Author's Note: My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. It really was my intention to post once a week, but real life has been getting in the way. Thank you all for your patience.


Chapter Four

When Tyrion reached the top of the stairs, he found Jaime waiting for him, his posture rigid, his demeanor cold. Without even looking at Tyrion, Jaime began walking toward the Guest House, an uneasy silence settling between them.

Tyrion had no doubt why Jaime was so angry with him. Tyrion had spent his entire life cursing their father for his coldness and his cruelty, and yet, now that he found himself in the same unenviable situation, he was acting no better than the man who had tortured him since the day he was born. And although, on some level, Tyrion knew that he was wrong, that turning his back on his own son was the greatest sin he had ever committed, he simply didn't care. His heart had gone cold the moment the life had left Sansa's body, and nothing mattered to him anymore. There could be no joy for him now that Sansa was gone. No happiness, no love. He was a shell of a man, just counting the days until the Stranger came for him.

As they entered the Guest House, Tyrion's heart thudded sickly beneath his breast. He had no idea what was going to happen once they reached the nursery and he finally laid eyes on the child whose very existence had been the source of his ultimate pain. He had faced so many challenges in his life, so many trials—war, imprisonment, the undead—and yet nothing, nothing, had prepared him for this. He would have rather faced an army of White Walkers with a single axe in his hand than face what was waiting for him in the Winterfell Guest House.

When they finally reached the door to the nursery, Jaime stopped. He turned around and looked at Tyrion for the first time since they had left the crypts. "Remember," he said, his voice tight, his expression pained, "the child is just a babe, and he has done nothing wrong. He can't hurt you, Tyrion. You've both suffered the greatest loss a person can ever suffer, and he needs you just as much as you need him."

Tyrion's jaw trembled, and tears welled in his eyes, but he fought them back valiantly. He knew that if he lost control now, he would end up a blubbering mess on the floor. Jaime's words betrayed a deep pain, the pain of losing his own mother when he was still a child. And even though Tyrion wanted to pretend that it didn't matter to him, he couldn't. Even after all these years, he still felt responsible for taking Jaime's mother from him. Maybe if Joanna Lannister had lived, things would have been different for Jaime. Maybe if she had lived, he wouldn't have fallen prey to Cersei so easily.

Tyrion nodded—it was all he could do—and Jaime turned around, opening the door.

In an instant, a wave of fear washed over Tyrion, nearly knocking him off his feet. Jaime moved into the room, stepping aside to clear the way for him. With a single glance, Tyrion found Brienne sitting in a rocking chair before the uncovered window, a bright ray of morning sunlight streaming in around her. In her arms was a small bundle wrapped in a silvery grey blanket. She was cooing softly to the child, a beatific smile on her face.

"Brienne, my love," Jaime said softly, drawing her attention toward the door.

Brienne raised her head, gasping the instant her eyes alighted on Tyrion. She seemed nearly as surprised to see him as he was to be there. "Tyrion?"

Tyrion bowed his head in deference to her. "My lady," he replied in his most dignified tone, finding something oddly comforting in addressing her so formally. It made it easier for him to pretend that he was there on some other business, something far less personal.

Without another word, Brienne rose from her chair, standing to her full height, almost making Tyrion dizzy. He stumbled forward on weak legs, his eyes fixed on the bundle in her arms. He could not see the baby's face from where he stood, and he was almost relieved. Perhaps if he turned and left at that very moment, he could spare himself the agony of ever having to face the child at all.

"Would you like to sit?" Brienne asked, her voice surprisingly warm and soft. Jaime and Brienne had been married for half a year now, and Tyrion still marveled at the fact. He had never expected Jaime to want to be with anyone but Cersei, least of all Brienne of Tarth, but somehow, they were a perfect match. Brienne was the exact opposite of Cersei. She was kind, selfless, honorable to a fault. And Jaime loved her with a passion that was simply breathtaking.

But despite Brienne's kind offer, Tyrion was determined to stay right where he was. "No, thank you," he said, the words thick on his tongue. "I . . . I just came to see for myself what he looks like and to decide on a name, though I already know what Sansa wanted for him."

Brienne nodded, and Jaime moved forward, holding out his arms and taking the baby from her. Tyrion averted his eyes to avoid seeing the child's face. He wasn't quite ready to know if the babe had been born a dwarf. He feared the worst, and he had very little hope for the best.

"Tyrion, sit," Jaime commanded. "It will be easier that way."

Tyrion turned to glare up at Jaime. "Not for me, it won't. I just want a glimpse, that's all. I'm not going to hold the thing. How dare you even try to make me?"

The furrows in Jaime's brow deepened, and he gave Tyrion the same look of censure he had seen a thousand times in their father's eyes. "Sit, Tyrion. Now. Or else you can leave this room this very instant and I will never speak to you again."

Tyrion didn't doubt Jaime's words for a second. He had never seen his brother look angrier or more determined. Jaime had always been fairly even-tempered—for a Lannister, anyway—and it took a good deal to rile him up. But right now, he looked as if he was ready to draw his sword and have Tyrion's head at the slightest provocation.

Tyrion clenched his jaw, his bottom lip curling up in a pout like a petulant child. With his fists clenched at his sides, he barreled toward the rocking chair and climbed up onto the seat, keeping his eyes focused on the open door across the room, secretly wishing that he could make his escape.

As Jaime drew near, Tyrion held his breath. He had no desire to even see the child, much less hold it, and suddenly, he was sorry that he hadn't stayed in the crypts with Sansa. He'd been a fool to give into Jaime's demands. He never should have followed him to the Guest House in the first place.

Jaime stopped directly in front of Tyrion, leaning forward to give him the child. "Tyrion Lannister, meet your son."

As Jaime slipped the babe into his arms, Tyrion closed his eyes, afraid to even look at it. His heart stopped beating, and his whole body went deathly still. The child squirmed but didn't cry, and Tyrion suddenly felt like a prisoner in his own skin. He wanted to fling the thing from him and run, but he could barely move. Every muscle in his body was strung as tight as a bowstring, and he thought he might snap if he so much as tried to breathe.

"Tyrion," Jaime called out to him, his voice sounding miles away. "Open your eyes."

But Tyrion couldn't. He shook his head, a single tear cascading down his cheek. Until that moment, he hadn't even realized that he was crying.

"Tyrion, look at your son. He has Sansa's eyes."

Had Jaime said anything else, Tyrion might have kept his own eyes closed. But Jaime's words compelled him to rally his courage and finally face the one thing he feared most. He opened his eyes and gazed down at his only begotten child, the little boy his beloved Sansa had left to him as she'd taken her last breath in this world.

The eyes that stared up at Tyrion were indeed Sansa's eyes, their light blue hue sparkling in the clear morning sunlight. For a moment, the babe's eyes were all that Tyrion could see, and he experienced an unexpected spark of pure peace and joy. But it didn't last very long. All too soon, reality came crashing down around him as he took in the child's other features: his large head, his strong brow, his flat nose. In an instant, Tyrion knew that the babe in his arms had been born with the same affliction that had plagued him all his life.

A great, racking sob shook Tyrion's frame, and he suddenly burst into tears, unable to take his eyes off his infant son. The last thing he had ever wanted was for his own child to be born a dwarf. He had failed Sansa. He had failed their son. If not for him, if not for his affliction, Sansa might still be alive and the boy might be as normal as any other.

The sobs shook Tyrion's body so badly that his arms began to tremble, and Jaime had no choice but to take the child away. Tyrion wanted to run and hide his shame, but he didn't have the strength. He simply pulled his legs up onto the seat of the chair and curled into a little ball, weeping mournfully.

Consumed by his own grief, Tyrion was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. He heard concerned voices talking in low whispers and the sound of feet shuffling across the floor. Eventually, the nursery door closed and the room fell silent.

Tyrion had no idea how long it took him to cry himself out. When he finally opened his eyes again, the light in the room had changed, and he guessed almost an hour had passed. He unfurled his limbs, easing out the ache in his muscles, and turned his head to glance about the room, finding Jaime sitting on the window ledge behind him.

Jaime must have felt Tyrion's eyes upon him because he turned away from the window and looked at him. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone heavy with concern.

Tyrion wasn't sure he knew the answer to that question. He inhaled a steadying breath, trying to get his bearings before he replied. "I . . . I don't know."

Jaime nodded, clearly requiring no further explanation. "I'm proud of you, Tyrion. I know that wasn't easy. And I'm proud of you."

A short laugh escaped Tyrion's throat, ending on a sob. "Proud of me for what? For breaking down and crying like a babe the instant I set eyes upon my newborn son? For not being able to face the reality of what I myself have done?"

"And what have you done, Tyrion?"

"I . . . I killed Sansa. I see that now. And I made that child the way he is. If it weren't for me—"

"Don't." Jaime's voice was hard, unyielding, and it brought Tyrion back to the worst moments of his childhood, being reprimanded by their father. "You did not kill Sansa. And that child is the way the gods chose to make him. It's not your fault that he's a dwarf. And it doesn't mean that his life is over just because he's different. He needs you, Tyrion. You're his father, and you've done a hell of a job navigating this world despite all the challenges you've had to face. He needs you to raise him, to teach him, to help him become the best man he can be. No one else can do it but you. I'm sure of it."

Tyrion sat up straighter in the chair, eager to flee but knowing he didn't have the strength to reach the door. "You can't be sure of anything, dear brother. I know you'd like to believe that the world is a wonderful place where everything always works out just as it should, but we both know better than that. Just because you're happy now, doesn't mean you always will be. And just because you want the best for that child, doesn't mean it will ever be so."

Jaime's hand curled into a tight fist, and his eyes flashed with anger. "You know nothing about my life, Tyrion. I may be happy now, yes, but that doesn't mean I don't suffer every single day of my godsdamned life for the things I've lost. The gods have given you a child. A beautiful, healthy, happy child, born of the woman you love, and you revile it. Do you know what I would give if I could look upon the face of my beloved Myrcella again? Or Tommen or Joffrey? I would give my left hand and both my arms, my feet, and my legs. I would give anything and everything I have just to see them again, to hear their voices, to hold them. And here you are, throwing away the love of a helpless child who has never sinned against anyone. How dare you tell me you know what I believe! And how dare you throw away the one thing I would give anything in the world for!"

Jaime pushed himself to his feet and stormed toward the door, throwing it open so violently that it hit the wall behind it, the sound reverberating off the ancient stone.

As Jaime crossed the threshold, Tyrion finally roused from his shocked stupor. "Jaime, wait!"

Jaime swung around, his eyes skewering Tyrion to the spot. "What?"

"I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I wasn't thinking clearly. I loved Myrcella and Tommen too. And even Joffrey, in some way. I'm sorry to have implied that you don't know what it is to lose what you love most or what it is to truly suffer."

Jaime ran his hand through his hair as if trying to ground himself. After a moment, he nodded his understanding. "I accept your apology," he said. "But now, do you see why it's so important to me that you give this child all the love he deserves? I can never do that for my children, Tyrion. They're gone. There's nothing I can do for them now. And even if Brienne and I welcome children of our own into the world, it isn't going to change the fact that I failed Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella. It isn't going to change the fact that I wasn't there for them when they needed me and that I couldn't save them."

Until that very moment, Tyrion hadn't realized just how much his obstinacy was hurting Jaime. Jaime had endured more than his fair share of pain and suffering in this life, and Tyrion had only succeeded in pouring salt on the wounds.

"I . . . I understand," Tyrion said, struggling to get the words out. "I understand why this is so important to you. And I'm sorry that I didn't see it sooner. Nothing makes much sense to me anymore, and I can scarcely even think."

Jaime stepped back into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. His tone was softer as he said, "I know that, Tyrion. It's why I've tried not to be too hard on you these past few days, but you can't stay in this fog forever. You have to come out of it. For the sake of your child and the sake of your people."

"They're not my people," Tyrion replied flatly. "They're Sansa's people."

"They're your people, Tyrion. You've been here at Winterfell for more than a year now. Sansa chose you as her consort for a reason. You've earned the respect of the northmen, and you can't abandon them just because you're grieving. You have a duty to them and to your son and to Sansa. Don't let them down, Tyrion. I don't think I could ever forgive you if you did."

Tyrion's heart constricted in his chest, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He didn't know how to do what Jaime was asking. How was he supposed to keep on living now that Sansa was gone? How was he supposed to raise a child with love and affection when, every time he looked at the boy, all he could think about was what he had lost?

Tyrion gulped down the lump in his throat, trying to find the words to answer. Finally, he said, "I want to be the man you want me to be—the man Sansa always believed me to be—but sometimes, I find it hard to believe that I was put on this earth to do anything but suffer, to be anything but a feckless, drunken dwarf who destroys every beautiful thing he touches. I'm sorry, Jaime. I truly am. I want to be better, to be more, but . . . but I simply don't know how."

Tears stung Tyrion's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He was tired of crying, and he didn't want to lose control again.

Jaime moved closer, resting a reassuring hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "It's all right. You're doing just fine."

"Am I?" Tyrion stared up into Jaime's face, looking for some proof that his brother truly did believe in him.

"You are. There's no set of rules for how one is supposed to handle grief. We all handle it in our own way. If I were in your situation, I would grab my sword and hack something to pieces. But you? You've always been much more cerebral than that. Your pain isn't just in your heart, it's in your mind, and it's clouded your judgment long enough."

Tyrion shook his head, afraid that Jaime was expecting more than he was capable of giving. "I'm not ready to do anything but drown in my own sorrow. Not yet."

"That's not true. You've already taken the first step, Tyrion. You've already met your son. And now, little by little, you can start to move forward, until the pain is just a dull ache and you can function again."

Tyrion couldn't imagine that a day like that would ever come. At some point, Sansa Stark had become his whole world, and he had no idea how he was going to go on without her.

Jaime slipped his hand from Tyrion's shoulder, taking a step back. "I think that's enough serious talk for one morning. It's nearly luncheon. We should retire to my solar and have something to break our fast."

Tyrion's stomach lurched at the mere mention of food. He hadn't eaten in days, though he had consumed quite a bit of wine. "I don't think I can keep anything down."

"Well, if I have anything to do with it, you're at least going to try." Jaime pushed the rocking chair forward, forcing Tyrion's feet to the floor. "Now, come. I'm sure the wet nurse is eager to return to the nursery with your son, and I doubt you want to be here when she does."

That was all the encouragement Tyrion needed. He laid his hands on the arms of the chair and forced himself to his feet, wobbling a little as he struggled to find his balance. Without a word, he followed Jaime from the room, afraid that, despite the gravity of their conversation, nothing had really changed.