Tyrion sat with Lady Olenna, the two of them listening to the cries and screams of the queen as she gave birth to her second child. Occasionally, one of Arch Maester Amos's helpers would exit the room, give a brief update to the odd pair, and immediately return to her post in the room. Other times, one of the women would leave the room, be gone for a few minutes, before returning with a servant laden with sheets, water, or whatever else the arch maester needed.
Tyrion was having trouble controlling his reactions due to the noises coming from the room. While he struggled not to flinch every time he heard his queen scream, the old woman beside him calmly continued with her needlework, slowly creating a beautiful wolf whose neck was entwined with the stem of a golden rose.
The queen was accompanied by Arch Maester Amos, Grand Maester Sam, and a small army of midwives, each with years of experience helping women through the trials and pain of childbirth. Although this was not Margaery's first time going through childbirth, neither Tyrion nor the Queen of Thorns believed that the arch maester had been overly cautious.
The prince was currently in the care of Mira Forrester and Greywind in the godswood while Margaery was locked away. Tyrion feared that having an anxious direwolf that was bigger than him would cause many problems if he felt like Margaery was in danger. Besides, the arch maester had made it clear that he did not want the giant wolf anywhere near the birthing room. Not out of any fear of the creature, but because he did not want to keep shooing away a wolf that could devour his leg with a single snap of his mighty jaws.
"How can you stand that sound?" Tyrion groaned, burying his head in his hands as he heard the queen cry out for what seemed like the hundredth time. The birth had been going on for what seemed like ages, but the Queen of Thorns had been quick to remind him that, in terms of births, Margaery's was going quite quickly.
"Women deal with just as much screaming and blood as men. The only difference is that we see it in the bedroom and not on a battlefield with a sword in our hands," Olenna replied calmly. "You men seem to think that anything over half an hour is an eternity, especially in the bedroom. No patience whatsoever."
Tyrion rolled his eyes. "I hate to poke holes in your statement, my lady, but the first is that I am not like most men. The last time I was on the battlefield, I was knocked unconscious before I ever made it to the field. And for your information, I enjoy taking my time in the bedroom, though that is a conversation best reserved for me and…me!" Tyrion said, holding up one finger before raising another. "Second, I do have patience, but screaming has certainly shortened that fuse."
"Why don't you read one of those dusty books you always seem to have on hand?" Olenna offered, not looking up from her work. "I was told that you were a ravenous reader."
"I prefer a good dornish vintage and some quiet when I read, my lady," Tyrion argued. "As you can see, I have neither a book, nor wine, nor any bloody silence."
"No, but you have quite a few complaints," Olenna pointed out sarcastically. "Birthing a child is no quick process or a quiet one by any means, my Lord Hand. It's messy, bloody, and very, very loud. Men will never know the pain that women go through. It's excruciating. Screaming is one of our ways of dealing with it. I gave birth to three children, and I screamed while pushing out each and every one."
"Surely there's some way where…" Tyrion said, miming covering his mouth. His question was obvious.
Olenna scoffed. "You truly know nothing about childbirth, do you?"
"Considering that I have never had a wife―and my desire to be far away from my sister whenever she was pregnant―no, I know nothing," Tyrion grumbled.
"A woman must be awake during the event," Olenna said, continuing to lecture Tyrion while she worked. "She must help push the baby out just as the midwives are helping guide it. She is an active participant in the birth. She can't just fall asleep and expect the baby to be pulled out of her."
"Apparently not," Tyrion muttered, slumping in his seat.
"My lord," a servant said quietly, approaching Tyrion and holding out a message to him. "Word from the Wall. The raven flew from Harrnehal."
"Thank you," Tyrion said, taking the parchment and opening it.
"What does our king report?" Olenna asked, placing her needlework to the side.
"They are currently holding the enemy at bay, and they have not yet breached the tunnel that goes under the Wall," Tyrion noted, making sure to read each line with extreme care. "A sea of wights that go on for as far as the eye can see. Arrows, oil, and dragon fire have all worked to desired effect…" Tyrion's voice trailed off as he read the final paragraph.
"Speak," Olenna pressed. "What else?"
"The king is requesting pots of wildfyre," Tyrion said gently, and with great horror. "He states that it will be needed…either at the Wall or to protect the city of King's Landing should the king and his men fail to protect the realm." he handed the message to the woman. "He has asked that whoever delivers the substance be given strict instructions to be ready to stop and destroy it, or use it, at a moment's notice."
"Things are dire, then," Olenna sighed sadly. "Perhaps I have become too optimistic, but I was rather hoping that Robb Stark could produce one more miracle in my lifetime. If he's asking for the vile potion, then he is truly desperate."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Tyrion nodded. "Have you looked at the date of the letter?"
Olenna checked and immediately shook her head. "He sent this months ago."
"The rider would have had dozens of opportunities to send a raven, but the weather must have stopped him," Tyrion assumed. "Winterfell, Moat Cailin, and the Twins are the first that come to mind. If the messenger had to ride as far south as Harrenhal to finally get this message attached to a raven, it could take several months to get barrels of wildfyre. That's without factoring in the time it would take to make the stuff."
"So what do you plan to do, Lord Hand?" Olenna asked, folding the letter and setting it atop of her needlework.
"I will do as the king commands," Tyrion said after a few moments of thinking. "But I will also ensure that the city, and other strongholds along the King's Road, are prepared for an army of wights."
"Winterfell, the Twins, and Harrenhal, I assume," Lady Olenna said.
"The first batch will be sent to the Wall, with instructions to stop at the castles you mentioned if forced to, and the second batch will be for King's Landing," Tyrion explained. "I feel like that is the safest method to distribute the wildfyre."
"You hear no argument from me, Lord Tyrion," Olenna said.
The two became silent as they realized that something was different. Something had changed in the time that the messenger had dropped off the letter and during their discussion. Then the cries of a babe broke their confusion.
"It seems we have a new prince or princess," Lady Olenna said contently, grabbing her cane and rising to her feet. "We will keep the king's letter a quiet matter for now. My granddaughter has been through an ordeal, and this would weaken her already fragile physique."
Tyrion grabbed the letter and tucked it into the back of his belt. "It's a letter from Tommen, is all."
"That it is," Olenna said as Samwell opened the door, looking red-faced and tired, but extremely pleased.
"My lady, my lord, would you like to come and meet the queen's…daughter?" Samwell asked, waiting to give the gender of the child for dramatic effect.
"Well, we're not waiting for the sheep to turn into lions," Olenna said, emphasizing her statement with a firm tap of her cane on the stone floor.
Samwell, too happy to take notice of the old lady's comment, opened the door and allowed Tyrion and Olenna inside.
A low fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, giving the room a warm, but not uncomfortably so, atmosphere. A group of midwives bustled around the queen, checking her pillows, sheets, blankets, and ensuring that she had plenty of water. Arch Maester Amos was leaning over the queen, who was pale and slick with sweat, checking her and the little bundle in her arms.
"Your grace, your grandmother, and Lord Tyrion are here," Sam said gently.
"My dear," Olenna said, her voice full of compassion and love as she moved to her granddaughter's side.
"She is very tired, Lady Olenna," Arch Maester Amos said, straightening. "However, she and the princess are healthy."
"Grandmother," the queen said, her voice very quiet, as she reached out her free hand to her grandmother.
"I'm here," Olenna said, taking the queen's hand. "You did wonderfully, child."
"I have a daughter," Margaery said, a tired smile spreading across her face as her voice cracked. "I have a daughter."
"She's beautiful," Olenna said, briefly letting go of her protege so that she could brush her wizened hand over the babe's head. For just a second, she revealed dark hair, and when the child opened her eyes, she had dark gray eyes that looked like polished orbs of granite.
"She takes after her grandfather," Margaery chuckled, looking at the child with unparalleled love. "The Warden of the North."
"Then she will be beautiful and fierce," Olenna said confidently. "What will her name be?"
Margaery gently brushed her thumb over the babe's nose, making the child, who was being remarkably quiet, squirm at her touch. The queen thought for a few moments before finally responding.
"Cira," she said. "Her name will be Cira Stark."
"A good, strong name," Olenna said approvingly.
"My lady, I believe it would be wise to give the queen and Princess Cira some time to rest and recover," Arch Maester said kindly, but with some authority in his voice. "You should return sometime this evening."
"Very well," Olenna said, squeezing her granddaughter's hand reassuringly. "I will return later, my dear."
"Thank you, grandmother," Margaery said tiredly before looking over at Tyrion. "You as well, Lord Tyrion. Thank you for keeping my grandmother company."
Tyrion gave the queen a slight bow. "My pleasure, your grace. It was…enlightening. We will leave you be."
After Tyrion and Olenna were ushered out of the room, Olenna once again became the sharp-tongued Queen of Thorns, putting away the caring grandmother who had once been by the queen's side.
"I will look after my granddaughter, so long as you deal with the wildfyre," Olenna said sharply as the odd duo walked away from the queen's chambers.
"I will ensure that it is done, and done quietly," Tyrion promised. "I will let you know when I have more to say."
"Thank you," Olenna said before the two parted ways.
Jaime Lannister
Jaime, as well as the others around the table, could only sit back and look at the king with utter shock and sorrow. His plan, while plausible, and perhaps even possible, was risky, dangerous, and almost pure suicide. He had been blunt, thankfully, and there was no misinterpreting his plan nor his reasons behind it.
That did not mean, however, that anyone around the table liked it.
"Robb, that's suicide," Garlan said with surprising frankness. "What you're proposing will get us all killed."
"But it may just save the realm," the king countered calmly. "It's been brought to my attention that the Others want me. Why not give them what they want? If we draw the Others out, into the courtyard, then we can collapse the tunnel and worry strictly on the Others."
"How do we even know how many there are?" Lord Royce asked.
"There are ten more," Bran Stark, the only odd member of the war council, replied.
Jaime hated looking at the boy. He was a constant reminder of just how far Jaime had fallen as a man before Robb and Tyrion had given him a second chance. Pushing the boy out of that window had been one of the lowest moments in Jaime's life, coming close to when he shoved his sword into the Mad King's back. At the time, he had been so blinded by his toxic love for Cersei, so confident that the boy would die, that he didn't care what he did. He had been numb, fixated only on his sister.
"How do you know this?" Prince Oberyn asked.
"I have seen it," Bran replied simply in that same, unemotional tone that sent shivers down Jaime's spine. "I have been keeping watch for our enemy for far longer than any of you. I know how many Others are left."
"And if we don't get them all?" Ser Brynden asked.
"There's only one we need," Jon said. "The Night King."
"Who?" Lord Tarly asked.
"The leader of the White Walkers," Robb said. "He's the one who made all the rest of his brethren by taking the babies of Craster's wives."
"Who?" Oberyn asked.
"Neutral party," Mance Rayder grunted. "Apparently, he had been offering up his sons to the Others as some sort of way to appease them."
"He had eleven sons?" Ser Brynden asked. "How many wives?"
"He had a sick habit of marrying his daughters," Jon spat. "He kept the girls…and threw away the boys. He's dead now, thank the gods, but the damage is done."
"If we kill the Night King, we should hopefully destroy the rest of the Others as well as the remaining undead," Robb said, pushing the conversation forward. "He is the source of their power on earth."
"It's a long shot," Lord Tarly commented.
"Randyll, surely you're not condoning this plot!" Garlan said, leaning forward and slamming his palm on the table. "There has to be another way."
"But there isn't," Robb said grimly. "I wish there were Garlan. I wish that there was another way to win this war, but we would only be delaying the inevitable. Eventually, the first gate will fall, and then what? Night after night, we will be broken down like stone under a pick until a few brave souls remain, and when they are swept aside, the Wall will soon fall. Then Winterfell and Moat Cailin. The Twins and Riverrun will not stop them, nor will the Eyrie high atop its mountain or Casterly Rock in the west. The fields of the Reach will be frozen and stalks of wheat will be replaced with rotten bodies of the undead. The Stormlands will be overrun, and even the burning dornish sun will be blotted out by these damn clouds!"
Robb gripped the table, staring fiercely at his goodbrother. "King's Landing may last a day, perhaps even a week if they are lucky, but eventually the gates will be broken and the streets will be filled with rivers of death and destruction. The Red Keep will be washed with blood. The blood of my wife and son, of my friends and family. All who I love and care, all that we all hold dear in our hearts, will die."
"Robb, that's enough…" Jon said, attempting to calm his brother, but the king merely shrugged aside the effort.
"You are my brother through marriage, Garlan, and I care about you just as I do Jon, my father, and every man and woman around this table," Robb continued. "Do not tell me that my plan is suicide or impossible. What I believe to be impossible is waiting for death to knock down our gate and take us all! I would rather invite death in and try to stab its fucking throat before I sit with my hand up my ass and wait for it! I would rather die trying to win rather than trying to not die! Too many depend on us, damn it! We are not just fighting for those who are still alive, but those who have yet to even be born! We fight so that they can see the dawn! You say that my plan is suicide! Madness! Call it whatever you want, it is our only choice if we have any hope of surviving."
Jaime was speechless. He had spent over nine months on the Wall with the king, as well as months in King's Landing, and never did he ever look so…motivated. Several times, Jaime had seen him determined, fearless, decisive, and utterly in control of his emotions as well as the situation. Robb Stark had reminded Jaime of two men; Robert Baratheon and Jaime's father, Tywin Lannister. The young monarch had the boldness and the same inspiring leadership as the Stag King, while also possessing the iron-like will of Jaime's father.
Robb Stark knew the risks that came with his plan. It's likely that he had been thinking about the plan for months as a last resort. He knew that he and others might die because of it, and there was a good chance that all of humanity would be wiped out if the plan didn't work. However, if the king's plan did work, then the world would be saved.
"Tarly is right," Jaime said quietly, speaking for the first time. "It's a long shot, and there's a good chance we'll all die and the world will become a frozen hell hole."
"What an astute observation," Prince Oberyn grunted darkly. "Do you have any other insights, Lannister?"
"Yes, I do," Jaime said, ignoring the sarcasm in the dornishman's voice. "The king is right, a fact none of us should find surprising. If he says that our only chance of winning is by destroying the power that gives White Walkers and wights their unnatural life, then I believe him. If that means that we all have to sacrifice our lives to do so, then so be it. We all live very comfortable lives, a benefit of our high stations, but with those stations comes immense responsibility," he turned to Robb. "You are willing to die for your people. No one here can deny that. I very much like living, especially since you are the one who allowed me to keep my life, but if you are willing to lay down your life, then I will stand by your side and do it too. I, who was once your enemy, and I, who was once your prisoner, have followed you without hesitation into the Seven Hells and have raised my blade against the army of the undead. You have asked nothing of your men that you wouldn't be willing to do yourself."
Jaime bowed his head and became silent for a few moments. After a while, he began to chuckle and simply shook his head. Finally, he looked over at Lord Stark.
"I've begun to sound like you, Stark," Jaime said with a wry smile before he looked back at the king. "What I'm trying to say is that…you have led us this far, and if you think that we can win with your plan, then I, for one, see no reason to doubt you. You'll have my sword for as long as you need it and for as long as I have breath in my lungs to wield it."
"Thank you, Jaime," the king said, nodding to the former knight. "What of the rest of you? If you do not agree with my plan, then you are welcome to travel to another castle and fight there. You do not have to face the Others head-on if you do not wish to."
"No, we don't," Jon said, looking around the table before turning back to his brother. "But we're here, so we might as well."
There was a low chuckle from the assembled warriors in response to the young man's words.
"Jaime is right, which are words I never thought I'd be saying," Jon continued, glancing at the blonde-haired warrior. "You would never ask us to make the ultimate sacrifice if you weren't willing to do the same."
"We'll follow you to the end, son," Lord Stark said. "Each and every one of us. You can count on it."
"Any objections?" Robb asked, looking around the table. When no one spoke in objection to his plan, he nodded once and brought the meeting to an end. "Very well. We'll take today and tomorrow to make our final preparations, and then we'll open the gate. That will be all."
Jaime followed the others outside while Lord Stark and Jon stayed with the king, most likely to have one final family moment together.
"You were right to say what you said," Ser Brynden said as soon as Jaime left the room. The others had gone off to read reports, sleep, eat, or train, but the Blackfish had waited outside the door for Jaime.
"I decided to take a page from the Stark's book," Jaime shrugged, leaning against the railing and looking out over the courtyard. "Speak from the heart with uncompromising truth and honesty."
"Aye, that's about all there's room for in there," the Blackfish agreed. "I remember the boy who followed me around for a fortnight while he stayed in Riverrun, berating me with questions and asking me for stories every night."
"You were my hero," Jaime nodded. "You were the Blackfish. A war hero. I wanted to be just like you. Just like Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne. You all were the epitome of what knights were―strong, noble, courageous, and could do no wrong."
"I believed you could have been, but for a while, I wasn't sure," Ser Brynden admitted.
"The things I do for love…" Jaime muttered before shaking his head. "I wasn't the knight I could have been. I wasn't the man I should have been. Cersei, my father, the Mad King…I could blame a lot of people for the man I became, but the simple fact is that I allowed others to define me, to say who I should be. Robb Stark allowed me to choose who I wanted to be, something I will always be thankful for."
"We all thought he was mad," Ser Brynden said bluntly. "Sparing not one, but two of his enemies? We couldn't believe it. Now we're here, and both you and the Targaryen girl have been integral to the defense of the Wall."
"Maybe Robb Stark has more magic in him than we all thought," Jaime chuckled. "Everything he touches seems to go right."
"Some people may just have that effect," Ser Brynden agreed.
The two men watched the activity in the courtyard for a short while. Groups of men were hauling quivers of arrows up to the top of the Wall while others hung quivers along the walkways and battlements, knowing that soon the enemy would break through the gate. The pounding and screeching of metal could be heard coming from the armory.
Lord Tarly and Lord Royce were checking over the defenses outside the last gate. Garlan was sparring with Ser Robar while Ser Balon and Ser Rolland were helping the Baratheon brothers prepare for battle. Other warriors, such as Alysane Mormont, Ser Harras Harlaw, Lord Lyonel Corbray, were all training as well.
From a window that had been slightly cracked open, the singing of the Children of the Forest could be heard loud and clear throughout the courtyard, adding to the sights, smells, and sounds of the fortress. The humanoid Children had accounted well for themselves during the battle months ago, bringing down several wights with their arrows and moving with breath-taking agility and speed with their spears. After the battle, their song had been mournful as they grieved for their fallen brothers and sisters. Now, their music was much more hopeful, reminding Jaime of better times.
"We may yet survive this," Jaime whispered.