Joanna has that same hair as Sansa, flaming even in the dullest light, thick and heavy and smelling of something Northern, sylvan – Sansa smells almost of rosemary, Joanna almost of cedar – and he loves it. He loves watching Sansa braid Joanna’s hair, because it is the sort of thing he always regretted that Cersei missed with their mother.
Joanna’s eyes are the same colour as his own, wickedly green and wickedly intelligent – that, he admits, comes more from Tyrion than from him – and seem out of place, incongruously Lannister in her Tully face. Sansa says she likes that there’s something of him in Joanna, though, and he knows that she sometimes laments that there’s nothing of her own long-dead father in herself.
Still, Jaime likes it best when he comes to bed late and finds Joanna has beaten him there. When Joanna sleeps in their bed, she sleeps curled against Sansa’s front, her head resting on her mother’s breast and her thumb in her mouth. Sansa wraps Joanna in her arms and curls her legs up as if to surround their daughter as completely as she can, and their hair spills across the starched white pillows in a riot of flame and copper and russet.
When they’re curled up together like that, snoring softly in the very same way, there’s nothing of him visible at all, and his guilt at sullying their perfection is easier to ignore because they look so innocent.
His wife and his daughter. Jaime sometimes laughs that they’re his at all, because he can’t imagine what he did to deserve them.