Since the unresolved argument of that morning, the ladylike accoutrements that Arya had told herself she was finally used to had stifled her body like a strait jacket. The collar of her high-necked black gown choked her. The egg-sized ruby that she wore – the smallest in the Lannister arsenal – tightened about her neck like a hangman's noose. She wanted to scream and throw things, and fight until the fight was over. Instead, she was stuck here now (miserable), with Jaime beside her (equally miserable); unable to discuss anything more significant than the weather as the highborn nobles milled about the archery range discussing the death of Walder Frey.

The only person who had not seemed to take much interest in Walder Frey had been Janei, who had sat small and quiet in her red brocade, balancing a book on her knee that had seemed to weigh more than her. When Arya and Jaime had entered the archery range, however, she had flung the book aside and come running, her golden curls flying.

'Arya! Cousin Jaime!' she had squealed, throwing herself into Jaime's arms as Arya forced herself to smile.

'Why haven't you come to see me since we arrived?' Janei demanded, pulling one of Jaime's ears and one of Arya's, 'I've been so bored! Father's apartments are so boring!'

'We've been doing grown-up things,' Jaime had explained.

'I am…sorry, Janei,' Arya had added, noting how exuberant the girl was when parted from her mother.

They had chatted briefly about the capital, and how fine the ladies here always looked, and how beautiful the filigree on the knights' armour was, and how well-stocked Cousin Tommen's library was. Then an insignificant, obsequious adult had interrupted and Janei had returned to her book, and Arya had sat watching Janei for a while, if only so that she wouldn't have to talk to Jaime. She had realised, then, that she had barely seen Janei since their arrival in the capital, and that she had barely noticed.

I can't have another child. I'm terrible at this.

A burst of trumpets had announced the arrival of Tommen and Margaery, and Myrcella and Prince Trystane had entered, arm in arm, and though they did not look at or speak to each other, they made a handsome couple. Myrcella looked glorious. Her long, golden hair was dressed with strings of pearls, and the dark green of her gown made her large eyes shine like emeralds. Prince Trystane wore a somewhat overstated cloth of gold doublet that he did not look comfortable in, and Arya observed that he had all the flamboyant good looks of a boy of two and ten, but none of the arrogance that might render such characteristics intolerable.

Once he had deposited Lady Margaery in her chair, and a loathing look had accompanied his attempt to similarly deposit Myrcella, Tommen had graciously welcomed the assembled nobles and asked them for a moment's silence in honour of Walder Frey; 'the culprits will be found and punished!' He had then encouraged them to embrace Lord Walder's own skipping spirit by consuming as much wine and food as possible (the stuffed lark's heads were particularly good). Prince Trystane had then made a pretty speech in an incomprehensible accent and had invited any noblemen who might wish it, and ladies too, he supposed, to shoot with them. When laughter had greeted his words, Myrcella had scowled and turned her back on them all without so much as a curtesy and had begun to slip on her greaves. More laughter had followed, and more bristling from Myrcella, and when the rows of powdered peacocks had rushed to arm themselves and outshoot the adolescent girl, Arya had felt too tired and too miserable to join them. Why bother teaching them a lesson, when Myrcella could do it for her?

Arya had watched as the men around Myrcella had hurriedly selected their bows and quivers and scurried to be the first to begin. The princess, however, had paid them no mind at all; ignoring their comments, taking her time, stringing her own bow and making sure that the drawstring was just as taut as she liked it. She had placed the quiver carefully over her head and across her dress, smoothing down wrinkles and taking care not to tear the costly silk. By the time she had raised her weapon for the first time, the targets and straw men were already peppered with arrows, and the noblemen had forgotten all about her. Some had sauntered away to gossip with their friends and their wives while others had seated themselves and called for more wine, drinking toasts to King Tommen's health.

Myrcella fired in the general direction of the nobles' worst attempts at hitting the target. Her first shot split a single arrow right down the middle like a knife transfixing a parsnip.

Arya felt Jaime stiffen beside her, but could not avert her eyes.

Myrcella straightened up and nocked once again. She drew the string back, and loosed, and slowly and methodically began to work her way through each arrow already embedded in the targets, from the outer edges, all the way to the bullseyes.

Many of the assembled nobles were cheering and applauding. Just as many stood in stony, disapproving silence, or stared open mouthed as Myrcella calmly ignored them all and decimated the morning's entertainment.

She did not miss once.

Arya tore her eyes from the beautiful spectacle and looked at her husband, who stood beside her in numb, grim, silence, so utterly absorbed that he did not even notice her gaze. If he had, she suspected he would have taken more care to conceal what he felt.

Jaime was so pale he was almost grey, but Arya could see the pride in his face; the knowledge that Myrcella's genius flowed in her veins along with his blood. Jaime looked at the floor, and then up again, the fingers of his hand clenching and unclenching as he beheld the daughter that would probably never speak to him again, and remembered the day that his twin had died. His eyes were dark with guilt, not at Myrcella's existence, but at the fact that she knew how it had come about; not at Cersei's death, but at who had killed her. And suddenly, Arya felt that small, shy darkness staring at her from where it stayed at the bottom of her soul, never to be looked at unless it escaped.

He's never said he regrets it. He's denounced Cersei, but not the incest. He hasn't said he regrets it. Ever.

Don't think about it. It doesn't matter. Don't think about it. It doesn't matter.

She thought about it. She stared the truth in the face, and it hurt her. But when she looked at Jaime again and saw sadness tearing him out of himself, Arya realised that she didn't care. It didn't matter what he had or had not said. She loved him, and he was dying of sorrow.

Arya was about to reach for Jaime's hand, to whisper to him, to say something, to make it better. Then suddenly, as though sensing their gaze, Myrcella was laying aside her bow (an audible sigh of relief passed through the company), and gracefully making her way through the gaggle of nobles to where Arya and Jaime stood.

'My princess,' Arya greeted, curtseying, cursing the little shit's timing.

'My princess,' Jaime repeated, bowing, his voice low.

Myrcella curtseyed unsmilingly to Arya and ignored Jaime entirely, before fixing Arya with a look of such venom that the latter's head rapidly emptied of any idea of how to respond. Arya glanced at Jaime, hoping for guidance of some sort, but he seemed to be at a worse loss than she was and to have far less interest in resolving it.

Arya decided to content herself with staring politely at Myrcella and hoping that an explanation would be forthcoming.

'Lady Arya,' Myrcella declared in an aggravated voice, her immaculate golden curls bristling.

'My princess,' Arya repeated, wondering what in seven hells she had done.

'I have sent you three summonses since your arrival at court,' Myrcella icily pointed out, 'and you have failed to comply with every single one of them.'

Oh, shit, Arya thought.

'I have, yes,' Arya replied out loud, her heart heavy as she felt Jaime stiffen with the realisation that she had deliberately neglected to tell him.

'May I ask why?' Myrcella enquired, evidently impatient for a reply.

Arya waited for Jaime to frown at her and say Stark, what the fuck were you thinking, why did you do it, why did you decide for me what I should and should not know, what is wrong with you.

But Jaime, still, was silent; staring off into the middle distance, going away inside, slipping away from her; his eyes dead, his face paler than summer snow, and Arya wanted to take him away now, and hold him, and tell him that everything would be alright, even though it probably wouldn't. She wanted Myrcella to say something to him, no matter how laden with expletives it might be. She stared desperately at Jaime (who did not observe her) and then at Myrcella (who did) and waited for the princess to acknowledge Jaime's existence. When she did not do so, and the silence dragged on, Arya's disbelief dissolved, and became something else.

How dare she? How fucking dare she?

Arya folded her arms and decided to tell the truth.

'My princess,' she said, 'in all three of your summonses, you expressly commanded me not to appear in your presence with Lord Jaime. Since no quantity of summonses would induce me to dishonour my husband, I found that I had better things to do on all three occasions.'

She sensed Jaime's gaze upon her, and turned to meet it.

'I was going to tell you,' she said.

But in his face, she saw nothing but desperate, floundering self-control and the cold rain of betrayal. She watched the past envelop him like a death shroud, and the screaming silence prevent him from speaking, and the hurt in his eyes made Arya want to snap Myrcella's neck. Myrcella, not seeming to realise this, decided at that moment to take offence, and seizing hold of Arya's arm, dragged her off to a corner with such grace that Arya barely felt the pressure on her sleeve. Arya looked over her shoulder for Jaime. He had not moved.

'You forget your place,' Myrcella was seething.

'My place is at Casterly Rock with my daughter,' Arya replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, 'yet here I am, watching you shoot things. If you send me home in disgrace, I promise I'll donate even more to the Crown than I've given already, just for the pleasure of getting out of this rat's nest. Will leaving your party early be enough to get kicked out, or will I need to slap you into the bargain?'

'How dare you?'

'Gods, you've become boring.'

'Boring?'

'Yes, Myrcella, boring. You used to be such a sweet little thing; crying about books and sending me septas.'

Doubt flickered across Myrcella's face, and she drew herself up to her full height.

'I've grown up,' Myrcella proclaimed.

'You've soured,' Arya corrected her.

'My parents made me so, my lady.'

'Really? Did your parents make you a murderer too, or did you choose to do that yourself?'

The colour drained so rapidly from Myrcella's face that Arya feared the girl might faint. The princess took a deep breath and attempted to steady herself against Arya's shoulder, her complexion chalk white, and Arya seized the opportunity to remove her from the public eye altogether before she started shouting confessions. Gently taking Myrcella's arm, Arya steered her discreetly out of the archery range and did not stop walking until they were well away, lost in the Red Keep's innumerable gardens. And all the while, Myrcella leaned on her, her breathing laboured, her limbs fluid and weak.

When they had walked far enough for Arya's satisfaction, she deposited Myrcella courteously onto the nearest bench. The princess, somewhat recovered, did not look at her.

'How do you know?' Myrcella mumbled.

'I used my head,' Arya declared, 'I do that quite a lot.'

Myrcella tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her own ear.

'Who else knows?'

'Jaime.'

'Only him?'

'Only him.'

'That makes four of us. You. Me. Uncle Tyrion.'

'Tyrion knew?'

'And that man.'

Myrcella straightened her back, her eyes like flint.

'I hate him,' she spat.

'That's all very well,' Arya shot back, 'but you'll not treat him like a dog, either in my hearing or out of it. I don't care if you're a princess of the blood.'

'He deserves it.'

'Does he? Why?'

Myrcella's lip curled.

'Look at Joffrey,' she said, 'look at me. Uncle Jaime spent years making monsters and couldn't stop fucking his own sister –'

'Myrcella! Your language!'

' – fucking his sister for long enough to notice! You might be able to forgive that, but I can't!'

Arya rather wanted to deck the little shit, but decided to try another approach.

'Your mother –' she began.

'I hate her too,' Myrcella declared, her voice hard, her eyes brimming over, 'I exist because of them. I am this thing because of them.'

'Did you kill your mother 'because of them'? Did they put a knife to your throat and make you shoot? Did they put the bow into your hand?'

'No, but –'

'I'm unsure of how Cersei could have done it; she was tied up at the time –'

'Gods be good, lower your voice!'

' – and Jaime was standing with me, shitting himself, so unless he managed to sneak off somewhere –'

'It's their fault!'

Arya paused, and gravely shook her head, watching as Myrcella's confidence slowly dwindled at the sight.

She's trying. She's trying so hard. No one has ever explained to her how these matters work.

Arya beheld the child in front of her, and tried.

'If you would take a man's life,' she said, trying to sound grave and confident, like Father, 'you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. You were sentencer and executioner both. I don't know if you looked into her eyes or heard her last words, but that knowledge will tell you if it's their fault or yours.'

Myrcella was fidgeting and looking at the floor, her fingers interlocked, her knuckles white.

'You,' Myrcella complained, her eyes cast resolutely downwards, 'used to be much more compassionate.'

'I've become horribly conscious of the shortness of life,' Arya pointed out, 'nearly dying in childbirth tends to impress upon you the utter unimportance of bullshit. You don't have time for this. Tomorrow, you might be dead, or he might. Then what?'

Myrcella gave a strangled sound, her head still bowed. Arya put a tentative hand on her shoulder.

'I loved her,' Myrcella choked out.

'She loved you,' Arya said softly.

Myrcella's head snapped up angrily, her eyes blazing, but she did not shrug off Arya's arm.

'You hated her!' Myrcella exclaimed, 'you would have killed her yourself if given the chance!'

'Yes, and yes,' Arya hissed, 'but you'll notice that I've never been tasteless enough to discuss it with you.'

Myrcella made one, final attempt to avoid tears, then broke. She slumped where she was, bent almost double, her hands covering her head, her body curling instinctively into Arya's embrace.

'I'm a monster,' Myrcella sobbed.

'Not yet,' Arya said.

'Help me,' Myrcella wept, clinging to her, 'help me, Arya, please help me.'

Arya held her, and asked her how.

Author's note

Hello everyone! There will probably not be a chapter next week, as I am entering the exam period. Thanks for sticking with me all this way!