Chapter Five

That night, Tyrion couldn't sleep. He lay in the bed that had once belonged to Sansa in her youth, adamantly refusing to ever again step foot in the chamber where she had died. Even though it had been years since Sansa had slept in this room, Tyrion could swear he felt her all around him. Her scent, her presence, seemed to linger in the air like a siren calling from distant shores, promising joys that could never be.

Tyrion lay on his side, his arms wrapped around Sansa's pillow, staring out into the darkness, his soul aching with want of her. He didn't know how he was supposed to keep going, how he was supposed to keep living from one day to the next, now that Sansa was gone.

Tyrion squeezed his eyes shut, willing away a fresh onslaught of tears. He'd already cried himself senseless, and he refused to weep again before morning. Nights seemed interminable now, and although he had consumed copious amounts of wine before falling into bed, he didn't feel the least bit tired. Jaime had been right about one thing. Tyrion's grief lived as much in his head as in his heart, and he couldn't seem to stop the chaos that was swirling around in his brain, reminding him at every turn of what he had lost.

Once he was certain that the tears had subsided, Tyrion opened his eyes, sitting up and finally letting go of the pillow. He drew his legs over the edge of the bed and just sat there, every nerve in his body trembling. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he could almost imagine Sansa's arms around him, her head on his shoulder as she asked him what was wrong, her warm words and soft touch coaxing him back to bed.

Tyrion sobbed, forcing his eyes open again in a desperate attempt to chase away the memories. He lowered his bare feet to the floor, scarcely conscious of the cold stone beneath, and got out of bed, pacing aimlessly about the room as he fought to get his emotions under control.

The hour was late, well past midnight, and the rest of the keep was already asleep. There was no one Tyrion could go to for comfort. In the old days, in a time and place long ago forgotten, Tyrion would have called for a whore to share his bed, to offer him solace through the lonely night. But those days were past him now. No woman would ever warm his bed again. He had sworn his heart and his fidelity to Sansa Stark, and he would remain faithful to her until the end of his days.

Tyrion was tempted to sneak down to the kitchens and fetch himself a flagon of wine. He'd already exhausted the one that had been brought with his dinner, and he was sure he could down another without any difficulty. But he knew it would do nothing to ease his pain. He could drink until he was as red as the wine, and his grief would still keep him dreadfully sober.

Tyrion paced the small room until he was sick of the very sight of it. Without a thought for where he was headed, he pulled on his clothes and slipped through the door, walking the stone corridors alone in the dead of night.

The halls of Winterfell were quiet, empty, the occasional sound of snoring drifting through a closed door as Tyrion passed by. He had never been one to walk the halls aimlessly before, but now, he was too full of nervous energy to sit still. Had Tyrion owned a sword, had he been capable of wielding one with any power or grace, he would have gone straight to the godswood and hacked the heart tree to pieces.

Not knowing what else to do, Tyrion headed toward the Guest House, telling himself that it was Jaime he was going there to see. It was the middle of the night, and Jaime had probably been asleep for hours, but Tyrion had no doubt that his brother would be willing to see him, even if he had to be dragged out of bed.

But as Tyrion entered the Guest House, his feet took him past Jaime's door, and he found himself standing outside the nursery, his heart beating in his throat. He didn't quite know what had brought him there. Maybe it had been curiosity, or maybe it had been his own self-loathing. Maybe it had been Sansa herself, her presence in the keep far more real than Tyrion had ever imagined. Whatever it had been, he was there now, and there was no turning back.

Tyrion listened at the door, straining to hear inside. Although he didn't know a great deal about babies, he knew that they didn't keep regular hours. A newborn could be up a dozen times in a single night, and Tyrion had no way of knowing if the babe was sleeping or being suckled in the arms of his wet nurse.

Tyrion lifted his hand to knock but instantly thought better of it. If the child was asleep, he didn't want to wake it. So instead, he gently pushed the door open and eased his way inside.

The room was quiet, a lone lamp glowing beside the cradle that housed the future Lord of Winterfell. In one corner of the room, a nursemaid lay slumbering on a small cot, curled up beneath a thick fur blanket. Even in Spring, it always seemed cold in the north.

Tyrion left the door open behind him, afraid that if he tried to close it, the sound might wake the babe. He inched across the floor with slow, cautious steps until he stood before the cradle.

The air stilled in Tyrion's lungs as he gazed down at the child, his whole body suddenly numb. The babe seemed perfectly at peace, completely oblivious to the turmoil his very existence had caused. His expression was soft, benign. He looked utterly content, dreaming of whatever it was that babies dreamed about.

Tyrion's eyes slid from the child's face to the small pair of arms peeking out over his blanket. They were short, stunted, just another sign that he had been born with the very affliction that had plagued Tyrion all his life.

Pain and regret gripped Tyrion's heart, and he closed his eyes, a solitary tear cascading down his cheek. He swiped it away with a vigorous hand, so sick of crying that he could almost swear. When he finally regained his composure, he forced his eyes open again, finding the child staring up at him with the most startling pair of azure blue eyes.

Tyrion bit his bottom lip to keep himself from sobbing. There was no denying the fact that Sansa Stark had been the boy's mother. Every time Tyrion saw those familiar blue eyes, it was like seeing Sansa again, if only for an instant. Tyrion wished he could love his son, wished he could feel some affection for him, but his grief made that impossible. The gods had chosen to curse him with the same misery his own father had endured. Perhaps it was his punishment for having been born in the first place.

The child cooed, his mouth gaping in a toothless grin, and Tyrion quickly glanced at the nursemaid to see if she'd awoken. But she was fast asleep, snoring soundly on her little bed, and Tyrion was sure it would take nothing less than a White Walker attack to wake her. He turned his attention back to the babe, finding that same guileless expression on the boy's face.

"Don't . . . don't look at me like that," Tyrion scolded softly, not wanting to rouse the nurse. "I'm . . . I'm not what you think."

But the baby didn't seem the least bit bothered by Tyrion's dark mood. He gurgled a little more, stretching one tiny hand out toward Tyrion.

Without even thinking, Tyrion reached into the cradle, allowing the boy to wrap his whole hand around one of his fingers. The child squeezed, and a shock of something unexpected tore through Tyrion's chest. His lower lip quivered, and he fought the urge to retreat, the physical contact nearly more than he could bear.

"Don't . . . don't do this," Tyrion said, his voice trembling with every word. "I know that you're Sansa's. I know that she would have loved you no matter how you came into this world. But I . . . I can't. I can't love you. I wish I could."

Tyrion's vision clouded with unshed tears, and he pulled away, racing from the room. He closed the door behind him, collapsing against the wall beside it, his palms pressed flat against the cold stone as he struggled to ground himself. He sobbed silently in the darkness, hoping that no one would come upon him as he cried out his pain.

But the gods had never been terribly kind to Tyrion, and there was no reason for them to start now. A door opened somewhere down the hall, and a moment later, there was a soft light shining in Tyrion's face as Jaime called out his name.

Tyrion swore beneath his breath before opening his eyes to find his brother staring at him. This was not at all how Tyrion had wanted to be discovered, hiding in the darkness, crying his eyes out in an empty corridor beside the nursery. But now, his shame was complete, the candle in Jaime's hand highlighting the tearstains on his face.

"What . . . what's going on?" Jaime asked, his voice groggy from sleep. He was still in his nightshirt, his hair tussled, his eyes barely able to focus in the semidarkness.

"I . . . I couldn't sleep. I . . . I just went for a walk, that's all."

"And ended up here?"

Tyrion nodded, too overcome with emotion to answer.

Jaime's eyes drifted to the nursery door. When he looked at Tyrion again, he said, "And did you go inside?"

Tyrion nodded again as he stared at Jaime with unblinking eyes.

Jaime sighed heavily, lowering the candle so that it was no longer shining in Tyrion's face. The sudden darkness allowed Tyrion to finally rub the tears from his eyes and compose himself just a bit.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jaime asked. "We can go to my solar, if you like. You look like you could use a drink."

"That . . . that doesn't sound terrible," Tyrion replied, not really sure that anything could make him feel better at that moment but unable to refuse the offer of wine.

Jaime turned and led Tyrion toward his solar. Once Tyrion was safely settled before the fire, Jaime went in search of a flagon of wine. A few minutes later, he returned, pouring Tyrion a large glass and sitting down beside him. Although they'd been in this same situation just a few days earlier, things felt different now. Tyrion was no longer so inconsolable that he couldn't manage a single, coherent thought.

"Drink," Jaime said as Tyrion just stared at him, unmoving.

Tyrion lifted the glass, forcing it to his lips and taking a tentative sip. The wine coursed down his throat like liquid fire, warming his veins and making his skin flush with heat.

"Is that better?" Jaime asked, taking a sip from his own cup.

"Yes, better." Tyrion hunkered down lower in his chair, finally starting to feel comfortable in his own skin again.

"What happened in there, Tyrion? Tell me."

Tyrion shrugged. "What's to tell? I saw the child. I . . . I touched him. Or rather, he touched me. And I realized that, even though he is Sansa's son and all I have left of her, I don't know how I'm ever going to love him."

"And does this child have a name?"

"A name?" The question surprised Tyrion, though he knew it shouldn't have.

"Yes. Earlier, you said you had something in mind, something Sansa had wanted. The boy is three days old now. Four, if you consider that it's after midnight. He needs a name, Tyrion."

Tyrion inhaled a long, shaky breath. He had been putting off giving the child a name for one very specific reason. Once the child had a name, he would become a real flesh and blood person, with wants and needs and a future all his own. Tyrion would no longer be able to think of him as a thing, an object, an inconvenience he could simply ignore.

Tyrion laughed awkwardly, taking another sip of wine. "I was thinking Tywin, actually," he said, amused by his own suggestion. "After all, this child is my punishment, just as I was Father's. It seems fitting, don't you think?"

Jaime's expression darkened, and he leaned forward in his chair, skewering Tyrion with his eyes. "One more answer like that, and I'm going to take that wine away from you and see that you never drink another drop. Do you understand?"

Tyrion gulped down the lump in his throat. "Yes. I . . . I understand."

"Good." Jaime reclined back in his chair, though he didn't look at all relaxed. "Now, tell me seriously, what did Sansa want to name the child?"

"Eddard." The word felt hollow in Tyrion's throat. "Eddard Stark, after her father."

When Sansa had first discovered that she was pregnant, she and Tyrion had decided that their child should bear her family name. There was every reason to believe that Jaime and Brienne would produce more than enough heirs to keep the Lannister name alive, but there were no male Starks left to carry on for their house. Although Jon Snow was king, he had never born the Stark name, and Bran had abandoned his responsibilities to the mortal world long ago.

"I think that's a fine name," Jaime replied. "Much better than your suggestion."

"Is it, though? Does that child look like an Eddard Stark to you? Ned Stark was a strong, capable, well respected man. He was a soldier, a fighter, a warrior. That child will barely be able to wield an axe with two hands if he's lucky. He'll never live up to his namesake. He'll be a laughingstock, a joke. No one will take him seriously with a name like that. People will snicker and sneer behind his back, and he'll be ridiculed for that fine name."

But Jaime didn't seem the least bit swayed by Tyrion's argument. "Do you hear yourself? You have no idea what that child is capable of, and yet, you've already decided his entire future for him. May I remind you, dear brother, that you yourself have been Hand to a Queen? You have been Master of Coin and the Lord of Winterfell, and you are every bit the dwarf that little Eddard is. If you could do great things, then so can he. How dare you decide otherwise before he's even left the nursery?"

"Little . . . little Eddard?" Tyrion spluttered. "How dare you call my son Eddard when I have yet to even decide on a name for him?"

Jaime snorted. "Oh, so he's your son now, is he?"

"He's always been my son. When have I ever denied that?"

"Yesterday, when Sansa was laid to rest in the crypts. Since the day he was born, you've wanted nothing to do with that child, and now you're making sweeping pronouncements about his future? And acting very overprotective, I might add."

Tyrion pushed himself up a little taller in his chair. "And why shouldn't I be overprotective? It seems I'm stuck with the little brat. And if I am, that means he's my responsibility, and I've always taken my responsibilities very seriously."

"He's not a brat. He's actually quite well-behaved. He barely even cries."

"Well, that makes one of us at least. Maybe he's not my son after all."

Jaime laughed, and Tyrion found himself laughing too, something he'd thought he'd never do again. The instant he sobered, he took another swig of wine, feeling unimaginably guilty for knowing even a single moment of happiness now that Sansa was gone.

Jaime must have noticed the change in him because he asked, "What's wrong, Tyrion? Something's troubling you."

Tyrion looked up at Jaime again, meeting his gaze directly, fighting to pretend that his heart wasn't breaking in two. "What isn't troubling me would be a better question."

"Perhaps, but I saw something cross your face just now. A pain I haven't seen before. At least, not recently. What is it?"

Tyrion swallowed hard, his insides trembling. "Guilt." It was such a small word but so powerful that it could bring grown men to their knees.

"You didn't kill Sansa. You must know that."

"It isn't that."

"Then what is it? What else could it be?"

Tyrion held his breath, trying to summon up the courage to answer. Finally, his voice shaking, he said, "I laughed."

Tyrion had expected Jaime to question him further, to ask for clarification, but he didn't. He didn't have to. He didn't need to. He had suffered enough loss in his life to know exactly what Tyrion meant.

After a long, painful pause, Jaime said, "I understand."

A bitter laugh slipped from Tyrion's throat, turning into a sob. His eyes flooded with tears once more, and it was a struggle for him not to lose control. "I . . . I have no right to laugh or find joy or be happy ever again. Not . . . not without Sansa."

"That isn't true. I know you believe it's true now, but in time, that will change."

Tyrion shook his head so violently that he almost made himself dizzy. "No, no, no, it will never change. If Sansa can never laugh again, can never know joy again, then neither shall I. It would be a betrayal of her memory, and I would never betray her."

Jaime put his glass down on the table between them and leaned in closer. "Sansa would not want you to be miserable for the rest of your life. You know that as well as I do. She would want you to keep on living for yourself and your son. No one is judging you, Tyrion. And no one would ever begrudge you whatever comfort, whatever happiness, you can find in this world. Do you think it's easy for me to enjoy my life, to be happy, knowing that my children shall never know joy again? It's not, but I don't think a single one of them would begrudge me my happiness with Brienne."

"Oh, I'm sure Joffrey would. You're just lucky you kept Brienne away from him while he was still alive. If he had known how you felt about her—"

"I'd rather not think about it." Jaime eyed Tyrion's glass pointedly. "It's late," he said. "Why don't you finish up and get back to bed? You can stay in the Guest House, if you like. There are plenty of empty rooms in this part of the keep."

Tyrion weighed Jaime's words thoughtfully. He wasn't sure he had the energy or the willpower to return to Sansa's childhood bedchamber. All he really wanted was to finish his wine, curl up in a warm bed, and get some sleep.

Tyrion nodded his ascent. "Just let me finish this, and then you can find me a room. It doesn't really matter where I sleep. I shall know no peace until I am resting beside Sansa in the crypts."

Jaime frowned, but he didn't argue, leaving Tyrion to finish his wine in peace. Once his glass was empty, he put it down on the table and stood, his legs trembling beneath him.

Jaime was out of his chair in an instant, his hand on Tyrion's shoulder, trying to steady him. "Are you all right?"

Tyrion shrugged from Jaime's grip. "Yes, I'm fine. Just show me to a room. I . . . I need to get some sleep."

Jaime led Tyrion out of his solar and into the corridor, in search of an empty chamber. As they passed the nursery door, Tyrion averted his eyes, determined to forget about at least one of his problems for the night. The wine was finally starting to take effect, and he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to stay awake.

A few minutes later, Tyrion was safely ensconced in a small room down the hall from Jaime and Brienne's. He quickly settled beneath the furs, wrapping himself in a tight cocoon as he fell into a dreamless sleep.