Kevan walked silently along the walls of Casterly Rock at dawn, and thought about what he had said to Lady Arya almost a month ago as she had sniffled and mumbled an apology for crying in front of him.

'I have four children, my dear. I'm used to it.'

The words had haunted him since; as they did every time that he spoke them; every time he allowed himself to be deceived by the rightness of the idea and the comfort of it; every time he deluded himself that the falseness in those words didn't seem to laugh at him or whisper to him or torment him at every hour of the day and night. Because he didn't have four children anymore. He had three.

Willem had died four years ago today; killed in his sleep at Riverrun by Lord Rickard Karstark, in vengeance for Jaime's having murdered his son during an escape attempt.

Willem had died a boy of five and ten.

Kevan remembered sitting in Tywin's solar at Harrenhal and staring at words on a raven scroll; words from a stranger telling him his son was dead. And he had wanted to ride to Riverrun and bury a sword so deeply into Lord Karstark's skull that they'd have to bury him with it.

Tywin had glared at him and told him not to be ridiculous; vowing that Karstark, his liege lord and all their loved ones would pay for their crime in the coin of fear and blood. He hadn't been wrong about that, certainly. But the news…the news that Willem's twin Martyn was still alive, but a hostage; the news that Robb Stark had publicly beheaded Lord Rickard in retribution for his butchery of innocent boys; and then, years later, the news of the Red Wedding…none of it altered the facts; the chasm; the abomination against the law of life.

I had four children. I have three children.

Kevan hadn't gone back to Casterly Rock immediately after Willem's death. Tywin hadn't commanded him to remain at Harrenhal, but he had remained nonetheless. There had been Robb Stark to consider, and Ashemark, and the Crag, and the Brotherhood Without Banners, and the honour of the family and the good of the realm; and when Kevan had finally returned home after almost a year, so deeply ashamed that he would gladly have suffered being called a dog to his face, his wife had kissed him and embraced him and burst into tears and refused to hear him speak a word against his conduct; and his two-year-old daughter Janei; her eyes pale green flecked with gold, like Tywin's; had stared curiously up at him and asked him who he was. Kevan had wept at that.

It was Janei rather than a desire for introspection that brought Kevan to the walls this morning. The young lady, now six years old, had developed the unpleasant habit of reading books in the oddest locales that could be imagined; filling her mind with tales of Ser Aemon the Dragonknight and Jonquil and Florian while sitting in the wine cellar, or the Hall of Heroes, or the laundry room, or the armoury, while the rest of Casterly Rock frantically searched for her and imagined her dead.

Kevan knew that the girl was far too young to understand the worry that she caused – she had hardly known the brother she had lost; indeed, she had been born far too long after her siblings to know much about any of them beyond their names – but Kevan found that the blame for her regular disappearances lay with him as well as her. With Martyn squiring at Hornvale and Lancel in the capital (I should be there with him now. I should be), the girl had become the light of his life; so breathlessly young and sweet and innocent, exactly as Cersei had been at that age. Exactly as Lancel had been.

He burned with shame to think of Lancel now; rotting in prison and waiting for Tyrion to decide what to do with him; though Kevan wasn't sure if he should be more ashamed of Lancel's conspiring with Cersei to murder King Robert, fucking Cersei after murdering King Robert or having an attack of holiness about fucking Cersei and murdering King Robert that had caused this whole thrice-damned mess in the first place.

In the past he would have come to me or his mother with such a confession. Not the bloody High Septon.

Kevan knew full well that Lancel's interest in religion had deepened after his injuries at the Blackwater, and for a while, he had approved. Kevan was a man of Faith, and he had married a woman of Faith whom he deeply respected and loved absolutely. And yet, he could not help but wonder if his son would have been less inclined to take such a self-abasing, self-effacing, self-destroying refuge in religion had he grown up with a mother who did not insist on praying seven times a day, even when ill.

Don't blame Dorna, he thought to himself, blame someone who deserves to be blamed. Blame Cersei.

Kevan felt his jaw tighten.

When I lost Willem; when I lost my child; I suppressed my grief and all thoughts of vengeance; I abandoned my wife and children to do my duty to my House and my brother and the realm. Cersei has also lost a child…and has settled for nothing less than destroying the Seven Kingdoms in retribution for her grief. So I will blame someone who deserves to be blamed. I will blame Cersei.

Kevan found Janei sitting on the western wall with her book spread out in front of her; the wind leading her pale blonde curls in a merry dance about her head and nipping mischievously at the crimson brocade gown she wore.

'And where have you been, young lady?' Kevan demanded with mock anger.

Janei gave no sign that she was surprised by his presence and frowned sullenly.

'Father, have you come to take me away already?' she asked miserably.

'I fear I have,' Kevan replied, with great solemnity.

The little lady folded her arms and pouted.

'Well, I decline!'

Kevan cocked one eyebrow at her, and smiled as she leapt to her feet, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

'I can't read about a battle if I'm stuck in a poky old solar!' she insisted.

'Why?' Kevan insisted in return, 'were you not born with an imagination, little lady?'

'Of course I were!' Janei replied, trying (and failing) to sound like a grown up.

'Of course I was,' Kevan corrected, his huge hand engulfing her tiny one as he helped her to hop off the wall, 'now come inside. The servants have told me that your lady mother is frantic and on the warpath. She doesn't want you falling and breaking your neck.'

As they began to walk back the way Kevan had come; Janei bounced on the balls of her feet with every step she took and playfully swung her father's hand in hers.

'Is Mother very angry with me?' she asked.

'Of course not,' Kevan replied, 'she merely fears for your safety.'

Janei frowned, unconvinced.

'Everybody's been so cross lately,' she observed.

'That tends to happen when mischievous little girls insist on disappearing,' Kevan replied.

'It's about Cousin Cersei, isn't it?' Janei asked in a rush.

'Never you mind about Cousin Cersei,' Kevan said, in a tone that he hoped would announce the closure of the subject.

'She's in trouble, isn't she?' Janei pressed on.

Kevan folded his arms and frowned down at his daughter.

'Have you been listening at doors again?'

Janei coloured.

'Only when I – oh Father, look! Riders!'

Kevan quickly seized hold of her as she once again leapt onto the walls; her tiny index finger pointing so enthusiastically that it seemed to cut the plains beneath the Rock in two. Kevan strained his eyes slightly.

'Janei,' he said, 'time to see if you remember your lessons.'

Janei grinned and giggled. She loved being asked about her lessons.

'A moon and falcon on a sky blue background,' Kevan announced, 'go.'

'House Arryn,' she replied without hesitation.

Kevan smiled in admiration as he helped her off the wall.

'Exactly,' he affirmed, 'House Arryn.'


Kevan narrowly avoided a head-on collision with his wife as he accompanied Janei down the flight of stairs to the forecourt. Looking tired and profoundly flustered, Dorna glared at both of them as she would at a pair of mischief-makers; but Kevan noted with pleasure that despite her obvious exasperation and worry, she was impeccably dressed; not a lock of her rich dark hair was out of place; and she was also wearing the ring, delicately crafted in the shape of a seven-pointed star, that he had given her earlier that month for her name day.

'There you are!' Dorna exclaimed in annoyance, 'I've been all over for you two!'

'Calm yourself, my lady,' Kevan replied, 'I have been just as 'all over' as you have, and have managed to come out of it with my composure intact.'

'Don't patronise me, Kevan; it doesn't suit you,' Dorna remarked, making a concerted effort to appear serious that didn't quite succeed.

Kevan cocked his head towards the gates.

'Is it Jaime?'

'Yes, him and the two Stark girls,' Dorna answered, her expression changing as she glanced down at Janei, 'did you find her on the walls?'

Kevan sighed and tried hard to keep the affection from his voice.

'The little lady was reading a battle scene,' he said.

Dorna looked down at Janei and folded her arms in disapproval.

'You,' she declared severely, 'are the naughtiest child in existence.'

'Yes, Mother,' Janei mumbled with genuine consternation, staring intently at her shoes.

'Come now, little lady, don't be so affected,' Kevan told his daughter, 'we can postpone your punishment for later.'

Janei's courage returned immediately.

'My punishment?' she squeaked indignantly.

'Yes, your punishment,' Kevan repeated, winking at her, 'now come down and see your Cousin Jaime. You probably don't remember him at all.'

'I do remember him,' Janei insisted sullenly, beginning to hop down the stairs, 'he brought me toys when I was small. And he didn't mind playing cyvasse with me when everyone else said I was too young.'

As Kevan took Dorna's hand and descended the stairs with her, he witnessed his wife fighting back a smile.

'You're ruining her,' she told him.

'Perhaps I am,' Kevan replied, his heart leaping into his throat with every step Janei took, 'do you disapprove?'

She replied by kissing his cheek.

'I can't say that I do. Not entirely. But since you mention disapproval, I must confess that it does play a role in how I view Jaime's choice of bride. An excellent match politically, but the girl is vulnerable, and alone, and five-and-twenty years younger than him to boot.'

'You're twenty years younger than me!' Kevan protested.

'But you have always been a good man,' Dorna replied, 'can you say the same for your nephew?'

Kevan snorted in reply, and won himself a glare in response.

When they reached the forecourt, Kevan's steward was directing a very large number of knights to the stables and visibly praying that they would honour their arrangement of only staying one night; while Jaime and the two Stark girls were beginning to dismount with a general air of solemnity and tension that Kevan found most troubling. His nephew looked grave; Arya even more so; and Lady Sansa was dreadfully pale, though that could simply have been the ill look of her fair skin and dyed hair.

Please, gods, do not tell me that they've broken off their engagement again.

But as Jaime helped Arya off her horse, he fondly kissed her forehead before moving to help Lady Sansa. Kevan's spirits rose only slightly as the Stark girl smiled in return, and he realised that the cause of their general moroseness was no doubt the same as his.

As Kevan looked about for the wolf that Tyrion had mentioned, thinking that a good-sized wolf would do little to improve the mood; the gloomy atmosphere was instantly dispelled by Janei, who ran to her cousin and squealed 'Jaime!' before leaping into his arms and kissing him on both cheeks. Jaime smiled, planted Janei firmly on his hip and began to speak animatedly to her as he approached Kevan and Dorna; motioning to Arya and Sansa to follow him and appearing quite oblivious to the looks of undisguised astonishment on their faces.

Kevan almost rolled his eyes. His nephew had always been disconcertingly good with children when he could be persuaded to abide their company for more than five minutes.

'This cannot be little Janei,' Jaime was insisting, 'I refuse to believe it.'

'Of course I'm me!' the girl declared, pulling his ears, 'did you bring me a present?'

Jaime cocked an eyebrow at her.

'I brought myself. Doesn't that count?'

'No,' Janei said firmly, as though the idea was ludicrous, 'what happened to your hand?'

'I gambled it away one night and never got it back,' Jaime replied without missing a beat.

The girl frowned at him.

'That was very silly of you.'

'It certainly was.'

Janei pat-patted her hands on Jaime's shoulders, enjoying the sound of her fingers on the leather.

'Is it true you're getting married?' she asked.

'It is,' Jaime smiled, turning around to face Arya and Sansa, 'the lady is right here.'

'Which one?' Janei enquired.

'The short one,' Jaime replied, smirking at Arya, who rose to the bait immediately.

'The what?'

'Give Janei to me, Jaime,' Kevan intervened, 'before she causes any more trouble.'

Scowling, Janei was duly handed over and passed to her mother as introductions were made on both sides. Kevan watched Jaime's face as Dorna made enquiries of their journey and expressed her condolences for Arya and Sansa's losses, as well as her delight that they were soon to become family. His nephew was clearly troubled and out of sorts, but each time that he looked at Arya, he seemed…fulfilled, somehow; and Kevan found himself thinking of Dorna's words to him only a moment ago: 'you have always been a good man. Can you say the same for your nephew?'

When I see him looking at another human being like that, I can.

As Dorna smartly trundled the girls off for baths, tea and lemon cakes, Arya's eyes met Jaime's, a question in them; and when Jaime rolled his eyes in reply and nodded, Arya scowled deeply and submitted herself for what she evidently regarded as a punishment; clutching her sword and dagger as she went.

What an interesting girl, Kevan thought.

Jaime's eyes followed Arya until she was out of sight, then grew sombre again as he was left alone with Kevan.

'Where is this wolf that I've heard so much about, nephew?' Kevan asked.

'Hunting,' Jaime replied promptly, 'she's developed a taste for stag that we can't seem to break her out of.'

'We cannot claim to have a shortage of those,' Kevan agreed.

Jaime smiled, and looked pointedly at him.

'What news from the capital, Uncle?'

Kevan grasped his shoulder.

'Come to my solar.'


Jaime sat alone in the window seat for what felt like hours. When he had first begun to read the raven scroll, he was relatively sure that he had heard Uncle Kevan speaking to him at length; his massive form lingering like a sandstone pillar on the corner of Jaime's vision before disappearing; presumably to leave him alone to think.

And then the rain started again; that same miserable fucking rain that had followed him and Arya across the length and breadth of the Westerlands; and Jaime sat staring out at it; watching as it departed abruptly and returned just as quickly; a changeable thing, like his sister…though his sister was nothing like the rain.

The news of Cersei's imprisonment and trial, together with the incidental news that she had been fucking Lancel as a reward for killing Robert (and an antidote for boredom, most likely), had affected Jaime in a way that could only be described as…interesting. The subject emptied him out and numbed him, but not in a way that caused him pain. It did not make him angry and it did not make him happy; it did not grieve him and it did not enrage him. He was not plagued by visions of Cersei's fine white wrists being scarred by chains, or her eyes shining with righteous tears. Neither was he possessed by the frantic desire to drop everything and go charging back to King's Landing at a moment's notice. He felt absolutely nothing. And yet despite the indifference, the coldness, the nonexistence of his emotions; the trial weighed constantly on his mind in the same way that his father's death had, probably because the question was still the same:

Why don't I feel anything?

And then…this. Her words, her voice, her writing on a raven scroll; telling him that she had been sentenced to die. A few words on a piece of paper… and a feeling.

A knock on the door tore him from his thoughts, and he felt his left hand crumpling the parchment as Arya entered dressed like a lady; the sight of her filling him with the same strange indignation that he had felt at Joffrey's wedding; indignation at how beautiful she looked when out of her breeches and rough spun wools.

She wore a gown of turquoise blue silk that was slightly too big for her, leaving her shoulders unintentionally and very flatteringly exposed; and her dark hair had been washed and brushed till it shone, the tangles so masterfully combed out of it that he realised for the first time that it was almost down to her shoulders now and brushed them slightly, like kisses.

Her expression was one of utter indignation and fury, and Jaime couldn't help but smile.

'You look…uh…different,' he ventured.

Arya thanked him in truly ladylike fashion by rolling her eyes and kicking the door closed behind her.

'Your aunt made me take a bath,' Arya complained, crossing the room and plonking herself down next to him, 'in rose water –'

'Gods forbid that one should be compelled to bath more than once a year,' Jaime mocked.

Arya ignored him and continued to rant.

'Then one of her maids put even more…stuff all over me until I smelled like a flower shop,' she growled, 'then they tore most of the castle apart looking for a gown that would fit me when I told them I would wear my breeches; and then, when we met in Lady Dorna's solar; it turned out that Sansa, while having her bath, was so overcome by the joy of having noblewomen to gossip with that she accidentally let slip to one of Lady Dorna's handmaidens that you and I have been 'living in sin.''

'Living in sin?' Jaime repeated in indignation.

'Lady Dorna's words, not Sansa's,' Arya clarified, her grey eyes twinkling in both anger and amusement, and growing warm as Jaime's fingertips traced patterns on her shoulder and collarbone, 'though I don't see what it's got to do with either of them!'

'Did you manage to ask Sansa how she knows that we've been…'living in sin?" Jaime smiled, 'gods be good, you're blushing!'

'I am not,' Arya insisted.

'Answer the question, Stark,' Jaime insisted back.

Arya cleared her throat, and blushed further.

'The night that you, um – did that thing with your mouth – '

'Yes?' Jaime prompted.

'Apparently…I was being rather… noisy?'

'You were.'

Arya punched him in the shoulder.

'Why didn't you tell me?' she exclaimed.

'I am not in the habit of downplaying any testament to my skills, Stark,' he replied.

She punched him in the other shoulder, shrugged his hand off and folded her arms in annoyance as she continued her story.

'Needless to say,' Arya complained, 'Lady Dorna was absolutely scandalised by the discovery, and was about to drag me off to the sept for a thorough prayer session at the Maiden's altar when you sent for me.'

'I didn't send for you,' Jaime corrected, 'I asked you to come.'

A kind of sadness returned to her face, even though she was smiling at him. She'd been out of sorts ever since the news of Cersei's trial – they both had – but they had also had that interview with that fool Royce, and it had somehow made things worse; even though they both knew that it had been a nonsensical farce. But looking at Arya now, and seeing how large and careful and fearful her eyes were as they fell on the raven scroll crumpled in his hand; Jaime knew that she knew; that she had known from the moment she entered the room, that he had nothing pleasant to discuss with her.

'What is it?' Arya asked quietly.

Jaime handed the scroll to her.

'Read it.'

Her fingers were long and calloused and beautiful as she smoothed the paper out, and her face, as she saw who the sender was, turned pale.

"Come at once," Arya read aloud, trying (and failing) to keep the disdain from her voice, "Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once. Cersei."

She tore her eyes from the scroll and looked up at him again.

'A trial by combat?' she asked.

'Yes,' he replied.

He watched the news spread over her entire face until only her eyes were alive, but even then, they were illegible; making it impossible to tell what she was thinking; and suddenly he could feel her mind as it moved into the very act of slipping away from him.

She was shutting him out. She was protecting herself.

Oh gods. She really fears that I will do it.

Jaime took her hand and told her to look at him; and her face was cautious and still as his father's.

'I won't fight for her,' Jaime said gravely, looking into her eyes and shouting the truth with his own, 'never mind the fact that I can't. I have no wish to.'

But her face did not change, and Jaime's mind reeled in confusion.

Doesn't she understand what I'm saying to her? Aren't I making myself clear?

'The real question, therefore,' Jaime continued, 'is whether or not I should go to King's Landing for the execution.'

Arya's face opened up and searched his intently, and he could feel her eyes looking upon and understanding what he could only call his fear; his fear of the utter unknown of what seeing Cersei die would make him feel. Or do.

Cersei was as good as his enemy now, but she was still his twin; his blood; his lover of more than twenty years…and his master of even longer duration. Such bonds did not disappear, even if love and regard and obsession turned to hatred and neglect and indifference. He wasn't afraid of feeling pain, but he was afraid of himself. Of what he might feel. Of what he might do if he had to watch her die.

'Tell me what you think I should do,' Jaime asked her.

'No,' Arya responded flatly.

That surprised him. She usually didn't need prompting when it came to giving out orders.

'Even from a political perspective – '

'No, Jaime.'

Her lips were tightly shut, her face was unyielding, and suddenly, Jaime wanted to strangle her. What was the matter with her? He'd said he wouldn't fight for Cersei; so why was she making such a fuss about a bloody execution?

'Why do you refuse to answer each question I put to you, Stark?' Jaime demanded, fast losing patience, 'do you doubt me?'

'No,' Arya snapped in reply, 'I love you.'

As she spoke the words, Jaime stared at her, and understood the reason for her silence.

She wants the decision to be mine alone. Mine…for once in my life.

Jaime looked at Arya as though seeing her for the first time; and every tiny, minute aspect of her face; the way her eyelashes curled up slightly at the corners; the cleft in her chin; the lines already forming at the edges of her mouth; every part of her; told him why Cersei's imprisonment and Cersei's trial had held no feeling for him since hearing of them; and why, in going to King's Landing and in watching her die; he need no longer be afraid of himself no matter how harrowing…or how easy…the experience might be.

I am not Cersei's anymore. I am not anyone's. I am me.

'I'll have to make a show of loyalty to the Crown,' he said, 'and to do that, I'll have to be there. I'll have to go. I…I should like you to come with me…but I will not ask you to.'

'Of course I'll come with you,' Arya said in a small voice, 'but are you…are you absolutely sure you want to go?'

Jaime pulled her to him and embraced her.

'Yes.'

Arya's arms grasped his back and held him tightly as she rested her head on his shoulder; her hair tickling his face and the silk of her dress feeling course and unnatural beneath his fingertips.

'When do you want to leave?' she asked, not breaking away from him.

'I don't really care, Stark,' Jaime admitted softly, 'there is far too much to consider first.'

'Is there?' she asked, sounding surprised.

Still not releasing her, Jaime's fingers travelled along her arm to her hand and eased the crumpled message from her fist.

'First,' he said, 'I want to get rid of this raven scroll.'

And he dropped it, quite deliberately, to the floor.

'Next, I want to stay sitting like this for a really long time,' Jaime continued, burying his nose in her hair and loving the way that he could feel her heart racing right through her clothes, 'then once we've finished doing that, I want to take you down to the sept, drape a cloak around your shoulders, and marry you.'

'On the way to your sister's execution?' Arya replied.

Jaime gently disentangled himself and looked into her face, and though he saw absolute belief in his sincerity, he also saw doubt: doubt that he recognised and understood.

What in seven hells is the matter with her? Has this experience with bloody Aunt Dorna…and that fool Royce, of course; this throwing about of words like 'sin' and 'charlatan' and 'harlot'; made her think I'm in a rush to make our relationship respectable, now that I'm home among my own people?

He couldn't believe that Arya would think him capable of giving a fuck about something like respectability. But then she was still a child in so many ways; a child who thought next to nothing of herself…who thought next to nothing of herself, when she was everything.

Arya's beautiful grey eyes were flickering upwards to his and away from them, and as he reached out to touch her cheek; he felt her hold his gaze and his blood rush wildly and angrily inside him.

'Aunt Dorna can flatter herself that I care a fuck what she thinks,' Jaime declared, 'so can Lord Royce and the rest of the world, and so can any fool who thinks I would do this to distance myself from Cersei before we return to the capital. But the truth is, I want you for my wife, Stark. And I'm tired of circumstance and history and idiocy telling me I can't have you.'

Arya didn't say a word. She was trying not to cry, and not quite getting it right, and her mouth opened and closed several times as she tried and failed to speak. Eventually, she simply embraced him again, and held him as close as she could manage.

'Was it like this that you wanted to sit for a really long time?' she murmured.

'Yes,' Jaime told her, holding her tighter and smiling, 'just like that.'