His bandages smarted painfully as the ghost of his glorious brother appeared at his chamber door, pale and golden and different. Breathing deeply, Tyrion looked calmly at the two bottles of wine clutched in Jaime's left hand; then at the sling that marked the absence of his right. And suddenly, he was blinking away tears.

He'll heal, he thought, he will. He will.

'You're very thin,' Tyrion observed frankly, 'don't you believe in eating anymore?'

'I've been sitting in a muddy pen wrapped in chains for the past four years!' Jaime replied indignantly, kicking the door shut behind him, 'and Northern cuisine does not appeal to me. Here's your bottle.'

'Are we getting drunk?' Tyrion asked, accepting it with a smile.

'I thought about doing it alone, until it occurred to me that there might be another person in the castle who feels just as miserable as I do,' Jaime shrugged, 'you look gorgeous, if you don't mind me saying so.'

'I missed you too, dear brother,' Tyrion replied, gingerly fingering his bandages as he gestured for him to sit.

Jaime slumped into his chair, as he always did when they were alone, and took a long draught of wine.

'How did it happen?' Jaime asked, eyeing Tyrion's nose.

'Ser Mandon Moore was kind enough to mistake my face for a whetstone during the battle,' Tyrion replied, making Jaime choke spectacularly on his wine.

'Ser Mandon Moore?' he exclaimed.

'With a little help from Cersei, no doubt,' Tyrion hypothesised, taking a swig of wine and watching as Jaime's face turned paler than it already was; something like hurt or grief rising momentarily in his eyes, before being speedily banished to wherever weakness goes.

'Cersei tried to kill you?' Jaime repeated blandly, 'that was ungenerous of her.'

'Of course I don't know for sure,' Tyrion said speedily, 'but I doubt Ser Mandon would think the task worthy enough of his time for him to come up with such a scheme on his own. But I suppose it is possible that – '

That Cersei had nothing to do with it. That this is all a misunderstanding. That I'm half-mad from pain and bitterness and need someone to blame…

'Speak freely, brother,' Jaime interjected, his voice like a whip, 'Cersei and I are…Cersei and I aren't…'

Tyrion listened as Jaime's words faded into nothingness; then studied him as they sat quietly together. His brother had become…less guarded. That was the term. His smile could still reassert itself in a second, and there was still an astonishing kind of strength and presence about his face and build. But somewhere along the way, parts of his armour had crumbled. His movements looked excruciating, uncomfortable, off-centre; his hair shining with perspiration and his entire persona seeming to radiate loss; a shadow of something that had once been there. And that loss was Cersei and that loss was his right hand. Fucking and fighting; the only two things that made him feel alive.

The empty space where his hand had been seemed to yawn like an abyss, but Tyrion forced himself to look at it; to show that it did not frighten or disgust him.

'My dear brother, I am…I am so sorry,' he said, meaning the hand…and meaning Cersei, in spite of himself.

'Our sister is not fond of cripples,' Jaime remarked, choosing to talk about one rather than the other, 'and she has a talent for killing things quickly.'

'I take it you're not referring to the Stark girl.'

'No. Though I suppose I should be grateful that she threw Arya into the black cells instead of slitting her throat.'

Arya?

Tyrion settled back in his chair and smiled, enjoying the direction the discussion was taking.

'I didn't know you and the girl were on first name terms,' he said.

'Is it odd to be on first name terms with one's own sister?' Jaime responded unblinkingly.

'Not at all,' Tyrion agreed, his eyes twinkling in what he hoped was a suggestive manner, 'but let us return to our royal sister and her infinite charms. Varys tells me that the adoption of Lady Arya is water-tight – Father saw to that – so even Cersei must realise that killing the girl would be the greatest folly she could commit. Kinslaying would gain her nothing but the further enmity of the people, the wrath of the Faith…and a declaration of war from Uncle Kevan, in all likelihood. He'd do it gladly if it meant ensuring that Father's wishes were carried out.'

'The people, the Faith and Uncle Kevan would all have to beat me to her first,' Jaime growled with a provocative honesty that Tyrion found most uncharacteristic, 'I don't need two hands to squeeze the life from Cersei's pretty white throat.'

'You have a high regard for Lady Arya, then?' Tyrion asked, immediately realising that his brother's previous statement had nothing to do with Cersei and everything to do with the Stark girl, 'I didn't realise you were long enough with Father to get to know her that well.'

'You don't need to know her well to see that she's a very interesting girl,' Jaime nonchalantly replied, his eyes on the floor.

'Is she?' Tyrion asked, 'interesting?'

Jaime did not reply, choosing instead to grunt noncommittally.

'Interesting and attractive,' Tyrion observed in as self-satisfied a way as he could manage, 'a rare combination.'

'You find her attractive, do you?' Jaime enquired sharply, his eyes flashing.

'Her face is quite pleasing,' Tyrion acknowledged, 'and her eyes most…bewitching.'

'How do you know what her face looks like?' Jaime demanded.

'One of the advantages of having small, cramped quarters is that they have windows rather than sea views,' Tyrion smirked in reply.

'How did you end up in here?' Jaime asked, apparently relieved by the change in topic.

'She's a bit gangly for my taste,' Tyrion plunged on, you're not getting out of this so easily, brother, 'but she should grow out of that. It was barely perceptible in her sister at all.'

'You've been paying close attention to Lady Sansa's growth patterns, have you?' Jaime suggested smugly.

Tyrion felt his face turning painfully red and he looked down at the floor; his nose and his ego aching unpleasantly.

'Don't blush, brother!' Jaime grinned, 'it's never a good idea if you've lost a lot of blood.'

You're one to talk, Tyrion thought. You should be in bed. Your face is shining like a searchlight, and your skin appears to have turned green.

Jaime, seeming to sense that Tyrion was about to make some comment regarding his health, was now gazing up at the grimy and dirty ceiling that hung low and precarious above their heads.

'Did I ask you how you ended up in this hellhole?' he eventually inquired.

'Yes,' Tyrion answered, smiling and taking another sip of wine.

'Did you reply?'

'No.'

'So how did you end up in this hellhole?'

'Our sweet sister has seen fit to release me from my duties as Hand of the King,' Tyrion sweepingly remarked, 'and has trundled me off to this dark little cell as a reward for my heroism during the battle. I would like to say that with Father dead, there was no one to discourage her from doing so. But now that it comes to it, I think that he would probably have done the same.'

'And which paragon of wisdom has she replaced you with?' Jaime asked.

'No one, yet. Perhaps she'll dispense with the office altogether. It's the sort of thing she would – '

But Tyrion could see that his brother's thoughts were wandering already. He had never cared much for politics.

'Are the rumours true, Jaime?' Tyrion asked, feeling a tightness in his chest that he couldn't quite account for.

'What rumours?' Jaime said after a moment, clearly still distracted.

'About…about Father. The shadow with the sword, the Red Priestess…'

Jaime nodded mutely and gravely in a way that indicated a disinclination to discuss the subject further, but Tyrion pressed on, determined to know.

'Was it –'

'I don't know what it was.'

Jaime's tone angered and frustrated him.

'Brother,' Tyrion said testily, 'he was my father too, in spite of…in spite of everything. And I have every bloody right to know how the old bastard died.'

For a moment, Jaime looked ready to strangle him. Then he began to speak.

'He didn't die. Not at first. The sword punched right through his back and out of his chest, but he hung onto life with everything that he had. He didn't sound afraid, or even weak, though I could feel his heartbeat, his fucking heartbeat, weakening right beneath my hands. There were no deathbed apologies for past crimes; no last minute repentances; nothing that an ordinary person might do. He just grabbed hold of the front of my shirt, still strong as an aurochs, I might add, and he told me…I still can't…'

'What did he say?' Tyrion insisted, knowing that being gentle would only provoke his brother further.

'He told me,' Jaime said, 'to protect Arya from Cersei.'

That was a surprise. Their father had never been a sentimental man. During his youth he had spent far too much time watching sentiment destroy both the realm and his House to believe that it had any place in the life of a good man.

And yet he still can't – couldn't – forgive me for being born. For taking our mother from him. The best part of him. At least according to Uncle Kevan.

Perhaps something about the Stark girl had brought out a part of Father that he'd always considered dead.

But it was so unlike him. To devote his last seconds to ensuring the safety of the sister of his enemy and to candidly state that Cersei represented the most imminent danger to her life. Never once had Father roused himself sufficiently to admit that Cersei was capable of damaging so much as a dinner plate.

What in seven hells went on in the old bastard's head? Tyrion thought, really? Did anyone really know him at all?

'I thought about telling Father that he was wrong,' Jaime continued quietly, 'I thought about telling him that Cersei would never harm a child – '

Tyrion's heart sank.

'Oh, brother – '

'Or at the very least that she'd never do something to hurt him…or me,' Jaime rushed on.

Tyrion disguised his discomfort by cocking one eyebrow quizzically.

'Is there a 'but' in there somewhere, brother?'

Jaime smiled at him.

'You know there is,' he said, looking up at the ceiling once again and wrinkling his nose, 'I'll speak to Cersei about these horrendous quarters of yours.'

'That's kind of you, dear brother,' Tyrion laughed affectionately, 'but as you've just pointed out, you no longer have any influence with her.'

'Then she's just going to have to do without it,' Jaime snapped abruptly, his face darkening in a way that Tyrion had never seen him use when speaking of her, 'she may be the Queen Regent and the fucking eldest child, but I'm the eldest son, and when it comes to family, she'll do what I tell her.'

'Have you gone…have you gone completely insane?'

Tyrion was flabbergasted. Had he not been entirely certain that he himself had experienced no hatred or sadness as Jaime spoke those words; he would have sworn that he had sounded just like Father.

This isn't like him, Tyrion thought, this isn't like him at all. In the past he would never even have dreamed of telling Cersei what to do, or presumed that he could. It was always the other way round. Always.

She's not going to listen to a word he says. If anything, she'll laugh in his face. There'll be civil war in House Lannister before the month is out. And the only kind of war he knows is the sort that's fought with swords. He knows nothing of the game, or how to play it.

I do, though.

I do.

Jaime was staring down at his stump, his fingers tentatively touching the bandages.

'What is the purpose of an arm with no hand?' Jaime murmured, his outburst forgotten.

Tyrion felt helpless. What the fuck was he supposed to say in response to that?

'At least you're doing something about it,' he ventured.

Jaime looked up at him

'How the fuck do you know that?'

Tyrion's heart sank again.

'Varys,' he admitted.

'Of course, Varys!' Jaime stormed, 'does the whole fucking court know? Is the divine retribution visited upon the Kingslayer a topic of polite table conversation?'

'He's told no one but me,' Tyrion insisted, cursing his own smart mouth, 'and he has no reason to tell anyone else.'

As he watched his brother fuming, his face red with humiliation, Tyrion remembered himself as a young boy, watching Jaime fight; every passing blow making him more and more convinced that his tall, handsome brother was indestructible.

He had always thought that life had taught him better.

Obviously not. Because you're still completely convinced that he'll learn to fight just as well with his left hand as he did with his right, no matter how stupid you think he is to be training before he's fully recovered.

'I know it's probably too early to say,' Tyrion said, fully expecting his brother to tell him to fuck off, 'but when you fight with Ser Ilyn – '

'You even know who I'm fighting with?'

'– does it…is it proving…fruitful?'

Jaime took a long drink from his bottle and belched.

'It has proved most fruitful,' he said, 'I've learned more about getting the shit kicked out of me in these past few days than in the entire course of my life.'

'You shouldn't be fighting at all until you're fully recovered,' Tyrion insisted, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Jaime stood up and glared at him; his face frustrated, indignant and disappointed.

'Don't, Tyrion,' he growled, 'don't.'