Chapter Thirty-six
Jaime had no intention of going to find Bronn. He had just wanted to hear Brienne's reaction to the idea of him spending the night in a brothel. Although she pretended otherwise, she was a jealous creature at heart. Or maybe the word was territorial. She had already staked her claim on him, and she was not about to let anyone come between them.
There was so much Jaime still wanted to say to Brienne, so much he wanted to explain, but she didn't want to talk about the past. When they were alone together in his bed, Brienne lying in his arms, they only talked about the here and now, of their feelings for each other and how grateful they were for the second chance they'd been given. They never talked about the past or the future. The past was too painful, and the future was too uncertain.
His mind on Brienne, Jaime aimlessly wandered toward the Tower of the Hand, not thinking about where he was going. He needed to talk, and there was only one person in King's Landing he could talk to besides Brienne, and that was his brother.
A few minutes later, Jaime reached Tyrion's solar, carelessly opening the door without knocking. But instead of being greeted by a friendly hello, the first thing he heard was swearing.
"Fuck!" Tyrion cursed lightly before hollering across the room, "A moment, please!"
Jaime stopped, the door half-open. He couldn't see Tyrion, but he could hear the shuffling of feet and the telltale rustling of clothing.
A spark of cold realization flushed the length of Jaime's spine. "I'm sorry," he mumbled as he quickly stepped out into the hallway again, closing the door behind him. Jaime didn't know whether he should feel embarrassed or amused. He'd completely forgotten that he'd sent Sansa Stark in Tyrion's direction, and now, he'd obviously walked in on them in the middle of a very private moment. He couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.
Jaime stepped away from the door, determined to return to his own chamber to give Tyrion and Sansa their privacy, but before he could get very far, the door opened and Tyrion called after him. "Jaime!"
Jaime swung around to find Tyrion standing no more than ten feet away, fully clothed, with a telltale ruddiness to his cheeks. Had it been anyone else, Jaime would have thought the flush of color was a sign of embarrassment, but knowing Tyrion, it had more to do with exertion than with mortification. No doubt, he and Sansa had been involved in some rather vigorous activity before they'd been interrupted.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Jaime said, trying rather unsuccessfully to keep the amusement from his voice.
"You're not intruding. Queen Sansa and I were just discussing wedding plans. That was why you sent her to me, wasn't it? Wedding plans?"
"Something like that."
Just as Jaime said it, Sansa stepped into view. Unlike his brother, she looked as cool and calm as ever. Had Jaime not known any better, he would have genuinely believed that all she and Tyrion had been doing was talking.
"Lord Jaime," Sansa greeted him cordially.
"We meet again, Your Grace."
"So it seems, though I was just leaving. I have promised to meet King Bran within the hour, and I must prepare."
"Of course." Jaime stepped aside, clearing Sansa's path to the corridor.
As she crossed the threshold, she cast a sidelong glance at Tyrion, the hint of a smile on her lips. "Lord Tyrion."
"Your Grace."
Tyrion's eyes followed Sansa down the hallway, clearly captivated by the very sight of her. Even after she disappeared around a corner, he still gazed helplessly on, his heart and mind thoroughly enraptured.
Jaime cleared his throat loudly, finally drawing Tyrion's attention back to him. He gave Tyrion a knowing look.
"What?" Tyrion snapped.
Jaime didn't say a word. He just walked past Tyrion and into his solar, waiting for his brother to join him.
A moment later, Tyrion was inside the room. He closed the door behind him and turned to look at Jaime, holding up both his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. "It's not what you think."
"Oh, isn't it? And how do you know what I think?"
Tyrion dropped his hands to his sides. "I can tell by the look on your face that you think you know what was going on in this room before you so rudely interrupted, but I can assure you, it was nothing of the sort."
A half smile quirked Jaime's lips as he stared down at Tyrion. Ordinarily, Tyrion was an excellent liar, but not today. "And whose honor are you trying to protect?" Jaime asked. "Hers or yours?"
"Hers, of course. I don't have any honor."
"I don't know if I'd agree with that. But does the Queen in the North really need anyone to protect her honor? It seems to me, she's a strong woman and wholly capable of protecting herself."
"She is."
"Then why the lie?"
Tyrion turned away then and headed straight for the table in the center of the room. He picked up a flagon of wine and poured a full glass, turning around to offer it to Jaime. "Drink?"
"You didn't answer my question."
Tyrion didn't reply. Instead, he downed half the glass himself, then turned around and refilled it to the brim. He kept his back to Jaime as he stared out the window on the far side of the room. "I don't like to lie to family."
"Good. Because I don't like to lie to family either."
"It's just . . ." Tyrion sighed. "Sansa, she's not like other women. At least, not on the surface. People expect her to be a certain way. She's not allowed to be human. She always has to be aloof and in control, never vulnerable or less than perfect. She wants everyone to believe the best of her because they have to believe the best of her. She's a queen. She can show no frailties or desires beyond the desire to serve her people."
"Do you really think I'm going to think less of her if I knew what was really going on in this room before I opened the door?"
Tyrion shook his head, still refusing to look at Jaime. "I don't know. I just don't want to do anything to disgrace her, that's all, and I fear that just being married to me is some kind of disgrace in its own right." Tyrion lifted the glass again and swallowed half its contents. This time, at least, he didn't refill it.
"You can't possibly believe that, can you?"
Tyrion finally turned around and looked at Jaime, the glass still in his hand. "And why not? I've already corrupted her. The Sansa Stark of old would never have been caught dead in a man's solar doing what she—" Tyrion's face turned an even darker shade of red. "Never mind."
Jaime laughed. He knew it wasn't helpful in the least, but he simply couldn't stop himself. "You're turning into a very curmudgeonly old man, do you know that?"
"I am an old man."
"Watch it," Jaime warned, pointing a finger at Tyrion. "I'm older than you."
"Yes, you may be older in years, but you're younger in so many ways. You're still as handsome and robust as ever."
"Not quite as robust," Jaime corrected, still acutely aware of all the strength and muscle he had lost while convalescing after he'd escaped King's Landing.
"Still, close enough. And you have a beautiful woman desperately in love with you."
"So do you."
Tyrion nodded. "Yes, I do, though I still can't imagine why. Do you have any idea why?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on Jaime in question.
Jaime moved closer to Tyrion, leaning his hip against the edge of the table. "You're asking me why Sansa loves you? Don't you know why?"
"I know what she says, though I still find it all difficult to believe."
It was hard for Jaime to see Tyrion like this. Tyrion was about to get everything he had ever wanted in life, and yet, he still had doubts about his worthiness. He didn't think he deserved Sansa Stark any more than Jaime thought he deserved Brienne. But luckily for them both, the gods knew better, and they'd both been given a second chance at happiness.
"I think," Jaime said, reaching across the table and slipping the glass from Tyrion's hand, "that Sansa Stark is just happy to have a man in her life that she can trust. You've always been kind to her, thoughtful, considerate. You've always put her needs before your own desires, and I think that makes you unique among all the men she's ever known. You're a good man, Tyrion, and Sansa sees that."
"But is that all she sees? A good man? Because if it is, she's destined for some serious disappointment. I've never been good." Tyrion lowered his head, a shadow falling across his eyes. "The things I've done—"
"You've always been good," Jaime said, determined to keep his brother from wallowing in self-pity when he had more than enough reason to celebrate. "You've always tried to be kind and compassionate. You're the best of us, you know. You always were."
Tyrion laughed, the sound bitter in his throat. "That's quite amusing, actually."
"And why is it amusing?"
Tyrion looked up at Jaime again. "Because Sansa once told me the exact same thing, though she wasn't referring to us Lannisters. Oh, no. She was referring to all the wretched men who had ever come in and out of her life. I thought that was a terrifying thought then, and I think it's a terrifying thought now."
Jaime shook his head. He raised the half empty glass to his lips, drinking down its contents before returning it to the table. Then, he took a step back, eyeing Tyrion pointedly. "Please tell me you're not going to do something to ruin this."
"What?" Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise. "No, of course not. I know what I've got, and I'm going to do my best not to ruin it, though that may prove difficult."
"Anything worth fighting for usually is."
"True." Tyrion sighed. He turned back toward the table, searching for the glass of wine as if he'd already forgotten that Jaime had emptied it. When he found the glass again, he made no move to refill it, for which Jaime was glad. "What about you and Brienne?" Tyrion asked. "Is there any chance it will last?"
"I hope so, though she seems doubtful. I can't ask her to give up her post for me, but she seems to think I can't stay here for the rest of my life either."
"You can't." Tyrion's eyes met Jaime's again. "You know that, don't you? Not as Lord of Casterly Rock."
"Yes, I know. I've heard this before. Brienne and I have a great deal to settle between us, but there's no hurry. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and neither is she."
"Good. I'm glad. Because honestly, Jaime, I think—no, I know—that Brienne of Tarth is the best thing that has ever happened to you. I'm just happy that she was willing to give you another chance."
"So am I."
Jamie sighed heavily, not knowing what else there was to say. It had been a long few days, and now that the revelry was over, life was starting to go back to normal, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. If the feasting and dancing and lovemaking could have lasted forever, Jaime would have been perfectly content. But the celebrating was at an end, and it was time for things to return to the way they once had been.
"Why the frown?" Tyrion asked, his eyes fixed on Jaime's face.
Jaime blinked his vision back into focus. "Was I frowning?"
"You were. Thinking about how much you'll miss me when I'm gone?"
Jaime laughed. "Hardly. I will miss you, brother. But I know you'll be happy at Winterfell. And I know I'll see you again."
"I will write often. You know I will."
"Yes, I know."
"And when our first child is born, I'll be sure to invite you to the celebration."
Had circumstances been different, Jaime might have asked if Sansa was already with child, but that would have been a foolish question. She and Tyrion had only reconciled two nights earlier, and even if they'd made love a hundred times since then, there would be no way for either of them to know if they'd already conceived a child. Unless, of course, Bran had imparted the news, but Jaime seriously doubted that.
Tyrion had always liked children, though he'd never really talked about having any of his own. Jaime knew Tyrion would make a wonderful father, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. He missed his own children dearly, Myrcella, Tommen . . . even Joffrey. He missed them so damn much that it hurt sometimes, but he never talked about it. He kept their memory—and the memory of the unborn babe who had died in Cersei's womb—deep in the recesses of his heart, where no one could ever touch them.
"And do you think they'll be many children?" Jaime asked with a wry smile.
"Oh, I should hope so. Ned and Catelyn Stark had five. I'm sure Sansa wants just as many."
Jaime's smile widened. "And what do you want, dear brother?"
"For the woman I love to be happy."
"Yes, but as far as children are concerned—?"
"You know me, Jaime. I've always secretly wished for children of my own, though I've never really had the strength to give voice to that hope. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Of siring a dwarf. I know that no matter what our children are like, Sansa will love them all equally. She will make a fierce mother wolf. But I mourn for any child who is born with my affliction. It is not an easy life, and I would not wish it on anyone, especially my own flesh and blood."
Jaime shook his head, his eyes softening on his brother. "Oh, Tyrion, what have we done to you?"
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means, yes, life is always going to be hard for a child born a dwarf. But life is always hard for children who are crippled or children who are poor or children who are neglected. Hell, life is going to be hard for any child born in the aftermath of all these dreadful wars. But the thing that's important, Tyrion, the thing that makes all the difference, is love. If you'd had more love, more support—from father, from Cersei . . . from me—your life would have been different, your life would have been better. No matter what kind of children you and Sansa welcome into your lives, you will love them all unconditionally, and you will make them feel happy and loved and wanted, and that, Tyrion, will make all the difference."
By the time Jaime finished, there were tears pooling in Tyrion's eyes, and he turned his head so that Jaime couldn't see them quite so clearly. He stared out the window again, his gaze settling somewhere off in the distance. "You're right," he said, sniffling back unshed tears. "I have nothing to fear. Sansa loves me—gods know why—and she will love whatever children we bring into this world, just as much as I will."
"Exactly. So there is nothing for you to fear. Your life will be filled with love and joy, and you will never be alone again."
It took Tyrion a moment to pull himself together. Finally, he turned his attention back to Jaime. "And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You deserve love and happiness just as much as I do, and I don't want to see you alone ever again."
"I'm not alone. I have Brienne."
"But for how long? Jaime," Tyrion took a step closer, as if he intended to deliver a dire warning, "you can't stay in King's Landing forever. Someday, you will have to return to Casterly Rock and you will have to take a wife. I know that's not what you want to hear. But if you don't, you will end up alone. You'll never marry, you'll never have children again, and you'll be utterly miserable."
"I'd be utterly miserable without Brienne."
"Then can't . . . can't you convince her to change her mind? Can't you convince her to go with you? I know how hard she's worked to get where she is, how much her position means to her. But can't you persuade her to sacrifice it for you?"
"And break her vow of lifelong service to the Kingsguard?"
"There is no vow of lifelong service to the Kingsguard. Not anymore. Bran did away with that as well as the vow of celibacy."
The breath caught in Jaime's throat, Tyrion's words hitting him like a punch to the gut. It hadn't occurred to Jaime that there might not be a vow of lifelong service anymore, and the fact that there wasn't, made Brienne's reluctance to talk about the future even more painful. Though, truth be told, it didn't matter one way or the other. Even if Brienne was free to leave the Kingsguard, to leave King's Landing, Jaime could never ask her to sacrifice her happiness for his own. She'd already sacrificed so much for him—her virtue, her honor, her pride. He couldn't ask her to give up anything more, not when he didn't deserve it. Brienne had worked hard to become a knight, to become the first female Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. How could he ask her to give all that up just to bear his children and warm his bed?
"No," Jaime said, shaking his head, "I can't. Brienne has made up her mind—I'm sure of it—and I have no intention of asking her to change it. I love her. You know that I do. And she loves me. But some things are more important than love."
"Nothing's more important than love," Tyrion replied, his voice heavy with conviction. "You must at least ask her, Jaime. For both your sakes. Don't do what you did last time. Don't make the decision for her. If you want to prove your love—prove that you've changed, prove that you've learned your lesson—then don't make the same mistake twice."
Jaime stared at Tyrion for a long moment, absorbing every last word. Tyrion had a point. Jaime had no right to assume that he knew what Brienne wanted. He owed it to her to at least ask her to go with him to Casterly Rock, to let the choice be hers. He couldn't go on deciding things for her. That was the mistake he had made when he'd left Winterfell, and he would never make that mistake again.
"You're right," Jaime said, unable to fight the truth any longer. "Even though I know I'll never be worthy of her, even though I don't feel I have any right to ask, I shall let the decision be Brienne's. I shall ask her once, and if she refuses, I shall not ask again. Is that enough for you, brother?"
"It's a start."
"It's a start and an end. I shall leave the decision in Brienne's hands, and whatever happens, may the gods have mercy on us both."
