Jaime devoted the first few weeks of his imprisonment to distracting himself from the fierce heat of the black cells. He spent his days being as blithely provocative and as maddeningly insolent as possible, but his guards had proved so easy to aggravate that the pastime had soon lost its appeal. They were the most undisciplined soldiers he had ever encountered; brawling endlessly about some tavern wench that the one had fucked without the other's permission. He would normally have found endless enjoyment in reflecting on Robert Baratheon's inability to do so simple a thing as choose his own men correctly, but laughing would require him to open his mouth. Opening his mouth would remind him how thirsty he was.

Eventually, he resorted to doing what tens of thousands of residents of the black cells had done before him. Sleep. Dream. Hope. And do not, under any circumstances, think. That would lead to madness, and he did not intend to be the first Lannister to be dragged giggling and blathering to the block.

He was instantly on his guard as an ominous silence descended abruptly on his captors. He closed his eyes, listening for footsteps or breathing. When he heard neither, he smiled to himself, as he did each time he fell asleep. He wouldn't put it past Father to send a Faceless Man to slit his throat while he dreamed. It would be a devastating final 'fuck you,' thwarting the King's desire to see House Lannister's disgrace exploited to the full. When the door eventually swung open, he opened his eyes and beamed. It wasn't a Faceless Man; but it was the next best thing.

Arya strode into his cell, her long limbs outlined by the torches burning beyond the door. She tossed him a wineskin.

'Lie to me, and I'll open you from balls to brains.'

He believed her. He could see the wolf blood stirring in her from here.

'Are Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella your and Cersei's bastards?' she demanded.

He was painfully aware of the fact that she'd know instantly if he lied (she always did), but he considered it none the less, if only to spare her. Very little about those children was truly his in any case. Cersei had seen to that. That vicious little cunt Joffrey apparently spent his days firing a crossbow. A crossbow, if one could believe such a thing. Any son of his would have been taken firmly in hand before such an embarrassment could occur.

But Arya wouldn't understand, and he didn't want her to. The day she did would be the day that he no longer loved her.

She was still speaking.

'Are the Queen's children yours?' she pressed him.

'My lady – '

'Yes or no. And don't call me that.'

'Yes.'

She said nothing. He uncorked the wineskin and drank, nearly choking in his desire to gulp down the liquid. She was looking at him as an adult might on revisiting a nightmare that had tormented them as a child; the pain of their original fear ever present, but tempered with an adult sadness that spiders and ghosts were the worst monsters their innocent minds could conjure up in the dark.

Suspicion clenched sickeningly around his throat like the jaws of a wolf, the red abyss yawning beyond them.

'The children?' he rasped, blood rising so quickly to his head that he thought he might faint.

Arya showed him no mercy.

'Cersei's children are – '

'I don't give a fuck about Cersei's children! Do ours still live?'

That did not seem to please her as much as he thought it would.

'They were well the last time I saw them,' Arya responded, the winds of winter in her voice.

The wolf released him. They were alive. They lived. They lived, thank the gods.

It was only then that he noticed the second half of Arya's sentence, and his heart sank again.

'Arya. What have you done?'

'What have I done?'

'Where are they?'

'Casterly Rock.'

'Casterly Rock? Why in seven hells would you…'

Then it dawned on him.

'This is Father, isn't it?'

'He's taken them under his protection.'

'Have you lost your mind?'

'He's named Tyrion his heir.'

'Tyrion? Not bloody likely.'

'Our Tyrion, stupid.'

'And you think Father can be trusted?'

'We both know he can be trusted with any child of mine.'

Jaime grudgingly admitted to himself that she was probably right. Lord Tywin loved Arya so much he'd probably marry her himself the moment Jaime's head rolled.

'Why hasn't he taken you under his protection, then?'

'I don't need protection.'

'And what did he have to say about that?'

'He called me a fool.'

'And so you are.'

'Fuck you, Jaime!'

'Go to him at Casterly Rock and stop being so bloody stubborn!'

'Tell me what to do again, and I'll break both your legs.'

'Breaking my legs won't make you any less dead when Robert decides to execute you, my lady!'

'I can take care of myself!'

'Then why not protect our children yourself?'

'Something tells me our wine-sodden oaf of a King will be more afraid of crossing the great Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock than Arya Horseface of Winterfell. I'd rather not take the chance.'

He smirked in satisfaction that Arya still bore Robert no love, even after all this time. At their wedding feast, the King had fallen so deeply into his cups that he had mistaken her for her Aunt Lyanna and had swooped down on her to kiss her. Arya had kneed him in the balls before trying to stab him with a carving knife, and a bloodbath had only been prevented by the speedy intervention of the Lords Eddard and Tywin; the former clouting Robert soundly around the head but threatening to disinherit his daughter for treason; the latter hauling Arya to her feet and offering to make her his heir should Lord Eddard attempt any such thing. Jaime had laughed so hard that an entire mouthful of Dornish red had spurted from his nostrils. Then it had occurred to him that this farce of a marriage might not be such an encumbrance after all. What a woman!

And all the while Cersei was glowering at him. Guessing his thoughts, most likely; knowing what was to come. He and Arya had spent most of their wedding night playing cyvasse; his young bride having made it clear that she would geld him if he attempted to touch her; Jaime himself not entertaining the slightest wish to do so. It hadn't taken her long to realise he was letting her win, more out of laziness than gallantry. She swore at him. He swore back. He won the next three games. She scowled. By midnight she had kissed him. An hour later, her clumsy maiden fingers were fumbling at the laces of his breeches.

'What happened to gelding me?' he grinned against her swollen lips.

'Shut up,' she snapped.

By morning he had discovered a dagger strapped to her thigh and another between her breasts; and had relieved her of both.

And now his wife was the one glowering at him; speaking to him as though he were the dirt under her boots. Part of him loved her for it. The rest of him wanted to open her stomach for her ability to make him despise himself without saying a word.

'Is it also true about Bran?' she murmured, so softly he could barely hear her.

'Yes.'

A strange conflagration of sounds erupted from her throat: part sob, part groan, part scream; a harsh discord of noises that did not belong in the same human voice. She put her hands on her knees, forcing herself to breathe.

She was quiet. He feared her when she was quiet. So he drank deeply, belched because he knew it would provoke her, and laid the skin on the floor next to him. He raised his eyes once again to where Arya now leaned against the wall, her hair plastered to her face from the heat.

'Well, Lady Lannister – or is it Lady Stark again already?'

She did not rise to the bait.

'Are you going to kill me yourself? Or are you happy to leave it to Ser Ilyn to decapitate Cersei and me simultaneously?'

Arya muttered something indistinctly.

'What's that?' he exclaimed, straining to hear.

Arya folded her arms.

'She's dead, Jaime.'