Chapter Six

The following morning, Tyrion awoke with a start, the unmistakable cries of a newborn infant piercing his skull. He dragged his eyes open, wincing as a bright ray of morning sunlight flooded his vision. He quickly turned over, burying his head beneath his pillow, his temples throbbing as he fought to drown out the incessant wailing. He had consumed far too much wine the night before, and every single cry sliced through his brain like a knife.

In a fit of frustration, Tyrion threw the pillow aside and tore off his blanket, forcing himself to his feet. He hadn't bothered to undress before falling into bed the night before, so without a second thought, he barreled toward the door and out into the hallway.

The nursery was at the other end of the corridor, though it seemed that the crying hadn't woken anyone but Tyrion. Jaime and Brienne's door was still closed, and if they had been roused, there was no sign of it.

With determined strides, Tyrion stormed down the hall, each footfall reverberating through his shattered skull like a bolt of lightning. When he reached the nursery door, he threw it open without knocking, not at all sure what he intended to do.

Tyrion found a young, wide-eyed nursemaid sitting in the rocking chair before the window, her face flushed with worry as she looked up at him. "My lord?" she yelped, clearly surprised by his presence.

Tyrion's heart slammed against his ribcage as a wave of pure terror suddenly gripped his chest. "What . . . what's wrong?" he asked, completely forgetting the pounding in his brain.

The girl shook her head. "I'm . . . I'm not sure. I think . . . I think he's hungry, but the wet nurse has gone to the Great Hall to break her fast."

"Then go fetch her," Tyrion barked, marching into the room and heading straight for the baby. He had no idea what the hell he was doing, but something was compelling him to go to the child.

The nursemaid eased herself from the chair, lowering the babe into Tyrion's arms the moment he was within reach. With a quick curtsy, she excused herself, scurrying off in search of the wet nurse.

Tyrion began to rock the child in the cradle of his arms, cooing softly as the babe continued to cry. Despite his own pain, Tyrion felt the overwhelming urge to comfort the child, to ease its suffering even at the expense of his own. He could lie to himself, of course, and pretend that it was simply because he wanted the crying to stop, but he knew in his heart that it was a great deal more than that.

"It's all right," Tyrion murmured, his voice low and soothing. "It'll be all right. I promise."

Tyrion paced the floor, purposefully keeping his steps slow and even. Without thinking, he began to hum a little tune he remembered from his childhood, something soft and sweet that he had enjoyed before he'd realized what a wretched place the world truly was.

The child began to settle down just a bit, and slowly but surely, the crying died away.

A dull ache still beating in his brain, Tyrion slipped into the chair, rocking back and forth with the babe in his arms, his gaze fixed on the boy's face. There was a light in his eyes, a keenness, that spoke of great intelligence, and Tyrion suddenly found himself wishing that things had turned out differently. He would have gladly given up his own life so that Sansa could have been the one there holding little Eddard in his hour of need.

Eddard.

Tyrion had been reluctant to admit that he'd finally settled on a name for the child. But there was no denying it now. It had been Sansa's fondest wish to see their firstborn son named after her beloved father, and there was no name that suited him better.

As the babe reached for Tyrion's finger, gripping it with surprising strength, Tyrion finally spoke his name aloud. "Eddard. Eddard Stark. Do you like that name?" he asked, his tone warm and gentle. "It's the name your mother chose for you. She's . . . she's not here anymore. She was too good for this world, and the Stranger came and took her away. She loved you, though." Tyrion fought the urge to sob as a single tear slid down his cheek. "She loved you so much. She used to sing to you every night before going to sleep. She made you this blanket," he said, running his thumb over the small, silver direwolf sewn into the corner of the gray fabric. "I don't think a mother ever loved a child more."

Tyrion closed his eyes, battling an onslaught of emotions. He continued to rock in the chair, trying to concentrate on the feel of Eddard's tiny hand wrapped around his finger. It was comforting in a way that Tyrion had never imagined possible. For the first time since Sansa had died, he didn't feel quite so alone.

Tyrion inhaled a long, slow breath, willing away unshed tears. When he opened his eyes again, he found Eddard watching him curiously, something almost like a smile on his guileless face.

"You really shouldn't look at me like that," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "I'm going to start to think that you like me. And then, that means I'm going to have to like you too. And we can't have that now, can we?"

It was difficult for Tyrion to admit that he cared for his son, even a little. He didn't want to care. He wanted to spend the rest of his days wallowing in his own guilt and misery, but the familiar blue eyes looking up at him seemed determined to make that impossible. For whatever reason, Eddard had taken a liking to him, and Tyrion was finding it very hard to remain indifferent.

The last thing Tyrion had ever wanted was to turn into his father, but over the past few days, he'd come dangerously close. After what had happened to Sansa, he understood his father's grief and anger in a way that he never had before, and even though he still hated the man, he couldn't help but feel pity for him. No one deserved to suffer that kind of pain, and maybe if Joanna Lannister had lived, Tywin Lannister would have been a very different man.

"You know," Tyrion said softly, his voice breaking with emotion, "your grandfather, Tywin, wasn't all that different from me. When I was born, he wanted nothing to do with me, wanted to drown me in the Sunset Sea. And there have been times in my life when I've wished he had."

The words passed Tyrion's lips without conscious thought. There were so many things he needed to say, so many things he needed to tell someone. And he couldn't tell Jaime. He'd already caused his brother enough pain. But little Eddard, with his shining eyes and innocent expression, seemed all too eager to hear Tyrion's darkest secrets. There was no judgment in his gaze, only acceptance.

"There were times when I wished that I had died and my mother had lived," Tyrion continued, "just so my father wouldn't have so much reason to hate me. And maybe, someday, you'll feel the same way about your own mother, but I hope not. I don't ever want to give you a reason to feel that way. I don't want you to ever, ever think that I'm sorry you're here, that I'm sorry you were born into this world. You're . . . you're all that I have left of her, and I don't know what I would do without you."

An unbidden sob escaped Tyrion's throat, and tears prickled behind his eyes. Since the very moment Eddard had been born, he'd been pushing the boy away, determined to distance himself from the source of his pain. But now that Eddard was in his arms, Tyrion never wanted to let him go. Yes, he was angry about Sansa's death, but that wasn't Eddard's fault. And as Jaime was so fond of pointing out, it wasn't his fault either. If anyone was to blame, it was the gods, and Tyrion was sure he would spend the rest of his life cursing them for what they had done.

Tyrion lifted Eddard to his chest, holding him close and hugging him tightly as his eyes drifted closed again. He gently stroked the back of Eddard's head, lost in thought. He was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that his son had been born a dwarf, not because he thought Eddard inferior or blamed him for his mother's death, but because he wanted the boy to have a normal life. Jaime had been right about one more thing. There was no one who could better prepare Eddard for the future that lay before him than his own father. Tyrion had suffered the same challenges, the same trials, that Eddard would face, and if anyone could raise him to be as great a man as his namesake, it was Tyrion.

"It's going to be all right," Tyrion reassured the babe in his arms. "I'll take care of you, no matter what. Protect you and defend you with my life. Do you understand that? No one is going to fight more fiercely for you than I am. You are Sansa Stark's son, and that makes you the most precious thing in the world to me."

Tyrion rocked Eddard a little longer before finally opening his eyes. He gasped, surprised to find Jaime leaning casually against the doorframe, watching him.

"How . . . how long have you been there?" Tyrion asked, self-consciously lowering Eddard to his lap.

"Long enough." Jaime pushed himself away from the doorframe and stepped into the room. "I heard the baby crying, so I got up to see what was wrong. I met the wet nurse in the hallway, but when I saw that you were already with Eddard, I asked her to give you some time alone."

Tyrion nodded, his head suddenly feeling numb. "So you heard everything."

"Just about. I'm proud of you, Tyrion. I truly am. I just want you to know that."

Tyrion snorted. "Don't be too proud of me. I tried to hate this little thing," he said with a glance down at Eddard. "But he seems to be making that rather difficult."

"Ah, so he is like you, then."

Tyrion laughed, secretly wishing he had something to throw at Jaime. "Plenty of people have no trouble hating me. But this little one?" Tyrion hefted Eddard a bit higher in his arms. "How could anyone not love him? He's Sansa Stark's son, after all."

Jaime arched a brow in challenge. "Does that mean that you love him?"

Tyrion's gut twisted, and he resisted the urge to squirm in the chair. Eddard was growing on him by the moment, but he wasn't sure he had the courage to admit that he loved him just yet. He wasn't really sure how he felt. His emotions were raw, and he was scared to say too much too soon.

"It means that I care, that I will do all that I can to shield him from the horrors of the world, that I will protect him until my dying breath."

"But you don't think that's love?"

Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes stinging with tears. "I . . . I would rather not love anyone or anything ever again, to be honest. I don't think I could endure that kind of pain."

Until that very moment, Tyrion hadn't realized what was truly keeping him from loving his own son. He was terrified of getting close to Eddard, of loving him with the same fervor with which he had loved Sansa, and then losing him too. Tyrion had lost so much in his life, but nothing had prepared him for Sansa's death. His heart was irrevocably broken, and he feared he simply didn't have the strength to patch it back together again, even for Eddard.

"So, what does that mean?" Jaime asked, a hint of disapproval in his tone. "That you intend to keep Eddard at a distance? That you shall be just as cold and indifferent as our father was?"

Tyrion's jaw tightened. Although he had certainly earned the slight, he hated being compared to Tywin Lannister more than anything. "I could never do that to my own child," Tyrion snapped, as if he himself hadn't spent the past three days shunning his newborn son. "But neither can I let myself get too close to him. What if . . . what if I should lose him too? What if he grows to hate me the way Father hated me? What if he breaks my heart?"

Jaime shook his head. "None of that is going to happen."

"You don't know that. You don't. None of us do. None of us can see the future—well, perhaps Bran can—but not the rest of us. And you can't promise me that what's left of my heart won't get torn to pieces by this small and oddly endearing child."

"You're right, Tyrion. I can't. But you can't guarantee that you won't break his heart either, or that I won't break yours. Life is unpredictable. All we can do is love those around us the best we can while they're still with us. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life living in fear, keeping your only son at arm's length because you're afraid of getting hurt? Would you really sacrifice all the joys Eddard could bring you, both big and small, just because you're afraid you might lose him one day?"

"I've lost everyone else."

"You haven't lost me. And I'm not going anywhere, Tyrion. Not anytime soon. Not if I can help it. And neither is Eddard. Maester Wolkan says he's a strong lad, healthy and robust. And perfectly capable of growing into a fine young man. But he needs a loving, guiding hand to raise him. He needs you, Tyrion, especially with Sansa gone."

Tyrion's gaze drifted to Eddard's face again, and he was surprised to find the babe fast asleep. Although he had held all of Cersei's children when they were still in their cradles, no child had ever fallen asleep in his arms before, and there was something strangely comforting about it. Eddard trusted him, though Tyrion still had no idea why. All Tyrion knew was that if he pushed Eddard away now, it would only cause the boy immeasurable pain.

Tyrion sniffled back fresh tears, desperate to keep them from falling. "I . . . I don't want to repeat the mistakes of the past," he said as he looked up at Jaime again. "I don't want to be what Father was. I don't want to be cold and cruel and detached. I . . . I never imagined I'd say this, but I understand his pain now. I understand his anger and his hatred and his rage. All of it. But I don't want to be like him, Jaime. I refuse to be like him. I'm going to be different. I swear it!" Tyrion inhaled a hard breath, his whole body shaking with the effort as he prepared to take a giant leap of faith. "I love Eddard. I love my son. And I'm going to make sure that I tell him that and show him that every single day for as long as we both walk this earth. I am never, ever going to make him feel as if he isn't loved or wanted, because he is, more than he'll ever know."

By the time Tyrion finished, the tears were flowing freely, and he couldn't seem to make them stop. It had taken him far longer than it should have, but he'd finally found the courage to look past his grief and let himself love his son. And now, he knew what he had to do. He had to be better than the man who had raised him. He had to be better than his own father. For Eddard's sake and for his own.

"A wise decision," Jaimes said soundly. "And one I think Sansa would be proud of."

"I'm going to do everything in my power to make her proud," Tyrion replied with firm determination as he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. "Sansa entrusted her only child to me, and I refuse to let her down. I am going to make sure that our son leads a full and happy life. And I swear, I will not make the same mistakes our father made."

A warm smile curved Jaime's lips, and Tyrion suddenly felt strangely content. He knew things weren't going to be any less difficult, or any less painful, now that he had decided to accept Eddard into his life, but somehow, he felt at peace with his circumstances. He had a purpose now, and he wasn't alone, and that was what mattered most.

"You're a good man, Tyrion," Jaime said with profound sincerity. "And you're going to be a wonderful father."

"Do you really think so?" There was a touch of hope in Tyrion's voice, something that hadn't been there in a long time.

"I do. But for now, maybe you should put him back in his cradle," Jaime said, nodding toward Eddard, "and come break your fast. It's morning, and you need to eat something. And Eddard needs his sleep."

Tyrion knew that Jaime was right. There would be plenty of time to hold Eddard later, when he was awake and Tyrion could stare down into those captivating blue eyes. But for now, the babe needed his rest and Tyrion needed to finally start taking care of himself again so that he could be there for Eddard for a long time to come.

With slow, careful movements, Tyrion rose from the rocking chair and carried Eddard back to his cradle. He gently laid him down in the small bed and tucked the blanket in around him. For a moment, Tyrion just stared at the babe, unable to tear himself away. Something had changed inside him since he'd first entered the room. Not only was his headache gone, but so were his fear and his anger. He loved his son. He loved little Eddard Stark. And he silently swore to himself that he would never turn his back on the boy again.

Holding his breath, Tyrion leaned over the edge of the cradle and placed a single kiss on Eddard's forehead. Then, he finally forced himself to pull away, turning around to look at Jaime. "Do you think he'll be all right on his own?"

"The wet nurse is waiting just outside. He'll be safe in her care."

Tyrion nodded, wishing he didn't have to leave, but knowing it was for the best.

Jaime moved closer to the open doorway, holding one arm out in front of him, encouraging Tyrion to precede him into the corridor. "After you."

Tyrion glanced at Eddard one last time before reluctantly leaving the room. He knew that his son was safe now, and that was all he cared about. After breakfast, he would return to the nursery and spend the rest of the morning telling Eddard lovingly crafted stories about his beloved mother. Although Tyrion was still grieving—although he knew he would continue to grieve Sansa's loss until he drew his final breath—he had found a new purpose in life. If he couldn't live for Sansa, he could live for their son. He could be the man she had always wanted him to be, the father she had always wanted him to be. And together, he and Eddard would make sure that the world never forgot Sansa Stark. Together, they would keep Sansa's memory alive for generations to come.


Author's Note: Even though Tyrion has finally come to terms with his feelings for his son, this story isn't quite over yet. If all goes as planned, I should be posting the Epilogue sometime next week.