Arya walked slowly forwards to where Ramsay lay dying against the wall; his daggers falling useless at his sides and Jaime's sword still piercing his stomach.

And everything in Jaime screamed silently out to her to be careful; to back away from him; to run and keep running. Nevertheless, he remained silent, his voice inexplicably ripped from him as the girl, the young woman, the person, the human being that he had once betrayed crouched in front of Ramsay and stared; her fingers moving to her husband's cheek and awkwardly stroking it; like a child touching a wild animal that it feared had not been tamed.

Ramsay smiled at her apprehension; his grin widening as her fingers drew patterns in the blood on his face.

Then she wrenched one of Ramsay's daggers from his fist and stabbed him; once, twice, three times, four times; the blade gouging holes in the Bastard's stomach and spraying her with blood.

Ramsay tried to push her away; pounding weakly on her shoulders and chest as she thrust the blade into his stomach again and again and again; his hands slumping heavily to the floor as the strength bled from him; his pale and trembling fingers groping carefully in the dirt, and closing slowly around a gleam of dirty steel. The second dagger.

Jaime's heart dropped out of his chest, but somehow continued to beat – wildly; madly – as he lunged forwards, seized Arya around the waist and wrenched her away from Ramsay in a whirlwind of himself and her; turning his back on the dying man to shield her body with his as she continued to stab silently and violently at the empty air.

Jaime felt a sudden pain erupt across his lower back; as though someone had dragged a needle across his skin. The ache flared briefly, then died, and as he turned once more in the Bastard's direction, this time with the benefit of a few feet's distance, Arya grew perfectly still in his arms; her back small and skeletal against his chest, like the body of a starving child.

Ramsay lay dead against the wall. His pale grey eyes were large, and staring upwards into nothing, as though the blood-drenched walls and floors were repugnant to him. Jaime gently deposited Arya on the ground, knowing her dislike of being carried, and she turned, very slowly, to face him; her clothing as red as the walls.

She gazed at Jaime as completely as she might have done earlier that afternoon, were it not for what he had done; were it not for what he hadn't. He saw the angry young woman of five years ago: in the practise yard with her stick, in the sept with her hands, in the boat with her mouth, with her voice, with all of her. And his heart was wrenching in his chest, and choking him with the passage of too much blood, and his nails were grinding hard into his palms with the effort of standing still; with leaving her be; with not picking her up again and enfolding her and coming undone with relief that she was still here; that she was still her.

And slowly, she began to disappear again; behind her survivor's walls. And slowly, Jaime felt himself sink again into the place that he had made for himself; too weak and too afraid to pull her back.

The pain came so quickly that he did not even have time to brace himself against a wall.

It boiled up within him like a wave; a wave made of iron and Valyrian steel that seemed to split his bones asunder and tear them from his flesh like thorns; leaving only skin, blood and maimed flesh for the fires that burned high and excruciating through every inch of what was left of him. His knees were crumbling to dust beneath him; crimson ghosts were roaring up across his vision and turning to agony as he felt his skull crack open against the earth; and he could feel Arya's fingers ghosting over his body and digging into his skin; her words at his ear; her words on the other side of the world as she shouted, as she whispered, as she cried out:

'Did he cut you? Jaime, did he cut you?'