Following Tyrion's advice that he should at least pretend to give a fuck, Jaime had attended court that morning and had found Joffrey merciful and benevolent as ever. The young monarch's first action had been to command Ser Ilyn to remove the heads of two dozen men who had instigated a spontaneous riot in Flea Bottom; and the tongues of several singers who had revived some ridiculous farce on the death of King Robert with many entertaining, if ineloquent changes to the lyrics that rather lacked in subtlety ('the lion ripped his balls off and the rose did all the rest').

The little shit had also led a very public discussion of the news that Robb Stark did indeed intend to continue his invasion of the Westerlands, and was at present dangling his (unmarried) uncle Edmure in front of Walder Frey in exchange for the troops that he would need to continue the war.

Is the boy simple? Jaime had thought, even if Walder Frey does give him the troops he needs, which he probably won't after that fuck-up at the Crag, Stark will probably lose most of them on the first day of the campaign if he's stupid enough to attack Casterly Rock. The Starks will wipe themselves out in no time at all; Arya will be heartbroken and she'll blame me for everything, most likely, because she can't openly blame anyone else. Maybe they'll write a song about it – the stupidest idea in the history of warfare.

Jaime had briefly considered composing some lyrics on the spot as an antidote to the pain in his stump and to the crushing boredom that were making standing upright and pretending that he cared a fuck about any of this increasingly difficult. But then Joffrey had commanded his Kingsguard to fetch the two Stark girls to the throne room, chop their little fingers off, and send the severed digits to Robb Stark with a note asking him to guess which finger belonged to which sister.

'Your Grace,' Varys had purred, 'this will speed up the invasion rather than delay it.'

'A joke,' Cersei had hastily interjected, 'Joffrey did not mean it.'

'Yes, I did!' Joffrey had insisted, 'I want those girls sent for and I want their little fingers chopped off!'

'I appreciate such a touching tribute to my nickname, Your Grace,' Lord Baelish had added with an ironic smile, 'but why not send the goldcloaks into the city and have them remove the little fingers of whichever two unfortunates happen to cross their path first? I'm sure these admirable lords and ladies,' he gestured to the assembled courtiers, 'can be trusted not to tell.'

'It's not intended as a tribute to your stupid nickname!' Joffrey had screamed as a ripple of polite laughter surged through the crowd, 'I want them here and I want to see them bleed!'

And as much to his own surprise as to anyone else's, Jaime had found himself entering the fray.

'Admirable sentiments, Your Grace,' he had remarked from his place in the gallery, rather enjoying the way that every head in the hall turned from Joffrey towards him, 'but perhaps Your Grace could defer acting on them for the moment. Your betrothed is present, as are many other young ladies of gentle birth who would doubtless be distressed by the sight of wolf blood all over the floor.'

'I don't care if they're distressed!' Joffrey had shrieked in return.

He's still angry about my resignation from the Kingsguard.

But then the King's pale blue eyes had moved from Jaime to where Margaery Tyrell stood at the foot of the throne; her face crestfallen, and a little angry; her look making him turn pale.

Clever girl. She'll make a fine queen.

'Naturally,' Jaime had continued, 'you cannot always worry about ladies being distressed by the sight of blood, especially after some of the more charming things that have occurred in this room across the years. But consider. Once Robb Stark begins his invasion of the Westerlands – and the Crownlands too, if he gets that far – many of these same ladies will be so eager for the amputation of wolf paws that they might even help you do it. At this particular point in time, they would simply faint, and we wouldn't want that, now, would we?'

And to Jaime's amazement, Joffrey had seemed to consider this; his eyes squinting into the dense fog between the royal ears as Cersei turned away from her son and looked towards her brother, barely recognising him.

'Very well,' Joffrey had magnanimously declared, 'I shall defer the 'amputation of wolf paws,' as you put it, until Robb Stark's campaign begins. An excellent joke, Uncle. I congratulate you on it.'

Jaime had left the hall soon afterwards, if only to prevent the corners of his mouth turning up at the thought of relating the story to Tyrion. But then he had returned to his chambers, and he had thought of what Joffrey had wanted to do and he had grown very angry, very quickly.

What in seven hells would have happened if I hadn't been there?

He liked to think that Cersei would have stopped the little shit from doing anything so rash. He liked to think that.

And then he had begun to swear under his breath, and his hands had begun to shake, and soon he was fighting a losing battle against his sword, which he couldn't seem to detach from his fucking belt no matter how hard he tried.

Jaime's guard knocked politely.

'What?' he shouted.

'Ser Kevan Lannister to see you, Ser Jaime.'

Jaime whirled around in surprise as his uncle entered the room, looking exhausted but tranquil as he silently regarded his nephew, his large blue eyes filled with sadness, and an odd kind of fulfilment and relief.

'My Lord Lannister,' Uncle Kevan greeted stiffly, and bowed.

When he straightened up again, he was smiling.


'I will admit that it has taken me an uncommonly long time to finalise the will,' Uncle Kevan acknowledged, accepting Jaime's invitation to sit, but declining his offer of wine, 'it is partly your father's fault and partly Cersei's. The wretched girl would not leave me alone for two seconds together. Has she nothing else to do, as 'Queen Regent?''

'She has us believe that she works all day and night and never sleeps,' Jaime grinned.

Uncle Kevan snorted.

'That was Tywin's goal for most of his life and he certainly never accomplished it.'

'It wasn't for lack of trying, Uncle.'

Uncle Kevan smiled.

'No. It wasn't for lack of trying. I think I'll take that wine, after all.'

Jaime leaned forward in his seat and picked up the pitcher with his left hand, snarling at his uncle to leave him be when offered his assistance; and successfully filled a glass without spilling, feeling rather proud of himself.

'How will I learn to make do if people always insist on helping me?' Jaime asked, calmly handing the glass to his uncle.

'You shouldn't frown on common decency, nephew,' Uncle Kevan replied, 'it's a rare enough quality these days.'

Jaime smiled guiltily as his uncle sampled the wine, declared it excellent, and continued to speak.

'The principal difficulty in the will,' Uncle Kevan explained, 'was that the stubborn old bastard changed it three days before he died –'

'Three days?' Jaime exclaimed.

'Indeed. Does that mean anything to you?'

Jaime cast his mind back, wondering what in seven hells could have occurred in the past three days of Father's life to make him change his entire will. They had been on the road to King's Landing for all that time, sitting in war council and getting the wits bored out of them by Mace Tyrell.

Jaime looked past his uncle towards the balcony and the shuddering sea beyond it; phantom pain invading his right hand; and quite suddenly, he realised.

Harrenhal to King's Landing is two days' march, not three.

They had still been at Harrenhal when it had happened; the three of them; Father, Jaime and Arya together in the solar; the freezing Riverlands mist pouring into the room like the sudden silence that had descended when Father had commanded the girl to remain, and Jaime had looked sideways at her; at the tiny, skinny compendium of blasted fucking insolence that had beaten him earlier that day. She was looking at him with an expressionlessness that was her protection and her shield, and that prevented him from knowing what she was thinking. Was she rejoicing in her victory? Was she mocking him? Or was she simply recognising him?

Take it off, his eyes had commanded, take your armour off.

She had fought relentlessly against his gaze; the armour strong and invisible around her body and her mind; but as he pushed harder and harder, it had begun to crack and fall away. Her breath was coming faster, and her eyes were blazing a rapturous, ecstatic Northern grey, and he had wanted to peel off her clothes as well as her armour and to take her right there on the council table; to feel himself in her body as well as in her mind; to see and touch and know all of her.

As the thought had occurred to him, the last of her armour had fallen away and he had looked right inside her, into her darkness and her memory. Her lips had parted slightly as she felt him there; and she had done a tremendously good job of folding her arms, pouting at him and pretending that she wasn't half as affected by the experience as he was. She hadn't fooled him for a second, because she couldn't fool him anymore.

She had turned to Father, then, and had asked him something trivial about Littlefinger; and Jaime had sat immobile for a moment, his mind still enveloped in hers and grasping at it, not wanting to let it go because he had seen a part of himself there; his own fear, and his own history.

Father must have noticed something. He must have seen, perceived, suspected, and said nothing. But why in seven hells would that make him change his will? How could he have known for sure that he had seen anything more significant than two people half-crazed with the desire to fuck each other?

And we almost did fuck each other. The very next morning, if I remember correctly.

'Are you quite well, nephew?' Uncle Kevan was enquiring with concern.

'Excuse me, Uncle,' Jaime replied, wiping the perspiration from his brow, 'I am…I'm overwhelmed.'

Uncle Kevan leaned forward in his seat.

'So Tywin's changing his will three days before his death does mean something to you?'

'I…I think so,' Jaime stammered, 'but I can't…I have trouble believing…who was the heir before he suffered this sudden change of heart, if you don't mind me asking?'

Uncle Kevan smiled sadly.

'That, I cannot tell you,' he said, 'Tywin would find some way to return from the grave and kill me.'

'And why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?' Jaime demanded.

'Your lord father left me with strict instructions to delay the will as long as possible if he died during the battle. At the very least until I could be sure that you wouldn't withdraw your resignation from the Kingsguard.'

Jaime almost choked on his own amazement.

'How…how in seven hells did he know I was going to resign from the Kingsguard?'

Uncle Kevan looked disappointed.

'I had hoped that you would be able to tell me that.'

'The thought hadn't even entered my head at that point!'

'Are you quite sure?'

'Of course I'm sure!'

Jaime slumped back in his chair, his mind in turmoil and his stump so fucking sore he wanted to scream. He had spent so much of his life hating his father, rebelling against him, fearing him, convincing himself that the old man knew the members of his war council better than he knew his own children.

But this…this meant that Father had known him just a little after all. More than just a little.

He had known him well.

He knew. He knew even then. He knew what would happen before it did. He knew that I would fall in love with her. He was so sure of it that he put his whole glorious fucking legacy on the line for it. He took a gamble. He took a chance. Even if he would never call it either of those things. Even if he would never admit it. He was accustomed to his word being law. And yet.

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

'Shall we move on to the pecuniary details while you think of something appropriately deceptive to tell me?' Uncle Kevan suggested light-heartedly.

'If you insist, Uncle,' Jaime replied.

'Very well. As the heir, most of the Lannister fortune is naturally in your hands, and your father has left you and each of your siblings very well-provided for in your private capacities. There was one…rather unexpected legacy, though. He left twenty million gold dragons to the Lady Arya.'

Jaime stared at him.

'He left…he left her how much?'

'I believe you heard me, Jaime,' Uncle Kevan said sternly, 'the sum is five million more than he left to you, ten million more than he left to Cersei and fifteen million more than he left to Tyrion.'

Anger swelled in Jaime's chest.

'He only left Tyrion five million?' he growled.

'He could not be persuaded otherwise,' Uncle Kevan replied regretfully, and Jaime could tell from his tone that his regret was genuine.

'Then my first action as lord will be to sort that out immediately.'

Uncle Kevan nodded in approval.

'An excellent idea, nephew. And a word of advice up front. Don't lend any more money to the crown. You'll never get it back without a miracle.'

Jaime whistled, and chuckled heartily.

'Twenty million dragons, Uncle?'

'Twenty million dragons.'

There was silence as Jaime looked at his uncle, remembering his love for his father and how inexplicable he had always found it; how inexplicable he still found it. Yet Uncle Kevan's face bore an expression similar to the one that tortured Arya's every day; a kind of exhaustion that went bone-deep, and had nothing to do with sleep.

Jaime smiled.

'So I suppose we can take it as a foregone conclusion that Cersei's going to have a stroke?' he asked.

'Very likely,' Uncle Kevan replied, 'the news that her father has left such a sum to the sister of Joffrey's enemy will not impact well on a woman who supposedly never sleeps.'

He shifted in his seat.

'How is the Lady Arya, if I might ask?' he enquired with genuine concern, 'the last time I saw her, she was rather out of spirits.'

'She is as well as may be expected,' Jaime sighed, 'I think she's lost so many people in so little time that she's no longer sure whom she should be grieving for when. She is taking some time out of her busy schedule of screaming and crying to teach me to fight, though.'

'Is she?' Uncle Kevan exclaimed, rushing to continue when Jaime glared at him, 'of course I had heard of her bravery during the battle, but I must confess that I didn't expect you to give much consequence to so bizarre a thing as a little girl with a sword.'

'A little girl she may be,' Jaime remarked, shrugging with something like resignation, 'but she's turned out to be a rather brilliant practitioner of Braavosi water dancing. And of some arcane technique from the Free Cities that she refuses to name. Sometimes I think she's making it up entirely and that the bloody thing doesn't really exist.'

'And how does your training progress?'

'Badly.'

'No improvement?'

'Every day she puts a blindfold over my head and commands me to hit her. We've been at it for almost five weeks. No improvement.'

He remembered the pain that had roared through his body like an inferno as he had fallen, and the glorious, awful, vulnerable savagery of her as she had asked him again and again 'Why did you do it? Why?' When he had apologised, when he had felt the knowledge spill out of him like darkness turned to liquid, he had seen a change in her; something that she very likely hadn't noticed herself, and that he couldn't account for or describe at all. But he had seen it in the curve of her body as she had stormed away from him, and he had seen it when she had returned the next morning, and the morning after that, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

'Well,' Uncle Kevan was saying, getting to his feet, 'I grow bored of watching you growing bored every time I open my mouth, so I think I'll go and break the news to Cersei. Would you care to accompany me?'

Jaime smiled affectionately at his uncle and briskly shook his head.

'No, thank you, Uncle. I think I'll be able to hear the screaming just fine from here.'