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An odd cry rouses Jaime from his peaceful slumber, darkness fading from the edges of his vision as he slowly comes to. It’s so quiet, barely there at all, that he thinks it more of a squawk than a sob of any sort. Loose cattle outside or perhaps a fallen crow. He pushes his head back into his goose feather pillow and tightens the arm around Brienne’s middle. She twists slightly, inching closer to the warmth of nakedness beneath the pelt blanket.
It comes to sound more and more human the more Jaime hears it blather on. When the odd babbling forms a pattern and his head begins to pound with the beginnings of a headache, his first thought is Podrick, Brienne’s sickly little boy-squire, but surely not. He was small in stature and of age, but not that little.
Poking his head out, checking to see if Brienne’s steady form is still asleep; she is, her quiet snores still rumbling through her chest; Jaime hoists himself up by his elbows. He pulls the pelt further up his body for decency’s sake, whatever of it still remains within him. A veteran’s glance tells Jaime that Podrick is not in their room, thankfully. Hopefully the boy had gotten the hint and steered clear of their lodgings completely.
Shaking his foot free of the pelt, a shiver racks through his spine as he steps onto the cool wooden planks. The room is not nearly illuminated enough, the moon providing just enough light to see a few feet ahead of him. The sound comes from the darkest corner of the room, so he lights the middle of the candelabra that sits at their bedside. He spares a look back towards Brienne, hoping he’s not conjured her awake, but she’s none the wiser.
I need a weapon, Jaime thinks. What good am I with a candlestick? Not good at all. He mislikes the idea of burning the tavern down because of a nosy rat. He tells himself that Brienne is in the room with him and if something is amiss, the wench will surely know.
Still, the room is disquieting. The dim candlelight shows him nothing but empty space, a small table, and their packs against the wall. He considers the idea of a neighboring room, but when the sound comes again, it’s too close. He steels his feet to the ground, cursing himself for being even the slightest bit apprehensive. He’s a Lannister by blood and a lion of the rock even hundreds of miles away. Sounds will not scare him.
He backs up and places the candelabra on the table gently before reaching behind him distractedly, seeking Oathkeeper. Even in the darkest night Valyrian steel glints, and the rubies bleed deep crimson into the blackness. Brienne had laid it the space between their bedside table and the wall before taking him to bed, he was sure of it. She never strays far from the sword. Jaime shudders to think what could have happened to them were she not so stubborn. The sword was practically her child, with the way she fretted over it. Podrick even held it as one, gingerly and careful.
Jaime finds no purchase with the sword, his hand swinging behind him like a blind man. The sound ceases. Quickly, he thinks, his head swiveling on axis to look for it. Oathkeeper is missing. A swarm of panic crashes through his body like waves on the shore. He quiets his mind and tries to settle the uneasiness rising in his gut. Perhaps Brienne had gotten up in the night and moved it.
The heel of his foot steps onto his white cloak, the cloth Brienne bounds Oathkeeper with. The sensation on his foot nearly startles the piss out of him before he realizes what it is. Backed into a corner, the sword won’t do much good in the remaining hand of his, but — There is no sword. The bodiless thing shrieks from below him. He grabs the candelabra as quick as his hand can and brings it closer.
Swaddled in the white fabric, a baby excites. Fair of skin, golden haired and smiley. Striking blue eyes. A dimple pokes into only one side of it’s cheek, much like Brienne’s own. It squawks again, it’s chubby hands and arms reaching up, feet kicking. Something similar to a laugh but not quite spouts from it, and Jaime begins to feel light headed.
Jaime Lannister, once the Young Lion, the Kingslayer, scared of a fat, noisy wean. He almost finds it in him to giggle alongside the babe.
Am I dreaming?
Jaime immediately looks down at his hands. One flesh hand and one blunted wrist.
No, this is not a dream. It can’t be.
He’s dreamed a thousand times and never has he felt so panicked. Not with Rheagar in the bowels of Casterly Rock, nor with his mother. Those were darker than mere panic. Something otherworldly, almost.
He squats down and plucks the cub from the cloth like it’s a flower in a field. Holding a babe with one hand is not as easy as he’d thought. He does a strange dance to get the child securely in his arms, leaning him in the crook of his right elbow, his left hand wrangling his limbs into place. He squirms awkwardly as he settles but smiles all the same, looking happier for the contact. He’s not held a child… in a long time, he decides, and pushes the thought of Joffrey away. Save the rumination on that for later.
A lump forms in his throat. His head still spins, yet to catch up with everything. What does he do with a babe? He looks to Brienne’s rising and lowering back then to the child once more. Not likely that she’d know. He recalls what Tyrion had been like as a babe, but the memories are so fuzzy from the time and the loss he’d endured, that he isn’t solid in his findings. Brienne had two sisters, as well, but she was so young it was near impossible that she remembers, even less so that she’d have been allowed to care for them at all.
He walks the babe to the bed and lays him down gently. He sucks his balled fist into his mouth idly. Jaime grabs the white cloth and lays it atop him, not wanting him to grow cold. He kneels onto the bed beside the babe, careful to not rock him, and grabs his discarded braies, throwing them on quickly.
“Brienne,” Jaime whisper-yells from the edge of the bed. “Wake up. Wake up now.”
She does not startle, so he pushes her until she grumbles and groans and turns over. With a hand over her face, the other scratching her bare side, she shouts something unintelligible at him, so he shouts back, “Brienne! This is serious, wake up, now. I need you.”
She comes to a bit easier with that. Shooting up, large hand already covering her bare breast, the other supporting her weight, Brienne looks to him like he’s gone mad. It does not take long for her to find the babbling bundle of joy next to his legs. Her thin eyebrows shoot up and her jaw hangs open just enough for Jaime to see her wildly crooked teeth poke out.
Staring, she says nothing. Brienne looks to him, to the babe, to the door, then back to him in rapid succession. She wets her lips before forgoing the hand at her breast, instead wiping the messed birds-nest hair from her face. “What is that?”
“What do you think? It’s a babe.”
“No it’s not,” she says, simply. He returns her bewildered look. The wench has lost her wits, now.
Settling on something perhaps more important, Jaime braces himself, sighs and says, “Oathkeeper is missing.”
Brienne jumps to her feet with a quickness not thought of her and rounds the bed like a tourney horse. If it weren’t for the babe between them, Jaime thinks she’d have stomped on his legs like a wild beast to get past. Her nakedness does not phase him.
“Where is it?” Brienne says, her voice taking on an edge of panic he has not heard in quite some time. “I placed it here before bed.”
“Missing. Where? I couldn’t say. I heard a noise, went to grab it and it was just gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?” Sleep still inebriated her.
“Brienne,” Jaime tries to quiet her echoing shouts, too aware of the tiny babe next to him and the neighboring rooms on either side of them. “We will find it, I’ll ensure that. The babe was where the sword is — was.”
He gives her a moment to take it all in. Jaime can see the wheels turning in her mind. He clears his throat and continues, “I’m just as lost as you. He was wrapped in my old Kingsguard cloak. No idea how he crawled there, or if he can even crawl at all. He seems too little for it, if I’m honest.”
“You think someone stole Oathkeeper and placed him in it’s stead? Like a trade of some sort?”
“I’m saying I don’t know,” he replies, more sternly. “I locked the door before we bed. Even though good ole Pod has some lock-picking skills, I hoped it’d dissuade him from entering and seeing us… fuck.”
She no longer flinches at his crude words, instead scowls and begins a quest for her clothing. She dresses as quick as if the tavern were on fire, before running to the door to check the lock.
“It’s still secured shut. I doubt Pod was in here, he’s good but he always leaves a trace.”
“Are our packs gone through? Check for me.”
She bends down to rustle through them, the panic on her face raising higher and higher each time she opened a new pocket or sack. “Everything is still here, Jaime.”
It seems they have a real mystery on their hands. He deflates at the thought. “Can we talk about the child in our bed, please?”
Brienne wipes a sweaty hand down her face. “Should we?”
“What does that even mean? Yes, yes we should, Brienne. Your sword has morphed into a child, for fuck’s sake.”
If she thought he was mad before, he must look completely insane now. She nearly smiles with incredulity at the idea of it all, before stoning her face. “My sword was stolen. And they left us a child! For what? Penance? Ransom?”
“Well I suppose we should find out who ‘they’ are, first,” Jaime guffaws. “We should wake Podrick. Perhaps he’ll have an idea.”
“What are we going to do with a child?”
Jaime looks to the babe, reaching forward to entertain him. The child stares at his hand it with his wide blue eyes, kicking his restless feet, then grabs his hand tightly. The sight brings a gentle smile to his face. “The same thing we’ve always done.”
“And that is?”
“Figure it out — You know, Brienne, this babe favors you. Have you taken a close look?”
She scoffs, so Jaime continues with a smug lilt, “He’s a cute little sprout. I should say he has my curls. Dare I ask if you’ve gone off and given birth in the night?”
He departs from the babe’s hand and brushes his fingers through his golden hair. It’s smoother than even the finest Lyseni silk. When the back of his calloused hands caress his rosy cheek, the skin is smooth and easily malleable.
“That’s not something to jest about, Jaime.”
“Honest. He looks just like you. ‘S odd, never seen anyone like you before, now there’s two before me.”
Brienne bristles with his words, awkward and upset. She storms to him then and looks upon the cheeky babe. He turns his attention to her, squealing and moving wildly the second he catches her face.
He babbles some wordless noises, cooing at Brienne as she draws closer.
From behind her, he leans his head into her back. “Don’t tell me he’s not cute. You’ve a stubborn heart, not stone.”
Jaime can feel the distance between the three of them, so he grabs Brienne’s thick arm and brings it closer to the babe. “He won’t bite you. Maybe slobber a bit, but he’s harmless.”
She seems to soften the longer he babbles up at her. He shoves his foot into his mouth and she laughs tiredly. “This is definitely not a newborn, so no, I did not give birth in the night. He’s moons old, he has to be.”
“And how would you know that, wench?”
Brienne pauses, a sad expression crossing her face. “Lady Catelyn. When we met at Bitterbridge, she was kind enough to delight me in stories of little Arya and little Bran, even Rickon, the youngest. I was awry of them then, I still am, slightly. But I supposed it made her feel better, so I let her talk.”
Bran, Jaime thinks. Tommen, Myrcella, Joff. He sighs and scratches his beard. “I should be so lucky to have to care for a babe,” Brienne jests, little to no humor in her voice. “Lady Catelyn said that it was the most difficult part, even though women die in childbirth.”
“I don’t know much about either, I’m afraid. My mother did not stick around long enough to teach me. I could tell you the things I’ve observed from Cersei over the years, but beyond that I’m not any help.”
Brienne raises an eyebrow. “He’s not our child, Jaime. We need to return him to his mother. Imagine how worried she must be.”
He gives her a pitiful look, “Do you truly think that a child left in a tavern like this has a mother? I’m telling you Brienne; something more is at play.”
“A magic baby, then?” Jaime can practically see the shiver that runs it’s course through her. She’s not one for magic. Sword and fists are tangible; magic is not. It’s never done her good, anyhow.
“A baby,” Jaime says. “Regardless, a baby. We will find Oathkeeper, Brienne. But we must navigate this, too.”
“Of-bloody-course,” she whispers under her breath, but Jaime catches it. “What will people think?”
It’s Jaime’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “They’ll think he’s our son.”
I think he’s our son, he nearly voices.
“They’ll see us gallivanting around with a child.”
Despite her rough words, his heart softens for her. “We already do that with Podrick. Whatever they’ll say, they’re already saying. You know that, Brienne. What are you so afraid of, wench? Is it so bad?”
Kingslayer’s whore. She who lay with lions.
“I’m not afraid,” Brienne steels. “I’m wary.”
Jaime lets her words sit in the air, before he asks her, “Do we even have a choice?”
He knows the answer, and so does she. “No, we don’t.”
“Then it doesn't matter.”
Brienne grasps at everything, “But my father—”
“—Your father has heard worse. Is it so bad if it’s true?”
She sits with it for a moment. Then, quietly, “I don't know how to be a mother.”
“You've said as much. I don't know how to be a father. I don’t even know how to be a son or a brother. Neither do you. If I did...” Jaime lets the thought trail off. “Let’s wake Pod with haste.”
He starts for the door, leaving Brienne with the babe. She frets, before her big hands reach towards him. It’s clunky and awkward and not at all correct the way she grapples him — he corrects her form the second she’s within reach, slightly scared she’ll drop the poor boy — but it’s sweet.
The thick muscles of her arms cradle the babe well, Jaime thinks. It’s a sight to take in. A good one.
“I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. Not in the slightest. It’s not like I can feed him, Jaime,” Brienne reasons. “…I don’t think I even want to.”
The wench has a point. He hasn’t a clue where to find a wet nurse, either. Some small folk might be so charitable to help, but how does one even broach the subject? He’ll have to leave that one up to her, he supposes.
“I’ll get Pod,” Jaime turns her around at the door, “stay with the babe.”
She looks offended, then lets it fall from her face. “We can’t just call him ‘the babe’, Jaime.”
“Sure we can. But come up with a name while I’m gone.”
“Jaime!” Brienne scolds.
He pauses by the door. “Well, what did your lord father call you as a child?”
She sighs, thinking. “Sweetling. Sweet girl. Bibi. Brienne.”
“Brienne it is, then,” he jokes.
Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head and looks down at the babe. “Seriously, Jaime, I don’t know.”
“How about Oathkeeper,” Jaime responds. There’s a twinge of seriousness in his voice, but even he knows it’s a terrible name for a child. Perhaps it’ll serve as a nickname instead.
And for the three long seconds that Brienne almost considers it, Jaime is as giddy as a boy on his nameday.
“No.”
He chuckles too loud for the time of night and taps the door frame. “We’ll just have to ask Pod. He has to be better than us two, or we might be shit out of luck.”