Chapter Three

Two days later, Sansa was laid to rest in the crypts below Winterfell, a steady stream of mourners trailing down to the depths of the earth to pay their respects. Tyrion stood stoically by her open tomb, his eyes fixed on her face, wishing he could climb in beside her and lie in her arms until the end of time.

The babe whose life had ended Sansa's was still in the Guest House with his wet nurse, far from Tyrion's sight, though not his mind. Even though he wanted nothing to do with the child, he desperately needed to know whether or not it had been born a dwarf. He needed to know for sure if it was his fault that Sansa had died or if the blame rested solely with the creature who had torn from her womb.

As the lid was pulled over Sansa's tomb, sealing her away for all eternity, tears pricked Tyrion's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. A heavy silence enveloped the crypts, shrouding everything in a deathly quiet that threatened to swallow him whole. As the other mourners filed out of the cavernous space, Tyrion stayed still and silent beside his beloved wife, his heart and mind numb with grief. He dreaded the thought of ascending the stairs that led to the keep and leaving Sansa all alone in the darkness.

Tyrion was only vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps behind him before Jaime placed a light hand on his shoulder. "Are you coming?" he asked, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat, then sniffled back unshed tears. "I think I'd rather stay here, if it's all the same to you. I . . . I don't want to leave her."

"You have to, Tyrion. You can't stay here forever."

"Can't I?" Tyrion scoffed. "There's nothing waiting for me up there. If I stayed here for the rest of my days, I doubt anyone would even notice."

"You're wrong about that. I would notice, and your people would notice, and your son would notice."

Tyrion's stomach clenched. He refused to think of the child who had stolen Sansa from him as his son. Although he had always secretly wanted to be a father, he had never imagined that it would feel like this.

"I have no son," Tyrion said, the words sounding hollow, cold.

Jaime's grip on Tyrion's shoulder tightened. "You do have a son. He is the future Lord of Winterfell, and he will need your guidance if he is ever going to rule his people with a just hand."

Tyrion shook out of Jaime's grip, moving toward Sansa's tomb. He lay one hand against it, an anguished sob tearing from his throat. "I can't do this, Jaime," he said, his eyes transfixed on the sealed casket where his own heart had just been buried. "I know what you want me to do. I know what you want me to say. But I can't. I just . . . I just can't."

"Will you at least meet him?" Jaime asked. "The boy is three days old now, and he doesn't even have a name. You need to face him, Tyrion. Even if it's only once. Do your duty and face your son. You at least owe him that much. You owe Sansa that much."

Tyrion's heart thudded against his ribcage, and he closed his eyes, riding out the wave of agony that ripped at his soul. He hated Jaime at that moment, hated him with a blinding passion, because he was right. If Sansa could see him now, she would be horrified by how he was treating their only begotten child. She would be hurt and disappointed, and she would have no trouble telling him so.

But Tyrion wasn't sure that he had the strength to do what needed to be done, even for Sansa. He was barely existing now, walking through the world as if halfway between wake and sleep. Everything seemed blurred around the edges, and he couldn't trust himself not to break down at the slightest provocation. Facing the child whose very existence had ended Sansa's life was going to be the greatest test he had ever had to endure.

Tyrion struggled to compose himself. When he was certain that he could speak again without bursting into tears, he opened his eyes and pushed himself away from Sansa's tomb, standing to his full height. Even as he spoke, he couldn't bring himself to look at Jaime.

"And what happens if I face the child and my hatred for it only grows?" The words left Tyrion's throat before he could even think. That was what he was afraid of, wasn't it? That just setting eyes on the boy would intensify his feelings of anger and resentment. Tyrion knew he would never be able to love the child who had taken Sansa from him, and for the very first time, he understood, with perfect clarity, why his own father had never been able to love him.

"You've already made up your mind to despise the babe," Jaime said. "How could it possibly get any worse? How could you possibly hate him any more than you do now?"

Tyrion's hands curled into fists as an unsettling thought wormed its way into his brain. "I . . . I could lose my temper," he said, his voice beginning to tremble. "I . . . I could hurt the child without even realizing it. It's what I did to Shae. What's to stop me from hurting him before I even know what I've done?" It was a question Tyrion hadn't wanted to ask, but he knew the truth had to be faced. There was a darkness in him, there always had been, and he feared what would happen if that darkness were unleashed once more, especially in the presence of a defenseless newborn.

"I know you think you're a monster," Jaime replied, "but you would never hurt an innocent. I would stake my life on it."

Tyrion shook his head. "But that child isn't innocent. That child took everything from me. What if my anger takes over and I act before I can think? If I did the boy any harm, it would make me worse than our father. At least he let me live, even if it was only out of spite."

"I will be with you the entire time," Jaime said, "and I won't let you lay a single hand on him without my direct supervision. I shall protect him if you can't."

Tyrion laughed bitterly. "What? Will you stand over me with Widow's Wail by your side, waiting to slice off my hand if I raise it against the child?"

"If I have to, yes." There was no jest in Jaime's tone. He meant every word. He would protect his nephew at any cost, even if it meant hurting Tyrion in the process.

It took a moment for Tyrion to absorb that fact. Finally, he nodded his assent, every muscle in his body shivering with fear. "All right," he said in a soft, empty voice. "I will go. I will meet him once. Just once. But after that—"

"After that, we shall see."

Tyrion's eyes flashed to Jaime's in sudden anger. "We shall see? No," Tyrion said, shaking his head fervently. "We shall not see. I have agreed to your demands, Jaime. Do not push me any further than that. I will meet the child because it is my duty to do so. I shall give him a name, and I shall be done with him. Do you understand?"

Jaime's eyes narrowed on Tyrion, a hint of judgment in his stare. "Oh, I understand all right. You're a coward. You can't even do what Father did. At least he had the courage to raise you, to live with you, side by side, every day. But you? You want nothing to do with your own son. You're determined to send him away and make him someone else's responsibility. I thought better of you, Tyrion. Truly, I did. I just hope that, before this is all over, you surprise me rather than disappoint me. I would hate to have to revise my opinion of you after all these years."

And then, without waiting for Tyrion to say a single word, Jaime turned around and headed toward the steps that led out of the crypts, leaving Tyrion alone with his thoughts.

As Jaime's footsteps disappeared into the darkness, an ominous chill crept up Tyrion's spine. He loved his brother more than anyone still living in this world, and he hadn't meant to disappoint him. He hated what had become of him now that Sansa was gone, but he didn't know how to be any other way. His heart was irrevocably broken, and there would be no mending it. He knew he would never be able to love anyone or anything ever again, no matter how long the gods condemned him to walk this miserable earth.

Tyrion's eyes fell to Sansa's tomb, and he laid his hand on it again, resting his head against the cool stone, desperately trying not to cry. "Sansa, I . . ." But the words wouldn't come.

Tyrion had never felt more alone. During the glorious year that he and Sansa had been together, she had been his constant companion and confidant. In his darkest hours, she had always been there to comfort him, to offer him her wisdom and her strength. And her love. But now, Sansa was gone, and Tyrion had to face the future alone.

Inhaling a hard breath, Tyrion forced himself to take a step back, staring blankly at Sansa's tomb. He knew that someday a stone effigy would be erected above it, bearing her likeness, though it would never truly capture her radiance. Sansa's light was gone forever, and the world was now a much darker place.

"Sansa," Tyrion rasped, his voice shaking with emotion. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to do this, how to go on. I know what you want. I know you want me to care for the child, to love him unconditionally. But I can't. I . . . I'm not as good as you, Sansa. I . . . I can't love any creature that has caused me so much pain. I couldn't love my father. I tried to. Sometimes, I even thought I did. But in the end . . . in the end, I just couldn't. And now, I'm no better than he is, and I don't even care. I'm sorry, Sansa. I know I've failed you. I know I've hurt you. But I can't—" A violent sob shook Tyrion's chest, and he nearly collapsed under the weight of it. "I can't do it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Tyrion turned away, wanting to hide his tears and his shame. For a moment, he just stood there, his whole body trembling as he fought to get his emotions under control. The last thing he had ever wanted was to hurt Sansa, but his heart was hollow and empty, and he had no love to give anyone, not even his own child.

It was a long time before Tyrion finally turned around again. He stared at Sansa's tomb, cold and grave and silent, realizing that she was never going to answer. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, no matter how ardently he confessed his love, Sansa would never reply. She would never come back to him. He was completely alone now, alone and angry and desperate, and somehow, the world still expected him to care for the child who had robbed him of his happiness. Tyrion wasn't the least bit prepared to face the boy, but he knew he had no choice. Jaime would continue to badger him until he had done his duty.

And so, despite the gnawing anxiety in his gut, Tyrion turned away and headed up the stairs to finally meet his son.