Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

[TYWIN​

---

Something had changed in Jaime.

The thought arrived unbidden, a shard of obsidian in the granite sea of his duties. Tywin Lannister sat behind his great solarwood desk in the heart of Casterly Rock, the pale afternoon light filtering through the high, arched windows, casting a faint sheen on the meticulously arranged letters and ledgers before him. Outside, the Sunset Sea churned ceaselessly against the base of the mountain, an ancient rhythm that usually soothed him. For the past two months, however, ever since the deafening silence from that birthing chamber, the sea sounded only like a sigh of endless grief.

Two months. Sixty days since Joanna had gone, taking all the warmth from this fortress and from within him, leaving him with a repulsive dwarf of a son and a gaping hole where his heart had been. Tywin had filled that hole with the only material he trusted: duty. He worked harder than ever, governing the Westerlands with cold efficiency, responding to the King's letters from King's Landing, and ensuring the machinery of Lannister power continued to turn without a single falter. Duty was his fortress, his only defense against the sorrow that threatened to swallow him as the sea swallowed careless ships.

And yet, the thought kept returning, nagging at him like a rat gnawing at a tapestry. Something had changed in Jaime.

It was not a change an outsider would notice. To the household knights or the servants, Jaime was still the Young Lion, the golden twin, the heir to Casterly Rock. His hair still shone like newly minted gold, his eyes were still as green as a summer sea. But Tywin was his father. He had observed his son since the day of his birth, noting every strength and flaw with the precision of a jeweler examining a gemstone. And the gemstone he saw now had a different cut.

Before, Jaime had been a contained storm. Energy radiated from him, a restless spirit that could only be calmed through physical exertion. Sadness or anger—and boys often felt both—had always been channeled into the practice yard. He would swing a wooden sword at a straw dummy for hours, his cheeks flushed with effort, sweat plastering his golden hair, until exhaustion finally quelled the turmoil within him. That was his way. Strong, direct, predictable.

Now, the boy was quiet. Too quiet.

Tywin had seen it that morning. He had been walking down the hall, his mind occupied with a border dispute between House Westerling and House Jast, when he saw his son emerging from the library. Not bolting out as if escaping a prison, as was his custom, but walking with a measured, thoughtful pace beside Maester Creylen. There was no wooden sword at his hip. Instead, he had a leather-bound book tucked under his arm. They were speaking in low voices, and Jaime was nodding, his expression serious.

Jaime had never liked to read. Tywin knew this for a certainty. The letters seemed to dance on the page for him, a source of endless frustration that would have him throwing a book across the room. It had been Joanna who had the patience for it. She would sit with him for hours, tracing the lines of text with her slender finger, her soft voice coaxing the words to stay still.

More disturbing was the look in the boy's eyes. In the weeks after Joanna's death, Tywin had steeled himself for a child's tears and tantrums. He had received neither. There was the initial grief, of course, a glassy-eyed confusion he shared with Cersei. But it had passed quickly. Mourning, even for a child, had its limits. What replaced it, however, was not a return to his usual boyish exuberance.

When Tywin looked into his son's eyes now, he did not see lingering sorrow. Nor did he see the innocence of a seven-year-old boy. What he saw was a deep and unsettling calm, a stillness that seemed far too old for such a young face. And beneath that calm, there was a thin veneer of melancholy, not the sharp grief of recent loss, but an older, more weary sadness, as if the boy had seen the world and found it wanting. It was a look he might have expected to see in his brother, Kevan, after a long and difficult campaign, not in his own young heir.

Tywin shook his head, trying to banish the unproductive thoughts. Speculation was a waste of time. Facts were the currency of the realm. And the fact was, he had supper to attend with his children. He rose, straightening the black velvet tunic embroidered with gold thread at the collar and cuffs. Even in mourning, a Lannister must project strength. Especially in mourning.

They did not eat in the Great Hall, whose vaulted ceilings and vast tapestries felt too empty, too full of the echoes of Joanna's laughter. Instead, they gathered in the Lord's private dining solar, a smaller room with dark wood paneling and a great hearth where a fire crackled merrily, a falsehood of warmth in the chill that had seeped into the very stones of the castle.

There were only the four of them. Tywin at the head of the table, silent and imposing as a judge about to pass sentence. To his right sat Cersei, and beside her, Jaime. Across from them, to Tywin's left, sat Kevan, his loyal brother, his quiet shadow, his presence a steady and unwavering support. Servants moved without a sound, placing platters of baked trout, buttered peas, and warm bread. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the clink of silver on porcelain.

It was Tywin who broke it. He could not abide a purposeless silence. "Maester Creylen says your lessons go well, Cersei," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was not a question, but a statement of fact he expected to be confirmed.

Cersei, who had been stabbing at her trout as if it were a personal enemy, looked up. Her eyes, so like Jaime's, flashed with defiance. "Septa Lauren says my cross-stitch is the finest she has ever seen," she said, her tone a fraction too loud. "She says I have the hands of a queen."

Tywin gave a short nod. Ambition. Good. That was a Lannister trait. "And you, Jaime? Is Ser Benedict working you hard in the yard?"

Jaime placed his fork neatly beside his plate before answering. The movement was controlled, nothing like the fidgeting he usually displayed at the table. "Yes, Father. We practiced the basic stances and a few parries this morning. Ser Benedict says my wrist is growing stronger." He paused, then added, "But I spent most of the afternoon in the library."

Cersei snorted softly, a sound thick with childish contempt. "The library," she repeated, as if the word tasted foul. "You smell of old parchment."

Jaime ignored her. He kept his eyes on Tywin, his gaze steady and serious. "I was reading Archmaester Ludwell's History of the Conquest. And Maester Creylen showed me the maps of the Westerlands and Essos."

This time, Cersei could not contain herself. She twisted in her seat to face her twin fully, her long golden hair spilling over her shoulder. "Maps? You hate maps! You said they were just boring lines on cowhide and you'd rather fight someone with a real arakh!" Her accusation hung in the air, a reminder of their old world, a secret world of shared games and vows.

Tywin raised an eyebrow slightly. He remembered those complaints well.

Jaime turned to his sister, and for a moment, Tywin saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes—not anger, but something closer to pity. It was the look an adult gives a naive child, and to see it directed from one seven-year-old to another was deeply strange.

"I changed my mind," Jaime said calmly. "It is a proper thing for an heir to do. To know the lands he will one day protect. To understand the trade routes that keep us strong." He shifted his gaze back to Tywin, and the intensity in his green eyes silenced his father for a moment. "I have also been reading some of your ledgers, Father. About the tax tariffs in Lannisport and the yields from each of the mines. It is fascinating how gold is turned into power."

A complete silence fell over the table. Kevan had paused mid-lift of his goblet, his normally placid eyes wide with surprise. Cersei was staring at Jaime as if he had grown a second head.

Tywin felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. It was surprise, certainly, but beneath it was a cold, powerful wave of satisfaction. Tax tariffs. Trade routes. How gold is turned into power. These were not the words of a boy. These were the thoughts of a lord. They were echoes of his own lessons, of the philosophy he had built upon the foundations of his father's ruin. To hear them spoken so plainly from his heir's lips… it was almost perfect.

Too perfect.

"You never cared for those things before," Cersei hissed, her voice trembling with betrayal. "You only cared about being a Knight."

"I still mean to be a great knight," Jaime replied patiently, as if explaining something obvious. "But a knight protects his Lord's people and lands. How can I do that if I do not understand what I am protecting? Being Lord of Casterly Rock is more than having the best sword."

Tywin set down his goblet. The sound of silver on wood was loud in the quiet room. He looked at his son, truly studying him now. The boy sat straight, not slumped. His hands were still in his lap. He spoke with an eloquence and logic he had never before displayed. It was as if a small man had taken his son's seat.

"You speak wisely, Jaime," Tywin said, and the words of praise, so rarely given, felt foreign on his tongue. "Continue your studies with the Maester. Knowledge is a weapon, same as a sword. Often, it is the sharper of the two."

He saw a small glint in Jaime's eyes, but it was not the joy of a praised child. It was the quiet satisfaction of a man whose plan had succeeded. Across the table, Cersei's eyes narrowed, her lips thinning into a white line. She did not see a wise brother. She saw a stranger.

Later that night, long after the fire in his hearth had dwindled to embers, Tywin was still awake. The dinner conversation replayed in his mind.

The change was real. It was undeniable. But what was its cause?

He considered the possibilities with cold logic. Could this be a mere coping mechanism? A boy's way of dealing with unbearable grief by emulating the man he saw as a pillar of strength—his father? By immersing himself in duty and responsibility, he was building his own fortress against sorrow. It was a plausible explanation. It was an appealing one. It suggested a resilience, a strength of character he had not suspected his son possessed.

Grief, he thought, was a crucible. It could break a man, render him weak and pitiful like his own father, Tytos, who had wept at every petty slight. Or, it could burn away the dross, all the childish frailties, leaving harder, stronger steel behind. Was it possible that Joanna's death, the cruelest blow fate had ever dealt him, had inadvertently forged his son into the very heir he had always desired? A boy who understood that legacy was more important than happiness, that power was more lasting than love?

It was a monstrous and tempting thought. It gave a kind of cruel meaning to his loss. As if Joanna, in her final sacrifice, had given him not just a dwarfish monster, but a perfect heir as well.

And yet, the doubt remained, a cold undercurrent. The melancholy in the boy's eyes. The sudden eloquence. The abrupt interest in economics. It did not feel like growth; it felt like a replacement. As if his son's soul had been plucked out and another—older, wiser, and infinitely sadder—had been put in its place.

Tywin rose and went to the window, staring out at the inky blackness over the sea. Casterly Rock stood defiant against the night, a monument to pride and permanence. He had sacrificed everything for it, for the Lannister name. He demanded perfection from his children because legacy demanded it.

And now, it seemed, he was getting it from Jaime.

He would accept it. Whatever the source of this change, the results were undeniably positive. He would encourage it. He would nurture this new, inquisitive mind, give him access to the ledgers and reports. He would shape this new boy into a perfect reflection of himself.

He made the decision with his characteristic finality. He would ignore the feeling of unease, the sense that something was fundamentally wrong. He would ignore Cersei's suspicious glares and Kevan's astonishment. He would focus on the outcome.

Tywin Lannister had lost his wife, the only softness in his life. But in the process, it seemed he had gained a son worthy of the name. It was a cruel exchange, a bargain made in some hell.

And as he stood there, staring into the darkness, Tywin found that he could live with it.

 

[Martian_Tech_Adept]

That's certainly… practical of Tywin

Tywin: my son might be a skin changer… but he does have better grades

 

[Daario]

That's certainly… practical of Tywin

Tywin: my son might be a skin changer… but he does have better grades

Click to shrink...

Lmao, Tywin would surely say that.

 

[Godfire]

Did you rewrite this? I swear I've read it before.

 

[Daario]

Did you rewrite this? I swear I've read it before.

Click to shrink...

No, I just crossposted it. I have uploaded this to three different sites

 

[DaginaVestroyer69]

No, I just crossposted it. I have uploaded this to three different sites

Click to shrink...

are there more chapters not yet crossposted?

 

[Daario]

are there more chapters not yet crossposted?

Click to shrink...

Yep, i'm already posted more than six chapters

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

​

This balcony was a place of quiet power. Carved directly from the living rock on the western face of Casterly Rock, it jutted out over the Sunset Sea like the jaw of a stone god. From this high perch, the whole of the Lannister world was laid out below. Tywin stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, the salt wind tugging at the hem of his crimson tunic. It was his favorite place to think, a vantage point from which small problems looked as they should: small.


Below him, Lannisport sprawled like a tapestry woven by merchants and fishermen. Its red-tiled roofs clustered around the bustling harbor, where the masts of merchant ships from Lys and Tyrosh swayed like a leafless forest. Beyond the city, a patchwork of green and gold fields stretched to the rolling hills, dotted with small villages and winding roads that looked like silver threads in the late afternoon sun. Every ship in that harbor paid a duty. Every bushel of wheat harvested from those fields fed his armies. Every soul in that city and those villages was his, a piece of the great order he had built and maintained. The view was not one of beauty to Tywin; it was a balance sheet. Assets and liabilities, perfectly arranged.


The sound of slow, steady footsteps on the stone behind him announced his son's arrival. Tywin did not turn. He kept his eyes on his domain.


"Father," Jaime's voice came, clear and calm, without a hint of the breathlessness of a child who had run to answer a summons. "You sent for me."


Tywin remained silent for a long moment, letting the quiet establish who was in command. It was the first lesson of power: the one who speaks first is often the weaker. He felt his son's presence at his side, standing a few paces back, waiting with his newfound patience. The old Jaime would have been fidgeting by now, kicking at a loose pebble or pulling at a stray thread on his tunic. This boy simply waited.


Finally, Tywin spoke, his voice as flat as the sea's horizon. "Come here."


Jaime stepped forward and stood beside him at the edge of the balcony, his small hands gripping the carved stone balustrade. He came no higher than Tywin's waist, yet he stood with a stillness that belied his age.


"Look down there," Tywin said, indicating the vista with a short sweep of his hand. "Tell me what you see."


It was a test. A simple one, but revealing. He expected a boy's answer, seasoned with his newfound gravity. I see our city. I see the strongest castle in the world. I see the wealth of House Lannister. Such an answer would have been satisfactory. It would show the boy understood the fundamentals of their station.


Jaime stared down for a long time, his green eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. The wind stirred his golden hair, making it look like a small, dancing fire next to his tall, dark father. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet, almost a whisper meant for himself.


"I see… something that must be protected," he said.


Tywin's brow furrowed slightly. It was not the answer he had expected. "Protected from what? The Pirate have not dared raid our coasts since I sank their fleet. The mountain clans fear to come down into the valleys. There are no threats."


"Not from outside threats, Father," Jaime clarified, turning to look up at him. That look again—calm, serious, far too old. "Protected from itself. From neglect. From rot."


He raised a small hand and pointed toward the city. "I see the port. Ships come and go. They bring goods, but they can also bring plague. The docks must be kept clean, the guards must be vigilant for smugglers. I see the markets. Merchants sell their wares. Their scales must be true, their goods unrotten, or the people will sicken and be unable to work. I see the fields. The farmers till the soil. They need good seed and protection from drought or flood."


He lowered his hand and looked at Tywin earnestly. "I see a great many small, moving parts. If one of them stops working correctly, the others suffer. A lord does not simply sit on a golden lion and roar. He must ensure every part of the machine… is well-oiled."


Tywin stared at his son, that familiar sense of unease pricking at him again. A well-oiled machine. Where did a seven-year-old boy get such a phrase?


"You speak of merchants and farmers," Tywin said, his voice tinged with dismissal. "You speak of sheep. Why should a lion concern himself with the affairs of sheep?"


"Because without the sheep, the pasture grows wild," Jaime answered instantly, as if he had considered this very response before. "Without the flock to graze, the grass grows too high and chokes out the wildflowers and smaller shrubs. The land becomes tangled and impassable. Wolves and other predators draw closer to the villages, looking for easier prey." He paused, letting the analogy sink in. "The sheep may be weak and foolish, but they serve a purpose in the greater order. They maintain the balance. The smallfolk are our sheep, Father. If we do not tend to them—ensure they are fed, safe, and have a purpose—then our own lands will grow wild. Discontent will grow like weeds, and the wolves—rival lords, rebels—will see it as an opportunity to strike."


Tywin was silent. The logic was… flawless. It was a cold, pragmatic, and utterly unsentimental argument he might have made himself in a small council meeting to justify a policy. But to hear it from his son, who should be dreaming of dragons and tourneys, felt profoundly wrong. It was like watching a hawk crack a nut with the precision of a sculptor. The skill was impressive, but the nature of it was disturbing.


"You get these ideas from your books," Tywin said, more a statement than a question. "From Maester Creylen." He needed a source. A rational explanation.


"Maester Creylen gives me the books," Jaime replied, "but the books do not tell me how to think. They only provide the facts. I am simply… connecting them." He looked up at his father, and for a second, Tywin saw a flash of something else in his eyes—a deep sadness, a weariness that was beyond comprehension. "I understand now that the world is not a collection of stories. It is a system. Everything is connected. An action in one place has consequences in another."


"A system ruled by strength," Tywin countered, his voice sharp. He felt the need to wrest back control of this lesson, to steer it back to the truths he knew. "You speak of balance. I will tell you of balance. Balance is maintained by fear. The Reynes of Castamere thought they were more than sheep. They thought they were lions, too, with fangs and claws of their own. They did not maintain the balance; they tried to overthrow it. And I restored that balance. I wiped them from the face of the earth, every man, woman, and child. Now their ruined castle stands as an eternal reminder of what happens to those who forget their place. That is how a lion tends his flock, Jaime. By showing the wolves what will happen to them if they draw near."


He expected this to shock the boy, perhaps even horrify him. He expected a respectful nod, an acknowledgment of undeniable power.


Instead, Jaime just nodded slowly, as if Tywin had made a valid but incomplete point. "Fear is a useful tool," he conceded, and the calm agreement unsettled Tywin more than any argument could have. "It is a fine hammer for driving down a nail that stands out. But you cannot build a house with only a hammer. You need wood, and stone. You need a strong foundation."


"And what is that foundation, if not fear?" Tywin demanded.


"Loyalty," Jaime answered without hesitation. "Fear makes men obey, but only so long as you are watching them. The moment you turn your back, they will stab it. Loyalty makes men obey even when you are not there. They obey because they believe you are protecting their interests as well as your own. The people of Castamere feared you, Father. But the people of Lannisport? They must be loyal to you. Otherwise, they are just a collection of strangers living on your land, waiting for a chance to betray you for a better lord."


"Better?" Tywin snorted. "You sound like your grandfather. Tytos wanted to be loved by his people, too. He forgave debts, laughed off insults, and allowed his bannermen to mock him behind his back. He was loved, yes. And he nearly destroyed our House. Love is meaningless without respect, and respect comes only from strength."


"I did not speak of love," Jaime said sharply, and for the first time, there was a flicker of irritation in his voice. "I spoke of pragmatism. Grandfather Tytos was weak not because he was kind, but because he was a fool. He gave away our resources for nothing in return. He did not understand the value of what he possessed. Feeding your people in a harsh winter is not kindness; it is an investment. It ensures you have strong soldiers and healthy farmers when spring comes. Ensuring the scales in the market are just is not an act of mercy; it is good economic policy. It encourages trade and fills your coffers. This is not about being good, Father. It is about being smart."


Each word was a carefully calculated blow. Each sentence built upon the last, creating an argument that was solid, irrefutable. Tywin felt as if he were not talking to his son, but debating a rival in the King's council. He kept searching for a flaw in the boy's logic, a childish mistake, a misplaced sentiment, and he found nothing.


He tried another tack, a more personal one. "And what of yourself? All this talk of systems and loyalty… what do you want for yourself, Jaime? Do you still wish to be a knight?"


"More than anything," Jaime answered, and this time, there was a hint of warmth in his voice, the first glimmer of the boy he had been. "I want to be like the knights in the songs. Like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. I want to be a shield for the innocent."


"A knight is his Lord's instrument," Tywin said flatly. "He protects what he is commanded to protect. Nothing more."


"Then perhaps the songs are wrong," Jaime said quietly. "Or perhaps a wise Lord would only command his knight to protect what is right. He would protect… the balance." He used the word again, and Tywin realized it was the core of his son's strange, new philosophy.


Tywin turned away from his son and looked out at the horizon again. The sun was beginning to dip, staining the clouds orange and purple. The colors of House Martell. Their delegation was still in Lannisport, awaiting his answer. Their offer—their daughter for his son, their prince for his daughter—lay on his desk, a bold move in the great game. An alliance that would secure the entire south. Joanna had wanted it. And now, his son spoke of balance and strong foundations.


"You have given me much to think on," Tywin said, and the admission felt like pulling a tooth.


"I only said what I see, Father," Jaime replied.


"Return to your Maester," Tywin commanded, his voice suddenly different. Not tired, but thoughtful. "Continue your lessons."


"Yes, Father."


Jaime gave a slight bow—a stiff, formal gesture—then turned and walked away, his steady footsteps echoing on the stone before vanishing back into the castle.


Tywin remained on the balcony for a long time, as dusk faded to night and the first stars began to prick the blackening sky. The wind grew colder, but he did not feel it. His mind was no longer racing; it was calm, cold, and clear.


The sense of unease was gone, replaced by something else entirely. Something he had not felt in a long time. Pride. Not the shallow pride of having a handsome son or a strong heir. This was a deeper, more satisfying pride. The pride of a smith who discovers that the steel he is forging is not just strong, but possesses a keenness he did not expect.


The boy had debated him. Not defied him with a childish tantrum, but engaged him in intellectual discourse. He had taken his father's core principles—strength, fear, ruthlessness—and had not rejected them, but refined them. He had built upon them, adding a layer of pragmatism and long-term strategy that even Tywin himself, in his fury at his own father's weakness, sometimes overlooked in favor of a decisive, brutal act.


This is not about being good, Father. It is about being smart.


In that one sentence, Jaime had encapsulated Tywin's entire philosophy and elevated it. He had shown that he understood the difference between wanton cruelty and purposeful ruthlessness. He understood that a legacy was built not just by vanquishing enemies, but by managing assets.


The source of this change was still a mystery, a confounding anomaly. But Tywin found he no longer cared about the why. He cared only about the what. And what he had now was an heir who surpassed all his expectations. Grief had forged his son, not into a mirror of himself, but into a better version.


A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched Tywin Lannister's lips in the darkness.

 

[AAAustinYu]

All according to keikaku
(keikaku means plan)

 

[Xodarap]

Nice to see Tywin finally getting what he always wanted
A Legacy to be proud of.

 

[Gnus Krap]

Really liking it so far
Looking forward to seeing if Tywin will adopt some measure of forward thinking of the future before the sack and all that happens with Elia

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

​

The footsteps on the cold stone felt light and familiar to this seven-year-old body, but to the soul within, each step was heavy and calculated. Steven— Jaime , he had to keep correcting himself, the name was his shield now—walked away from the balcony, his back straight, his pace steady, a facade of calm he hoped was convincing. Inside, his heart hammered with the last vestiges of adrenaline from the confrontation. It wasn't a debate, he knew that. It was a performance. An audition. And he felt, with a nauseating sense of relief, that he had passed.


He hadn't wanted to sound like a prodigy. Gods know, being a smug wunderkind was a quick way to make enemies, even within your own family. But he wasn't dealing with just anyone. He was dealing with Tywin Lannister. A man who valued strength, intelligence, and ruthlessness above all else. A man who viewed weakness and sentiment with the same contempt he held for a cockroach in his kitchens. To approach such a man with a heartfelt plea about "helping the people" would have been as effective as trying to put out a hellfire with spit.


So, he played the game, as he had been for two months. He took the truth—his genuine desire to create a stable and just society—and wrapped it in the language Tywin would understand and respect. He spoke of "systems," "assets," and "investments." He turned compassion into pragmatism. He turned people into sheep.


The word "sheep" left a bitter taste in his mouth. In his old life, as Steven Evans, primary school teacher, he had dedicated himself to those sheep. He had seen the potential in every child's eyes, no matter how poor or neglected. He had fought underfunded school boards, apathetic parents, and a broken system just to give them a chance, a sliver of education that could be their way out. He had often failed. He had often gone home to his empty apartment, tired to the bone, feeling like he was holding back the tide with his bare hands. He had the will, but he had no power.


Now… now he had the potential for unimaginable power. The power to rule the entire western region of Westeros. The power to change the lives of millions. And to earn that power, he had to convince the lion at the top of the mountain that he, too, was a lion, not a sheep in disguise. He had to make his father proud, not because he craved the cold man's love, but because Tywin's pride was the key that would unlock the door to responsibility. Tywin's trust was the currency he needed to fund his quiet revolution.


The halls of Casterly Rock felt different now. For the past two months, since he had woken up in this child's bed to a scream of agony that was not his own, he had walked through them in a daze. He had woken up into grief. There was no memory of Joanna Lannister in his mind, only a painful void where a mother should have been. He had inherited the sorrow of a seven-year-old boy with none of the memories to go with it. He saw her portrait, a beautiful woman with the same green eyes as his, and he felt a strange, detached sense of loss, like reading about a tragic character in a book. He mourned the idea of a mother, while the small body he inhabited trembled with real, visceral grief.


The halls carved from living rock, the tapestries depicting golden lions tearing their prey apart, the glint of gold everywhere—it had all felt like a fantastical, terrifying fever dream. He was a thirty-year-old man trapped in a boy's body, grieving for a lost life and a mother he never knew, all while trying to understand the rules of this brutal, feudal world.


Now, the grandeur looked different. It was no longer just a backdrop. It was an arsenal. Every golden goblet on a table was a reminder of the wealth that could fund a school. Every armored knight he passed was an enforcer of the law who could protect a farmer from a brigand. The castle itself, this impregnable fortress, was the seat of power he could wield for good or for ill. It was an immense responsibility, a weight that felt far too heavy for his small shoulders.


He passed a pair of servants sweeping the stone floors, their heads bowed as he went by. The original Jaime would likely not have noticed them at all. But Steven did. He noticed their calloused hands, the weariness in their posture, the way they avoided his gaze as if he were a sun too bright to look upon. They were part of the "machine" he had described to his father. The unseen cogs that kept the world of lords turning. And they were illiterate. Their children would grow up to be illiterate, too, inheriting a life of service with no hope of advancement.


A memory surfaced, sharp and clear from last week. His uncle, Kevan, had taken him down to Lannisport to inspect some warehouse supplies. The air had been thick with the smell of salt, fish, and a thousand people living in close quarters. It was then he had seen her: a little girl, no older than his own body, with matted hair and bare feet, her huge, hungry eyes fixed on a baker's stall.


Without thinking, Steven had reacted. He had reached into his pouch—a still-unfamiliar gesture—and pulled out a silver stag. It was a fortune for a commoner. He had walked over to the girl and pressed the coin into her grimy hand. For a moment, she had just stared at it, then up at him in total confusion, as if a statue had just spoken to her. Then, she had run, clutching the coin as if it were the entire world.


He had felt a swell of pride in himself then. A simple act of kindness. But as he walked back to his uncle, he had truly seen . In every alley, in every doorway, there were more. Dozens. Hundreds. Thin faces and desperate eyes. His silver had helped one girl for one day. But it had changed nothing. It was a bandage on a gaping wound. He couldn't change the world with silver stags. He could only change it with power. With laws. With grain in the granaries and schools in the villages. That was when the seed of his plan had hardened into certainty. That was when he realized that to be Steven Evans, the teacher, he first had to become Jaime Lannister, the lord.


He reached the base of the Maester's Tower, a cylindrical structure that rose high into the heart of the mountain itself. This was where the castle's knowledge was kept, where a thousand years of history was written on fragile scrolls. To him, it was the most important place in all of Casterly Rock. It was his armory.


He climbed the spiral stairs, his step lighter now. The conversation with his father had been a necessary political maneuver. This, his lesson with Maester Creylen, was the real work. This was intelligence gathering.


The door to the Maester's study was old oak, reinforced with iron. He paused before it for a moment, steadying his breath. He was no longer Jaime the heir, being tested by his father. He was now Jaime the student, hungry for knowledge. He knocked three times, a sharp, polite rap.


The door creaked open. Maester Creylen stood there, a stooped figure in a loose grey robe. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes, behind the maester's chain that hung from his neck, were clear and sharp. The room behind him smelled of old parchment, dust, and drying herbs—the smell of knowledge itself.


"Ah, young Lord Jaime," Creylen said, a kindly smile touching his lips. "Come in, come in. I was just setting out some texts for you. The history of House Westerling, as you requested."


"Thank you, Maester," Jaime said, slipping back into character. He stepped into the room. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with scrolls and leather-bound tomes. A large Myrish telescope was aimed out one of the windows, and a great worktable in the center of the room was cluttered with maps, astrolabes, and glass vials of colored liquids. It was a paradise for a man who had once taught science.


"My father and I were just speaking," Jaime said as he took the seat that had been prepared for him. "We were discussing the management of the lands."


Creylen's eyes twinkled with interest. "Oh? A most vital topic for a future lord. Far more important than the genealogies of the Andal kings, though that has its place too."


"Indeed," Jaime agreed. "And it set me to thinking. I have been reading of taxes and mine yields, but I realize there is so much I do not know. I don't want to just know the history of lords, Maester. I want to know the history of the smallfolk."


The Maester stroked his wispy beard, his gaze growing sharper. "An unusual field of study for a boy your age. Most of that history is unwritten."


"Then we must begin to write it," Jaime said with a seriousness that made the old man pause. "How much grain do the Westerlands produce in a good year? How much do we need to feed everyone through a long winter? How many children were born in Lannisport last year, and how many of them will learn to read?"


The questions poured out of him, the ones that had been burning in his mind for weeks. The questions of a teacher, a planner, a man who saw society not as a pyramid of power, but as a fragile ecosystem.


"How many septries do we have outside of Casterly Rock? Are the sons of merchants and craftsmen taught their sums? If not, how can they trade fairly? How can they innovate?"


Maester Creylen was staring at him, utterly captivated now. Jaime knew this went beyond the curiosity of a bright child. These were the questions of a statesman.


"My lord," Creylen said softly, "those are very profound questions. The answer to most of them is… 'not enough' or 'none'."


"I know," Jaime said. "And that is what I want to change. But I cannot change anything without facts. I need data. I want you to teach me, Maester. Not just about Aegon the Conqueror. Teach me about crop rotation. Teach me about the sewer systems of the old cities. Teach me about the laws and economy of Braavos. Teach me how to build something that lasts."


He leaned forward, his green eyes flashing with the same intensity he had shown his father, but this time it was driven by passion, not calculation. "My father rebuilt the strength of House Lannister with fear and gold. I will build upon that foundation. I will build our strength with knowledge and prosperity. A strength that will not crumble when the gold runs out or when the fear fades."


For a long time, Maester Creylen just looked at him. The silence in the room was charged with potential, with the weight of history and the promise of the future. Then, the old man smiled, the first genuine smile Jaime had seen since he arrived in this world.


"Then," the Maester said, his voice filled with a new energy, "let us begin your lesson, Lord Jaime. We have a great deal of work to do."


As Maester Creylen turned to retrieve a thick tome on agriculture from a high shelf, Jaime leaned back in his chair. The exhaustion from his performance for his father was fading, replaced by a quiet wave of purpose. The road ahead of him was long and fraught with peril. He would have to navigate his father's ambition, his sister's jealousy, and the deadly politics of the Seven Kingdoms. He would have to wear the mask of the proud lion, perhaps for years, hiding the true soul within.


But here, in this sanctuary of knowledge, he could be a little more himself. Here, he could begin to gather the bricks and mortar for the better world he wanted to build. It would not be easy. It would not happen overnight. But for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cold, grieving world, Steven Evans felt a flicker of hope. He was ready for his lesson.

 

[Xodarap]

Hot damn a good man born in a harsh land has gone to war against the ignorant the poor the peers and his rulers in the creation of progress.