he had somehow managed to muster.

"I won a tourney in your honour; I fought great men and even greater lords, and I beat them all with your favour wrapped around my lance. And then you came to me, you sought me out of that tavern. I did not ask to be your secret lover Rhaella, you chose me to fall in love with you. You commanded it."

"Oh how awful it must have been to have to fall in love with me, I'm so sorry you were burdened with such an affliction." Rhaella swept passed the tall knight and lifted her hood over her head once more. "Please, allow me to relieve you of your duty." She was toying with him, she knew she was. Of course he was going to turn and grab her arm and tell her he didn't mean it. This he did, and kissed her neck before turning her to face him.

"Tell me you don't want to marry Aerys."

"Of course I don't want to." Tears welled up in her eyes once more, blurring her vision. Oh please don't let this be the last time I see him, not like this. She wiped them away furiously, but they continued to run down her face.

Bonifer seemed to struggle to speak again. He cleared his throat and rest his hands on the door either side of her head. "And... tell me you love me."

"I do. I do love you."

He smiled, but it quickly waned and his face fell flat. He was crying, but in the dim candlelight he was able to hide it well. "Good. Now go, before I steal you away." As he pulled her away from the door to open it, Rhaella wrapped her arms around his waist and clung to him. The midnight air hit them both as a sudden gust of wind swept through the hall. She clung on tighter for a few seconds, before releasing him and running from the house.

Princess Rhaella never stopped running. She ran until she reached the castle, and continued until she reached her chamber door. The guards looked at her curiously, and it was only then that Rhaella remembered where she was. "Good evening, ser." She said to the one with the tenuous smile, and upon wiping the tears from her eyes, she entered her chambers and closed the door.

The pain was unbearable, unlike anything she had ever known. Guards ran in between the maids, the news of Summerhall only just reaching the ears of the capital. The great fire was still raging, despite all efforts to save the summer home of the Targaryen dynasty. Rhaella flopped back on her bed, exhausted, as the Maester lifted the child into her arms.

"Do you have a name for him, princess?" Pycelle asked, carefully taking his hands away from the boy's head. The little bundle screamed and cried, while all around them women did the same. There had been many at Summerhall before the fire had started, and Rhaella surmised that most of them would be dead.

She looked down at her son, staring into his deep purple eyes.

"Rhaegar." She said. The maids nodded their approval, and Maester Pycelle lifted off the bed slowly to give the princess some space.

"Let us leave the princess be; she needs her rest."

"Crown Princess." A familiar voice echoed through the crowded room; the lords and ladies parted to allow ser Barristan through. He reached the side of the bed and took to one knee. "Princess," he said softly "The King and his heir are both dead. You and your brother are heir now."

No, please no.

Jaime Lannister - This chapter takes place after the following chapter.

As he stood alone on his cell, he couldn't stop his mind from thinking of his happy memories, his little brother Tyrion, his mother and Cersei.

Just the thought of his sister brought a smile on his face, if Aerys hadn't been mad, he would be together with her in King's Landing.

She had flowers woven into her hair the first time he kissed her, and her mouth tasted of honey, and she was altogether too much for a boy who dreamt of dying with a sword in his hand and blood splattered on his lips. Lannister blood, blood stronger and better than the Targaryens', but when the madness did not flow through the blood it flowed through the heart, and Jaime could not remember a time when he could look at Cersei and feel completely comfortable.

Maybe it had never existed, maybe there was no place where one of them stopped and the other began; threads of experience wrapping around them hard enough to make separation hurt; and Jaime could never help falling into her like a dream, a prophesy, and he knew he was doomed for it, but it never mattered, it could never have mattered because there was never any other choice.

They were like mirror images of each other, except that when Jaime stepped to the side, Cersei didn't, stubbornly refusing to follow anyone, so that it usually fell to him to shadow her, running to catch up while he still could, until it became a familiar pattern; a walk to tread through the silent night.

He was still flushed from morning training, sweat pooling across his skin even though he'd removed the armour, when he found Cersei sitting on a low branch, her legs swinging idly beneath her dress, bright and colourfully stark against her skin.

The sun was shining, turning Cersei into a statue of gold, fluid in its own solidity, and for once he thought that maybe the smallfolk were right about their father, for surely the gold lining their pockets and treasuries had reached deep down by now, rooting itself in their veins, hardening hearts from within. Their father said that the two true Lannister children were gold personified, the future of their great House, but they were far too broken for that, and Tyrion was, in truth, far more a Lannister than either of them could ever be. But no one would ever admit that.

"Come down," Jaime called, leaning against the trunk. It was uneven, bumpy and curving as if straining to become Northern, reaching for far-off apotheosis, as if any of them could become something by virtue of wishing it, could have something for the taking the minute it crossed their mind.

To be a dragonking, perhaps, he thought, for the Targaryens married their sisters and no septon dared to mutter a word against it, and they were bold and as unforgiving of their enemies as Father, and being a Targaryen would have been easy in comparison.

But Father was just as unforgiving of failure, and wanting to give away your bloodline could be nothing but, no matter how happy it would make you, because happiness did not matter to Lannisters, only success and failure, winning displayed on both sides of the tossed coin.

"No," Cersei yelled down, because she never seemed able to grit her teeth and just give in, and it had gotten her into so much trouble with the septa responsible for her that Father had sent the poor woman away, because failure was never due to Lannisters.

So he climbed up instead, pulling himself up by thick branches, fully aware of her eyes on him the whole time, heady and familiar.

She leant her head against his shoulder when he'd manouvered himself into a fairly comfortable position, and muttered something he didn't hear about the annoying daughters of their bannermen.

"They're not worthy of you," he said anyway.

"Obviously," his sister replied, and slid herself neatly off the branch; one minute there and the next not, in a manner Jaime was going to get very used to in the years ahead.

He wasn't then, though, so he followed her instead, because if he could jump off the cliffs at Casterly Rock, he could do this too, even though it was nowhere near as fun.

Cersei was still there, leaning against the tree in a mirror of his earlier action, the sunlight streaming through the trees around them making her glow, an endless expanse of gold skin, and Jaime almost couldn't help it, pushing her back against the tree, and waiting for some sign.

She pressed back against him, the flowers falling from her hair. Her mouth was soft, but she kissed like it was a challenge, as stubbornly harsh as the knights on the training ground, as if every concession was a weakness she could never forgive herself for.

His sister, the perfect Lannister heir who couldn't inherit. Jaime was beginning to wonder whether the Seven secretly hated them; giving all the appearance of ridiculous favour only for their gifts to turn out worthless.

When he finally pulled away, she was flushed, her hair mussed and messy from his fingers, so he leant back in, smiling against her lips, because Cersei hated doing anything by halves.

She was perfect like this; warm and almost pliable against him, fingers tight and nearly painful in his hair.

This was all he would remember of that day, alone so many years later: that it was summer, and the sunlight made her hair glow golden, House colours against a pale face; that she was alone, and the trees cast shadows behind them, and that for once Cersei's smile was kind.

It was the last time he would ever be able to think of his sister as his sister, without knowing how she felt pressed up against him, growing fingernails sinking into the forming muscle at his shoulders, and wanting her all the same.

Jaime did not bleed, but the inprint of the marks remained there through constant renewal, and when they couldn't meet, he sat down in front of a mirror and tried to replicate them, stretching to claw at his own arm until there was shared blood beneath his nails, but the marks felt fake and entirely wrong, and he could not think of Cersei while looking at them.

Their next time, she scratched at him again, like an angry cat, a lion perhaps, and drew blood, tearing his feeble self-inflicted imitations apart, blood on both her and him just as easily as it flowed through them both.

He wanted to mark her as well, twin scars formed in twin passion, twin pleasure, like a patchwork of memories to remember each other by when clothing brushed idly past skin on a windy walk. But she pushed him away, spitting insults about secrecy, and excuses, and was he stupids.

No, he wanted to say; I am you, and you are me, and we are each other; because they came into this world as twins, and so they would leave the same way, with nothing else in-between. But Jaime stayed silent because her eyes were dark and narrowed, and she tossed back her hair and flounced out of the room.

He did not see her again that day; but like so many, the quarrel was forgotten in the morning.

Some days she came to him, just handing him her comb and turning her back, waiting for him to brush it through her hair. It never needed it, but Jaime did it all the same; blonde waves turning to spun gold under his fingers; though his work was undone soon after, Cersei heavy in his lap as she leant up to kiss him and kiss him, his hands cradling her head.

She pulled at his hair, running her hands through it and gripping as if trying to wrench it all out, but it was less obvious with him, and clothes were hard enough to pull back on urgently.

"Missing the skirts?" she laughed, arching her head back so it seemed almost as if Jaime were pulling her backwards by her own hair.

"Hardly," he replied, laying the comb aside and reaching out for her. "This is much easier."

Cersei shot him a wicked look over her shoulder, then turned around fully, her hands by-passing his and pushing him back against the bed instead.

Jaime let himself fall back, and it only took a minute before she was on him with a flurry of skirts.

"Easier, is it?" she asked, her hand falling down to his breeches, grinning widely as his head fell back with a slight moan. "Easier?"

"Yes," he insisted, trying to concentrate on staring up at her. "You could just slip your hand – "

She rubbed at him. "You know, if you were still unbreached, I could just slip my hand up," she lifted her skirts up by her other hand, then ran her fingers up her own bare leg to her cunt. "Like this," she said, slowly sliding them in through the light hair.

Jaime couldn't decide where to look; Cersei's smooth fingers sliding in and out of her already slick cunt, or her face, where bliss warred with mirth for dominance, her mouth gasping reluctantly open. Instead, he reached out with his own hand, wrapping it around hers, and moved with her.

Cersei twisted her fingers as if to pull away from him, angling them up, and moaned in sudden shock.

He snatched his hand away as abruptly as when she hit him. "Are you alright?"

She looked up at him, eyes wide, and Jaime realised with a shock how young they both truly were. "Do that again," she commanded, so he wrapped his hand back around her fingers, but slid them out instead, ignoring the way she mewled in disappointment. Then he pushed his own fingers in to replace them.

She was wet and hot inside, and moving his fingers in the slickness felt strange and constricted, but he bit his lip and kept them there, moving them slightly, and shifting to try to find the cause of her previous moans.

After a while of silence, he looked up to find Cersei watching him expectedly, and arched his fingers up on an impulse, trying to recreate the way she had done it. It must have worked, because she gave a soft moan, head falling back until Jaime was looking at the curve of her neck instead of the mirror image of his own eyes.

He repeated the motion until she was arching up, and her cunt clenching tight around his fingers. Then he pulled them out, and on an impulse stuck them in his mouth and sucked hard until all he could taste was the familiar tang of Cersei's skin, covered with lavender oils and sweat.

Cersei was watching him through half-lidded eyes, her hair mussed into a mane around her face.

"It'll be dinner soon," she said finally, slighty shrill.

"Will it?" Jaime asked, blinking at the non-sequitur. "How do you even know?"

"We've been up here too long," she said, pulling herself up and tugging her fingers through her hair in an attempt to neaten it. "If they catch us-"

"No one will," Jaime reassured her. "Father would never come personally, and all the servants knock."

"I suppose they wouldn't dare do anything else," Cersei said, but she didn't sound so sure. "Where did you put it?"

"What?"

"My comb," she snapped, looking around. "My maid will ask, the twittering fool."

Jaime glanced around too. "I haven't done anything with it."

Cersei pursed her lips. "You had it last."

He shrugged. "It's your brush," and then, when his sister glared at him, added "Here," and pulled her close so that he could comb his fingers through her hair. It only took a few moments for Cersei to relax against him, head dropping to his shoulder.

"We have to get going before the servants arrive."

"Yes," Jaime agreed, but didn't push her away. The servants were too afraid of being dismissed from a lord's household to enter a room without knocking and waiting for an answer. It might have been inefficient, since it often led to them standing idly outside empty rooms, but at least it was safe.

"If I were a man," Cersei said, leaning back in his bed, red robe unlaced and falling off her shoulders, "we'd be utterly unbeatable."

She looked golden; her hair lightened by the warm glow of the summer sun, and her skin rapidly losing the milky-white sheen of their childhood.

"We would never be parted," she continued, one hand stroking her own breast slowly. Her smile was lazy and sated, with just a hint of perpetual mocking. Jaime couldn't look away. "Wouldn't you like that? We could both go to Crakehall."

It was unlikely that Father would have sent them both to squire for the same lord, no one being powerful enough to be worthy of two Lannister boys, but it would never happen anyway, so Jaime let himself smile.

"Of course," he said, turning over to kiss her again. "You're much better company than any man I've ever met."

"Well, you can't do this with them," she agreed, arching up to meet him halfway. For a minute, Jaime wondered whether to tell her of the men who did share such companionship, but her mouth was warm and soft, and Cersei tended to know things anyway.

Ignoring her muffled protest, Jaime shifted sideways, so that he was sitting back against the bed.

Cersei pulled away. "What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, he pulled her down to him until she was almost on his lap. The angle was somewhat uncomfortable, but it felt much too good for him to truly care.

"We could fight together." Jaime said. "You could even be my squire."

She pulled back and slapped him on the arm. "I'd be just as good as you!" she protested.

"Oh, I could be your squire too," he said agreeably, fingers playing with her hair. The curls were easy to wind around his fingers, and it usually made her smile.

"You'd do this with your squire?" Cersei asked, eyes cold as the jewels stitched onto their mother's gowns and twirled into her jewellery.

"I wouldn't do this with anyone but you," he assured her. "And if my squire hit me, I'd punish him."

Cersei didn't even look perturbed; just gave him that slightly mocking smile he hated. "Not going to punish me, then?" she asked, with all the confidence of a girl who would one day become royalty, her flesh thought sacred and every action carefully observed.

"Well, if you'd actually like to clean up after me," he shrugged, "who am I to stop you?"

"That's what the servants are for," inflicting the word with as much venom as she could muster. Being Cersei, it was an impressive amount, especially considering their activities.

"What else are the servants for?" he asked. "Some men take liberties."

"I won't play your servant girl," Cersei warned, digging her nails into his arm. "And you had better not even think about – "

"You're the only one I want to do anything with!" Jaime protested, though he sometimes wished his sister would actually listen to him for once.

"Good," she said, kissing him roughly, her teeth catching his lower lip. That kind of switch was undoubtedly the best and worst characteristic Cersei had. Even after so long of knowing and loving her, he still couldn't entirely predict them.

Sometimes he wondered if even she could; whether she conjured up these fits on purpose or whether they just seized hold of her, like anger following the grip of a sword.

"Fancy coming with me to see Maggy the Frog?" she asked, pulling away at last.

"The witch?" Jaime scoffed, still out of breath. "I'd wager you have more magical powers than that old crone."

"They say she can tell the future," Cersei said, blinking up at him, gold falling over green like glowing threads across a tapestry. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"We'll make our own futures," he told her, and found himself believing it. "Together."

She sighed. "Fine, I'll go without you then," and slid off the bed to pull at the laces of her robe, tying them haphazardly back together. Jaime watched her in surprise.

"Now?" he asked, not needing to glance outside to see that it was already pitch-dark.

His sister gave a one-armed shrug. "What better time?"

"It's the middle of the night," he reminded her. "The guards won't let you out."

Cersei laughed at him, short and sharp, and more than a touch mocking. "The guards will be half-asleep. Sure you won't come?"

Jaime couldn't prevent the yawn. "No."

"Scared of what you'll hear?" she taunted, slipping her feet back into her slippers.

"I just want to sleep," he told her.

"The coward's excuse," Cersei answered, but leant forward to kiss him goodbye nonetheless. Then she pulled her hood up and slipped from his chambers.

Jaime watched her go with an eerie sense of foreboding, before getting up to close the door, still undressed, standing carefully behind it to avoid detection.

Unfortunately it turned out that Jaime had had a more than optimistic view about the servants at Casterly Rock. It was an unequivocally bad time to figure it out: he was fingers deep inside his sister when he heard anyone scream properly for the first time.

She was only one of the unimportant gossiping laundry girls who lingered in the corridors whenever any visitors came, but her voice was shrill and piercing. It seemed morbidly fascinating to watch her mouth drop open, and her face drain of all recognisable colour, turning pale as the sheets in her arms, so he didn't move until it was finally over, fingers sliding out of his sister with an audible plop.

Cersei had gone bright red, but she made no move to pull her skirts down to cover herself. In contrast, Jaime was fully dressed; as since his breeching it had become harder to make himself as presentable as swiftly as Cersei still managed.

They had come so near getting caught so many times before; leading to such instances as Cersei brushing down her gown and pulling on her smallclothes so fast they stuck to the wetness beneath, or Jaime stepping out and making a point of loudly enquiring of his sister's whereabouts.

After a few moments of tense silence, the woman fled, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud.

Cersei pulled herself up, brushing her hands down her gown and slid her feet back into her favourite shoes, a present from Aunt Genna on their last birthday. Her bottom lip quivered.

"She won't tell Father," Jaime said uneasily, wondering. Of course, they could deny it, but -

"She might," Cersei snapped. "By the Seven, why didn't you stop her?"

"You didn't either," he pointed out, standing up.

"Knights are always supposed to protect their maidens."

"I'm not quite a knight yet." And you are no maiden either.

Cersei scrunched up her face. "I should have been a man," she declared. "We could have done it together."

Then she added firmly, "I'll make sure she won't tell Father."

The next morning, Cersei was spreading strawberry jam over her bread, red, and golden from the kitchen oven, when she told him that their father had practically engaged her to the prince, breaking hundreds of years of unbroken bloodline.

For a mad moment, Jaime thought about asking her what she had done last night, and how it could have possibly led to this, but said nothing because their lord father sat at the head of the table, and his eyes and ears were always alert.

Instead, he bit his lip hard enough to taste the sharp tang of coppery blood, and made himself congratulate her. The words tasted like ashes in his mouth.

He had always known that he couldn't have her to himself forever, but it had never seemed quite so hopelessly real.

His knife cut straight through the bread, grazing the gilded plate.

It looked as if the bread itself bled for him, free to admit the failure he could not.

Jaime escaped his thoughts when he heard the sound of the metallic door opening, the hinge of the door rusty almost falling down. The light came in, almost blinding him, he could hardly tell the figure standing at the door.

When his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Ser Arthur Dayne, he wanted to smile but the look on his face didn't bring him reassurance.

They will execute me, Jaime with a hold breath, his mind on his sister and little brother.

He should have expected this, I'm so foolish, he thought with closed eyes. Slowly standing up, the weight of the handcuffs around his hands suddenly weighed on him like an elephant, he felt he would fall, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"For what is worth Ser Jaime, you're true Knight," Ser Arthur told him with a genuine smile, his voice low and true, giving him the same pride look he gave him the first time, when he knighted him.

Jaime left out a sight of relief he didn't know he was holding. Ser Arthur stepped aside, Jaime walked forward with pride, his chest up, and ready to face the King's Justice.

Rhaegar Targaryen

Looking at the iron throne felt like the most bizarre thing to do, just the view of the throne, large enough that he felt like the throne would swallow him whole, he knew, at least had thought that one day this moment would come, he would sit in the iron throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet in a way, he had felt himself not worthy of it.

He would rule and sit where Aegon The Conquer had sat, a true king of Westeros, with his dragon, Balerion The Black Dread, A Mighty Beast, he thought bitterly.

The dragons were gone; they would never return to this world; the only thing left were the bones of what once was.

A symbol of the past, a symbol of fear and pride, Rhaegar shut his eyes, it had taken only a few minutes, but both he and Elia had agreed to stop the marriage between brothers and sisters.

Keep the Bloodline pure, Rhaegar, though, for what? The Dragons are Gone.

It had been a month now that Lord Stark left for the tower of Joy; Elia had prepared Rhaenys about the arrival of Lyanna, telling her to act nicely with her, to treat Lyanna how she treated Elia.

A smile slowly erupted on his face, just the way Rhaenys shouted in happiness when Elia told her that she would soon have a little brother or a little sister.

Elia, of course, couldn't resist telling their wild daughter what Rhaegar thought about it.

"Your papa thinks will be a Visenja," Elia spoke with a smile fixing their daughter's hair, almost bursting out laughing from the face Rhaegar gave her.

Rhaenys suddenly stood up with a frown, shook her repeatedly, and gave Elia a look as what she just said was stupid.

"No, you are mistaken, I will have a little Brother," Rhaenys stated with a tone, indicating that she was speaking the truth.

Rhaegar chuckled at the memory of his little girl; perhaps she just wanted to have two little brothers; he wondered if he could ask Prince Doran to send his daughter Arianne here to be friends with Rhaenys.

The door suddenly opened, he turned around to see Ser Arthur followed by Elia, but with the look on their faces, he felt a gulp on his throat.

Their faces were pale, especially Elia, who was silent and not making eye contact with him.

"Lord Stark is coming here, he was spotted outside the gate," He informed him, but the way he spoke.

"What about Lyanna?" Rhaegar asked with dread, almost afraid to ask the question as his legs walked closer to them.

"I-I don't know, she wasn't spotted," Ser Arthur spoke, swallowing a breath, his eyes avoiding the eyes of King Rhaegar.

Elia was about to ask Rhaegar to talk with him alone...

Rhaegar rushed outside, his legs moving as fast as he could, he couldn't hear either Elia or Arthur calling him, or he just didn't want to.

We will meet with our child in King's Landing. I give you my word

Rhaegar avoided the voice on his head, his wife, his Lyanna. Nothing could do anything to her.

He didn't know how but he found himself in front of the door that leads inside the Red Keep.

His guards bowing, Soon Elia came to him, yet he hadn't seen or felt her grabbing his arm and trying to reassure him that everything would be alright.

The horses of House Stark visible, slowly riding towards them, Lord Stark was first to come, behind him rode a short man, he recognized him as Howland, Lyanna had mentioned him to Rhaegar about them having Strange Dreams about the Future.

The atmosphere around them was thick, almost drowning them; Rhaegar didn't notice and didn't ask where Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold were.

But Rhaegar froze when he saw horses carrying a large box, blue flowers on top of the box.

Rhaegar felt himself immobile; he couldn't believe it; no matter how many times he saw it, he just couldn't believe it; he felt like he was dreaming, a dream he couldn't wake up.

His heart beating on his throat, each heartbeat felt like a sword piercing him, his heart bleeding.

Lord Stark walked over to Rhaegar, his face void of emotions; he kneeled in front of him. Rhaegar found himself looking at the man, only now Rhaegar remembered about the baby, where is my child, he thought.

The last piece of Lyanna, he needed to see him or her, but the look on Lord Stark's face almost made him wish he had fallen in the Trident.

"I'm sorry your grace, but m-my S-sister died giving birth, she an-And the little Girl, she was S-stillborn,"

Rhaegar looked at him; he couldn't understand what he said; the words played on his mind over and over.

He felt a pain in his chest, his heart bleeding from the pain. His knees not holding him, he fell on his knees as Darkness took over him.

I'm Sorry Lyanna