Author's Note: Here it is, the birth! I think you'll like the choice of name. This is also the first chapter in part two!

PART II

the caged wolf of king's landing

Little Lion

Until now, Tyrion had been lucky enough to never have heard a birthing woman's screams. He hadn't been in the capital for any of Cersei's three childbirths and there hadn't been a birth in Casterly Rock since his own. Despite this, Tyrion had always known that childbirth was a painful and occasionally fateful ordeal – after all, his own mother had died because of birthing complications. But as he was forced to listen to his good-sister's screams of pain, Tyrion remarked to himself that nothing could have prepared him for the real thing.

He sat with Cersei in the small council chamber where they awaited news of Lyarra and the child His sister, dear Cersei, seemed entirely unaffected. If anything, Cersei looked irritated, as though Lyarra Stark's screams of utter agony were bothering her. "It's been a whole day. More, actually. Two nights. You'd think she'd have had the damn whelp by now."

"I'm sure our sister-in-law shares your impatience," Tyrion replied, sitting opposite Cersei. He poured them both a glass of wine. "From her screams of pain, I can safely say she's not enjoying her ordeal very much."

Cersei gave a small, sardonic laugh. "You forget, brother, that I have undergone the same... ordeal. Three times. I only wish that the little wolf could hurry up and birth the child. Save us all another sleepless night."

"I would have thought the screams of your good-sister would put you to sleep quicker. Like a lullaby for the... shall I say the less sympathetic of us?" Tyrion flashed his sister a cheeky grin, enjoying how her face contorted with anger.

"How you wound me, brother," Cersei replied, taking a sip of her wine and then licking her lips as she glowered at him. "You wouldn't understand what this is like for me. Having to listen to that all day and night. A living, screaming reminder of the day you took my mother from me."

Tyrion pursed his lips together. Of course she would have to bring up their mother somehow and paint him as the wretched monster who killed their beloved mother, as though he somehow, as a babe, willed her dead. "It must be quite traumatic for you," Tyrion drawled, sarcasm laced in his voice.

"Quite," Cersei repeated, a snarl on her lips.

Before his sister could say anything else, Maester Pycelle came limping into the room, shuffling his feet. Tyrion rolled his eyes. This was the man expected to deliver the next heir to Casterly Rock? Lyarra Stark could easily suffer some fatal complication during the time it took for the old maester to get from one side of the castle to the other.

"Your Grace, Lord Tyrion," Pycelle stammered, giving them both a shallow bow. Tyrion raised his glass to the maester, who merely looked at him oddly before stammering on. "I regret to inform you that there have been some... complications with Lady Lannister and the child."

"Complications?" Cersei echoed. Tyrion noticed how she didn't seem perturbed at all by the news.

"Yes," Pycelle stuttered. "Lady Lannister has lost much blood and suffers from a fever and... delirium. She has more than once called for her father." He looked at the both of them, feeling the need to clarify. "Who is... dead."

"Yes, yes, we know Lord Stark is dead. Thank you, Pycelle," Cersei snapped at him. "And there is nothing to be done?"

"You are certain that she will... die?" Tyrion asked carefully. The girl is barely six and ten, Tyrion thought to himself. Certainly too young to die and, perhaps, too young to bear a child.

"I would not say for certain, Lord Hand," Pycelle answered. "Though I will say this. I have helped many women give birth in my time as Grand Maester, and I have seen this affliction many times. Some have overcome it. Some... have not. Often, there is a choice to make."

"What kind of choice?" Tyrion prompted. He was becoming weary of the maester's theatrics.

Pycelle let out a heavy sigh. "If the choice comes down to mother or child..."

"The child, obviously," Cersei replied immediately. She gave Tyrion a smile in response to his disgusted expression. "Jaime can find another wife. There are many eligible brides in Westeros. Lannister children, however..." Cersei's grin only widened. "They are precious."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at his sister. Only moments ago she was calling the child a 'whelp' and insulting it's very existence. Sometimes he wondered how Cersei had become so cruel. Tyrion addressed the maester. "It will not come down to that. Make sure of it."

He gave them both one last shallow bow before shuffling out of the room. Tyrion watched his sister closely, noticing how nonchalant she was about the whole situation. "I do wonder what has caused you to be so nonchalant about your sister-in-law's well-being. I know you care about Jaime. Do you not wish his wife and child well?"

Cersei straightened her back and fixed him with a smirk. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I would like to think you above jealousy, but I'm afraid I cannot," Tyrion retorted smoothly. "To be jealous of your brother's wife because she can bear Jaime a legitimate child... that is a sorry situation to be in, truly. I do pity you, sister." He took another chug of wine, well aware of his sister's glare upon him.

"I am not jealous of Jaime's child-bride," Cersei snarled, her voice low and dangerous. Tyrion would have been scared, had he not lived through many of Cersei's meaningless threats. "He can have as many brats with her as he wants. What do I care?"

"Ah, but you do care," Tyrion teased. He knew that he was playing a dangerous game. When Cersei was angry, she became reckless, capable of making the most unreasonable of decisions, yet Tyrion found teasing her worth the risk. "Because although he has fathered your children, you never allowed him to show them any affection. They became nothing to him. This child, however, will be entirely, unashamedly Jaime's. Jaime will love Lyarra's children as he could never love yours." Tyrion raised his glass, grinning to himself. "And that enrages you, does it not?"

Cersei clutched her glass in her hand, so tightly Tyrion expected it to shatter to pieces at any moment. She laughed coldly. "You do not get to pretend to understand how I feel. I despise our good-sister because she is a traitor's daughter. If she was to die this instant, I would weep with joy because another one of our enemies would be dead. Jaime has nothing to do it."

"Of course not," Tyrion agreed, simply because it was simpler to do so. He heard the door opening and watched Joffrey as he joined them in the small council chamber. He was grinning like a mad man. "What has you so happy, Your Grace?"

"That." The king raised his finger, indicating that it was the sound of screaming that delighted him. Tyrion wasn't surprised. "Today, a Stark once again suffers for their crimes. If the gods are just, then my aunt will follow her father into the grave. It would be fitting, would it not?"

Tyrion pointedly looked at Cersei. See what you've raised? He wanted to ask her. See what a monster you raised? Of course, Joffrey was the perfect king in Cersei's eyes, crafted in her own image. Tyrion wanted to slap some sense into them both.

"Uncle Jaime would be all the better for it," Joffrey continued on, almost bouncing up and down with sadistic delight. "A Stark is not a suitable wife for a Lannister, no matter how fertile she may be." Joffrey was about to start another rant when the guard announced that someone wished to see them. Tyrion allowed them entry before Joffrey or Cersei could speak.

"Your Graces, my lord." The young girl curtsied to them. She was a pretty young thing with pale skin and dark hair. There was something familiar about her. "I am Lady Lannister's handmaiden," she explained. Ah that is it. The girl had been one of the servants in Casterly Rock. "She is suffering a difficult birth and..." She took a deep breath, preparing to say her piece before Joffrey interrupted her.

"What is it? Spit it out!" Joffrey snapped.

The girl looked startled. Justifiably. Joffrey may be a cruel idiot, but he is the most powerful cruel idiot in the realm. She stammered for a response. "My apologies, Your Grace. Lady Lannister has asked for her sister. Lady Sansa. I would not ask if it wasn't for... I believe Lady Sansa could greatly improve her sister's chances of surviving the birth. She needs someone with her that will make her feel comfortable."

"Absolutely not," Cersei objected. "Lady Sansa is a traitor's daughter, as is her sister. They cannot be allowed to be in the same room."

"I will not allow it," the king added, shaking his head vehemently. "The two have traitors blood. Having the two of them in the same room would be disastrous. No doubt they would be glad of the opportunity to conspire against the crown!"

Tyrion rolled his eyes and fixed Joffrey with a glare. "In case you haven't noticed, Lady Lannister is suffering from a difficult birth and isn't exactly in the right form to conspire against the crown." He turned to the handmaiden. "I will get Sansa. Go, tend to your mistress."

The handmaiden curtsied to him and gave Tyrion a grateful smile before scurrying off. As soon as she had left, the king advanced on him, wagging his index finger at his much shorter uncle. "You cannot do that! I am the king! Sansa is my prisoner! Your orders do not overrule mine!"

"In this case, they do," Tyrion said to him calmly. He didn't spare his nephew another word and went to fetch Sansa Stark.

Sansa had spent the last day and a half praying. She could hear her sister's screams as she prayed. The sound made Sansa weep, knowing that her sister was in pain and she was completely unable to help was a most horrible feeling. She prayed that the baby would be well, but most importantly, she prayed that Lyarra would be in good health after the birth. Perhaps it was cruel to think such things, but Sansa believed that while Lyarra could have other children, Sansa would never have another older sister.

And I was so cruel to her. Teasing and taunting her about her marriage and how she acted. You stupid, stupid girl, Sansa chided herself. The memories only made her sob harder. Her prayers – and, indeed, her shameful thoughts – were interrupted by a loud knocking on her door. Sansa jumped up immediately and bid the person to enter. It was the Imp – the queen's brother and the Hand of the King.

"My lady," Lord Tyrion inclined his head towards her. Sansa curtsied. Her heart started beating dangerously fast as she began to think the worst. "Your sister has requested your presence in the birthing chamber. The king was... reluctant at first, but has been persuaded." Tyrion gave her a small smile. "Go. Be with your sister."

She nodded vehemently, tears shining in her eyes. She didn't trust herself to speak so she merely curtsied again to Lord Tyrion before rushing out of her bedchamber and towards her sister's. She had an idea of where Lyarra might be, but even if she didn't, the screams would be enough to guide her.

Though she initially tried to be composed, Sansa was too anxious to be satisfied with a fast walking pace. Her pace increased until she was eventually running. The two guards that were guarding her sister's door looked at her oddly before they stepped aside and allowed her inside. Lyarra looked so different. She was pale and writhing in pain, her bed sheets coloured with blood. Sansa rushed to her bed-side and kneeled, clutching Lyarra's hand in hers.

Lyarra had tears in her eyes as she turned her head to look at Sansa. Her face was sweaty and devoid of all colour. "I'm scared, Sansa. It's been... too long. The baby should be here by now. What if it... what if I..." She left it unsaid, but Sansa knew what Lyarra was implying.

She shook her head, tears clouding her vision as she struggled to find the right words. "You won't. You cannot. I will be here the entire time."

"I'm so tired," Lyarra complained. Her eyelids began to drop as she struggled to keep her eyes open. "I just want to sleep."

The room stank of blood. The smell made Sansa gag, but most of all, he made her fear for her sister's life. Their grandmother had died in childbirth, what if Lyarra was to follow her? No. She cannot. I will not let her! Sansa refused to believe that she was powerless. In the past few months, the gods had taken so much from them both. Sansa refused to believe the gods – old or new – could be so cruel.

"You can't, Lyarra. Just stay awake a little longer," Sansa said to her sister, brushing her hair away from her face. Her hair had been dampened by sweat. They don't tell you about this in the songs. In the songs, the woman presents her husband with a baby and that's it. They don't sing about the pain or the sweat or the blood. Good gods, there's so much blood. Lyarra started to fall asleep again. Panicked, Sansa turned to Maester Pycelle who was standing at the foot of Lyarra's bed. "She's going to sleep. She can't – what should I do?"

Pycelle shook his head, a mournful expression on his face. "I don't know."

Sansa's eyes went wide. Not knowing what else to do, she started shaking Lyarra. "Lya, Lya, come on, wake up!" Her shaking managed to wake her up, but Lyarra started screaming again and writhing in pain. Sansa sobbed and wondered if she had done the wrong thing. "You have to have the baby. Come on, Lya. You can do this."

Another ear-piercing scream escaped Lyarra's lips. She turned away from Sansa, curled up in a ball and whimpered in pain. "It hurts, Sansa. Make it stop! Please, it hurts!" Lyarra screamed again. Sansa rubbed her sister's back, hiccuping as she tried to stop herself from breaking down as well. "Where's Mother? I want my mother!"

"Mother's not here, Lya. She would be if she could. You know that!" Sansa tried to soothe her. It didn't seem as though Lyarra heard her, as her sister let out another cry of pain. Sansa placed her hand against Lyarra's forehead, feeling how hot she was. "She's burning up. What's happening to her?" she asked the old maester who seemed deep in thought. "What's going on? Maester Pycelle, please!"

"She's been delirious for the last few hours," Pycelle explained. "She was asking for the late Lord Stark before you came. I fear that she may be suffering from an infection. As well as the amount of blood lost..."

"What are you saying?" Sansa prompted him just as Lyarra's handmaiden appeared and pressed a cold cloth against Lyarra's forehead. She looked between the two, noticing the sorry look the handmaiden gave her. She was becoming panicked, and her panic was only heightened by Lyarra's screams getting louder and louder.

"I am saying that there is not much more to be done for Lady Lannister," Pycelle stammered. "It's in the gods' hands now."

Sansa couldn't help herself. She started sobbing uncontrollably, clutching onto her sister's hand for dear life and she began muttering prayers. Save her. I've lost a father. My brother and mother are miles away. I cannot lose her too.

It was all a blur to Lyarra.

One moment, she was reading in the seat by the fire and the next she was surrounded by men and women she barely recognised. She recognised Rhea, her handmaiden, but everyone else were strangers. She recognised the heads floating around the room as well, though they couldn't possibly be real! The more they spoke to her, the more vivid and real they became. Lyarra was terrified.

First, there was her father. He called her a traitor and a liar. Then, there was her mother and Robb. They called her a traitor as well – a Lannister – and cursed the baby she was birthing. Lastly, she saw Bran. He was only a head, yet the mere sight of him made her cry.

"You know," he said to her, his voice was vicious and accusing – and much too real to be dismissed as a mere hallucination. Lyarra was frightened by how vivid he was.

"What?" she asked her little brother. "What do you mean?"

"You know what he did," Bran accused, the head floating closer to her. "You know. Why do you deny it?"

Birthing pains were horrible. It was as though she was being split in two, yet nothing could ever hurt worse than this – than being accused and condemned by the family she loved. She started to cry. "Stop it, stop it, Bran! I don't know anything!" She screamed, the pains becoming worse again.

"Yes, you do." Bran grinned viciously at her, so unlike the Bran she remembered. "You know what he did to me. Why are you lying?"

"I'm not-" Lyarra was interrupted by a shooting pain up her abdomen. "I'm not lying!"

"It doesn't matter if you're lying to me," Bran replied. "I'm only a figment of your fever dreams. What's pathetic is that you're lying to yourself. Traitor."

"I'm not a traitor!" Lyarra yelled at him, doubling over in pain and screaming. "I'm not a traitor," she muttered to herself, over and over again. "I'm not a traitor... I'm not a traitor... I'm no..."

"You're alright, Lya. You're no traitor. You're safe. I'm here." Lyarra turned her head and saw her sister. Sansa. The sight of her red-headed older sister filled her with so much joy and relief. She reached out to touch her sister's face to make sure she was real and cupped Sansa's cheek in her hand.

"Sansa?" Lyarra asked. "How long have you been here?" Sansa's eyes filled with tears. "What's wrong?"

"I've been here for the last hour," Sansa told her. "You don't remember?" Lyarra shook her head. Everything was a blank. Sansa pushed back her tears and smiled at Lyarra, pushing back her sweaty hair from her face. "That doesn't matter. I'm here now and I'm not leaving you."

"What's happening to me?" Lyarra whimpered as another pain – far worse than any of the others she had experienced – ripped through her. She felt as though the baby was trying to rip through her.

"Good gods, a miracle!" the old man at the end of her bed exclaimed suddenly as he peered up her nightgown. Lyarra was in too much pain to care about modesty. "Lady Lannister, you must push, as hard as you can. Do you understand?" He spoke to her as though she was a simpleton – or worse, a child.

"Why must I?" Lyarra asked, confused.

"For the baby," Sansa told her, holding her hand even tighter. Her sister was beaming at her. "Your baby is coming, Lya. It's time to push. Clutch my hand as tightly as you must – I don't mind – and push."

Lyarra nodded and pushed as hard as she could with what little energy she had. She screamed so loudly that she was sure the peasants could hear her in Fleabottom. "Get out of me! Get it out!" she shouted, trying her best to keep pushing before eventually being overcome by pain and fatigue. She plopped back onto the bed, panting.

"You must keep pushing!" the old man stammered. "For your sake and the child's!"

"I can't – I cannot," Lyarra whimpered, shaking her head. "I cannot. Please don't make me. It hurts. It hurts so much."

"Lya, please!" She heard Sansa sob again. "Just a little longer. You have to!"

All she wanted to do was sleep, or slip off to some kind of darkness. Many women had perished in childbirth before her. Was she to be one of them? At only six and ten, was she to die while birthing her first child? She did not want to die. With that in mind, Lyarra mustered all the strength she had left and pushed again, clutching Sansa's hand so hard she thought she might break it, and grabbing onto the sheets with her other hand. Too caught up in pain, Lyarra thought she heard Pycelle say that he could see the crown. The pain became unbearable, like nothing she had ever experienced before, and Lyarra slammed her head against the headboard behind her repeatedly in a nonsensical attempt to stop the pain.

"Ow, my head!" she shouted, feeling light-headed.

"Oh, don't do that!" Sansa told her. "Just hold my hand."

"One more big push, my lady," Pycelle promised.

Lyarra obliged and pushed for what she hoped would be the last time. After all the pain and hardship, she felt a merciful release rush over the lower part of her body and then a baby cry. She flopped backwards and laid in her bed, panting. How glorious it was, to be freed from such torture!

"Never again," Lyarra declared lazily as she felt herself being taken by sleep. She was woken by a familiar voice and opened her eyes again, seeing Rhea standing over her with her baby.

"My lady," Rhea called, her face bright with a huge smile. "My lady, you have a son."

"A son?" Lyarra repeated tiredly. Her vision was blurred, but she could make out the figure of her little boy. She smiled at the sight. "A son." Rhea nodded happily and placed her son in her arms. Sansa helped Lyarra hold him. Lyarra lowered her voice to a whisper so that only Sansa could hear her. "His name is Jon. After our brother."

"Lyarra, you can't!" Sansa cried, looking horrified. "You're not thinking straight. The king and queen will not like it!"

"Jaime said..." Lyarra trailed off, struggling to get her thoughts straight and finding it impossible to find the right words. She felt her hold on Jon becoming weaker. "Jaime promised... I name a son. He promised me. He promised..."

"Get some sleep," Sansa said as she gently took Jon from Lyarra. She pressed a kiss to Lyarra's forehead and gave her sister one last beaming smile. "You deserve it. You did so well, Lyarra. Father would be so proud."

Lyarra nodded and closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. Just before she fell asleep, she heard the maester speak again. "Do you know what Lady Lannister wished to name the child? So I may write to Lord Tywin?"

"She called him Jon," Sansa told the old man. "Jon Lannister."