Jaime no longer knew what sleeping peacefully meant. The past three months had been an agony. Arya. Cersei. Arya. Cersei. In his more helpless moments, he told himself that he no longer knew whom he should love and whom he should detest. On the rare occasions that he felt surer of himself, he cursed himself for a coward who knew the answers to both questions, but could not admit them to himself.

About a month ago, Arya had told him that she loved him. They had been walking through the gardens of the Red Keep on their way to…something or other…and his young wife had flung Needle into the densely manicured verdure of a perfectly unobtrusive-looking tree, the blade disappearing from view. As they had passed beneath the tree, Needle had fallen deftly back into her hand, its blade puncturing a good-sized apple. Jaime had been rather offended by that.

'Can't you think of anything better to do with castle-forged steel?' he had somewhat adamantly enquired.

'Not after the way you fought this morning,' Arya had snorted in return, biting into her prize.

'Fuck you, Arya!'

'Fuck you too!'

They had had a nice little fight right where they were, his sword flying out of his hand in a matter of minutes (he had let her win) and she had jumped on him like a child, sending him crashing onto the grass and pinning his arms down with her tiny hands.

'Yield,' she had demanded furiously.

'Isn't letting you win enough?' he had replied, making no attempt to move.

That had angered her, as he had known it would.

'You were not letting me win!'

'How do you know?'

'I just do, stupid.'

He rather liked her being on top.

'Whatever you do or don't know, you'd better tell Forel there's a gap in his training somewhere, my lady.'

'I've warned you about calling me that,' she replied, and kissed him rather fiercely, her fingers trailing lazily through his hair, wholly unconcerned that they were in public and would almost certainly be seen. He liked that.

It took every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep his lips clamped firmly shut. The insolence of it, to assume that she was capable of beating him.

She is capable of beating you.

That's not the point.

Arya's hands moved to his throat, and there was the ghost of a threat in them as she spoke again.

'Open your mouth.'

You're going to have to do better than that, my lady.

'No.'

'Open. Your. Mouth,' she repeated, her lips teasing his as she spoke.

Now that's not entirely fair.

'No.'

And suddenly, she had lost interest, sitting up rather suddenly and beginning to rise.

'In that case, we'd better go,' she had said, 'we're late again. Maybe if you spent a bit less time in front of the mirror, we'd actually - '

She had shrieked and laughed as he had yanked her back to earth and opened his mouth for hers. The taste of her had felt new, as it always did; strange, but intoxicating. She lay on the ground with her eyes closed, breathing quietly, and when he looked at her; he had seemed to recognise her, though not from his past.

Who in seven hells is she, and why why why why why…

As he softly kissed her top lip, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, she had sighed like a child half-asleep.

'Jaime,' she had murmured, her eyes still closed, 'I love you.'

Her eyes had snapped open immediately, and her entire body had tensed up like a drawstring.

Jaime had panicked.

Fuck. What do I do? What do I say?

For a moment, she had looked terrified of him, like he was a beast preparing to spring. Then she had looked furious; furious at him, but largely furious at herself.

She had shoved him away from her with surprising strength and had walked away from him without a backward glance. In the weeks that followed, she had barely spoken to him. She brooded day and night; hardly seeming to perceive his presence in a room; not his; not anyone else's. He occasionally found her sister sitting with her, but Lady Sansa's face had told him clearly that should she succeed in coaxing a confidence from her sister, she would sooner die than break it.

And then there was Cersei to think of. The morning after his wedding, she had wanted to be told an infinite number of exhaustive details about the wedding night, her crimson gown as red as the wine she was drinking.

Wine in the morning, Jaime had thought, never a good sign.

But he had known that Cersei wasn't really interested in any of those things. What she really wanted was for him to bite down on her mouth and tell her that he was her and she was him and that nothing would ever change. But as his twin had reached for him, he had gently pushed her away, and told her no. He loved her too much to lie to her. And telling her that he was her and she was him and that nothing would ever change would be the worst kind of lie he could tell.

Because everything had changed. Because at some point in the past twelve hours, he had realised that he was not her.

The knowledge had terrified him.

It had made Cersei furious.

You're a fool if you think you've heard the end of this, he remembered thinking to himself.

And he had been right.