Giana Lannister stood before her father in his solar.

Everyone in the castle was under the impression she was getting fat; she ordered enough food so that they'd think so, and gave what she didn't eat to her grateful maidservant, who had two hungry young sons. That had the added benefit of ensuring the woman kept silent about her growing belly when dressing her, even if Giana had had to assure her doubts several times. Cersei was constantly crowing over the fact she was gaining weight, even though her sister had always been the more beautiful one anyway, and everyone knew it. Cersei just seemed to appreciate that any possible doubt had been taken out of the equation.

However, her father felt differently. Lord Tywin, having eyed her disapprovingly for months now, had called her to his solar to put an end to it. "Gluttony is not befitting to a daughter of House Lannister," His green-gold eyes were harsh and judgemental, intimidating as they always were; she might be his favourite, but that didn't make him any more lenient on her.

Giana suddenly felt a sharp pain to her stomach, and couldn't help but give a small gasp, hand twitching to her belly before she gritted her teeth and bore it. She'd been getting these pains since she woke up early in the morning, and had hoped they'd wear off soon, but if anything they seemed to be getting worse, and more frequent. A feeling of dread had gripped her all day, worrying that something was wrong with the babe, but she knew next to nothing about birthing children and had no one to ask.

Her father was too observant not to notice her wince, however, and his sharp eyes locked onto hers. He raised an eyebrow, not needing to speak for her to know he wanted an explanation.

"It's nothing," She knew it wasn't worth pretending it didn't happen, he had no patience for that. "Just a stomach complai - agh!" She was unable to stop the grimace this time, clutching her stomach in pain. This was definitely worse than the last few. Surely the child was nearly due by now, it had been nine months and ten days since that night at Harrenhal. She'd been counting.

Her father's eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to say something, but then a stabbing jolt of pure agony wracked through her and Giana cried out, cutting him off and grabbing at the back of the chair to remain standing upright.

"Giana," His voice was sharp, but he was on his feet in an instant, holding her up. She regained her footing, not looking at him, before crying out again as another wave of pain hit and clutching onto the front of his doublet. He held her in a strong grip, but barked for the guards to enter. "Get the Maester for Lady Giana," He ordered. "Now, go!"

The guards practically fled at his snarl.

Her father placed his arm on her waist to guide her to the chair, but then froze as his fingers found the softness of the padding on her side, hidden under her dress. Giana felt ice run through her veins as he felt around her, feeling the hardness of her swollen stomach and the falseness of the padding on her arms and waist. Lord Tywin locked eyes with her own, which she knew looked incredibly guilty, but she stood by her decision and met his stare. He knew, just like that. He did not say a word, which was almost worse. She had never seen him so furious. When the next hideous pain hit her, she half expected him to let her collapse into a heap on the floor.

He didn't let her collapse. Instead, he sat her down in the chair none too gently, remaining standing himself, looming over her. She tried to turn her face away from him, but he grabbed her chin with rough fingers and forced her to look at him. Her father had not even been this angry when Jaime had been raised to the Kingsguard. He had ranted and raged then, cursing Aerys; now he was silent, beyond furious. Whether he was more angry at the fact she was pregnant, or that she had managed to hide it from him for so long, she couldn't tell.

He didn't speak, just stared at her, successfully making her cringe away. But then she stopped. It might have been the fact she fully expected to die soon, but a fit of recklessness suddenly overcame her. Enough was enough. Enough games, enough hiding, enough secrets. If any time was a time to talk plainly, it was now. She looked Lord Tywin in the eye.

"You'll kill me if you kill it now," Her words were practical, even though she was petrified - and sounded it - saying them. She never would've spoken to her father like that before, but it was the truth.

His expression didn't change, even as she gasped in pain again. "Harrenhal," He'd obviously worked it out in his head. His voice was low, deadly, and terrifying. She lost her nerve, looking away again. "Whichever stripling squire put that bastard in your belly - "

"It wasn't a squire," She'd never interrupted him before, but that reckless energy had overtaken her. Imagining his reaction to the truth, she couldn't help but laugh a little hysterically. It wasn't funny, it really wasn't, but she laughed anyway, and couldn't look at him. "Far worse than that,"

His fingers tightened painfully. He had always hated laughter. "I swear to the gods if any lowborn scum dared to touch you - "

"It would be better if it was," She said. "Better a blacksmith than a rebellion leader,"

Her father stilled. A heavier silence had never been heard anywhere in Casterly Rock. "Baratheon or Stark?"

As if he even needed to ask. She looked at him with his own flat expression and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

There was a heavy pause. For a man who placed such importance on his legacy, it had let him down somewhat. His heir had run off to join the Kingsguard, his spare was a dwarf, and now his daughter would be called a whore from King's Landing to Lannisport. Quietly, of course, very quietly, but the whispers would follow her wherever she went.

She could see all of that going through his head, his fury building, but then she moaned as another jolt of pain wracked through her, and something seemed to change in Lord Tywin. He had put aside one issue, for now. She was under no impression whatsoever that this was forgotten, nor forgiven - it never would be - rather that there were greater concerns at hand.

"Baratheons are... large. Even as infants,"

She gave another hysterical laugh as more sharp pain stabbed her. His face was cold and impassive, but she knew that this was as much fear as Tywin Lannister ever outwardly showed. Memories of the day her mother died were still fresh in both their minds, and his tight grip on her arm showed how truly tense he was.

"You think I don't know that?" She half-sobbed. "That's all that's been on my mind for months,"

It was then the Maester entered, accompanied by several guards.

Her father rose stiffly. "Prepare the birthing chambers for Lady Giana," He said, expression daring anyone to say a single word.

To his credit, the Maester's expression only twitched in surprise for a fraction of a second before he was at Giana's side with a straight face, examining her. "Apologies, my lord," He said, looking concerned. "She's too far gone. The contractions must have started early this morning," He glanced at Giana, who nodded. "It would be too dangerous to move her now,"

Tywin said nothing for a second before tensing his jaw and nodding, turning to the servants standing motionless at the door. "Bring whatever the Maester requires here, quickly," He snapped.

They scurried away with a list of things the Maester had ordered, returning soon after with numerous pillows, rags, basins of water and various metal implements, which looked like torture devices and made Giana's eyes bulge in panic.

She was lain on the floor of her father's solar, feeling more and more scared by the second. Everything seemed to be going wrong, judging from the tense murmurs around the room they thought she couldn't hear. There wasn't enough time for a proper midwife to he brought in from Lannisport, and one of the older serving women with some experience would have to do. Those pains she'd been experiencing all day were apparently labour pains. The mortifying incident in the morning when she thought she'd lost control of her bowels was apparently her waters breaking. She felt a fool. How in the seven hells was she so ignorant about birthing a child, when that was all she'd been brought up to do?

"Father," She said shakily as Lord Tywin was just leaving the room, panic rising in her chest to an almost unbearable level. He stopped and looked down at her, his thoughts indiscernible from his face. "I'm going to die, I'm going to die like Mother. I - "

"You are not going to die," The words were nothing less than a threat.

The Maester paled.

"Don't harm the child," Giana pleaded with him. "It's not their fault. You don't have to raise it, send it away if you have to, to Storm's End, or to the Starry Sept, or the Citadel, or even to the Wall. Just please, let it live,"

Tywin Lannister looked her in the eye, long and hard, before giving the smallest of nods and striding out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The next few hours were torturous, and passed in a haze of pain, screaming and blood. Giana cried more than she ever had in her life, wanting nothing more than to punch Robert Baratheon hard in his handsome face. But then it was over, and her tears turned to those relief rather than pain as the maids propped her up with pillows. She watched as the little bundle was wrapped in swaddling cloths and taken away to be washed, feeling the most exhausted she had ever felt.

She soon slipped into a deep sleep, waking later in her own chambers - someone must've carried her there - with a dull pain between her legs, her limbs still aching and throat sore from screaming, but alive. She was alive, she had made it, and so had her child.

"Clarissa," She called for her handmaid, voice cracked and hoarse. The woman appeared in seconds, bobbing a curtesy. "Where is it? The baby?"

"Him, milady," The usual cheery and laughing Clarissa didn't look her in the eye, and seemed scared to smile. "You have a son. I'll fetch him,"

A son... it was an odd thought, that she should be a mother when she was still a child herself. Giana wondered what she should name him as Clarissa hurried away. Naming him after his father was definitely out; the fewer people knew he was Robert's bastard the better, given that the King had called for his head.

What names went with Hill? For that was definitely to be his last name, Father wouldn't let her call a bastard Lannister. He probably wouldn't even let her keep him at all, she reminded herself. It was blatantly obvious, and had only been confirmed by Clarissa's subdued behaviour, that Lord Tywin was angry. His rage would only have built up in the hours since she had last seen him, and now he knew she was alive and in no immediate danger... He hated being deceived, and by his own daughter nonetheless, in a way that brought such dishonour to the family. He was not going to let this go unpunished.

The dread began to build in her again, though this time for entirely different reasons.

She looked up when the door opened, peering curiously at the bundle of blankets the nursemaid carried. Clarissa wasn't with her. The nursemaid lowered her arms to Giana's level, and, ignoring her painful aching all over, she curiously pushed the blankets away from his face.

The child was sleeping peacefully. His face was red and flushed, and a thick tuft of black hair grew on the top of his head. He seemed so small, and Giana said so.

"Hardly, milady," The nursemaid snorted dryly. She was a tall, thin middle-aged woman, who had seen it all. "It's a miracle you made it through the birth, if I'm honest, you being so small. Weighs near ten pounds, this one. A big strong lad, with a big strong voice to match, we only just got him to sleep. He'll be a fine warrior some day, milady,"

Giana looked doubtfully at the tiny baby, all the emotions warring in her head. She was faced with her firstborn son, her bastard son, yet wasn't sure how to feel. One thing was certain, though, and that was that she definitely did not feel like a mother.

"Can I hold him?" She asked after a moment's consideration. That was what mothers were meant to do, wasn't it?

The nursemaid's tight smile became a little regretful. "Sorry, milady," Her brisk tone softened slightly. "Not allowed, I'm afraid. Lord Tywin's orders,"

"Oh," Giana shouldn't have expected anything less. The thought saddened her more than she had anticipated. "Did my father say what would happen to him?"

"Not to the likes of me," The nursemaid shook her head grimly. "Must say, milady, I pity the poor young lad who got this child on you, for there ain't no place he can run where your lord father can't root him out,"

Giana gave a weak chuckle, not revealing that it was hardly a 'poor young lad' who was the baby's father, rather the hammer-wielding lord of Storm's End, who stood at six and a half feet tall.

She pondered the woman's words for a moment. "Do I get to name him?" She asked, and the nursemaid shrugged.

"Don't see why not,"

"It seems wrong to call him Hill," She mused. "It seems so... plain," She knew little about babies, but her son was anything but plain.

"Where was his father from?" The nursemaid asked.

"The Stormlands," Giana followed her thought. "Storm's their bastard name, isn't it? Yes, that suits him much better," If Robert did win the war, it was also a pointed reminder that the boy was his.

"Now all you need is a first name," Giana thought.

"I don't care what Father says," She replied after a moment. That was a lie, but if nothing else, her son would have a name to be proud of, to know he was half a Lannister at least. "His name shall be Loreon, after the first King of the Rock, and the last, who escaped the Field of Fire. Loreon Storm,"

*

Giana was sat in the nursery of Casterly Rock, writing a letter to Jaime whilst her little brother Tyrion played with baby Loreon, supervised by the nursemaid. Not that the baby did much at such a young age, just lay in the crib gurgling, but Tyrion seemed delighted that there was someone smaller than him.

Dear Jaime,

I write a week after the birth of my child. You are now an uncle to the biggest, fattest baby that ever lived. I felt like I was being ripped clean in half during his birth, but gladly all is well. For now, anyway - I've never seen Father more angry, not even when you joined the Kingsguard - but that's a story for another time.

"He smiled, Giana!" Tyrion exclaimed. "I promise, he just smiled!"

"Did he?" Giana had to find his enthusiasm contagious, even though the nursemaid looked doubtful. Why was it she felt more responsible for Tyrion than the baby in the crib?

"I'll make him do it again," Her brother said, returning to waving the toy in front of the child's face.

But Jaime, I have a son. I'm now a mother, somehow. It seems surreal to even think that. I don't feel like a mother - if anything, it was like when we met Tyrion for the first time. His name is Loreon Storm. Of course Father wouldn't let him be a Lannister, so I named him Storm in the hope his father may actually acknowledge him, if he's still alive after all this fighting is done. Storm sounds better than Hill somehow, and besides, he looks almost all Baratheon. Thick black hair already, and Robert's blue eyes, though I think he's got yours and Father's nose.

"He won't do it again," Tyrion sounded crestfallen. "I promise I saw him smile,"

"He's a little bit young for smiling. Perhaps doing one made him tired. Why don't you read him a story?" Giana suggested to the little boy. "You're so good at reading,"

Tyrion hurried to get one of his books.

Of course, Father did not take the news well. That's to put it lightly. He's made it plain that there will be consequences. Better than I expected, in all fairness, but I'm to be sent away as soon as possible. Father has arranged a marriage to Quenten, Lord Banefort's eldest son. I haven't met my soon-to-be husband, but I've been asking around and by all accounts he seems decent enough. Clever, mild mannered, and fairly young (he's eight and twenty, I could do worse). His father is old and drinks excessively too, so I'll soon be Lady Banefort. Perhaps you can ask the King if you can attend the wedding?

I have no objections to my husband, I knew it would happen sooner rather than later anyway. It's just that Loreon won't be coming with me. He's to stay at the Rock. I suppose this makes sense. It will surely get out soon that he's a Baratheon bastard, I wasn't exactly subtle with naming him Storm.

Father knows already, of course. I'm glad I blurted it out, or he'd have started hanging all the dark haired, blue eyed servants. Like I said, he is not pleased, I cannot emphasise that enough. I think he's planning to marry Cersei off to Robert if he wins, but I suppose if that falls through then he could turn things in his favour with Loreon.

I don't know, I'm just guessing. I don't care much, either, so long as it means he won't kill him. All I want is for the child to be alive and safe. I won't see him grow, but that seems a small price to pay. It's probably for the best, anyway, I'm too young to be a good mother to him. I'll surely have more children with Quenten Banefort.

You'd love him, I know it. When the rebellion is over, you'll have to visit him. We can visit him together, I suppose.

Cersei is well (I thought you'd want to know). I think she's enjoying this. She'll be rid of me soon, and gets to call me a whore at every opportunity even if she can't call me fat anymore. She misses you though. I found her crying in your rooms over one of your tunics you left behind once, months ago. She screamed at me to get out and threw one of your old hunting knives at me. I won't let her near Loreon, not after how she was with Tyrion at that age.

Tyrion is well too. He misses you greatly, even more so now I'm to leave soon. You should see him, Uncle Geri taught him tumbling tricks and he's a sight to behold, somersaulting and leaping all over the place. He seems fascinated that there's now someone in the family smaller than him. He misses you too, in case you couldn't tell. Come home when you can.

Love, Giana

She signed off the letter, waiting for it to dry.

"When you've gone away to get married," Tyrion said, resentful of the fact had to leave at all. "Can Loreon be my little brother?"

"Of course," Giana said; the age difference between them was the same as was between her and Tyrion. "I was going to ask you, in fact - could you keep an eye on him for me, when I'm gone. To keep him safe. You can write me letters about everything you are both doing,"

"I can teach him to ride a horse," He said. "Like Jaime taught me,"

"When he's a bit older, of course you can," She smiled. "Just remember - Father and Cersei don't like him - "

"They don't like me, either," He said matter-of-factly. "We can stay out of their way together,"

That was sad, but unfortunately true. "Cersei was awful to you, when you were a baby. Jaime had to stop her hurting you. If Cersei tries to hurt Loreon, go to Uncle Kevan or Aunt Genna, and write a letter to me,"

"I won't let her near him," Tyrion said strongly. "I wish you didn't have to go away,"

"I wish I didn't too,"

*

Edited August 2024. This chapter isn't so different to before honestly, just some general improvements in writing style, and Tyrion and Giana actually interacting. Since writing this story the first time, I have learned the importance of 'show not tell' which I hope will be clear in the edit.