Chapter Text
Cersei could hardly recall the last time she had stopped to enjoy the quiet beauty of the evening. The sun, weary from its long path, dipped slowly toward the horizon, brushing the sky with soft shades of pink.
A coolness had begun to settle into the air, easing the heavy heat of the south. The birds had fallen silent, and now only the gentle hum of crickets broke the stillness.
The long stairs of the Red Keep had grown too tiresome in recent days, so she remained on the terrace outside her chambers, seeking peace in the quiet.
Her brother’s hand, warm and steady, closed around hers. It brought a strange warmth to her chest, like an old memory of simpler days—when they would slip away from Casterly Rock to walk the streets of Lannisport.
Only the constant aching in her legs and lower back kept Cersei from feeling the lightness she once knew. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, even from a slow step, a constant reminder of how much had changed.
At times, it felt as if her feet were bound in invisible lead, as heavy as a ship's anchor.
"Are you all right?" Jaime asked, stopping, yet still holding her hand, steadying her, as if afraid she might fall. She must have looked dreadful, for even Jaime—who feared little in this world save council meetings—wore a worried frown.
Her hand rested protectively over her large, rounded belly, an unconscious gesture, though there was no real danger.
Cersei had always thought of pregnancy as the most beautiful and wondrous time in a woman's life. But, as with many things, the reality was far different—there was no beauty, only nausea, fatigue, and swollen ankles.
Getting used to her own bulk, her clumsiness, and the ever-present heaviness had been no easy task. Yet Jaime, ever stubborn, spoke to her in the most beautiful words, insisting she was radiant, making her feel cherished and desired.
The baby had finally grown quiet, as he always did on their walks, granting her a brief respite from his painful kicks.
"Of course," Cersei replied, her voice stubborn but unable to mask the weariness that had settled over her.
"Let’s sit down instead," Jaime said, frowning in clear disbelief as he gently led her to a small bench, hidden among vases of lush, fragrant roses.
Lately, Cersei had become obsessed with roses, finding herself drawn to their scent and even, in odd moments, overcome by a strange urge to sink her teeth into a firm bud. Rose oil had become a constant presence in her baths, softening the warm water with its delicate fragrance. By her command, the servants had begun to soak each of her handkerchiefs with this sweet scent.
Jaime seemed to enjoy it as well. He often whispered about this between the fevered kisses he never failed to bestow on her whenever they were alone.
Yet, the scent that stirred her most was Jaime’s—his skin, his hair, his lips. She could never breathe him in enough. She was once again thankful for Robert’s absence. Her royal husband had been so repelled by the sight of her swollen belly that even being under the same roof was too much for him.
But Cersei didn’t mind. It was thanks to the king's long hunting trip that she could spend nearly every hour in Jaime’s company without raising suspicion.
Who else could protect the queen better?
In truth, Jaime was the only person she truly needed now.
As Cersei lowered herself onto the bench, she nearly groaned in relief but held it back. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, like a bird trapped in a cage, and her legs throbbed with a dull ache.
Frustration welled up within her once again—bitter anger at her own weakness, her body betraying her, making her feel anything but regal. This was no queenly figure, no proud lioness of Lannister.
Jaime, instead of sitting beside her, crouched before her, allowing her to take up nearly the whole bench. Alone with him, she could abandon the mask she wore for the world. Here, she was not a queen, not even a woman—she was simply herself.
Jaime smiled at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that made her feel seen and loved. He gently stroked her knees, his touch tender and reassuring.
"Jaime..." she placed her hands over his, glancing around cautiously.
"Relax," Jaime said, taking her hands in his, amusement clear in his voice. "It’s just the two of us here. No one can see us from below. Unless, of course, someone has learned to take the form of birds."
His words were meant to soothe her, but Cersei knew better.
They always had to be careful. Yet, his touch, his voice—so familiar, so convincing—made it hard to focus on anything but him. Her body responded with a familiar tremor, a pull deep within her.
"Look at the sky, sister," Jaime said, though his gaze remained fixed on her.
The sky was indeed stunning, painted in hues of pink and gold, as though the roses around them had lent their color to the heavens. It struck her that she might never see something so beautiful again. The thought made her heart clench with fear, her pulse racing once more.
"Cersei..." Jaime must have felt the sudden dampness of her palms, his brow furrowing in concern. "What’s wrong? Are you in pain?"
"What if I die?" she blurted, her voice catching as tears threatened to choke her. The thought had haunted her ever since her moonbleed had failed to come. Who else could she tell but Jaime, her twin and the father of their child? "What if I don’t survive this... like our mother?"
Jaime raised a brow, mockingly, though his expression betrayed a mix of offense and relief.
"What are these thoughts, dear sister? Do you plan to die without me? That’s hardly fair! And stop flooding the place with your tears—there’s already mold growing in every corner thanks to you."
"Fool," Cersei snorted, pulling her hands free, only to hiccup loudly. Speaking her fears aloud had made them feel all the more real, chilling her to the core.
Abandoning any semblance of decorum, she let the tears fall freely, unrestrained. Her emotions had grown wild of late, uncontrollable, shifting so swiftly that she could hardly keep pace with them.
Jaime took her hands again, lifting them to his lips, kissing each finger with tender care.
"Hush, Cersei," his voice was low and soothing. "You are not our mother. Why should you share her fate?"
"I’m just... so scared, Jaime." Cersei’s voice trembled, barely audible through her sobs. "It’s going to happen soon."
"I know," he whispered, his hand gently resting on her belly. After a pause, he added, "Do you want me to be there, by your side, when the baby is born?"
Cersei blinked, surprised by his offer. She would have thought he was jesting, but the look in his eyes said otherwise. Jaime never lied to her.
"I do," she replied quickly, seizing his words as though they were a lifeline. She cared nothing for what others might say. All that mattered was having Jaime with her. Desperately, she squeezed his hands, afraid he might change his mind. "I want you to stay with me, hold my hand until the end, no matter what happens! Promise me."
"I promise," Jaime said, his voice steady, full of unshakable certainty. "We will get through this together, sister. You and I."
His words filled her with a quiet warmth, calming the storm of her fears. Through her tears, a faint smile appeared on her lips.
Jaime began to kiss her hands again, but even his soft caresses weren’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted him close.
"Jaime..." she murmured, "it’s getting late, and I’m so tired." It was true—her legs and lower back ached, and all she wanted now was to lie down and rest.
"Then you should some rest," Jaime said, though his gaze, filled with a deep, burning adoration, told her otherwise. The intensity of his look sent a shiver through her, and her heart quickened, a familiar rush of sweet anticipation stirring within her.
He bit his lip, the hint of a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth, barely contained. He knew her desires, every unspoken wish, as well as she knew her own. Words were unnecessary between them.
***
The waiting gnawed at Jaime’s patience. He glanced down, pretending to find imaginary spots on his gleaming armor, wishing time would not drag on so slowly. Behind the doors of Cersei’s chambers, the unmistakable scent of rose oil drifted out, reminding him of home—of a distant, happier childhood, and of their mother.
Inside, a couple of maids were helping Cersei with her bath, the faint splashes and murmurs barely audible through the door. The lingering scent of roses hung in the air, soft and fragrant.
"Good night, Ser Jaime," one of the maids said shyly as she emerged, her face flushed as she hurried past him. The second maid followed, buckets in hand, snorting in irritation.
"And good night to you, ladies," Jaime replied, but his thoughts were already inside the room. He had been assigned to guard the queen's chambers, though no one had specified whether that meant outside the door.
Pycelle had insisted he remain close, as the birth could begin at any moment, but Cersei always preferred caution.
He waited until the corridor was empty, the maids’ footsteps fading into silence, before slipping quietly inside.
Cersei sat upright on the bed, her white nightgown clinging to her still-damp skin, her hair darker with moisture, glistening in the candlelight. She didn’t turn, but he knew she was aware of his presence, her head bowing slightly as the door clicked shut behind him.
The tension melted from her shoulders the moment his hands rested on them.
"Jaime," she sighed in relief, reaching for his hand. "At last, you’ve come."
Today, she was more fragile than ever, her tears falling countless times throughout the day. Jaime had never seen her like this, changed as she was by the weight of carrying their child.
At times, Cersei's cruelty burned hotter than even the fire of the Targaryen dragons. She lashed out at the maids who failed to pick the right color for her gown or style her hair to her satisfaction before breakfast. She could fling food out of the window if it displeased her, and when consumed by real anger, approaching her became a perilous venture, life-threatening even.
There were moments when an insatiable passion overtook her, and others when she pushed Jaime away, seeking only solitude. Yet he saw through it all. He knew his sister was not just fierce, but fragile in ways she refused to admit.
Cersei never hid her true feelings from him. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable with her own body, tormented by constant pain in her legs and back, and though the relentless nausea had finally abated, it had left her exhausted. The worst, however, was yet to come.
The thought of her giving birth filled Jaime with dread. Seven hells, how many women had lost their lives bringing children into the world? The memory of their mother’s fate haunted him like a shadow. Despite all the maesters and midwives, he feared none of them could truly help her when the time came—they were there more for appearances than anything else.
If he could, he would take on some of her suffering himself, give her his strength in return. But the only thing he could offer was his unwavering presence.
"Yes," Jaime answered quietly, sitting beside her. Unable to resist, he buried his face in the cascade of her golden hair, still faintly damp and fragrant with herbs, honey, and roses.
"Will you stay with me?" Cersei asked softly, her fingers brushing over his armor.
"As long as you wish, my sweet sister," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Reluctantly, he pulled away after a moment, earning a soft, frustrated snort from her.
The weight of his armor clattered to the ground with a sense of release as he shed it, the heavy metal falling away. His leather vest, soaked with heat, soon followed.
The brief moments of separation felt like an eternity—not just for him, but for her as well.
Jaime felt a pleasant shiver ripple across his skin as he held her close, savoring the rare gentleness in Cersei’s touch. When she was soft and affectionate, it felt like a precious gift, a glimpse of something only he was allowed to see. He kissed her temple with tenderness, lingering in the moment.
Cautiously, he explored her mood, starting with light, delicate caresses. Sensing no resistance, he brushed his hand through her golden hair, slowly letting it drift down to her lower back, where he began to massage gently.
Cersei nuzzled against his neck, inhaling deeply before whispering, "How delicious you smell..."
Her words brought a grin to his lips. Pulling back slightly, Jaime’s fingers found the hem of her nightgown, lifting the soft fabric. Cersei bit her lip, letting a small smile break free as she adjusted herself among the plush pillows of swan-down.
She was half-reclined on the feather bed, and to Jaime, she had never looked more beautiful. The pregnancy had softened her in ways that made her glow, leaving only tenderness in place of her usual sharp edges.
He yearned to worship every inch of her, to shower her with endless kisses, though there was hardly a part of her he had not already kissed a thousand times before.
The blissful expressions that crossed her face whenever he tended to her tired feet were enough to make his heart swell.
"More," she whispered languidly, her eyes still closed. "And now a little higher... Yeah."
Jaime chuckled softly at her contentment, leaning down to kiss her small, delicate toes, their scent reminiscent of rose petals from the garden.
“What are you doing? Stop it!” Cersei laughed heartily as he playfully nipped at her little toe, risking his teeth in the process. But the sound of her laughter, pure and genuine, was his greatest reward.
He leaned closer, lifting the delicate white fabric of her nightgown higher, and pressed his lips to Cersei’s small knee, his fingers gently rubbing her calves.
"Jaime..." she breathed out softly, and the skin beneath his lips broke into goosebumps.
"Is everything well?" he asked, ever cautious, having witnessed the ebb and flow of her moods all too often. Recently, she had mentioned experiencing what she described as "a strange tension" in her stomach. Jaime had no true understanding of it until he felt her abdomen, which had turned hard as stone. The old, foolish maester dismissed it as merely a symptom of the approaching birth.
"I just want you to continue," Cersei murmured, her hand settling on his shoulder, a gentle invitation to rise higher. And Jaime, compelled by her desire, obliged.
He traced a slow path of kisses along her thigh, nibbling lightly on the soft skin, causing Cersei to gasp and clutch the fabric of the sheet tightly in her palm.
Jaime took his time, savoring every moment, wanting to convey all the tenderness that flooded through him. With gentle strokes, he kissed her now rounded belly over the fabric of her nightgown, well aware of her delight in the gesture.
Cersei’s slender fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, eliciting a smile from her.
It struck him anew that together they had forged a new life, a testament to their love.
"Even if the baby does not bear our name, his existence shall never be tainted by the title 'bastard.' No one will dare insult him. He will be a king, Jaime, not a ragamuffin like we would become if we fled. Our son will inherit the throne. Then... there will be no need for hiding. We will possess everything together—the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms, if only we wait a little longer," Cersei whispered, her words laced with conviction. Yet, within him, a dark frustration simmered.
He did not desire the Seven Kingdoms; he only wanted Cersei.
More than anything, he yearned to seize her, to take her aboard a ship and sail far away from Westeros, to a place where their names meant nothing. But he knew Cersei would never forgive him for that. She would resent him for sacrificing her crown and power, for betraying her trust.
Desperate to banish the painful thoughts, Jaime moved higher, wedging himself between her yielding white legs. The weary expression on her face faded, replaced by eager anticipation. He brushed his lips against the tip of Cersei's nose, then her chin, and her soft cheeks, slightly flushed with excitement, until he finally claimed her sweet scarlet lips.