Of the Fathers' Love Begotten

"I'd say that desk dwarfs you," Jaime drawled, leaning against the carved doorframe of his brother's study, "but on second thought, I don't think it's the desk."

"Fine wine gets better with age," Tyrion replied without looking up, apparently fascinated by his stubby forefinger tracing the rim of the goblet that stood before him. "Piss-poor jokes, however…"

Jaime pushed off the doorframe and strode further into the room. "I nearly mistook you for a gargoyle, the way you're sitting there hunched over your wine."

"I've seen prettier gargoyles."

"So have I."

Jaime stood in front of the desk, which was so enormous that he could scarcely feel the heat from the fire at Tyrion's back, which had burned down to a few glowing coals. Not that any of the rooms in Winterfell ever felt truly warm. Except for that one in the tower, with the straw pallet, where he had once been very warm, indeed… He eyed the half-empty-or was it half-full?-flagon of Arbor red beside the cup.

"Isn't there something more productive you ought to be doing, little brother?"

"And you do mean that literally, don't you?"

"I fear the wine has rather slurred your speech. Did you say littlely?"

That stopped Tyrion's finger doing its imitation on the goblet of a carrion bird circling its prey. His hand drifted up to his bowed head, raking like a claw through the mop of dirty blond hair that covered it.

"Productive," Tyrion muttered. "What do you consider productive, ser brother? Giving birth in my lady wife's stead? That would be chivalrous, don't you think? If only I had the right anatomy…"

At lasthe raised his head, but no sooner had he done so than Jaime turned away, under the pretense of going to the sideboard for a goblet. Most people found Tyrion's eyes unsettling, but Jaime was as accustomed to their being mismatched as to the shrewdness of his stare; what disconcerted him now was that the whites around the green and the black were so blood-shot as to have turned pink, the thin skin around the sockets deep purple, so that he really did look rather impish beneath that unkempt hair. Or like one of the wild things that haunted the woods of his wife's northern homeland where Tyrion now resided as lord.

Back at the desk, Jaime took a fortifying drink of Arbor red before meeting his brother's gaze; time might not have improved his jokes, but neither had it dulled his impressions of the agonizing wait for a child's birth. Which he had thrice endured, compared to this, Tyrion's first time. Though Tyrion perhaps still had the upper hand, Jaime never having had to worry about the responsibilities that came after his children came safely into the world.

Oh, but if he had been at liberty to claim paternity of Cersei's children…Tyrion could no more have bested him at being an anxious father than he could as a tourney knight.

"I meant more along the lines of being in the birthing chamber with your lady wife," Jaime said, quirking an eyebrow.

Tyrion's voice echoed in the cup as he lifted it to his lips. "The midwives won't let me go in there."

"You're Lord of Winterfell. Can't you have your paid employees fed to direwolves or something if they don't serve at your pleasure?"

"There aren't any direwolves, and the midwives are all bigger than me." Tyrion leaned back in his chair as he drained his goblet, peering over the rim at Jaime through eyes whose bleariness did not hide the familiar mocking gleam. "Not all of us can swing swords around and look intimidating enough to do forbidden things like watch our children are being born."

Of course it had all been a great joke to Tyrion that Jaime had defied custom to be with their sister during her labor with all three of their babes, but Jaime was no more ashamed of his behavior now than he had been at the time. What did feel strange was that Cersei was now present to look daggers at them-mostly Tyrion-from across the room for not being more discreet about their incest.

"I've seen you wield an axe," said Jaime, banishing the thought before his imagination could take it further. "You're quite…menacing, if not exactly intimidating."

"So are small, yappy dogs. Only most people use the word annoying."

Tyrion leaned over the desk for decanter, but Jaime slid it just out of his brother's reach.

"Whatever way you phrase it," he said, ignoring Tyrion's scowl, "I'm sure Sansa would appreciate you being sober when you meet your child."

"You did get all the brawn, half the beauty, and none of the brains, didn't you, if you can't you tell it's a bit too late for sobriety?"

Tyrion made another grab for the wine, but Jaime caught up the decanter this time. He almost could have believed they were boys again, he doing his duty as firstborn to torment the younger boy with his physical prowess, all the while knowing Tyrion would get his own back with his wits. Jaime would have two hands again, Tyrion a nose, both of them with a sister who was nothing more than that to either of them-well, rather less to Tyrion, as his nemesis, and considerably more to Jaime, as his twin. But nothing untoward.

"The babe may not be here for hours," he interrupted himself again. "Plenty of time to sober up. While I, on the other hand-"

"I must be drunk, because I'd swear I just heard you talk about yourself and another hand in the same sentence."

"-will have to get good and drunk," Jaime went on, pouring himself more wine, "if I'm to suffer your company."

"And just think, a moment ago you wanted my birthing wife to suffer my company."

As Jaime drained his goblet, he watched Tyrion's smirk turn ugly, and not in a way that had anything to do with the malformed features of his face. In a tone that matched, Tyrion went on, "Surely Lady Sansa has enough on her mind without being reminded of what manner of creature her labor might bring into the world."

"You don't fool me, little brother," said Jaime, glad that their conversation had arrived naturally at this point, without his having to press it, "not any more than if you were dressed in motley."

"What if I tumbled for you? I'm such a good tumbler. I'd have made a fine fool, if Father hadn't seen fit to dash a young dwarf's dreams."

Jaime rounded desk and seated himself at the edge; he still looked down at Tyrion, though not from the height he would have if he'd remained standing.

"You're not afraid of what your child may be," he said. "You're afraid of what you will be."

For a second Tyrion's mismatched eyes belied his vulnerability, rounded and huge in his face as they had been when he was but a lad of thirteen, imploring Jaime to tell him that it was all a joke, a terrible, un-funny joke, that he had not wedded and bedded a whore, but a crofter's daughter. In a blink the look was gone, hidden by that mask Tyrion wore as if he really were a fool. But wiser than any of them, by far.

"If you didn't want me to fear that, sweet Jaime, it might have been prudent not to quote dear Auntie Genna about me being Lord Tywin's true son." One corner of his mouth twisted upward, mirthlessly. "Though I've no intention of letting the little bugger put a crossbow bolt in my bowls while I sit on the privy."

Jaime put his hands-the real one and the golden one-on Tyrion's slight shoulders and gave him a shake. "That's my point. You can choose not to live as he did, either. He was a great man, but a shit father, and not only to you. The difference between you is that he didn't care."

"What makes you so certain I do?" Tyrion's voice and face carried no trace of sarcasm.

Jaime reached for the decanter and refilled his brother's goblet.

Tyrion scowled, then got up from the desk without taking a single drink and stalked from the study. Jaime followed him through the icy corridors, hanging back when they reached the chamber where Sansa labored to watch Tyrion haul open the heavy oaken door and tramp inside. But the words Jaime heard exchanged as the door swung shut were all purrs of courtesy.

Nobody challenged a lion, thought Jaime with a slight smile, no matter how little he was.

"On second thought," said Tyrion, shuffling into the antechamber where Jaime had been invited to await the birth of his niece-or-nephew, his arms filled with a swaddled babe that looked to be much more advanced in age than a scant hour old, "I think I'll have that wine after all."

He thrust the bundle at Jaime, who found it to be quite a normal-sized baby after all when cradled in his own normal-sized arms. Perfectly formed, as far as he could tell, and red of hair.

His mouth opened to ask Tyrion whether he was really so astonished to have sired such a beautiful child, considering who the mother was, when a glance into the bedchamber made the words die on his tongue.

In the bed, Sansa suckled the child's equally perfect, red-headed twin.

She met his gaze, looking weary but blissful, but Jaime could not make his lips smile back at his goodsister.

He handed off the babe to one of the attendants and went after Tyrion, calling back over his shoulder to no one in particular, "I have a sudden thirst, as well."