Jaime

Gendry stacked the pillows against the headboard and gently settled Jaime against them. Jaime squinted slightly and peered out of the window. It was a clear day at Storm's End, and he could make out an emerald smudge on the horizon. 'What's that?' he asked.

Gendry spared a glance out of the window. 'The island of Tarth, m'lord.'

'My name is Jaime,' Jaime muttered. 'Or Ser Jaime, if you insist on formality.' He gave Gendry a deprecating grin. 'If we're being completely honest, I should call you my lord, and you should just call me Jaime.'

Gendry snorted. 'Still not used to it. Someone calls me m'lord and I look round for someone else.' He rounded the bed and perched on Jaime's right side, then slid a hand under the stump and delicately lifted it, cradling it between his hands. 'Does it pain you?'

'Not really. Sometimes.'

'Ever use a hook?'

'No.'

'Be more useful than that hand you had.'

'I imagine it would.' Truth be told, Jaime didn't miss the golden hand at all. It was often more of a hindrance than anything else. He'd wanted a hook, but Cersei had insisted on the hand, and he was too weary - physically and emotionally - from the journey to argue. Gendry grunted, then laid the stump back on the blanket. 'I'll see what I can do, Ser Jaime.' He slid off the bed and strode from the room, nodding at Tyrion.

'Good morning, brother,' Tyrion said, climbing into the chair placed next to the bed. Jaime murmured an indistinct greeting, staring at the distant shore of Tarth. Tyrion followed Jaime's gaze. 'Ah.' He arranged himself into a more comfortable position.

'How is she?' Jaime asked tentatively.

'Who?'

'Don't play coy with me.'

Tyrion rubbed a finger over the cover of the book in his lap. 'She's well enough,' he said carefully.

'She very likely despises me. She has every reason to,' Jaime admitted. 'Do you know where she is?'

'Still in the North.'

Jaime chewed his lower lip. 'Good.' Westeros was a large place. Their paths might never cross again.

'Do you truly miss Cersei?' Tyrion asked curiously.

'What makes you think I do?'

'You were delirious the first few weeks. You talked a lot. Everyone else discounted it as the ravings of a fevered mind.'

Jaime slowly flexed the fingers of his hand. 'She was my twin. We came into the world together and I meant to leave it with her.'

'Oh, don't spout that nonsense at me. That's Cersei talking.'

'Piss off,' Jaime muttered.

'No.' Tyrion stood on the chair and loomed over Jaime. 'You think with your emotions. You always have. Your first reaction is always driven by emotion. She knew it. And she used it to manipulate you into doing what she wanted.'

'That's not true,' Jaime spluttered.

Tyrion laughed sardonically. 'It is. And you know it is, you just don't want to admit it.'' He leaned over and grasped Jaime's chin in one hand, forcing him to meet his eyes. 'One of the great joys of being me is that no one paid me any mind when I was small. They just all hoped I would fall into the sea and drown. I saw what she did. She took Father's words to heart: family first.' Tyrion's hand tightened. 'And look where it's gotten us. The Lannister name is no more.' Jaime jerked his head to the side and turned away from Tyrion. 'It was Lannisters first with her in everything. There wasn't a man good enough to fuck her, so she went to you. Family first. Family is everything. She didn't want Robert Baratheon to father her children, so she convinced you it was best to sire them. And look what happened. The gods didn't only flip coins for the Targaryens when they mated. They flipped a coin every time she birthed a child.'

'Get out.'

Tyrion snickered. 'Are you going to make me?' Jaime flushed with humiliation. He could barely sit up for more than a few hours at a time. 'Need I remind you how much blood is on her hands? She is cruel and vindictive in a way that put even our father to shame! She beat and tortured countless people. She vowed to send Lannister troops to the North to fight the dead, but was lying the entire time. She accused me of a crime she knew I didn't commit. Because of her, Ellaria Sand poisoned Myrcella. She used wildfire to blow up the Great Sept. Do you know how many innocent people died so she could stop a rebellion she started?' Tyrion shouted. 'She wanted to get rid of Margery and Loras Tyrell. She was jealous of Margery's place in Tommen's heart and she wanted to destroy Loras so she didn't have to marry him. So she starts a religious war. All conveniently behind the scenes, of course. And then she got caught in its web. And she murdered hundreds, if not thousands of innocents. No one pushed Tommen out of a window, but she might as well have. Your son's blood was on her hands!'

'Shut. Up.'

'No. You're going to listen to me for once in your life. You can't be the stupidest Lannister forever. There aren't enough of us.' Tyrion stood for a moment, chest heaving. 'You say you love her. But let me ask you this: was it really love or was it a creature Cersei created and nurtured for nearly forty years?' And did she love you in return? Truly love you? Nothing you ever did was good enough for her. When you finally returned home after Catelyn Stark released you, what did Cersei say to you?'

'You took too long…' Jaime quoted softly.

'You came home missing a hand, and she rejected you because you were no longer her perfect, golden, Lannister lion. If it had been you that died in King's Landing, would she have mourned you the way you've mourned her?' Jaime was silent. 'I didn't think so,' Tyrion said flatly. 'When you'd outlived your usefulness to her, she would have cast you aside. Because in the end it was always Cersei first. You have always been a better person without her whispering her poison into your ear. Even so, when the time came, you joined in the fight for the living, while Cersei let Euron fucking Greyjoy warm her bed.' Jaime kept his face turned toward the wall. 'If it had been Cersei with you when Roose Bolton's men captured you, she would have spread her legs for them.'

'Stop it,' Jaime choked.

'Oh, she may have put up a token protest,' Tyrion continued ruthlessly, 'but you know as well as I that if it would have served a purpose for her , she would have allowed every man there to fuck her. You know it and I know it.' Tyrion's hands clenched around the back of the chair. 'There are people who think you're beyond redemption. Maybe they're right. Maybe you really are like Cersei.' Tyrion slid off the chair and stalked to the door while delivering his last barb. 'Ser Brienne was a fool to believe you are a good man.'

Brienne

Years of traveling with Brienne had given Podrick a level of intimacy with her body that would have surprised other people, given his position as her squire. He knew how well her clothes and armor fit. He knew her appetite and which foods she favored. He knew her sleep patterns. He could even accurately predict when she would have her blood.

In the weeks after Ser Jaime had left Winterfell, she ate very little. And Brienne usually enjoyed her food. She retired to her chamber immediately after supper to sleep. Podrick had had to rouse her some mornings, which he found odd. She was usually awake before sunrise. All that he could chalk up to the pace at which she drove herself to rebuild Winterfell's defenses. Lately, the seams of her jerkin and tunic strained at the waist. The lacings of her tunic gaped over her breasts. She'd slowly regained interest in meals, but pork made her turn green and leave the table in a hurry. The last time there had been pork for a meal, she'd barely made it into the courtyard before vomiting up what little she'd eaten. Podrick knew Brienne would probably punch him if he voiced his suspicions to her.

It was time to seek a higher authority.

He knocked on the door of the lord's chambers - lady's chambers now, he supposed - and waited for a maid to answer. To his surprise, the lady Sansa herself opened the door. 'Podrick. How can I help you?'

Podrick gestured to the room behind Sansa. 'Could we talk privately, m'lady?'

'Of course.' Sansa stood back and waved a hand at one of the chairs set before the fire. She closed the door and joined Podrick. 'What seems to be the problem, Pod?'

'It's not me, m'lady,' Podrick began. 'It's Ser Brienne…' He shifted in the chair. 'Can I be frank, m'lady?'

'You can.'

'I think she's pregnant,' Podrick said bluntly.

Sansa blinked. 'How do you know?'

'I'm her squire, m'lady,' Podrick replied simply, as if it explained everything.

'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'Squires are sometimes personal servants to their knight, as much as the knight will allow. Ser Brienne doesn't allow much, but I paid attention. I know her and her habits better than anyone in this castle.' Podrick leaned forward. 'Begging your pardon, m'lady, but…' Podrick gulped. 'She hasn't bled since before the battle.'

Sansa exhaled slowly. 'I see.' She fixed Podrick with a puzzled look. 'So why are you telling me this?'

'She won't like it if I tell her any of this.'

'You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions on how I might bring it up?' Sansa asked.

Podrick chuckled. 'Well, any way you want. She wouldn't punch you . Ser Brienne's sworn to protect you.'

Sansa rubbed her temples. 'Is that supposed to be comforting?' She smoothed the hair back from her face. 'Do you think she'd punch you if you told her I wanted to see her tonight after supper?'

'I doubt it.'

'Then I'll see her in her chamber.''

Podrick sagged in relief. 'Thank you, m'lady.'

Brienne sat in a chair near the window, a growing sense of unease roiling her belly. She got up paced around the room's perimeter, then plopped back into the chair. Someone knocked on her door, and Brienne lurched to her feet and crossed the room in three long strides, then yanked it open. Sansa smiled. 'May I come in?' Brienne stepped aside to allow Sansa and another woman into the room, and then stood awkwardly in the corner. Without her armor, she felt less sure of herself, and Sansa's mysterious visit baffled her. She tugged at the lacings of her jerkin, wishing she could unlace it and do it up again. 'My lady,' Brienne murmured.

Sansa indicated a chair. 'May I sit?'

Flustered, Brienne nodded. 'Please.'

'Oh, just fucking get on with it, Sansa,' Sansa muttered, shocking Brienne. She'd never heard Sansa curse before. 'Pod thinks you're pregnant,' Sansa said.

Brienne burst into laughter. 'That is one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard.' She sank to the edge of her bed, snorting with mirth.

'When was the last time y'bled?' the other woman asked.

'Who are you?' Brienne asked, knowing she was being rude, but the other woman's presence rattled her.

'This is Eira. She's the midwife,' Sansa replied.

Eira repeated the question. 'When was the last time y'bled, girl?'

Brienne sat back. 'I don't know…'

'Since the battle? Before the battle?' Sansa prompted.

Brienne's eyes unfocused slightly. 'Before,' she said slowly. 'A week before…'

'Lie back, girl,' Eira said.

'It's Ser Brienne,' Brienne corrected.

'Either way lie back.' Eira sighed. 'Lift your shirt, there's a good lass.' Brienne complied, a line deepening between her brows. Eira's hands pressed gently into her abdomen. 'Feel anything? Like y'had soap bubbles poppin' in your belly?'

'Y-yes…' Brienne's lips felt stiff. 'All the time it seems.'

'Quickening.' Eira gently smoothed Brienne's tunic back down, and Brienne sat up. 'Well, then Ser Brienne, seems that Lannister boy put a child in your belly before he got himself killed.'

Brienne's eyes flicked back and forth between Sansa and Eira. 'But I don't want this,' Brienne stated. 'I've never wanted this.'

Eira eyed Brienne's middle. 'I can give y'something. Try and get rid of it. There's herbs that'll do it. Bit late for it, though,' she pronounced. 'Might be the end of you as well.' Brienne felt the blood drain from her face.

Sansa moved to sit next to Brienne. 'You've done it before?' she asked Eira.

'Oh, I have. A fair few times. Can count on one hand how many women survived.'

'We can find a family,' Sansa ventured. 'After the birth. We can give them the baby, and you won't have to concern yourself with it.' Brienne turned her gaze to Sansa. 'If the family is in the North, I can see that the child is well-cared for.'

Brienne stared pensively at the toes of her boots. 'Must I decide this very moment?'

Sansa shook her head. 'No.'

Brienne stood up abruptly. 'Thank you, my lady.' Sansa rose smoothly from the bed and led Eira from the room. Brienne closed and bolted the door as soon as Eira's skirts cleared the door frame.

She stood in the middle of her chamber, torn between shame and hysteria, emotions she had no use for. She had always found the few days of her monthly bleeding to be more of an annoyance than anything else, and in the grind of activity since the armies left Winterfell, hadn't missed it. She knew what it all meant, of course. The septa in Evenfall had drilled it into her, because it was her duty to bear heirs for her future husband. One hand covered her mouth as the realization dawned that she'd most likely been pregnant when Jaime left. 'Fuck Jaime Lannister,' she muttered. She paced around the small room, needing to do something so she didn't start screaming. Out of habit, she added a few sticks of wood to the fire, then unlaced the jerkin, pulling it off and dropping it over the back of a chair. She did the same with her tunic, the long strip of linen she'd used to bind her breasts, and then removed her boots and then pulled off her breeches and smalls. Once Brienne was completely naked, her hands rose and cupped her breasts. They had always been small in proportion to the rest of her body, and she'd never had to bind them. Until now , she mused. They were fuller, heavier. Her thumbs brushed over the nipples. They were achingly sensitive. Her hands moved further down, over her belly. She looked down and frowned. She didn't look pregnant. Just as if she'd had far more than her share of rabbit pie, but she imagined that would change soon enough. Brienne felt a flutter under her hands. The same flutter she'd dismissed as gas just that morning. Quickening , the midwife had called it.

Brienne slid into bed and curled around one of the pillows. Sansa's solution was the sensible one, but people were imperfect, as Brienne well knew. Cared for wasn't loved. Between the end of the battle and the night he'd left, Jaime had spoken of his childhood from time to time. He'd certainly been well-cared for. He'd never gone hungry. Always had warm clothing on his back and shoes on his feet. The finest of everything Lannister gold could purchase. But never the love of a parent. Brienne's father had loved her. Enough to see she would never fit into the traditional mold of a lady and taught her how to fight. Enough to outfit her with armor and a sword. Enough to let her be who she was and not who he wanted her to be.

She buried her face into the pillow. It had been Jaime's while he shared her bed. The scent of him had faded, but Brienne could still recall it. Horses, leather, the sweat of exertion. The soap used in Winterfell's baths. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent… Brienne didn't take vows lightly.

Was it just to hand her child over to another person to raise, because of the circumstances of its conception? To allow it to face the inevitable questions about its paternity with no real answers? Was it brave to let someone else tell Jaime Lannister's story?

Defend the innocent .

Must children pay for the mistakes of their parents? Was she the kind of person who would lay the sins - both real and perceived - of Jaime Lannister on the head of an innocent child? Of course not. She was better than that.

When the sun rose, Brienne dressed, and made her way to the hall. She found Sansa poring over a ledger, a half-eaten roll at her elbow. 'My lady,' Brienne said quietly, bowing. Sansa looked up and laid down the quill. Brienne met her inquiring gaze. 'I thank you for your offer, but no. I took a vow to defend the innocent.' One hand splayed across her belly. 'The child is an innocent, and I won't force it to pay for my mistakes. Or for his.'