A/N: This was actually a very hard chapter to write. I just had a hard time in editing and kept feeling like it wasn't enough. Also, I have been truly lucky in labor. My first kid came in 8 hours and my second in 4 hours... I don't have any idea how a long labor feels.
Chapter 9
Brienne's screams reverberated through the corridors. Labor had been far too long and her cries were becoming more and more despairing. Selwyn paced helplessly outside the door along with Arya. Sansa had been in caring for Brienne since fetching Maester Myrton and the widow woman, Clara, the night before. They all knew that they were in dangerous territory. The child should have been born by now and with each passing hour the risk of losing Brienne and the baby increased.
Sansa came out of the room to get fresh water and linens. Selwyn rushed to her. Sansa's eyes were dull and heavy from fatigue. Her hair had been pulled back, but some had fallen loose and was caked to her face with sweat. He searched her face for any sign of hope that things were finally going better. Her eyes met his briefly before looking down to her hands.
"I'm sorry Lord Selwyn, there has been no progress." Another cry echoed from the room. Sansa drew in a ragged breath, "You should probably spend some time at the sept."
Sansa quickly departed to attend her duties. Selwyn was frozen. He had lost everyone else. Not Brienne as well. He couldn't bear it. He was certain that his heart would stop if hers did. Without a word he made his way to the sept to pray leaving Arya to stand alone in the hall. They didn't have a godswood on Tarth- not that she prayed to her father's gods anymore. She hadn't been a follower of her mother's faith either. She wasn't sure if the Many-Faced God would hear her outside the House of Black and White. So she just stood there and listened to the screams.
Selwyn entered the large, lowly lit sept. The building had been designed to be lit by the sun, but in winter the sun was hidden more often than not. It didn't matter. It could be black as night and he would still know his way around. He had spent much of his time there since Brienne had left to join Renly and it hadn't slowed when he learned she was to be mother. He knelt before the Father. This was his usual alter to pray upon. Today though, it was just the first. He begged the father to allow him to keep his only living child. That if a life was required, to take his and spare his child. Of all the people in the world, she did not deserve to die so young. Then he asked the Mother to be merciful to their mother-to-be and to give her the strength to live. He moved to the Maiden. He wasn't quite certain what to ask of her, except to spare his daughter despite her tarnished virtue, for she was still such an innocent child. He prayed to the Smith to guide the maester and give him the tools to help his daughter. He asked the crone to embody the widow woman to pull them all through with her knowledge and wisdom. He asked the Warrior to give his daughter and her child the strength to survive in this battle against an unforgiving enemy. She had always served him, and he hoped it had not been in vain. Finally, he approached the Stranger. No father wanted to kneel before the Stranger in regard to his child. He simply asked the Stranger to stay away from his family until it was his time to go. He sat in silence for a while before returning to his post beyond his daughter's door.
The second night drug on like day before it. Just after midnight, Clara convinced Maester Myrton to give her milk of the poppy, despite the effects it could have on the child. Brienne's strength had been fading and if she didn't get some relief, they would lose her. Brienne had protested until Sansa swore she would stay beside her and protect her as Brienne had done for her. Reluctantly, Brienne nodded her head. She was beyond exhausted. She had never felt more pain and unrelenting at that. The first day hadn't been too dreadful, but as time drug on, she was given less and less reprieve. It felt like someone had taken a blacksmith's hammer to her lower back. The pain that ripped through her abdomen was sheer agony that didn't rest any longer. And she was scared. She knew she shouldn't still be trying to birth her baby. She worried that she would lose her child. She was worried that they would both be lost. Her consciousness began to wane as the milk of the poppy did its job. She felt her body loosen and her mind grow fuzzy. She prayed this would give her the ability to go on before she drifted away.
The brief morning rays found Brienne with more strength. Her body had worked throughout the night, but she had been able to rest through it. The struggle continued with renewed energy until midday. Sansa held one leg and the maester held the other as she pushed with everything she had in her. Clara was giving them direction as she stood between Brienne's legs to help guide the child from her body. With a few more world renting pushes and a burning sensation that made her believe she was actually on fire- she felt the child slip from her body.
The room was silent. There were no tiny wails that should fill the room. There was no excited doting over the newborn babe. Brienne didn't need them to tell her that her baby was gone. Sansa tried to hide her face from her so that she wouldn't see her tears, but it was far too difficult with her hair pinned up. Maester Myrton cut the cord that attached the child to her body and took over helping her expel the afterbirth while Clara wiped the baby clean and wrapped the tiny body in a blanket.
"He was a boy." She said quietly as she brought him to his mother.
Brienne wasn't sure she could bear holding him. She had wanted nothing more for so long, but he was just an empty shell. He never even drew his first breath. Her heart broke as Clara rested him into her arms. He was beautiful. She stared at him for some time, praying she would see his chest rise and fall with life and his eyes flutter. He remained still.
"Sansa," Brienne's voice was ragged from the hours of screaming and weight of her grief.
"Yes, Brienne?" She was right beside her, yearning for a sign of life as well.
"Would you bring the clothes you made? Um, the one you made with Tarth colors and Sandor's sigil. And the direwolf blanket. Those are what he shall be buried in."
"Of course." Her hand skimmed the fine chestnut hair on his tiny head before resting it on Brienne's hand. "I am so sorry Brienne."
Brienne couldn't look at her for she was certain she would break if she did. They had both shared so much excitement and hope for the future. What was there now? If Winterfell still stood, Sansa and Arya would go home and resume their lives. Would she even go with them? She was their sworn sword, but being home and knowing how much her father and Tarth needed her for the future weighed heavily upon her. And Sandor was right to believe she would change her mind. She did want a family- she just hadn't known before. While she desperately wanted Sandor, she would have been satisfied with only their son. If he had died or simply didn't want them, she believed she would have been content with what she had. Now she was lost again. She thought she had been lost so many times before- when Renly died, when Jaime left her with Locke at Harrenhal, as she rode away from Winterfell with the Stark girls. Those events seemed so trivial now.
She stared at his perfect face as Sansa left the room. She heard her father bellow his anguish in the hall. They did not come in. She wondered if Sansa had asked them not to just yet or if they just knew she would need some time. She reached up to run her fingers along his cheek and around his tiny ear. Her hand ran along the fine hair that Sansa had stroked moments ago. He was so perfect. She wondered what had gone wrong. He seemed no larger than any other baby. Had she worried too much? She had tried not to. She had support all around her, after all, but the Maester had warned her... Had she eaten improperly? With winter heavily upon them, it had been hard to find a good balance. She had stopped sparring moons ago. She had tried to do everything right. Why wasn't he alive?
Sansa slipped back in quietly. She set the articles on the bed by her hip before turning to the Maester and Clara. Brienne could faintly hear her ask them if she needed any further, immediate, attention. They must not have needed to tend to her right away because she heard Sansa beckoning them to leave the room with her.
Once she was alone, Brienne moved the baby in front of her. One hand held his head while the other hand and arm supported his body. She couldn't look away from him. She hadn't picked out a name for him. She simply hadn't been able to come up with one. She had considered naming him after her father or brother or Sandor himself, but she discarded them. She had hoped to give him his own name, but she found that she was useless when it came to names. Her mind spun around and around. He had to have a name. It wasn't right to bury him as "Baby Storm."
"Duncan." She whispered. After she had begun training with Ser Goodwin, she had found a beautiful shield hidden away in the armory. She had never seen the likes of it before. As she did a bit of reading in her father's library, she discovered that the shield was painted with Ser Duncan's personal sigil. When she asked her father how it had ended up on Tarth, he simply told her that it had just been something collected long ago. She felt that he knew more. Yes, Ser Duncan was Kingsguard, Lord Commander even, but many men fathered children despite their vows. Jaime had fathered three after all. She didn't know if she had descended from him, but she was going to use the name regardless.
She gently laid him on the bed between her legs and unwrapped the linen blanket. She held his tiny hands between her large fingers for a moment. He was already so cold. She let go and reached for the clothing she had requested. She had never touched a baby before and dressing him was awkward. She knew he couldn't feel anything, but she was incredibly careful anyway. Once he was clothed, she lifted him so that she could slide the new blanket under him and wrap him up. She didn't have the strength to stand, so she cradled him in her arms again and rested until someone returned.
