Author's note

Jo's section of this chapter was written one week before 8x05 and has been in my head for four years. Jo's POV here is a horrendous coincidence, but I have decided not to change my entire story just because of one episode.

Jo stood on the walls of Castlelly Rock, looking quietly out into the yawning dark. There were only a very few stars lighting the sky, and the cautious, glowing lanterns of ships far out to sea did little to dispel the night time shadow. She could hear the roaring of the waves crashing against the cliffs; she could not hear the frantic cries of the servants who had no doubt been sent to look for her. All in all, it was turning out to be a rather splendid night.

Jo fished a lemon cake out of one pocket and a pigeon pie out of the other, turned and looked up at Nymeria.

'Cake or pie?' she asked.

The direwolf sniffed disdainfully.

'Well that's not very nice,' Jo replied, feeling somewhat hurt, 'how was I supposed to know that wolves don't like lemons?'

But she gave the pie to Nymeria anyway and popped the lemon cake into her own mouth.

One star out above the plains seemed suddenly to glow brighter than all the rest. Jo watched it grow brilliant, then dazzling, then incandescent…and then it fell, soaring down to earth in a burst of fire and light.

When it landed, it sent up tiny sparks, so that each blade of grass reminded her of a little man holding a torch. Jo smiled at the sight of the grass glowing prettily in the darkness and waited rather sadly for the fire to die.

The fire did not die. More sparks erupted. The torches were passed on from man to little man, the fire burning brighter and brighter as it ripped through the grass, and suddenly the flames were rising up like giants and roaring out from horizon to horizon. She saw it move from left to right like a whip, lashing out at the earth and clouds, licking at the dark sky, towering over the plains like a wall. The smell of burning grass, the smoke, the charred ground, the bells of the sept ringing, the bells of Lannisport ringing, fire raging through the houses like wind, blowing windows out, setting the sky on fire –

'Mother!' Jo screamed in panic, wanting to run, her legs rooted to the spot, Nymeria howling, 'Father!'

The fire was coiling around Lannisport like a snake, and turning, sweeping across the plains like a wave made of fire; oh gods, it's going to reach all the way to here, it's going to –

Everything in the fire's path turned black, everything in its path died, the skeletons of burnt trees were exploding into clouds of ash; she could hear people screaming; smell them burning; smell their burnt hair, their melted skin. The fire roared up the causeway beneath her, its fiery tongue licking at the doors, and the bottom was dropping out of her stomach as the eternity of stone beneath her began to melt; 'Mother!' Jo screamed, 'MOTHER!' and when the flames reached out for her and held her, burning her clothing and then her skin, she screamed and screamed and screamed, because Mother wasn't there.

The world capsized, the pain still searing her skin as she hit the cold stone of her chamber floor, and though two glowing eyes and an apologetic whimper from above told her logical mind that Nymeria must have pushed her out of bed, she continued to scream, her throat tearing; the vision burning still before her eyes.

Suddenly the room filled with light, and someone yanked her to her feet and hit her, hard. This surprised her so much that she stopped screaming and turned to hit the person back. She perceived, then, that her uninvited guest was Septa Ruelle (without the funny thing on her head), and that her septa's hair was long and red as carrots. Jo was about to make an unkind remark, but then Septa Ruelle picked her up, gathered her into her arms and held her, and Jo found herself bursting into tears again and clinging to Septa Ruelle with all her strength. Next to them, Nymeria was attempting to reach her by standing on her hind legs.

'Ssh, little one, it's alright, now,' Septa Ruelle whispered, rocking her in her arms, shivering as Nymeria's paws brushed her shoulder, 'it was only a dream, my love; just a dream.'

Jo sobbed and howled.

'Now, now,' Septa Ruelle said, 'that's no way for a young lady to behave. Look at Nymeria. I think she needs some comforting too.'

Jo craned her neck to look at the direwolf, who was sitting, now, with her head on her paws and whimpering. Septa Ruelle placed Jo gently on the bed and went hastily to the linen cupboard when the direwolf curled up among the blankets. Jo burrowed into Nymeria's fur and closed her eyes, and by the time Septa Ruelle had brought extra blankets and tucked her in, Jo felt rather snug. Nymeria licked her face, and she smiled.

'Why did I see no one in the halls?' Septa Ruelle said, seating herself, her hair even redder in the candlelight, 'why did your guards do nothing? You were screaming loudly enough to wake the whole castle.'

'They're used to it,' Jo replied, burying her face in the blankets, 'only my parents get up now.'

'Both of them?' Septa Ruelle enquired, sounding surprised.

'Both of them,' Jo huffed, annoyed that she sounded surprised.

Septa Ruelle hesitated, as though asking more questions were dangerous. Her curiosity won out.

'Have you…suffered in this manner for long? My lady?'

'Forever,' Jo mumbled, her heartbeat slowing, the blankets and Nymeria making her feel sleepy, 'got worse after the bad man by the tree.'

'What bad man by what tree?'

'I made him go away.'

'Go away?'

'He was hurting Father and Nymeria. And Uncle Jon. And me. So I made him go away.'

Jo felt Nymeria whimper and remember. She stroked the direwolf's fur soothingly, and sent her some of her sleepiness and warmness. Then, in a sudden surge, she felt tranquillity flood her small body, and she felt very sleepy indeed, and not afraid anymore.

Septa Ruelle looked at her with a skilful mix of firmness and concern.

'What did you see?' she asked, 'it may help to speak of it.'

Jo was half asleep now. Nevertheless, she mumbled.

'I dreamed that Castlelly Rock was burning. A star falled down and put everything on fire. I burned. So did the castle. And fucking people.'

'Do not swear,' Septa Ruelle hissed, giving Jo an utterly painless pat on the arm that she had probably intended as a clout, 'what's this?'

Jo closed her eyes. Through the last threads of consciousness still available to her, she felt Septa Ruelle touch her arm, and discover the dagger up her sleeve.

'Where did you get this?' Septa Ruelle shrilly exclaimed.

'Arm'ry,' Jo murmured.

'Little ladies should not play with weapons!'

'Not…playing.'

Septa Ruelle huffed, and reproved her further, tut-tutting about propriety and Lady Dorna, and having the locks changed.

When Septa Ruelle left, Jo sleepily stuck her hand under her pillow. She was pleased to find that her spare dagger was still there.

Since the earliest days of their marriage, it had always been Jaime's practice to rise first and check: Arya safe, Jo safe, Casterly Rock safe. The procedure would then be repeated every evening, in reverse: Casterly Rock safe, Jo safe, Arya safe.

Arya was surprised, therefore, to wake and find him still abed, instead of at his desk scribbling off his usual raven scroll and cursing his own handwriting.

Jaime was staring at her silently, and she was struck, as though for the first time, by the fact that all of him was somehow hers, and all of her was somehow his, and that if they both wished it, their all-ness could make a whole new person. She let herself imagine it for a moment, her thoughts pushing past her own fear.

'Good morning, little wolf,' Jaime murmured, the morning light dancing in his hair.

'Good morning, Lannister,' Arya smiled, stretching deliciously, 'why are you still in bed?'

'I'm not entirely sure I can walk,' Jaime helpfully explained.

'Is that right?' Arya enquired, 'I have the same symptoms. Perhaps we should send for the maester.'

'I cannot think of anything that would more likely ruin my appetite,' Jaime slyly replied, his hand moving beneath the sheets.

'You just watch what you're doing with that hand, Lannister,' Arya said, laughing, wriggling.

'Why? You didn't seem to mind last night.'

'That's because I hadn't been ravished to within an inch of my life the previous evening.'

'Good point. We shouldn't be too greedy.'

'Greedy?'

'Yes, Stark, you certainly were very greedy.'

Arya abruptly pulled the pillow from beneath his head and plonked it on top of his face. Jaime threw it back at her – 'Oof,' Arya complained, her voice muffled – and as she prepared to throw it back at him, she saw him rise and pull on his robe.

She knew what he was doing. She took his hand.

When he froze, and didn't turn to look at her, she pulled lightly on his hand, and he seated himself on her side of the bed.

'I don't want moon tea,' Arya said.

'Little wolf –' he softly protested, with so much love in his voice that she almost sobbed.

'I've grown,' she told him, 'I can do it.'

Jaime cocked an eyebrow at her.

'You haven't grown,' he said, 'you don't grow.'

'Fuck you, Lannister.'

'And the words 'I've grown' make you sound too much like a child for my liking.'

Arya stared at him.

'I'm not a child.'

'You're twenty,' Jaime snorted, 'what else are you?'

'Excuse me?' Arya raged, scarcely believing her ears.

Jaime glared at her.

'When we had Jo,' he declared, seething, Have I angered him, somehow? 'you almost died because I was too fucking irresponsible to consider your youth. If treating you like a child keeps you alive, then I'll bloody well keep doing it.'

'And don't I get to choose if I want to participate in this premature second childhood?' Arya fumed.

'No,' Jaime snapped, 'I'm sorry if it's inconvenient, but I'm not going to let you choose to die. So here's how it's going to be. I'm going to bring you moon tea. You're going to drink it, and you're going to like it.'

Arya stared at him, aghast. She felt the anger rising in her, and watched the anger rising in him. She looked pointedly away from Jaime, reached for her robe, pulled it around her shoulders and tied it slowly. Then she was lunging across the bed for her sword – she could hear Jaime scrambling, no doubt with his usual elegance, to do the same – and as she leapt to her feet, side-face, she found him facing her, and their swords were sweetly clashing.

'You used to be quicker on the draw,' Arya mocked.

'You little shit,' Jaime pleasantly remarked, and lunged at her.

Arya dodged the blow easily, relishing the look of annoyance that crossed his stupid face, then threw herself and all her anger at him with such force that Jaime collided with his desk in his eagerness to leap back.

That made her feel rather nice.

Then papers were tearing, quills were breaking, and an inkwell was falling to the floor and smashing as he rolled rapidly over the table with such agility that she might have praised him under different circumstances. Instead, she chased furiously after him and swiped repeatedly at his head just as Jaime shoved the table into her path and attempted to give her a playful nick on the shoulder.

He ended up slicing her sleeve off instead.

'You fucking bastard!' Arya bellowed, 'that was my bloody favourite!'

'I'll buy you twenty more, my love!' Jaime responded, bowing.

Arya leapt onto the table and attempted to cut one of his ears off; Jaime overturned the table and ran. By the time she had hit the floor and rolled gracefully back to her feet, he was on the other side of the room, smiling and looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Arya threw a chair at him. It glanced off his right arm and shattered on the opposite wall. She watched Jaime note the presence of three or four medium-sized splinters and grip his sword with a smile.

'You seem to be rather annoyed, Lady Stark,' Jaime observed, settling back into his water dancer's stance.

'Just wondering how difficult it would be to strangle you with your own entrails,' Arya growled, the sword trembling in her hand.

'Strangle me with my own entrails? Dear me, what have I done?'

'Treated me like a fucking mouse, that's what!'

'You are beyond belief!'

'So you don't want another child; is that it?'

'We are shit parents, my lady, and we can't have another child until – '

'What did you say?'

Arya threw herself across the room at him, roaring, furious. Furious that he cared so much. Furious that he wouldn't give her what she wanted just because she wanted it. Furious that he was right, because yes, they were shit parents – Jo's charming vocabulary was proof enough of that – so she dove at him and tried to put a hole in his stomach.

'Then there's the fact that I don't want you to die!' Jaime bellowed, parrying, 'because I love you!'

'I love you, too!' Arya yelled, trying to stab him again as he turned and ran, and she chased after him into the dining room, where a strangled yell and the smell of Dornish red announced the unwelcome presence of Tyrion.

'What in fuck are you two doing?' the Imp demanded.

Arya ignored him and resolutely pursued her target. Jaime, looking delighted to be pursued, tried to attack her over Tyrion's head, leading to shouts of despair from their unfortunate guest, and they had completed three circuits of the dining room table, each attempting to stab the other, before Tyrion threatened to call for the guards, and the fight was suddenly over. It would not do for the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock to be seen brawling like a couple of sellswords.

'There's nothing like propriety to spoil a good fight,' Jaime remarked, throwing himself into a chair.

'I hate being a lady,' Arya growled to herself, doing likewise, 'I hate it, I hate it, I fucking hate it.'

She slammed her sword down onto the table and wanted to smash everything on it, particularly Tommen and Margaery's rose-gilded wedding china. She would not look at Jaime, so she looked at Tyrion instead, observing that her good-brother had already ordered himself breakfast, and that the contents of his plate indicated considerable hunger. The queasy look on his face, however, denoted that he was somewhat put off by the sight of Jaime unsuccessfully attempting to remove the splinters in his arm while blood poured onto his dressing gown.

Arya leaned across the table and helped herself to Tyrion's wine. Tyrion wrinkled his nose.

'You two stink of sex,' he remarked.

'Well, that's what you get when you enter other people's apartments unannounced,' Arya replied, downing the contents of her goblet in a single gulp.

'And you almost killed me!' Tyrion insisted, reaching for his bottle of wine, fuming when Arya held it out of his reach and poured herself a second cup.

'That's what you get when you enter other people's apartments unannounced,' Jaime repeated, yanking out one of the splinters and wincing.

'It just so happens that I have an excellent reason for entering your apartments unannounced. First, to give you the gift of my company, which I'm told is spectacular – '

Jaime grunted in pain as he pulled out another splinter. Arya relished his resulting glare.

' – second, to give you news so wonderful that my first thought was to come round and tell you two.'

'Sansa stuck a sword in Roose Bolton's eye,' Arya hypothesised.

'Tommen has purchased ten new kittens and named them all after me,' Jaime suggested.

'The Crown is finally going to give us our gold back,' Arya conjectured, glaring at Jaime as he threw his head back and guffawed. She gripped the hilt of her sword, hard. He stopped.

'No, I fear that will never happen,' Tyrion mused, 'sad as it is for me to admit it. My wonderful news is that Walder Frey is dead.'

'No,' Arya drawled, laying her hand on her chest in shock.

'Imagine that,' Jaime remarked, 'how did such a thing occur?'

'I do hope you two had a good time,' Tyrion remarked.

'Had a good time; what can you mean?' Jaime asked, then glanced at Arya, 'do you know what he means, my love?'

'I can't fathom,' Arya replied, 'need any help with that last splinter?'

'Only if you agree not to stab me with it.'

Tyrion fished a raven scroll out of his pocket and tossed it into Arya's lap.

'I also thought you might like to know that Sansa set sail yesterday. Your raven scroll arrived this morning, along with mine.'

Arya unrolled the scroll with trembling fingers and felt the anger piercing her skin begin to dissipate as she beheld the familiar, immaculate handwriting, and the snarling seal of their House.

My dear sister

I'm sorry I haven't replied to your letter yet. At Winterfell we are rebuilding the Great Hall, and the men's conflicting recollections of what the wretched place actually looked like have made the process much more time-consuming that it ought to be. I wonder if sleeping in a tent for the rest of my life would be worth it if it meant I would never have to deal with such stubbornness ever again (please don't tell Tyrion I said so: he'll have a stroke). Needless to say that the hard work and my illness have made me so miserable that I have not had much inclination for anything besides lying in bed eating lemon cakes and getting thoroughly fat in the process.

I sail for King's Landing today, though barring excellent winds, I do not believe I shall arrive in time. I intend to sail past Casterly Rock on my journey and request little Jo's hospitality for one night, as I suspect the ship will be driving me to distraction by then.

I long to see you, and –

'Do you attend the thing today?' Tyrion asked.

Arya looked patiently up from the raven scroll, marvelling at Sansa's ability to calm her even from the other side of the country.

'What thing?' she said.

'Myrcella and Prince Trystane's shooting party.'

Arya groaned.

'Yes. Unfortunately, we are. Will I be allowed to shoot too, or will use of the archery be restricted to the happy couple?'

Tyrion answered wittily, but Arya did not hear him. At the mention of Myrcella's name, a cloud had passed across Jaime's face.