Chapter Fifteen

By the time Tyrion reached his chamber, he was trembling all over. He closed the door behind him and sank to the floor, leaning back against the door for support. He stared out into the darkened room, his mind fraught with uncertainty.

Sansa – Sansa Stark – wanted to be in love.

It was a startling revelation, one Tyrion had never expected her to make. Of course, he'd always known that she had once been the kind of girl who loved ballads and fairy stories and dreamed of marrying her prince charming, but until that night, she had adamantly sworn that she had left those girlhood fantasies behind. And then, all it had taken was one evening in his brother's company, and she was suddenly that little girl again.

Tyrion wondered why Sansa had admitted the truth. She could have simply thrown him out of her solar without offering a single word of explanation. After all, he deserved no better. Not only had he accused her of infidelity, but he had accused her of wanting her own brother-in-law. He had insulted her honor, yet again, and she'd had every right to be furious with him.

Tyrion leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes. He could feel the effects of the wine already beginning to wear off. He hadn't drunk quite as much as he'd wanted to, and yet, he'd still made a mess of things. He should have just said goodnight and been on his way before he'd done something to hurt her again.

Because that was all he ever did, wasn't it? Hurt her? Even though she'd sworn that she wanted him to remain at Winterfell, every time they were alone together, it ended in disaster. Tonight, Sansa had confessed that she wanted someone to love her the way that Jaime loved Brienne. Well, Tyrion wanted the same thing, more than Sansa could ever know. But no matter how desperate Sansa was for love, Tyrion knew she would never let him be the one to love her, and he didn't blame her in the least. She deserved better. She deserved a handsome, charming, honorable man by her side, not a monster. And despite Tyrion's fine new clothes and the grudging respect he had gained at Winterfell since his arrival, deep down inside, he was still a monster, he was still the man who had murdered his own father and his former lover, and there was no way that either one of them could ever forget that.

Tyrion sighed heavily and forced his eyes open. Although the hour was late for everyone else, it wasn't particularly late for him. Even so, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so tired. All he wanted was a nice warm bed and the luxury of slipping into a dreamless oblivion.

It took a great deal of effort, but Tyrion finally managed to struggle to his feet. He staggered to the bed, leaning up against the bedpost to strip off his clothes. Since his return, he had been outfitted with an entire wardrobe befitting his new title, but even though there was a clean nightshift waiting for him at the foot of the bed, he ignored it, choosing to sleep in his linen tunic instead.

Tyrion crawled up onto the mattress, burrowed beneath the furs, and willed himself to sleep.

The next morning, Tyrion awoke with a violent headache, the direct result of his excessive drinking the night before. By the time he crawled out of bed and made himself presentable, he had missed breakfast.

Instead of trying to find himself something to eat, Tyrion went off in search of Eddard and Jaime. He found them in the yard, sparring with wooden swords, the snowy earth and the cold northern air doing nothing to dampen their spirits. Tyrion ascended the stairs that led to the covered bridge between the Great Hall and the armory. He settled himself in front of one of the open windows so that he could observe them.

Eddard spent most mornings in the yard training with Arya. It was as much a part of his education as the hours he spent behind closed doors with Maester Wolkan. Arya never went easy on the boy. She treated him like a full-grown man, not a child, and she always pushed him to the limit.

Jaime, however, was a bit gentler, and Tyrion enjoyed watching the two of them together. Seeing them side by side, it was impossible to ignore the resemblance between them, and Tyrion wondered if, perhaps, Sansa had been telling the truth about Eddard's paternity all along.

Tyrion shook his head, chasing away the thought. It was too painful for him to even comprehend. If Eddard was his son, it meant that Sansa had been faithful to him, had been patiently awaiting his return, for five long years, and Tyrion didn't want to imagine that kind of suffering for her. He much preferred to think that Sansa had known love at least once in her life, other than the single night she had been forced to let him into her bed. She deserved some happiness because, gods knew, she had suffered more than enough.

But it wasn't just for Sansa's sake that Tyrion refused to believe that the boy was his. He'd spent his whole life playing the fool for everyone – his father, his sister, Shae. Tysha. He didn't ever want to play the fool again. And if he let himself believe that Eddard was his son, truly believe, when the truth finally came out – as he was sure it someday would – he would be devastated beyond imagining. Tyrion had known great heartache in his life, but he didn't think anything could ever compare to the prospect of believing that Eddard was his son and then having that belief destroyed. It was better never to believe than to have his heart broken again.

The activity in the yard below intensified, and Eddard finally managed to strike a blow to Jaime's abdomen. "I did it!" Eddard cried out in victory. "You're dead."

Jaime looked down to find Eddard's sword pressed firmly against his stomach. He chuckled softly. "So it would seem." Then, he collapsed onto the snowy ground, lying there like a lifeless corpse.

Eddard laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. He approached Jaime with confident steps, poking him a few more times with the tip of his sword, just to make sure he was really dead. But Jaime still had some life left in him. Without a hint of warning, he sat up, snaked his right arm around Eddard's waist, and dragged him to the ground, laughing as he shoved a fistful of snow down the back of Eddard's tunic.

Eddard squealed in delight, squirming from Jaime's grip and climbing to his feet. When they were both standing again, Eddard threw a particularly large snowball at Jaime, hitting him square in the chest.

Jaime leaned down to scoop up a handful of snow, but before he could reach the ground, Arya interrupted them.

"That's enough of that," she said, stepping between Jaime and Eddard, instantly putting an end to their fun. "The yard is for serious training, not snowball fights. Brienne and I would like our turn, if you don't mind."

Tyrion held his breath as he waited to see what would happen next. He was silently hoping that Jaime would throw a snowball at Arya, but even the legendary Kingslayer was not that brave. Jaime stood up straight, wiping the snow from his gloves and turning his attention to Eddard. "Shall we call it a day then?"

"Yes," Eddard said eagerly. "I want to see Aunt Arya and Aunt Brienne fight with real swords."

Jaime smiled at him gently, then reached out to muss the golden curls atop his head. "All right then. Good fight."

Eddard beamed at Jaime's praise before he turned and ran off to the edge of the yard. He climbed up onto an empty wagon and settled in, his eyes focused on Arya as he waited for the fight to begin.

Brienne stepped forward then, casting a quick glance at Jaime. The instant their eyes met, something magical passed between them, something Tyrion could feel even from yards away, and suddenly, he remembered what had driven him to drink so much the night before.

Jaime mounted the stairs to the covered bridge and joined Tyrion, standing just to his right. Together, they stared down into the yard, watching as the fight began.

"You have a real knack with the boy," Tyrion said. Although Tyrion and Eddard often played with wooden swords, that's all it ever was, play. Tyrion had no skill as a swordsman, and so he could do little more with Eddard than pretend that they were going on adventures together, hunting dragons and fighting White Walkers. It was nothing like the training Eddard received from his aunts and uncle. Such training was simply beyond Tyrion's abilities.

"Well, I should have a knack with him," Jaime replied. "He is my nephew after all."

A bitter laugh escaped Tyrion's throat, but he refused to say anything in reply.

Jaime rested his forearms on the windowsill and leaned down so that he and Tyrion were closer in height. "Do you want to tell me why you believe that Eddard isn't your son?"

"I'd be more inclined to believe that he's your son than mine," Tyrion said. "Just look at him. It's like seeing Tommen all over again."

A heavy silence settled between them, and Tyrion was instantly sorry that he'd mentioned his nephew. He knew how painful the loss was for Jaime, and he hadn't meant to dredge up the tragedies of the past. He'd regretted it the day before when he'd forced Jaime to mention Tommen, and he knew he had made a grave misstep now. Tyrion wanted to apologize, but he feared that anything he said would just make things worse.

It was a while before Jaime spoke again. "He does look like Tommen," he said. "Which is why I have to wonder why you don't believe that he's your son."

Tyrion turned toward Jaime, and Jaime pulled back just enough to look down at him.

"Look at me," Tyrion said. "What do you see?"

"My pain-in-the-ass brother."

Tyrion couldn't help but laugh at that. "Besides that?"

Jaime sighed in exasperation. "Is this because you're a dwarf and he's not?"

"It's more than that."

"How so?"

"Sansa Stark is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and I am the Demon Monkey of Casterly Rock. She and I were only together one time—"

"All it takes is one time."

Tyrion ignored Jaime's comment. "My point is, after she disappeared from King's Landing, gods only know where she went and who she was with."

"She went to the Vale with Littlefinger. Everyone knows that," Jaime said plainly.

"Yes, but who knows what they encountered on their travels, who they encountered on their travels. The boy's father could be just about anyone."

Jaime shook his head. "I'm surprised Sansa doesn't want your head on a pike," he said as he turned back toward the yard to watch Brienne and Arya again.

Tyrion turned as well, though he saw little of what was going on below them. "It isn't quite that bad. I don't think she wants my head on a pike just yet. I think she'd much prefer that I simply do my duty and keep my distance."

"And acknowledge Eddard as your trueborn son."

"Yes, that too."

Jaime paused again. "So, what is it? What is it that's really keeping you from seeing what's clearly in front of your face?"

Tyrion's gaze drifted across the yard to Eddard. He was still sitting on the empty wagon, thoroughly enraptured by the sight of his aunts fighting a few feet away. His feet thumped rhythmically against the wooden wagon wheel as if he was impatient to join in the sparring himself. He was everything that Tyrion could have ever wanted in a son – brave, passionate, clever. And that, more than anything, was why Tyrion couldn't let himself believe that the boy was his. The gods had never been kind to Tyrion before, and he knew this was all just a trap, the setup to some sick joke that the gods were playing for their own amusement.

"Well?" Jaime asked when Tyrion didn't answer.

"There's no way that I could ever make a child as perfect and beautiful as Eddard," Tyrion replied, his eyes never leaving the boy.

"Just because you're a dwarf doesn't mean that you couldn't have fathered a normal child."

"You don't know that. How many dwarves have you met in your life? And how many of them have had children, normal or otherwise?"

"Grand Maester Tarly says it's possible. He found accounts of it in several old scrolls in the Citadel library in Oldtown."

"Grand Maester Tarly?" Jaime had said the name as if Tyrion should know who the man was, but other than the fact that he was probably a member of House Tarly, Tyrion knew nothing of him.

"The new Grand Maester of the Red Keep. He's one of King Jon's most trusted advisors. They were in the Night's Watch together."

Tyrion found this bit of information quite interesting, and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of man this Tarly fellow was. He had obviously made a significant impression on Jon Snow if he'd been appointed Grand Maester. But that was a conversation for another day.

"Yes, well," Tyrion said, "just because there have been dwarves who have fathered normal children before, doesn't mean that I'm one of them. Besides, like I said, Sansa is an extremely beautiful woman. She can have any man she wants, and it's impossible for me to imagine that she kept herself only unto me after we parted ways. I don't blame her, of course. I would have done the same thing in her position. I just don't like the fact that she insists upon lying about it."

"Have you always been this deeply in denial?"

Tyrion nodded. "Probably. About a lot of things, I suppose."

"That boy over there," Jaime said, "is four and a half years old. He had to have been conceived during Sansa's stay in King's Landing. And unless you're accusing her of sleeping with someone else while the two of you were still sharing a bedchamber, how can you claim that Eddard isn't your son?"

Tyrion shook his head. After five years of wandering aimlessly through Essos, time had become a hazy concept for him. In his memory, there were long periods of time that stretched on infinitely and others that flitted by in the blink of an eye. Although it was difficult for Tyrion to fully grasp just how much time had passed since he'd fled King's Landing, he knew that it was entirely possible that someone else had fathered Sansa's child.

"Perhaps the boy came prematurely," Tyrion answered. "Just because a babe is supposed to take nine months to gestate, doesn't mean they always do. That child could have been conceived a fortnight, a moonturn, two moonturns, after Sansa left King's Landing."

From the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Jaime shake his head. "You know, you're lucky she's even speaking to you at this point. She has every right to throw you out if she wanted to."

"Ah, but she doesn't want to. Not because she wants me around, but because she needs help running Winterfell. The war hit pretty hard up here, and it's definitely not a job for one person."

"And that's it? That's the only reason you think she wants you here?"

"And she wants a father for the boy."

Jaime lifted his left hand, and a second later, Tyrion felt something strike the back of his head.

"Ow!" Tyrion exclaimed, turning dark eyes on Jaime. "What the hell was that for?"

"For being an idiot. And maybe to knock some sense into you. Just be glad it wasn't my other hand."

Tyrion lifted his fingers to the back of his head and felt for a lump, certain he would find one there. His head was already splitting from the night before and getting smacked by Jaime had made the pain considerably worse.

Jaime sighed and pushed himself away from the wall, standing to his full height. "Do you know what Brienne would do to me if I even hinted at the idea that the child she's carrying isn't mine?"

Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you saying that Lady Brienne is pregnant?"

A soft smile quirked Jaime's lips, and Tyrion knew the answer before his brother even replied. "We're hoping it's born in the spring."

Tyrion stared up at Jaime in silent wonder. After everything that Jaime had been through, after all the loss he had suffered, it was heartening to think that he was making a new family all his own. "I . . . I don't know what to say," Tyrion replied. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Thank you, Tyrion. That means a lot to me." Jaime turned his gaze toward the yard again. "We haven't told anyone yet. But we won't be able to keep it a secret forever."

Tyrion looked down at Brienne. She was as lean and agile as ever, and it was hard for him to imagine that deep within her womb a tiny little life was taking shape. Out in the yard, sword in hand, she didn't look at all like a lady. She looked like a warrior, and Tyrion found himself wondering what kind of mother she would make.

"Do you really think it's wise to let her keep sparring?" Tyrion asked, his eyes still fixed on his new sister-in-law.

"Brienne knows what she's doing. She's not too far along yet, so there's no danger to the baby. Arya fights fair. I'm not worried."

Tyrion tore his eyes away from the yard and looked at Jaime again. It took Jaime just a bit longer to turn away from Brienne and look at Tyrion.

"Why did you make her travel with you all the way to Winterfell just to see me?" Tyrion asked. "Surely, in her condition, she would have been better off if she'd stayed at Casterly Rock."

"She's fine," Jaime said. "In fact, she insisted upon joining me. Neither one of us wanted to be apart for even a single night, much less weeks or months on end. I couldn't leave her behind."

Tyrion understood why, of course. Jaime didn't even have to say it. The love he felt for his wife was clearly reflected in his eyes, so deep and abiding that it made Tyrion's soul ache with envy. "She's a very lucky woman," Tyrion said, struggling to keep the emotion from his voice.

"No, I am a very lucky man. I don't deserve her, and I know it. Not after everything I've done. But for some inexplicable reason, she loves me, and I could never walk away from that. I live to make Brienne happy. I love her so much that, sometimes, I can't even put it into words. She's here," Jaime said, clutching his heart, "all the time, making me who I am, making me whole. And I would never do anything to jeopardize that. Never."

Jaime's words sounded like a warning, but Tyrion hadn't asked for advice. "I'm happy for you, Jaime. For both of you. I know you don't think you deserve Brienne's love, but you're wrong. You've come a long way since you lived to serve Cersei, and you've changed more than any of us."

Jaime shook his head. "You think you know all my sins, brother, but you don't. I—"

Tyrion held up a hand, cutting him off. "I don't want to know."

"But Bran Stark—"

"Please, let's just leave the past in the past. Whatever you've done, the woman you love has forgiven you for it, and I forgive you as well. We need never speak of it again." Tyrion turned away, desperate to put an end to the conversation.

"All right, if that's how you feel."

"It is."

"In that case, I have one piece of brotherly advice for you, and you're going to stand here and listen to it whether you like it or not."

Tyrion was sure he knew what was coming, and he was in no mood for it. "If it has anything to do with Sansa Stark, you can save yourself the trouble."

"I'm not the only one who's done terrible things in the past. You . . . you murdered our father."

"Yes, I know. I was there."

"You murdered your lover."

"Again," Tyrion said, "you're not telling me anything that I don't already know."

"And I'm sure you've done many other terrible things that I know nothing about."

"Well, it's nice to know that you think so highly of me."

"What I'm trying to say is, we've both done unspeakable things in the past, but that doesn't mean that we don't deserve to be loved. It doesn't mean that we don't deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy, Tyrion, more than most people I know. Life has been cruel to you from the moment you took your very first breath. Now, you have happiness staring you in the face, and you refuse to reach out for it because you think you don't deserve it, because you think you're some kind of monster who is fated to walk the earth tortured and alone."

"That's not it," Tyrion replied, but then quickly reconsidered. "Well, yes, it is. But no, it isn't. It's not just that. Not really." His gaze settled on Eddard again, the beautiful little boy with the golden hair and the sparkling blue eyes. He was everything Tyrion had ever wanted and the one thing he simply couldn't let himself have. "Happiness is an illusion," Tyrion said, "a trap, the precursor to the cruelest of jokes the gods choose to play on us mere mortals. I won't let myself be fooled, not again. Not for you or for anyone else."

Tyrion stepped away from the window and turned toward the Great Hall. He was done talking for one morning. He didn't want to hear another word out of Jaime about how he should live his life. Yes, they had both sinned, there was no doubt about that, but they weren't on even footing. Jaime had always been handsome and brave, heroic and strong. The ground itself had cowered at his feet since the day he'd been born. The world had been created for men like Jaime Lannister. It was kind to them, and it forgave their sins far more readily than it forgave the sins of misshapen dwarves. Tyrion knew Jaime's intentions were good, but he'd had enough of his brother's lecturing for one day.

Before Jaime could stop him, Tyrion walked away. Despite the pounding in his head, he was off to find himself a much-needed flagon of wine.