Chapter Two

The next morning, Tyrion awoke to the unwelcome clamor of a small army of servants invading his private bedchamber. A moment later, the curtains were drawn and a stream of unforgiving sunlight blazed across his face. He forced his eyes open, feeling groggy and disoriented, only realizing after he was fully awake what had happened the night before.

Tyrion pushed himself up onto one elbow so he could look down at Sansa. Her skin was tinged a cerulean blue, and her body was as stiff as a board. Suddenly, Tyrion was paralyzed with fear, afraid that if he even breathed, he might fall apart. He knew he had to let Sansa go, but he simply didn't have the strength.

"It's morning, my lord." Maester Wolkan's voice carried to Tyrion from the other side of the bed. "We must prepare her for burial now. It's time."

Tyrion raised his eyes to stare at Maester Wolkan, unable to even lift his head. He knew he should nod his understanding, but he simply couldn't manage it. Thankfully, Jaime came to his rescue, moving up behind him and answering Maester Wolkan himself.

"Lord Tyrion shall be leaving shortly. He just requires another moment to say goodbye."

Maester Wolkan gave Jaime a doubtful look, though he didn't argue. He bowed his head and said, "Of course, my lord," before finally leaving them in peace.

Tyrion slipped his hand around Sansa's, squeezing tightly, trying to hold on to her for as long as he could. He inhaled a long, shuddering breath that ended on a sob. He had thought he'd cried himself out the night before, but he'd been wrong. If he hadn't been surrounded by a roomful of people, he would have burst into tears again, screaming out his pain into the ether.

"Say goodbye, Tyrion," Jaime said softly, the words little more than a whisper.

Tyrion didn't want to say goodbye. He wanted to stay with Sansa forever, to hold her and keep her close. But although his grief had driven him to near madness, he hadn't lost his mind just yet. He knew he couldn't stay with her any longer. She had already moved on, and it was time that he let her go. With one last, longing look, Tyrion leaned forward and kissed Sansa's forehead before pulling away and allowing Jaime to help him off the bed.

The instant Tyrion's feet touched the floor, his legs buckled beneath him and he started to fall. Jaime caught him just in time, slipping his arms beneath Tyrion's and propping him up. When Tyrion was finally stable enough to stand on his own, he turned away from the bed, refusing to look at Sansa again for fear that he would collapse under the weight of his own grief. With slow, shaky steps, he crossed the floor, Jaime close behind. Once they reached the corridor, he said, "I think . . . I think I need a drink."

"Of course. Let's retire to your solar and—"

"No." Tyrion put out a hand, stopping Jaime before he could finish the thought. He finally had the wherewithal to look up at his brother, noting for the first time that Jaime's face looked gaunt and drawn. "The Guest House will be fine. I . . . I don't want to be here right now. I want to be far away. As far away as possible."

"I understand."

Jaime held out his hand in the direction of the Guest House, allowing Tyrion to precede him down the hallway. As he walked, Tyrion could feel Jaime hovering behind him, ready to catch him should he fall again. But Tyrion had no fear of crumbling to his feet. Now that he was in motion, his body seemed perfectly capable of functioning, even though his mind had stopped working. He walked toward the Guest House on surprisingly steady legs, navigating the corridors by rote.

When they arrived at the small solar that had been designated for Jaime and Brienne's private use, Jaime opened the door and ushered Tyrion inside. Once Tyrion was settled in one of the comfy chairs before the fire, Jaime poured him a drink. As Jaime forced the cold glass into Tyrion's hands, his whole body awoke with a shock, and he suddenly realized that he wasn't by Sansa's side anymore.

Jaime lowered himself into the matching chair beside Tyrion's, but Tyrion hardly noticed. His pain had paralyzed him once again, and he could scarcely even think.

"You know you're supposed to drink that, right?" Jaime said, his voice floating to Tyrion as if on a fog.

"What?" Tyrion blinked the stupor from his eyes, tearing his gaze away from the fire and finally looking up at Jaime.

Jaime lifted both brows. "The wine? You're supposed to drink it, or had you forgotten?"

Tyrion stared blankly at Jaime, having trouble comprehending the words, but eventually, he looked down at his hands and found a goblet of wine. Tyrion couldn't remember ever having forgotten to drink a glass of wine before. But then, he'd never felt so far removed from himself before. He felt as if he barely existed, as if he were living on some shadowy plain between life and death. At first, he wasn't even sure what he was supposed to do with the wine, but then he remembered. He brought it to his lips, taking a small sip, the liquor burning down his parched throat.

Tyrion choked, nearly coughing up every last drop he'd just consumed. The coughing quickly turned to crying, and a moment later, Tyrion felt Jaime prying the glass from his hands.

"Perhaps we can leave this for later," Jaime said, standing up and disappearing from Tyrion's line of vision. When he returned, he had a large fur blanket that he carefully draped over Tyrion's shoulders.

Tyrion's fingers curled around the edges of the blanket, pulling it closer around him. He ducked his head beneath its folds, hiding himself in a cocoon of darkness as he wept without ceasing.

Tyrion had never felt more helpless. His grief was visceral, all-consuming, and he vaguely wondered if he would ever be able to do anything but cry. All he wanted was to wallow in his own sorrow, to lose himself in the agony of his broken heart.

Sometime later, an infant's mournful wail rent the air, and Tyrion's heart thudded against his ribs, his gut tightening. He knew there was only one child in the Guest House at the moment, the little boy whose very existence had robbed him of his happiness. Tyrion didn't even want to think about the child, but its incessant crying was more than he could bear.

"Can't you shut that wretched thing up?" Tyrion snapped as he pulled the blanket off his head and glared at Jaime.

Jaime was still sitting in the chair beside him, though the light in the room had changed, and Tyrion could only imagine that hours had passed.

"I'm sure the wet nurse will see to him," Jaime said tightly.

"Well, maybe she should just take him away with her. Take him down to the winter town so that I don't ever have to see or hear him again."

Jaime frowned, the lines on his face deepening. "You don't really mean that, do you?"

"Of course I mean it," Tyrion said without a second thought. "That miserable thing murdered my wife, and I have no use for it. Send it away. Or if you really can't bear to part with it, you take it. Take it back to Casterly Rock, and never let it trouble me again."

Jaime glowered at Tyrion, his eyes turning just a shade darker, and Tyrion fought the urge to squirm in his seat. He suddenly felt judged, condemned, even though he was the injured party and hadn't done anything wrong.

"Why . . . why are you looking at me like that?" Tyrion asked, refusing to break Jaime's gaze.

Jaime leaned forward in his chair, moving closer. "Why? Because you sound exactly like Father did the day you were born. You have the same venom in your voice, the same hatred for a child whose only crime was being born into this world."

Tyrion flinched, Jaime's words stinging like a slap across the face. He hated his father, hated him with a passion that burned deep within his soul. Being compared to Tywin Lannister, especially at a moment like this, was the worst insult Tyrion had ever had to endure, and he'd been called some truly terrible things in his time.

"How dare you?" Tyrion said darkly, his words dripping poison. "How dare you compare me to that man? After everything he did? After he put me on trial for a murder I didn't commit and sentenced me to die?"

"And you paid him back in kind. Which makes you no better than him."

Tyrion's hands curled into fists, and it took all of his resolve not to spring from his chair and strike Jaime in his pretty face. He bit his bottom lip to keep from crying out his rage, the taste of iron filling his mouth. It had been a long time since Tyrion had been so angry, and he desperately wanted to hurt someone.

"Tywin Lannister was a monster," Tyrion spat, his jaw clenched. "He would have gladly sold every last one of us to the highest bidder if he'd thought it would have brought more glory to the Lannister name. He never cared about you or me or Cersei. We were just pawns to him, nothing more. Do not compare me to that man, now or ever."

"And yet, you're acting just like him. When Mother died, he wanted to drown you in the sea. Do you know that? But he didn't because you were a Lannister."

"I don't wish to see the child harmed," Tyrion replied, suddenly realizing that at least that was true. "But neither do I wish to have anything to do with it. Take it away from here, Jaime. I will not show it an ounce of affection."

"And what about the promise you made to Sansa?"

"What promise?" Tyrion genuinely didn't know what Jaime was talking about.

"The promise you made to her as she lay dying in your marital bed. You promised to take care of the child, or don't you remember?"

Jaime's words brought the memory flooding back to Tyrion, and his cheeks heated with shame. When he'd made that promise, he'd done so believing that Sansa was going to survive. But now that she was gone, he had no idea how he was supposed to raise a child he despised, even if it was Sansa's dying wish.

"I remember," Tyrion croaked. "And I will see that the child is cared for. Fed, clothed, educated. But I shall not be involved in its upbringing."

Jaime shook his head, the judgment in his eyes unmistakable. "I . . . I can't even begin to imagine what you're feeling right now. If our places were reversed, I suppose I might be just as angry as you are. But if there's one thing I know for certain, it's that if Brienne ever left me with a child, even if giving birth to that child had claimed her life, I would never abandon it. I would love that child more than any child has ever been loved in the history of the world. I would love that child because it was part of Brienne, because it was all I had left of her, and I would never turn my back on it. Never."

Jaime was trembling by the time he finished. He reached for the glass of wine on the table between them and swigged down half its contents before sitting back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the fire. Tyrion watched him with slitted eyes, not the least bit sure what to say or do. He understood Jaime's point, and in theory, it was a good one. But in a practical sense, Tyrion didn't know how he was ever even going to face the child, much less spend the rest of his life loving it.

There was one thing Tyrion had to know, though. One thing he wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Is . . . is the child a dwarf?" he asked, struggling to get the words past the tightness in his throat.

Jaime was quiet for a long time before he said, "Does it matter?"

Tyrion's heart sank, his stomach twisting in a knot. "It does."

"Why?"

That was a very good question. Unfortunately, Tyrion didn't have a very good answer for it. At least, he didn't have an answer that Jaime was going to appreciate. "Because I couldn't bear it if the child I helped bring into this world, the child that ended Sansa's life, was a monster like me. That would mean that this was all my own doing, and it would make me just as guilty of her murder as that pathetic little creature."

Jaime turned to look at Tyrion again, the pain in his eyes so intense that it caused the breath to catch in Tyrion's throat. "Sansa was not murdered," Jaime said, his voice almost raw. "She died in childbirth, something that happens every single day to women the world over. There is no guilt to be had, Tyrion. Not for you, and not for your child. I know you don't believe in the gods, so I won't tell you it was their will, but it is the way of things. Death is a part of life, and sometimes, even though it isn't fair, women die in childbirth, and no one can do anything to save them."

The blood chilled in Tyrion's veins as he stared up at Jaime, certain that his brother was thinking about their own dear mother, Joanna. Although Tyrion had never known her, Jaime had, and Tyrion knew he had felt her loss acutely.

"I'm sorry, Jaime," Tyrion whispered, the words barely audible. "I'm sorry I took her from you. If I could go back and change things—"

"There is nothing for you to be sorry for. You didn't kill our mother, despite what Father said. It was a natural occurrence, something that was likely inevitable. It happens every day."

"And yet, if I had been born normal—"

"It could have happened anyway, and you know it. I've never held it against you, Tyrion. I wish you wouldn't hold it against yourself."

Tyrion dragged his eyes away from Jaime's, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. He was too overcome with emotion to be thinking clearly about anything. His soul ached with Sansa's loss, and all he really wanted to do was lie beside her in her crypt and let the Stranger take him.

Tyrion and Jaime were both quiet for a moment, and it was only then that Tyrion realized that the child had stopped crying. He also realized that he still hadn't gotten an answer to his question. "So, which is it?" Tyrion asked. "Is the child a dwarf or not?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

Tyrion's eyes flashed to Jaime's face, finding it a stoic mask. "And why not?"

"Because I want you to see for yourself."

Tyrion shook his head. "No. There is no way I am even going to set eyes upon that—" Tyrion almost said beast, but he stopped himself before Jaime could chastise him further. "That child. I have no desire to see him, and that's final."

"Then you shall never know whether he is a dwarf or not. I shall make sure that no one in the keep reveals the truth to you. It is something you will only discover once you've worked up the courage to face your son."

Tyrion grimaced. He hated being manipulated, especially in his own keep. He was the Lord of Winterfell now, but that seemed to matter very little. Jaime had always been a charmer, and if he said he was going to command even Tyrion's most loyal servants to keep the truth from him, Tyrion had no doubt that he would somehow manage it.

Tyrion had nothing left to say to Jaime. He leaned forward and swiped the half empty glass from Jaime's hand, hunkering down beneath the blanket and taking a long, slow sip. "I've had enough of you for right now," Tyrion said. "Go and leave me to grieve in peace."