Finally, Oberyn exhaled slowly, deliberately, as though releasing something poisonous. "We need to write to him," he said. "Tonight. Before doubt festers like a wound gone rotten."
"Yes," Padma agreed. She moved toward the writing desk tucked into an alcove, drawing out parchment and ink. "We tell him everything. The night he appeared, the blood adoption, what it means. We give him truth without varnish."
Oberyn joined her, pulling a second chair close. "And my feelings about his... parentage?"
"We acknowledge them," Padma said, dipping the quill. "But we make clear they don't change how you feel about him. That blood is only blood. That love is what matters."
"Love," Oberyn repeated, tasting the word. "Such a small word for such a vast and terrible thing."
"Write," Padma commanded.
They bent over the parchment together as full night fell and torches were lit around the gardens. The work was slow, painstaking—drafting and revising, arguing over every phrase. Oberyn wanted to soften certain truths; Padma insisted on clarity. Padma wanted to spare Hadrian's feelings; Oberyn argued he deserved the full weight of reality, unfiltered.
"Here," Oberyn said, pointing at a passage. "This part about the Sanguis Fidelis. You make it sound too... clinical. Like some maester's text on bloodlines and succession."
"It needs to be clear," Padma protested. "He needs to understand the magic."
"He needs to understand that James and Lily chose him," Oberyn corrected. "That the ritual was an act of love, not legal convenience. That they bound him to their blood because they wanted him as their son, not because they felt obligated to care for some mystery babe dropped in their laps by the gods."
Padma considered, then nodded. She crossed out several lines and began again, her handwriting neat despite the tremor in her fingers. "Better?"
Oberyn read the new passage, lips moving silently. "Yes. That's better. Though you should add something about how the magic recognized what was already true—that he was theirs from the moment Lily held him. The ritual just made reality match what the heart already knew."
"Poetic," Padma observed dryly.
"I contain multitudes," Oberyn replied. "I can be both crude and philosophical. It's one of my more endearing qualities."
"Your daughters would argue that your most endearing quality is your tongue," Padma said without thinking, then froze. "I mean—for words. Obviously. Your facility with language. Not—"
Oberyn's grin was absolutely wicked. "Oh, my tongue has many uses. Would you like me to enumerate them? I can be quite thorough. Nymeria learned from the best, after all."
"Focus," Padma snapped, cheeks burning. "We're writing to Hadrian, not discussing your sexual prowess."
"Pity. I have stories that would make your hair curl. There was this Lysene contortionist once—"
"Oberyn!"
"Fine, fine." He leaned back, still grinning. "But you walked into that one. You cannot mention my tongue and expect me to remain professional. I have standards to maintain."
They returned to the letter. Hours passed. The wine diminished. Padma's hand cramped but she pressed on, determined to find the right words—words that would steady without lying, that would acknowledge horror without letting it define.
"We should tell him about Cersei," Oberyn said at one point. "Not everything. Gods know there's enough evil there to fill volumes. But enough that he understands why I struggle with this knowledge. Why hearing her name makes me want to break things."
"Carefully," Padma warned. "He doesn't need a catalog of her crimes. Just enough context to understand your reaction."
"Agreed." Oberyn thought for a moment, then began dictating. "Write this: 'I will not lie to you about your mother. Cersei Lannister is beautiful, clever, and utterly without conscience. She has caused suffering that would make demons weep. She celebrated my sister's murder. And if she ever discovers you survived, she will stop at nothing to eliminate the threat you pose to her children's claims.'"
Padma wrote it down, then paused. "Should we soften that?"
"No." Oberyn's voice was hard. "He needs to understand the danger. Cersei has killed for less than a threat to her power. If word spreads that Robert's firstborn lives, she'll come for him with everything she has. Better he knows now and takes precautions than we spare his feelings and he ends up dead."
"Fair point." Padma continued writing. "What about Robert? Should we say anything about his father?"
Oberyn was quiet for a moment, considering. "Robert is... complicated. He was a great warrior once. Magnificent in battle, brave to the point of madness, strong enough to shatter armies with his warhammer. But as a king?" He shook his head. "He let the realm rot while he drank and whored and pretended his problems would solve themselves. He's not evil like Cersei. Just weak. Selfish. A man who won the throne and then discovered he had no idea what to do with it."
"So we tell Hadrian that his father was a warrior who became a drunk?" Padma asked.
"We tell him his father was human," Oberyn corrected. "Flawed, like all men. Capable of greatness and equal capable of failure. That he shouldn't judge himself by Robert's weaknesses any more than he should judge himself by Cersei's sins."
"That's... actually wise," Padma said, surprised.
"I have my moments." Oberyn picked up his wine cup, found it empty, and made a face. "Usually when I'm sober, which is why I try to avoid it."
They worked in companionable silence for several more minutes. The letter grew longer, more detailed, covering not just the circumstances of Hadrian's birth but the life he'd built despite it. They spoke of James and Lily's sacrifice, of how their love had shaped him into someone who chose heroism over hatred. They acknowledged the difficulty of the revelation without letting it overshadow his accomplishments.
"Here," Padma said, pointing to a passage near the end. "This part about claiming his birthright. Are we suggesting he should?"
"Gods, no," Oberyn said immediately. "The Iron Throne is a death sentence waiting to happen. Half the realm would rally to him, the other half would try to kill him, and he'd spend the rest of his life fighting wars he never wanted." He paused. "Though if he does decide to claim it, I'd support him. Better him than any of the current options."
"We should make it clear it's his choice," Padma said. "That blood doesn't compel him to anything. That he can remain Lord Peverell, or whatever name he's taken, and no one would fault him for it."
"Agreed." Oberyn leaned over her shoulder, reading what she'd written. "But add something about how doors that were closed may now open. That the name Baratheon carries weight—sworn bannermen, ancient loyalties, the kind of power that could reshape kingdoms. If he chooses to use it."
"You want him to use it," Padma observed.
"I want him to survive," Oberyn corrected. "And sometimes survival requires power. The strong protect themselves. The weak hope for mercy from those who have none to give." His voice hardened. "Hadrian has been weak before—not in courage or magic, but in position. He's been at the mercy of fools and monsters because he lacked the social power to tell them to fuck off. If his blood grants him that power? He'd be a fool not to consider using it."
"He's not like you," Padma said quietly. "He doesn't think in terms of power and leverage."
"Then perhaps it's time he learned," Oberyn replied. "Before someone teaches him the lesson with a knife in the dark."
They continued working, the moon climbing higher, the gardens falling deeper into shadow. Fawkes remained nearby, a warm constant presence, patient as only immortal creatures can be.
"We're almost done," Padma said finally. "Just the closing. What should we say?"
Oberyn was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than usual, thick with emotion he didn't try to hide.
"Tell him that I'm coming. That within the fortnight I'll ride north to find him. That he should prepare himself for the lecture of his life, because I have seventeen years of worried godfather stored up and I intend to deliver every word of it." He paused. "And tell him that I love him. That nothing he learns about his blood will ever change that. That he is mine, and I am his, and that bond was forged in love and sealed in sacrifice and neither time nor truth nor all the gods of all the worlds can break it."
Padma's eyes were suspiciously bright as she wrote. Her hand moved across the parchment in steady, careful script:
*Within the fortnight, we leave Dorne for the North. I have convinced Doran I am going to fuck my way through every willing woman from here to the Wall—a mission he finds entirely believable, which tells you something unfortunate about my reputation but works to our advantage. We will find you, Hadrian. We will stand beside you as we always have, as we always will.*
*You asked if I remember. I remember everything. Teaching you to fly that first time, how you laughed when you finally lifted off the ground and then promptly fell on your arse. The way you said my name when I fell through the Veil—like something being torn out of you. I remember, and I will carry those memories until I die again.*
*You are my godson. That truth stands above all others—above crowns and thrones and the accidents of birth. Whatever blood flows in your veins, whatever names history might claim for you, you are mine and I am yours. That bond was forged in love and sealed in sacrifice when your parents died for you, and nothing—not Cersei's sins, not Robert's failures, not all the political maneuvering in the Seven Kingdoms—can break it.*
*I am coming north to find you. To stand beside you. And yes, to thrash you soundly for facing danger without proper backup. Again. You have made a habit of this, and we are going to discuss it at length. Prepare yourself for a lecture. I have had seventeen years to compose it and I intend to be thorough.*
*With all the love in two lives—*
*Your godfather,*
*Sirius*
She set down the quill, flexing her cramped fingers. "There. Is that suitable?"
Oberyn read it over her shoulder, his jaw working. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick. "Yes. That's... yes."
They sealed it with wax—Oberyn's sun-and-spear pressed into crimson, and beside it, with a murmured spell and a flash of his wand, the grim of House Black appeared in the cooling wax. Two symbols, two lives, one man.
Padma added her own seal—the twin crescents of House Patil, though in this world they represented something else entirely. "From all of who we are," she said quietly. "All of who we've been."
The finished letter lay between them, heavy with significance. All that remained was to send it.
Fawkes lifted his head as though sensing their readiness. He spread his wings, and the movement sent cascades of light rippling across the water—gold and crimson and something that had no name in mortal tongues. The phoenix's presence filled the entire courtyard, ancient and powerful and impossibly kind.
Padma approached him slowly, reverently. She secured the letter to a small leather case on his leg with careful hands. "Please," she said softly. "Take this to Hadrian. Keep him safe. Help him understand."
Fawkes trilled—a sound like bells and sunlight, like music from before the world was made. He fixed her with those molten amber eyes, and for a moment she felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with soul.
"And tell him," Oberyn added, moving to stand beside Padma, "that his godfather is coming. That he should brace himself for an argument, because I have several things to say about facing danger alone." His voice cracked slightly. "Tell him I love him. That I never stopped loving him. Not through death, not through rebirth, not through any of this madness. He is my boy. Mine. And I will tear this whole fucking world apart before I let anything happen to him again."
Fawkes regarded him for a long moment. Then the phoenix dipped his head—once, deliberately, a gesture of understanding that transcended species and language.
And with a burst of flame that smelled of cinnamon and hope and things too pure for this corrupt world, he vanished.
The courtyard felt suddenly empty, cold despite the Dornish heat. The loss of that warm presence left a void that even the torchlight couldn't fill. Padma and Oberyn stood together in the silence, both acutely aware they had just set something in motion that could not be stopped or recalled.
"Do you think he'll understand?" Padma asked quietly.
"Understand?" Oberyn laughed, bitter and sharp. "No. How could he? We've just told him his entire life is a lie built on another lie wrapped in magic no one comprehends. That his parents weren't his parents, that his blood belongs to people he's never met, that his mother is a monster and his father is a drunk." He shook his head. "He won't understand. Not at first. Maybe not ever."
"But he'll survive it," Padma said. "He always survives."
"Yes." Oberyn's voice was quiet now, stripped of all humor. "He'll survive. Because that's what he does. He takes impossible situations and finds a way through them. It's his greatest gift and his worst curse."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, watching the fountains play in the torchlight.
"We should begin preparations," Padma said eventually. "If we're leaving within the fortnight, there's much to arrange. Supplies, guards, cover stories that will satisfy Doran's paranoia..."
"And we need to decide what to tell my daughters," Oberyn added. "Though given their persistence in pursuing you, perhaps leaving them behind is for the best. The last thing Hadrian needs is Nymeria and Tyene competing to see who can seduce him first."
"They wouldn't," Padma said, then reconsidered. "Would they?"
"In a heartbeat," Oberyn confirmed. "They'd see it as a challenge. A game. 'Who can bed the mysterious Lord with magic first?' They'd probably keep score. Make it a competition with prizes."
"That's disturbing."
"That's my daughters." Oberyn's smile was fond despite everything. "But you're right—they'd only complicate matters. This journey needs to be just us. Clean. Focused. No distractions."
"Tell them you're visiting brothels," Padma suggested. "Ones that specialize in things too exotic even for Dorne."
"You have a devious mind."
"I've learned from experts," Padma replied. She moved toward the palace entrance, exhaustion finally catching up with her. "I need sleep. We can discuss details tomorrow."
"Padma," Oberyn called as she reached the archway.
She turned back. "Yes?"
"Thank you," he said simply. "For helping me write that. For knowing what to say when I didn't. For being here."
"We're family," Padma said. "In all the ways that matter. You'd do the same for me."
"Without question," Oberyn agreed. "Though I'd probably include more explicit sexual content. For flavor."
"Goodnight, Oberyn," Padma said firmly, but she was smiling as she disappeared into the shadows.
Oberyn remained in the gardens, alone with the fountains and the night. He poured another cup of wine—the bottle was nearly empty now—and settled back among his cushions. The silk was cool against his bare skin, the breeze carrying salt from the distant sea.
He thought about Hadrian. About the boy he'd taught to fly, who'd grown into a man who'd defeated the darkest wizard of the age. About how that boy was now alone in the North, probably terrified, certainly confused, trying to make sense of a truth that broke everything he'd thought he knew about himself.
"I'm coming, pup," Oberyn murmured to the stars. "Hold on. Just hold on a little longer."
The stars, indifferent as ever, wheeled in their ancient patterns.
Somewhere far to the north, in a land of ice and wolves and honor bought with blood, a young man would soon receive a letter that would change everything. Would learn truths that would crack the foundations of his identity and rebuild them in shapes he didn't recognize.
But he wouldn't face it alone.
Not this time.
Oberyn drained his wine and closed his eyes, letting the sound of water on stone lull him toward something like peace. Tomorrow he would begin preparations in earnest. Would spin lies for Doran, arrange supplies, choose guards who would ask no questions. Would transform his reputation as a pleasure-seeking wastrel into the cover that would let him cross half a continent to reach his godson.
But tonight—tonight he could rest. Could let himself feel the weight of what they'd done, the significance of the words they'd sent north on phoenix-back.
The storm was gathering. But this time, at least, Hadrian wouldn't face it alone.
And in the end, perhaps that was all any of them could do. Stand together. Face the chaos. And hope that love—that strange and terrible and inexplicable thing—would be enough to carry them through.
*Some men are born to greatness*, Oberyn thought as sleep began to claim him. *Some achieve it. And some have it thrust upon them by magic they don't understand, in bodies they never asked for, carrying blood that damns them before they've even drawn breath.*
*But in the end, we're all just flesh and bone and the choices we make with the time we're given.*
*Choose well, pup. Choose well.*
And beneath the stars of Dorne, with the Water Gardens singing their eternal song, Oberyn Martell—once Sirius Black, godfather to a boy who might be a king—finally slept.
The fountains played on, indifferent to human drama, constant as the stars and just as cold.
But somewhere in that cold, in the dark places between what was and what might be, hope flickered like a candle refusing to die.
And sometimes, in this cruel and beautiful world, that was enough.
—
—
# King's Landing - The Red Keep - Cersei's Chambers
The silk was Myrish, pale as milk, fine enough that Cersei could feel the warmth of Jaime's skin through it when she drew the sheet across her breasts. Not that she needed to—they were alone, the door barred, the servants dismissed with the sort of cold look that made even the boldest maid remember urgent business elsewhere. But some habits died hard. A woman's body was armor or weapon depending on circumstance, and Cersei Lannister had learned young which battles were won naked and which required the suggestion of modesty.
The candles had burned low. Wax pooled in the silver holders, and the smell of it mixed with sweat and the rosewater Cersei used in her bath. Jaime lay sprawled beside her like a cat in sunlight, one arm flung across his eyes, his chest still rising and falling with the pleasant exhaustion of a man well satisfied. Even relaxed, he was beautiful—the same gold hair as hers, the same green eyes, the same sharp Lannister features that made them unmistakable as twins even without speaking. He was her mirror. Her other half. The only person in the world who had ever truly seen her.
"You're thinking," Jaime said without moving his arm. "I can feel you thinking. It's exhausting."
"How perceptive," Cersei murmured, trailing one finger down his ribs. "You should consider a career as a mind reader. The smallfolk would pay good coin for such talents."
"The smallfolk don't have good coin. That's why they're smallfolk." He shifted, turning to look at her properly. His eyes were lazy with contentment, but there was something else there too—the wariness of a man who knew his sister's moods the way sailors knew storms. "What's wrong?"
"Must something be wrong for me to think?"
"Yes," Jaime said simply. "You have that look. The one that means you're either planning a murder or worrying about something you can't control. Given that we've just finished establishing that your self-control is entirely intact, I'm guessing it's the latter."
"Such flattery." But she smiled despite herself. "You know me too well."
"Someone has to." He propped himself up on one elbow, studying her face. "Tell me. What has my beautiful, terrible sister in such a state?"
Cersei was quiet for a moment, weighing how much to say. Even with Jaime—especially with Jaime—some truths were better left carefully wrapped in silk. But the wine and the sex had loosened her tongue, and the worry had been gnawing at her for days.
"Robert and Jon Arryn are going north," she said finally. "To Winterfell."
Jaime's eyebrows rose. "That's it? Robert takes hunting trips all the time. Half the realm knows he'd rather chase boar through mud than sit on the Iron Throne."
"Not like this." She shook her head, golden hair catching candlelight. "Jon Arryn convinced him. The Hand of the King, that wrinkled old fossil who never does anything without seventeen layers of calculation, suddenly decided the king needs to travel a thousand leagues in autumn to visit Ned Stark. Does that sound like a hunting trip to you?"
"When you put it that way..." Jaime's expression shifted, humor bleeding away. "What do you think it is?"
"I don't know." The admission came out sharp, frustrated. "That's what troubles me. Jon Arryn has been spending his mornings in the library, reading dusty books about bloodlines and succession. About Baratheons. About how certain features breed true across generations."
The words hung in the air between them like poison gas.
Jaime went very still. "He suspects."
"He's too clever not to," Cersei said flatly. "Three children, Jaime. Three golden-haired, green-eyed children who look nothing like their supposed father. A blind man could see it if he bothered to look." Her fingers clenched in the silk. "And Jon Arryn bothers. That's what he does—he looks at things other men ignore and he asks questions no one wants to answer."
"He can't prove anything," Jaime said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Without confession or witnesses—"
"He has eyes," Cersei interrupted. "He has books full of Baratheon bloodlines stretching back three centuries. Every marriage, every child, every bastard Robert ever sired in taverns and brothels from here to the Wall. And not one of them—not one, Jaime—has anything but black hair." She turned to face him fully. "The seed is strong. That's what the books say. The Baratheon seed is strong."
"And ours is stronger, apparently." Jaime's smile was crooked, lacking his usual cockiness. "We do tend toward excess in all things."
"This isn't a jest."
"I know." He caught her hand, threaded his fingers through hers. "But what can we do? We can't uninvent our children. They exist. They're healthy and alive and already known to the realm as Robert's heirs. Whatever Jon Arryn suspects, he'll need more than genealogy to unmake that."
"Will he?" Cersei pulled her hand away. "He has the king's ear. Seventeen years of trust and counsel. If he goes to Robert with his suspicions, if he frames it carefully enough..." She shook her head. "Robert is a drunk and a fool, but he's not blind. Once the question is asked, once he starts looking at the children with new eyes..."
"Then we deal with it," Jaime said. His voice had gone harder now, the lazy contentment burned away by something colder. "We've survived worse."
"Have we?" Cersei laughed, sharp and bitter. "When, exactly? Name one thing we've survived that compares to the king discovering his heirs are bastards born of incest. I'm curious."
"You," Jaime said quietly. "I've survived loving you. That's worse than anything Robert could discover."
The words should have been romantic. Sweet, even. But the way he said it—flat, like stating a fact about gravity or death—made them something else entirely. An accusation, maybe. Or a confession. Or just truth, plain and simple and terrible.
Cersei looked away, uncomfortable in a way she rarely let herself feel. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you I love you? I thought that was the point of all this." He gestured at the bed, the rumpled sheets, the evidence of what they'd been doing while the rest of the Red Keep slept.
"Don't make it sound like a burden."
"Isn't it?" Jaime sat up fully now, the sheet falling away from his chest. In the candlelight, he looked like something carved from marble—perfect and cold and somehow unreal. "Loving you has cost me everything, Cersei. My honor. My vows. Any chance I might have had at being something other than the Kingslayer who fucks his sister. Don't pretend there isn't a cost."
"You knew what you were choosing."
"Yes," he agreed. "And I chose you. I'd choose you again. That doesn't mean I don't understand what I've given up."
They stared at each other for a long moment, something old and complicated passing between them. Then Cersei sighed and reached for the wine on the bedside table. The cup was silver, chased with lions. She drank deep before she spoke again.
"Do you ever think about him?" The question came out softer than she'd intended. "About the first one. The one who was actually Robert's."
Jaime went still in a different way. Carefully, like a man who'd just realized he was standing on rotten ice. "The boy."
"Yes." She took another drink. "The boy."
"Sometimes," Jaime admitted. "Not often. What's the point? He's been gone for seventeen years. Dead, probably, or lost in some way that makes the difference academic."
"Not dead." Cersei's voice was certain. "I'd know if he was dead. I carried him for nine months. I pushed him out of my body after seventeen hours of screaming. I'd know."
"You sound very sure of something you couldn't possibly know."
"I am sure." She set down the cup with more force than necessary. "Don't ask me how. Call it a mother's intuition if you want. Call it madness. But I know he's alive somewhere. I've always known."
Jaime watched her carefully. "And that bothers you."
"Shouldn't it?" She turned to face him, and her eyes were bright—with unshed tears or fury, he couldn't tell. "I have three living children, Jaime. Three beautiful, perfect children who will never be safe as long as that boy lives. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I understand that you're drunk and upset and saying things you might regret in the morning."
"I won't regret them." Her voice was hard now, diamond-edged. "I regret many things, but not this. That boy—wherever he is, whoever he's become—he's a threat to everything we've built. Everything our children deserve. And if he ever comes back..."
She didn't finish. Didn't need to.
Jaime was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. "You thought about killing him. Back then. When he was still here."
It wasn't a question.
Cersei laughed, sharp and joyless. "Of course I did. Did you think I was some sort of doting mother, overcome with maternal love? I was seventeen, Jaime. Married to a man who called me by his dead lover's name while he was inside me. Forced to bear a child I never wanted, to a man I despised, to secure an alliance for Father's ambitions." She reached for the wine again. "Yes. I thought about it. I planned it, even. All I needed was one careless moment, one convenient accident..."
"But you didn't do it," Jaime said. "He vanished on his own."
"Yes." She drank. "The gods are merciful sometimes. Or cruel, depending on how you look at it. They took the decision out of my hands. Took the guilt, too. Can't murder a baby who disappears in a flash of light and thunder, can you? That's magic. Divine intervention. Nothing to do with me and my dark thoughts."
"Cersei—"
"Don't." She held up one hand. "Don't tell me it wasn't my fault. Don't tell me I was young and traumatized and not responsible for thoughts I never acted on. I know what I am, Jaime. I've always known. And what I am is someone who looked at her own infant son and thought, very clearly and very calmly, about how much easier life would be if he simply stopped breathing."
The confession sat between them like a corpse at a feast—undeniable, impossible to ignore, poisoning everything around it.
"Do you regret it?" Jaime asked finally. "Thinking those things?"
Cersei considered the question seriously. Not deflecting, not defending. Just thinking.
"No," she said at last. "I don't think I do. Should I? Probably. Good people regret wanting to murder babies. But I've never been a good person, have I? I'm Cersei Lannister. I do what needs to be done. I think what needs to be thought. And sometimes that means looking at a problem—even one that weighs seven pounds and has your husband's eyes—and calculating the cost of its continued existence."
"That's..." Jaime stopped. Started again. "That's honest, at least."
"Honesty is all we have left." She set down the cup and turned to face him fully. "Everything else is performance. Lies we tell the world, lies we tell ourselves. But here, in this bed, with you? I'm done lying. I thought about killing my own child. I planned it. I was going to do it. And then he vanished, and I felt..." She paused, searching for the word. "Relief. Pure, shameful, overwhelming relief that I didn't have to be the monster I was ready to become."
"But you still think about him," Jaime observed. "After all these years."
"Of course I do." Cersei's smile was bitter. "You can't plan to murder someone—even a baby—without them leaving a mark. He's there in everything I do with the other children. Every time I hold Joffrey or kiss Myrcella or let Tommen crawl into my bed when he has nightmares, I think: I would have killed you. If you'd been inconvenient enough, I would have found a way."
"You wouldn't have," Jaime said quietly. "I know you, Cersei. You're cruel when you need to be, ruthless when circumstances demand it. But you're not a kinslayer. You're not Aerys, murdering his own blood because the voices told him to."
"Aren't I?" She laughed. "What do you call what we're doing? Our children—yours and mine—have already displaced Robert's true heir. We've stolen his birthright, his crown, everything that should have been his. The only difference is we didn't have to bloody our hands directly. Someone—something—did it for us."
"That's not the same."
"Isn't it?" Cersei reached for him, cupped his face with both hands. "We're monsters, Jaime. Beautiful, golden monsters. We fuck each other in our marriage bed while my husband drinks himself to death. We pass off bastards as princes. We plot and scheme and destroy anyone who threatens what's ours." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And if that boy ever comes back, if he ever tries to take what belongs to my children, I will kill him. Without hesitation. Without regret. Because that's who I am. That's who I've always been."
Jaime stared at her, and something in his expression was almost like grief. "I know."
"And you love me anyway."
"And I love you anyway," he agreed. "Gods help us both."
She kissed him then—hard, desperate, tasting of wine and salt and all the poisonous truths they'd just confessed. When they broke apart, her face was wet.
"Whatever Jon Arryn suspects," she said, "whatever he thinks he knows about our children—we protect them. No matter the cost."
"Always," Jaime promised. "I'm yours, Cersei. I've always been yours. Whatever comes, we face it together."
"Together," she echoed. But her voice lacked conviction, and they both knew it.
Because some truths, once spoken, couldn't be unspoken. And some secrets, once discovered, destroyed everything they touched.
The candles burned lower. The shadows lengthened. And in the morning, King Robert Baratheon would begin preparations for a journey north, where a young man with green eyes and black hair had appeared from nowhere—arrived in a flash of light and thunder, just like a prince vanishing seventeen years before.
But Cersei and Jaime didn't know that yet.
For now, they had only each other, and the cold comfort of knowing that when everything fell apart—and it would, they both knew it would—at least they wouldn't face it alone.
The wine ran out. The candles guttered. And two golden lions lay together in the darkness, pretending they couldn't hear the distant sound of wings—black wings, raven wings, carrying news from the North that would change everything.
Some nights, after all, were just the last moments of peace before the war began.
And this was one of them.
---
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