Jaime couldn't believe it. He had been so certain of her, more certain than he had ever been of anything else in his life. And yet there the piece of parchment was, still clutched in his fist, crumpled into a ball by now. Perhaps he had hoped that the damn thing would simply disappear if he wished hard enough.

Cersei had handed it to him that morning with an unholy kind of triumph in her eyes. His fingers had brushed hers briefly in the exchange…ever so briefly…but somehow it had felt like being scourged.

'Don't touch me,' he had murmured, taking a step back.

Perhaps he deserved this. He spent more time fighting with Arya than anything else. He made her angry. He made her miserable. She did the same to him.

She's not unhappy all the time. Neither am I. We do have a good laugh every now and then. But sometimes I wonder…if this is the price. For what I've done. For my sins.

The door clanked shut, as it always did when Arya entered the room, and Jaime heard her remove her cloak and dump something onto the floor.

'I heard the strangest thing about you from Bran today,' she declared loudly, 'is it true that…'

He turned to face her, and she froze where she was.

'Jaime, what's happened?'

Maybe it's not true. Maybe you're wrong. Hold back for a moment. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it.

His traitorous tongue ignored him.

'What's this?' he demanded, tossing the crumpled parchment at her.

She caught it neatly, but to his annoyance, did not look at it immediately. Her head was cocked to one side, like she was listening for something.

'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

But she had succeeded in unfolding the parchment, and her breath had caught in her throat, and her eyes were growing darker and darker as she read it.

'This is written in my hand,' she said quietly.

'I know,' Jaime replied.

'It even sounds like me.'

'I know.'

The question hung agonisingly in the air between them. She was waiting for him to laugh; to say something clever; to ridicule such a stupid joke. But not a syllable escaped his lips, and eventually, she spoke first, articulate as ever.

'Fuck you.'

'Fuck me?' Jaime hissed, 'Obviously not, by the sound of things!'

She threw the parchment back at him, clearly wishing it was a morning star, her eyes blazing in anger.

'Take this back and shove it up your arse, Jaime!'

He wanted to strangle her.

'You're actually denying it?'

'I don't know! Why don't you scuttle off to Varys or Littlefinger to confirm your findings and ask me again afterwards? My word clearly isn't enough for you, so get out. GET OUT!'

She tried to shove him towards the door, but the vast difference between them in terms of weight and height made her abandon that strategy very quickly. Jaime would have laughed if he hadn't felt so miserable.

'I'm not moving until you answer me, Arya!'

'Fuck off!' came the inevitable reply.

'Do not speak to me in that tone, wife!'

'You deserve worse than 'tone', you bloody fool! I don't know what I should be angriest about – that you actually think I'm fucking Osmund Kettleback, or that you think I like it enough to write him letters! Where did you get this?'

'From Cersei.'

In his mind, that particular declaration had sounded confident and solid. The words that came tumbling out of his mouth sounded pathetic.

Arya shared his sentiments.

'You got this from Cersei and you think it's real?' she screeched.

'It certainly looks real!' he shouted back at her.

'Maybe your father was right when he called you the dunce of the family.'

The last person Jaime wanted to talk about was his father.

'Don't you bring that old shit into this!'

'Why not? He clearly knows me better than you do.'

'Nobody knows you better than I do.'

Why the fuck had he said that?

Arya was waving her arms around dramatically, telling him precisely what she thought of that particular statement.

'"Nobody knows you better than I do." Is that supposed to impress me, make me so wet I'll do whatever you want? Oh, for fuck's sake, did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

Perhaps she was going mad. Or perhaps she simply wanted to annoy him. He knew from previous experience that it was probably the latter.

'If you're trying to distract me, you're doing a very bad job,' he observed mockingly.

She laughed in his face.

'I don't need to 'distract' you. You're doing that all by yourself.'

'Did you write this letter?' Jaime growled.

'I can't believe you,' Arya murmured, almost under her breath. She looked ready to burst into tears.

'Did you write it?' he pressed.

Her eyes were terrifying, like the cold breath of winter freezing the seas.

'Don't pretend that you'd give a fuck if I did!' she snapped, 'the only reason you tolerate me is because you like fucking me. Maybe you and Ser Osmund should take turns putting me up during the day!'

'Oh now I want to kill you, you mad little bitch.'

'Not as much as I want to kill you!'

'Did you write this?'

'Will you please die so I can piss on your tomb?'

'Answer me before I piss on yours!'

'Did you hear that?'

Jaime nearly screamed in frustration.

'Hear what? What – what are you doing?'

His wife had yanked an axe from the pile of wood next to the fire, and for perhaps three seconds, Jaime had said his final prayers as she had walked towards him holding the axe ominously at her side. Arya had stormed straight past him, however, before approaching a wooden panel at the far wall of the room and savagely swinging the axe at it, sending clouds of dust and splinters flying into the air.

Her immaturity was beyond belief.

'Brilliant!' Jaime yelled as Arya continued to enthusiastically obliterate the wall, 'Explain to me how destroying the wall helps at all!'

A shrill squeal answered his question as Arya reached into the hole she had made and tugged hard, wrenching a fully-grown man out of the gap.