Jaime leaned against the wall, shifting as unobtrusively as he could on the hard stool so as not to disturb the laboring mare. He didn't have to be in the stables for this. He could be in his comfortable bed right now, but he'd avoided being inside the castle as much as possible. Anything to avoid the quiet reproach in Brienne's eyes. Gods, but she was stubborn, nearly to the point of being unyielding at times. After their explosive argument, Brienne had retreated into the aloof persona she'd had when Catelyn Stark passed him into her custody. She hadn't restricted his access to Nikolas, however, something for which Jaime was grateful. He tried to memorize every curve and hollow of Nikolas' face, the sound of his laughs, the sturdy weight of the child in his arms. He'd surreptitiously clipped a lock of Nikolas's hair, the ends bound together with thread and tucked it away inside the incongruously delicate handkerchief he'd stolen from a cupboard in Brienne's chamber.

Jaime hadn't expected to find contentment in such a simple life. But he had. Deep down it was the kind of life he'd always wanted. Away from the politics and machinations from the court. Where nobody called him Kingslayer. Or expected him to live up to a reputation based on his family name. The horses only cared that he was on time with their feed and generous with the apples and carrots. There was a pace and rhythm to his day, punctuated by the hours with his son.

He'd often wondered, in the interlude between wakefulness and slumber, what if he had done as Brienne had asked and stayed?

'Foal's not moving,' Osric muttered, breaking into Jaime's musings. The mare's whinnies grew louder and more agitated. 'Best see what the problem is.' Jaime said nothing, but removed his shirt, yanking it over his head. He'd left it unlaced on the chance the mare might need help. 'Done this before?' Osric asked skeptically.

'A few times,' Jaime admitted. He'd been pressed into service a few times at Casterly Rock when he was a boy, and a handful of times in King's Landing when he'd bred the few horses he'd brought from the Rock. Osric grunted and smeared something oily over Jaime's left arm. Jaime carefully entered the box and knelt behind the mare, sliding his hand and arm inside. A contraction squeezed his arm before he could get his hand on the foal. If Brienne's labors were half as painful as this, I owe her an apology, Jaime thought, gritting his teeth until the contraction passed. He could feel the head was turned in the right direction, but the hooves were side by side. Another contraction gripped his arm. He couldn't imagine enduring this for two days as she had. Jaime bit down on his lip, tasting blood, but vastly preferring a torn lip to disturbing the mare even further. He moved one hoof so that the leg was extended further than the other. The hoof pushed his hand out with the next contraction, and Jaime got to his feet and backed out of the box.

'Hot water back there.' Osric jerked his head toward a brazier, where a large pitcher of water rested on top of it. 'Get washed and find your bed. I got the rest.'

Jaime nodded and plucked his shirt up with his hook from the stool he'd vacated. His left arm was coated with some of the less pleasant aspects of horse and the oil Osric had spread over his arm. Another stool near the brazier boasted a rough square of burlap and a chunk of soap sitting inside a small basin. Jaime quickly washed his torso, then donned his shirt. The thought of climbing the winding staircase to his bed proved daunting. He glanced at the sky through one of the windows. It was still dark, but dawn wasn't far off. Jaime headed for Winter's box and curled under his cloak, on a pile of clean straw and fell asleep.

Jaime shoved at whatever was nosing his hair. A horse whickered in his ear, and Jaime opened his eyes to find Winter standing over him. He pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned against the side of the box. Judging by the activity in the stables, it was well past their morning feed. 'My, how the tables have turned.' Jaime squinted at the sight of Tyrion, face just visible over the edge of the box door, grinning smugly. 'It was usually me waking up in the stables or a dog kennel.'

'What are you doing here?' Jaime grumbled, finger-combing straw from his hair.

'It's my nephew's first name day,' Tyrion proclaimed. 'I've brought him a gift.'

Jaime nodded, cobwebs beginning to clear enough to recall that Sansa had sent a raven informing them of Tyrion's imminent visit a couple of weeks ago. He slowly stood up, using the side of the box for assistance and stretched. He gave Winter a pat, then opened the box door. Jaime limped out of the stables, Tyrion beside him. As soon as they stepped into the bright courtyard, Jaime spun and wound his fingers in Tyrion's doublet, nearly lifting his brother off his feet and all but slammed him into a wall. 'Give me one reason why I shouldn't ram my fist down your throat,' Jaime growled.

'Because you love me,' Tyrion rasped.

'Why did you keep him from me?'

Tyrion pushed ineffectively at Jaime's hand. 'Who?'

'Nikolas.' Jaime's hand dropped, and Tyrion's feet landed on the ground.

'I didn't know about him myself until just before he was born,' Tyrion protested. 'And I see someone finally gave the boy a name.' He straightened his doublet, smoothing the wrinkles left by Jaime's fist. 'It's about time, too.'

'And once you did, at no time did you see fit to inform me,' Jaime spat. He strode away for a few paces, then doubled back. He glowered at Tyrion, then shook his head, words colliding on his tongue, restraining himself from punching his brother's nose into his skull. 'You lied to me,' he managed.

'I did no such thing. I merely withheld information.'

'Never meddle in my affairs again. I am not one of your political schemes.' Jaime hobbled away, desiring nothing more than to soak his aching bones and then sleep until dinner.

Brienne folded her arms over the top of the door to the box that held the small, shaggy pony Tyrion had brought for Nikolas. 'I thought I said no to a pony as a name day gift.'

'You said no such thing,' Tyrion retorted. 'Not an outright refusal. And Sansa chose it,' he added, knowing Brienne wouldn't refuse the gift if Sansa had a hand in it.

'Why did you tell me Jaime died?'

'Several reasons, none of which I have to reveal to you.' Tyrion twisted, studying Brienne's face, set in impassive lines that he knew concealed a host of roiling emotions. 'We thought he was going to die. Especially the first few weeks after King's Landing. He was never conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, and when he was, he was delirious. We couldn't risk bringing in a maester.' Tyrion leaned against the box door. 'If it had been known he was in the Red Keep during Daenerys Targareyan's attack on King's Landing, more than one of the Unsullied would have torn him limb from limb as her enemy. So we told everyone he was dead.' A muscle in his jaw jumped. 'I did it to protect what remains of my family. Jaime was the only one who ever saw me as such, so I was willing to do whatever it took to ensure he survived.' His chin lifted with a hint of defiance. 'I would do it again.'

Brienne exhaled forcefully. Her interactions with the Unsullied had given her the impression that they made her look flexible. She had to grudgingly admit Tyrion had been in the right as far as making Jaime Lannister's death official. 'Why did he come here?' She eyed her hands, picking at a broken fingernail, cringing at the forlorn tone of her voice.

'You would have to ask Jaime, but considering you're not speaking to one another, that might prove difficult.'

'Did you tell him I'd left Winterfell?'

Tyrion winced inwardly, and schooled his face into the mask he'd worn at court. 'No,' he said. 'Nor did I tell him where you'd gone.' The three word note he'd sent to Jaime certainly hadn't revealed Brienne's definitive location. Brienne gazed at the pony, hands gripping the top rail of the box door so tightly, Tyrion wondered if she had splinters embedded in each fingertip. 'Why aren't you speaking to one another? He won't breathe a word, and he's only spoken of his departure from Winterfell in broad terms.' Again, another tiny lie.

Brienne frowned. 'You'll have to ask him,' she said evenly and left the stables.

'That child is filthy,' Tyrion commented, eyeing the smudges on Nikolas' clothing and face.

Jaime shrugged. 'So I'll give him a bath before handing him over to Brienne.' He bent and briskly brushed the bits of dry grass and dust from Nikolas' bottom

'How do you do it?' Tyrion asked, watching Jaime hoist Nikolas to his hip.

'Do what?' Jaime pointed to a vaguely horse-shaped rag doll in the grass. 'Do you mind picking that up? He'll scream bloody murder if it isn't in his crib when he goes to sleep.'

Tyrion grabbed the horse, brushing bits of hay off it. 'You and the boy.'

'It's easy enough,' Jaime replied. 'I think of what Tywin Lannister would have done.' He grinned slyly. 'Then I do the exact opposite.' He began the trek back to the castle. Winter was coming. He could feel it in the winds that came from the north. Not the long, unrelenting winters of his youth, but a season out of legend that only lasted a few months and not years. He wondered if it had something to do with the defeat of the Night King, but that kind of thinking was Tyrion's specialty, not his. 'Why do you ask?' He nudged Tyrion in the ankle with the toe of his boot. 'Have you consummated your marriage yet?'

'That is none of your business,' Tyrion said stiffly.

'Says the man whose appetites in bed once rivaled Robert Baratheon's.' Jaime chuckled at the glower Tyrion sent him. 'Is your wife expecting a child?'

'No.' Tyrion squeezed the rag doll. 'Soon, I - we - hope.' He watched Jaime smooth his hand over Nikolas' hair. He'd overheard some of the maids whispering amongst themselves that Brienne was going to bring ruin onto their heads, and no decent person would consent to work in such a household. She'd brought that Jaime into the house, and now he was making preparations to leave. They'd whispered about it being the blood of the Tarths. How their mothers and grandmothers told them about Selwyn's string of mistresses that stayed in the lady's chamber, some longer than others, but never more than a year. Tyrion didn't know whether to believe what he saw in front of him - that Jaime clearly adored his son and made a far better father than theirs had ever been; or what he'd heard when he was obviously not meant to hear it.

Jaime walked into his chamber to find Tyrion sitting at the table in front of the fire with a jug of wine and two cups. 'Would you care to explain this?' Tyrion asked, nudging one of Jaime's half-packed saddlebags with the toe of his boot.

Jaime threw himself into the other chair. He indicated the jug of wine, condensation gathering on it. 'No game tonight. Only drinking.'

Tyrion poured wine into each cup. 'Very well.' He motioned to the saddlebags. 'Why?'

'I'm leaving with you.' Jaime quickly downed his wine and reached for the jug. If truth could be found in the bottom of a jug of wine, then so could oblivion, and he found he badly needed the latter in order to continue this conversation.

'What does Brienne say about this?' Tyrion hadn't missed the glances they sent when the other wasn't paying attention.

Jaime set his cup down. 'I don't know. I haven't informed her yet.'

Tyrion frowned. 'How do you feel about her?'

'It's complicated.'

'It's not. It's a simple as do you love her?'

'Do you love your wife?' Jaime challenged, as he took another swallow of wine.

'There is a great deal of respect between us.' Tyrion held his cup up and examined the vines and leaves engraved on the sides. 'My situation with Sansa is vastly dissimilar to yours with Brienne. Father forced us to marry. You chose Brienne.'

Jaime finished the wine in his cup and idly spun the cup on the table. 'I know enough to know shouldn't stay with her,' he allowed. 'She deserves better than one such as I. All I've ever done for her is tarnish her once-sterling reputation.'

'And given her a child.'

Jaime splashed more wine into his cup. 'A child born on the wrong side of the sheet,' he corrected. 'Another black mark on her name, courtesy of me.' He drained the cup.

'And where do you intend to go this time?' Tyrion inquired. 'The last we spoke about this, Penthos was not an option, and neither was Winterfell.'

Jaime inspected the contents of the jug and poured more wine into his cup. 'The Wall still exists, does it not?'

'It does,' Tyrion said shortly. Jamie gave him a significant look over the rim of his cup. Tyrion clapped a hand over his mouth before he could spew wine done the front of his doublet. 'But you hate the fucking North,' he spluttered, wiping wine from his chin. Jaime remained silent. 'Jaime Lannister would never agree to this.'

'Jaime Lannister no longer exists,' Jaime reminded his brother sharply.

'Oh. So you're just going to toddle off to the Wall, take the black, and abandon your son?'

'Don't,' Jaime snarled softly, distress sharpening the edge of his voice.

'Do you even know what it's like on the Wall?'

'Cold enough to freeze my balls off, I imagine.'

'And your cock, too. Good thing you won't be needing them there.' Tyrion sat back. 'Are you planning to send a raven to Tormund Giantsbane? To inform him the big woman no longer has you to stand between them?'

'If that's your attempt at humor, it's not very funny,' Jaime commented darkly.

'Don't you think you've atoned for your sins enough?' Tyrion asked.

Jaime gulped a swallow of wine. 'Evidently not.'

Tyrion slid off the chair and rounded the table to where Jaime sat. He jabbed him in the chest. 'Are you going to go beyond the Wall? Hmmmm? Crawl into a cave and freeze to death?'

'No.' Even as he rejected the idea, it appealed to the darker corners of Jaime's mind. It wouldn't be the first time he'd contemplated suicide. Brienne - or the memory of her - had always brought him back from the brink before. Even now, men didn't grow old on the Wall. Winter's grip might have been broken, but the Wall was still a cold and forbidding place.

Tyrion's hand curled into a fist, ready to give Jaime the good clout over the head that he sorely needed. But Jaime wasn't a child who needed to learn manners. 'I've never in my life seen you run away from a fight. You've usually charged straight into the battle, sword swinging. Why are you giving up and running away now?'

Jaime poured the last of the wine from the jug into his cup. 'I've been fighting it for six months. I have no hope of winning this, so I yield.' He tilted the cup over his mouth and drank it in a single gulp. 'Now get out,' he rasped, 'and leave me be.'

'I never thought I'd see the day when you admitted to being a coward.' Tyrion stomped from the chamber, slamming the door behind him.