He doesn't think very much about it because it makes him feel sick, but in the middle of the night it's something hard to avoid. He feels guilty, he knows —not guilty for loving Cersei, never that, but guilty about letting her control him like that, guilty of being blind all along. And, most of all, he feels guilty for pushing that boy out of the window.
The thing he regrets the most about Bran Stark is having pushed him in the name of this twisted version of love. He has loved Cersei all his life, he has been devoted to her in every aspect; he had given her his soul, damned as it was, and had knelt before her and begged for her love, for her kisses, for her sweet embrace and her lovely smiles. They had loved each other to the point of madness, he thought, though he's not sure anymore.
Now he just feels used and broken, empty and weak. He is nothing, he is no one. There's no place for him anymore, no place where he can go and feel safe. And Bran Stark's face keeps coming back to him every night, how he had looked right before he had been pushed, when Jaime's hand had landed on his chest. He had sacrificed the boy without a second thought to save Cersei, only Cersei —he hadn't really thought of the children until later, much later, when he was trying to justify his actions. And that is what hurts more: how it had all been for Cersei, his perfect, beautiful, ruthless sister and lover, now just a shadow of what she used to be. It had always been Cersei, even when she didn't deserve it. He should have thought of Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen, but they had never been his, not truly, not until it was too late. And he had never minded as long as Cersei was with him. But she isn't now.
Yet he still loves her. She's like an addiction, and he knows he will never be able to get rid of her.
