Eleven years into King Jon's Reign during The Bloodless War.
On Essos' South Western Shore. (Part one)
...
"It doesn't seem like they're responding in the least." Arya snaps, tossing her hands onto the table with a smack.
"Which is why we need to hold our own." Jaime reminds her softly. "If we flinch before they even appear to know that there is something to flinch at we don't come across as very strong, now do we?"
"So we wait? We just wait? I let them launch thinly veiled threats at my sister, ignore my brother and accuse us of being poor neighbors while-."
"Ser Jaime!" The tent flap opens quickly and the young Sam Tarly scurries in.
"Boy what have I told you about-?" He hisses at his squire.
"It's the Lord Commander, Sir. Father says come quickly." Jaime's eyes shot to Arya.
"Go. Go on." She knows his ask is just a formality, he's already half out the door and to the Maester's tent before the words are even out of her mouth.
He yanks back the flap in near panic only to find her sitting on the edge of a raised cot, sniffling like a child. Gilly stands nearby, patting her back sweetly as Sam stares at her, wrinkle faced, from his makeshift desk.
His head tips back with relief, because all at once it hits him what this is. He's expected this even, the signs were very much there for him in the quiet moments they've managed to grab scraps of. Her sapphire eyes shoot to him with the most accusing look he's seen on her in -well- six years. Gilly backs up slowly as he comes towards her, his left hand coming up to block the arm she flings at him, catching it with practiced ease and pulling her body flush with his.
"How far?" He whispers back over his shoulder at the Maester as she sniffs and sputters into his jerkin.
"At least four months. Probably more." Jaime winces, pressing his chin into her hair.
"Did you pass out?" He guesses.
"I dropped like a freaking bag of stones." She sniffs. "Gods what if I had done that in front of the Ghiscari? For fucks sake Jaime, this is the last damn thing we need right now."
"Is she alright otherwise?" He sighs towards Samwell Tarly.
"She's dehydrated and she needs to eat more." Sam tells him, his eyes rising as if to wish him luck. "We'll give you a some privacy." The Maester stretches his arm out to his wife, who give Jaime as sympathetic nod before leaving.
"It's going to be alright." He moves until their foreheads touch.
"We are teetering on the brink of war." She looks up at him, lost. "The negotiations aren't going well. Sansa's army is ready to come to blows and Jon has no idea how to thread this needle. And here I am, too stupid to realize that it's not the stress, my age, the heat, being in Essos or any of the other excuses I've been making."
"Tyrion's sending his children to the Rock. Yara dispatched a ship to Bear Island, Sandor's going to get them there. I was going to tell you at dinner that it might be time to tell your father to do the same." Jaime tells her softly. "They'll be safer on the West."
He bites back suggesting she join them. He knows better.
"I really thought they'd live a life free from war." She sniffs.
"I mean we really did get a little cocky, naming it the 'Last War' and all." He smirks, peeling back from her a little. "How about I get you something to eat, and have Arya brought to our tent to finish our strategy session? I'm sure she'd appreciate your tempering my enthusiasm."
"We should write Father." She swallows. "About the boys."
He nodded grimly.
He's settled her in their tent with a plate of cheese and hard meats when he sends his young squire with a letter to Lord Selwyn and went off to look for Arya.
….
"Jaime."
"Tyrion." He looks at his brother grimly. "How did it go today?"
"It wasn't totally awful." He grimaces as Jaime rubs his face. "How's my Dear Sister? I heard the heat got to her today."
"Yes." His brother sniffs. "We're going with the heat for now."
"Oh no." He catches his meaning immediately.
"Oh yes." Jaime smirks.
"Aren't you two getting a little old for this?" The Warden of the North's face is wrinkles up in irritation.
"Why yes, Dear Brother, we are. Thank you for reminding me." He snorts. "Care to join us for an impromptu strategy session?"
"Sansa is meeting with Jon. So yes. I'd love to not be alone in my tent." His little brother sighs.
"Try not to remind my wife we're too old to be having babies." Jaime narrows his eyes at him pleadingly.
"I'll hold my tongue." He chuckles.
…
"This whole nonsense is our fault anyhow." Jon mumbles running his hand over his face.
"How's that?" Sansa hisses.
"The Dothraki is what kept the Ghiscari at bay. We used them all up for a war of our own. The plague probably originated from them, or from the UnSullied." He snorts. "In saving Westeros we destroyed Essos."
"We didn't bring the Dothraki West. We didn't march the UnSullied into unknown lands."
"I asked her to." Jon murmurs.
"She would have anyway." Sansa snaps.
"When are you going to stop placing the blame for everything at her feet?" He growls.
"When are you going to stop so readily taking all of it from her?!" She raises a sharp eyebrow and Jon goes silent. "You're such a brooder. You always have been."
Jon doesn't disagree.
"I heard your Kingsguard lost herself to the heat today, that's unlike her."
"She's pregnant." Jon inhales deeply.
"You brought her here-?"
"She didn't know. I actually think she just found out today." He rubs his face.
"But you knew?"
"I suspected. It's the third time, I know the signs." He chuckles. "She gets paranoid, about my safety and about Ser Jaime's. If possible she wears her emotions even more tightly on her face. She gets snippy with Arya."
"I must always seem pregnant to you then." She teases.
"You glow." He tells her, leaning back and giving her a fatherly glance. "You were born for it. My Lord Commander was born for the battlefield, not this. Motherhood becomes you."
"Stop it Jon! You make me miss my babies." She blinks.
"You've sent them West?" He asks her protectively.
"The Rock's the safest place for them. Jaime is sending the boys." She whispers. "If we fail-."
"We won't." Jon tells her, his back drawing up sharply.
…
"You trying to pace us Dear Sister?" Tyrion asks her raising an eyebrow. "Match us heir for heir?"
"If that's it Tyrion, I bold request a cease fire and that you never go near Sansa again." She whispers.
"I thought the twins would be it for her, but she's already decided that Rickon needs a brother." He sniffs. "Or two."
"Gods that woman." Brienne shakes her head, swallowing hard.
"You're telling me." He sniffs. "How's it coming with the two of them?"
"Arya's trying to find something to move this along before the North can't keep their swords in their sheaths any longer." The Lord Commander tells him. "Jaime's obsessed with the plague and how it seems to play into the Ghiscari's fortune."
"He's got a point there." Tyrion sighs. "What was left of the Dothraki was easily cut down by the plague. It weakened the other army's that may have made headway against them."
"They've lost people too." Brienne shakes her head. "I agree with the Grand Maester, it's a simple case of the people of Essos' being less hearty against the ails of Westeros. It happens. It's why we've been so careful not to allow cross contamination. Why we've relied for heavily on Yara for supplies."
"Has he tried to convince you to go home yet?" He raises his eyes brow.
"He knows better." She says softly. "I'm sure his tongue is sore from biting back the words, but he only tells me with his eyes."
"It's not a horrible idea." The Imp reminds her.
"It's not." She smiles. "But I'm still Lord Commander, and we're trying to prevent a war." She runs her hand across her abdomen and Tyrion can't help but notice that upon inspection the pregnancy shows. "And I'm probably too far along for a trip home anyhow. I guess I could go to Tarth, but is that going to be any safer if this turns?"
"Probably not."
"I'll be okay. I worked up until a month before with Renly." She smirks. "Pod and Jaime won't let me do much of anything anyway."
"Tyrion stop harassing my bride and come tell your good sister you can control your forces!" Jaime snorts, stomping away from the table where Arya stands, her hands braced..
"Duty calls." He chuckles.
"The woman is incessant." Her husband grumbles as he crosses paths with his brother. He stops before the bed, blinking at her with his creased eyes. "How are you?"
"I'm alright." She whispers, as he lifts a pitcher and pours her a cup of water. She reaches out both hands, taking the cup with one and pulling at his fingers with the other. Jaime sits beside her on mattress with a huff. "How are you?"
"I'm feeling quite old actually." He murmurs, grinning as she spits some of the water back at him with an incredulous look. "You think that's funny?"
"It's just unlike you." She grins back through her fingers as she coughs.
"I'm fifty three." He raises an eyebrow.
"I know how old you are." She's still grinning.
"It's old to start again."
"Well ready or not." She hums.
"Tyrion and Sansa don't even try to prevent babies, we half heartedly try and end up with the same number."
"They're younger, and apparently not finished." She tells him. "We are."
"You said that last time." He grinned, moving his hand to her stomach with a shake of his head.
"I meant it too." She presses her palm to it.
…..