The storm of Cersei's wrath had finally burned itself down to glowing, resentful embers.
It took every ounce of Ser Jaime Lannister's charm, every honeyed lie he could summon, and a grueling, agonizing hour of physical coaxing to finally pull her back from the precipice of absolute madness. His hands ached from kneading the rigid, defensive tension from her shoulders. His throat was dry from whispering endless, false praises about the strange, marked infant that lay between them.
But it had worked. The lethal, feral gleam had slowly receded from Cersei's emerald eyes. The heavy, suffocating silence of the royal bedchamber was now broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the impossibly steady, rhythmic breathing of the newborn.
Haaah...
Yoriichi had finally fallen asleep. For all his terrifying spiritual weight and the bottomless depths of his burgundy eyes, the vessel he currently occupied was still that of a newborn mortal. The sheer energetic toll of adapting to a new world and a new body had drained his infantile stamina.
When those ancient, piercing eyes finally fluttered shut, Jaime felt a physical weight lift from his chest. The room suddenly felt less like a sacrificial altar and more like a normal, albeit bloody, bedchamber.
Jaime let out a long, silent exhalation, slumping slightly against the heavy wooden bedpost. He looked down at his twin sister.
Cersei was leaning back against the crimson pillows, her eyes half-closed in absolute exhaustion. Her golden hair was plastered to her forehead with dried sweat, her face pale and drawn from the brutal ordeal of labor.
Yet, to Jaime, she had never looked more intoxicatingly beautiful. The fierce, protective maternal instinct that had nearly gotten him banished had also highlighted the raw, untamed power that made him worship her even more.
As he stared at the curve of her neck and the slight parting of her lips, the paralyzing terror of his vision—the mountain of butchered corpses, the boiling river of blood, the suffocating killing intent—began to warp into something else.
Jaime was a man who lived on the edge of a blade. For years, he had used adrenaline, violence, and passion to bury his profound, soul-crushing guilt over the Mad King. Tonight, his psyche had been fractured by an impossible terror.
He felt adrift, disconnected from the woman who was his anchor to sanity. He desperately, fundamentally needed to ground himself. He needed to touch her, to possess her, to prove to himself that the rift between them was closed and that he was still the only man who truly owned the Queen.
A heavy, inappropriate heat began to coil in his gut. It was a reckless, deranged impulse born of trauma and desperate possessiveness.
"Gods, it is boiling in this steel," Jaime murmured, his voice dropping an octave into a husky, familiar rasp.
He reached up, his fingers working the intricate leather straps and golden buckles of his heavy Kingsguard breastplate. The metal clattered softly as he began to loosen the armor. He offered Cersei a crooked, roguish smile, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress, careful not to look at the sleeping infant.
"The danger has passed, sweet sister," Jaime whispered, his eyes dark with a desperate hunger. "The castle is secure. I think... I think it is a good time now. To celebrate our victory. Let me help you forget the pain."
Cersei's heavy eyelids fluttered open. The exhaustion vanished, instantly replaced by a look of sharp, unadulterated incredulity.
She looked at Jaime's hands working the buckles of his armor, and then she looked at his face. He expected to see the familiar, answering spark of lust—the thrill of their forbidden game. Instead, she looked at him as if he were a particularly slow, repulsive insect that had crawled onto her immaculate Myrish rugs.
The memory of his words—monster, curse, smother him—was still ringing loudly in her ears. He had threatened the life of her divine son not an hour ago, and now he thought he could simply unbuckle his trousers and rut with her as if nothing had happened? As if she hadn't just been torn apart bringing a god into the world?
Cersei's gaze sharpened into shards of green ice. She spoke with a voice so coldly authoritative it commanded the very shadows of the room.
"Wear your armor and do your Kingsguard duty, Ser Jaime."
The words struck him like a gauntleted backhand across the jaw.
"I am exhausted," Cersei continued, her tone entirely devoid of affection, not breaking eye contact. "My body is battered, and I am guarding the future of this realm. Do not ask this of me now. Do not even think of it."
The atmosphere in the bedchamber instantly curdled, becoming thick and unbearably awkward. Jaime's hands froze on the leather straps of his breastplate. His charismatic smile faltered, turning brittle and pathetic. The absolute rejection in her eyes was a physical ache in his chest. She was choosing the boy—even the sleep of the boy—over him.
His mood plummeted into a dark, defensive abyss. Driven by a bruised ego and the frantic need to salvage some semblance of his pride, Jaime tried to pivot to his usual, mocking armor.
"Uh... very well, Your Grace," Jaime chuckled, though the sound was hollow and strained. He dropped his hands to his sword belt, his fingers hovering over the clasp of his trousers. He flashed a devastating, arrogant smirk, desperately playing the part of the unbothered rogue.
"If the Queen is too fatigued for the main event... then surely you can at least use your mouth? To soothe the nerves of your loyal sworn shield? It would only take a moment."
He actually began to unfasten the thick leather belt at his waist, expecting her to roll her eyes and playfully swat him away, to invite the crude banter that usually masked their deep devotion.