• An addendum to Rule 3 regarding fan-translated works of things such as Web Novels has been made. Please see here for details.
  • We've issued a clarification on our policy on AI-generated work.
  • Our mod selection process has completed. Please welcome our new moderators.
  • Due to issues with external spam filters, QQ is currently unable to send any mail to Microsoft E-mail addresses. This includes any account at live.com, hotmail.com or msn.com. Signing up to the forum with one of these addresses will result in your verification E-mail never arriving. For best results, please use a different E-mail provider for your QQ address.
  • For prospective new members, a word of warning: don't use common names like Dennis, Simon, or Kenny if you decide to create an account. Spammers have used them all before you and gotten those names flagged in the anti-spam databases. Your account registration will be rejected because of it.
  • Since it has happened MULTIPLE times now, I want to be very clear about this. You do not get to abandon an account and create a new one. You do not get to pass an account to someone else and create a new one. If you do so anyway, you will be banned for creating sockpuppets.
  • Due to the actions of particularly persistent spammers and trolls, we will be banning disposable email addresses from today onward.
  • The rules regarding NSFW links have been updated. See here for details.

Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

Created
Status
Incomplete
Watchers
94
Recent readers
247
Threadmarks
8
Something about Jaime was different—his demeanor, his way of thinking—and whether that change would prove a blessing or a curse, only time would tell.
Threadmarks
Reader mode
Tywin I New
  • Threadmarks
    • Daario

    Daario

    Getting out there.
    Joined
    Nov 3, 2023
    Messages
    15
    [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.
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • Did you rewrite this? I swear I've read it before.
     
    Tywin II New
  • Threadmarks
    • 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.
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • 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
     
    Jaime I New
  • Threadmarks
    • 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.
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • 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.
     
    Oh a Jaime si and it's before his fuckup ,so now we wait and see since it's post Jaime and cersie doing wincest
     
    Jaime II New
  • Threadmarks
    • The vibration from the hard clash of wood traveled up the practice sword, into his wrist, and exploded into a dull ache in his shoulder. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and sweat plastered his golden hair to his forehead in dark clumps. In his previous life, as Steven Evans, the only combat he had ever known was a fight over the television remote or a heated debate in a school staff meeting. He was a man of chalk dust and textbooks, not steel and bruises.


    And yet, this body… this body was different.


    Thud. Slide. Parry.


    The movements flowed from him with a grace he did not possess. When Ser Benedict Broom, the Master-at-Arms, came in with a high swing, Jaime's arm was already rising of its own accord, deflecting the blow at a perfect angle. When the knight attempted a low thrust, Jaime's feet were already moving, pivoting out of range while his own sword dropped to block. It was a strange, terrifying dance. His mind, Steven's mind, was several steps behind, a stunned spectator inside his own skull, while the seven-year-old body of Jaime Lannister moved with instinct and muscle memory forged since he could walk.


    "Enough!" Ser Benedict's gruff voice broke the rhythm of the fight. The knight lowered his sword, his broad chest heaving. He was a hard-faced man with arms as thick as Jaime's thighs, but there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes. "The Seven have blessed you, lad. I've never seen the like. You move like a shadowcat."


    Jaime bent over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his ragged breath. Every inch of him ached, a symphony of protest from muscles pushed beyond their limits. "Thank you, Ser," he gasped, the gratitude genuine. This man, unlike his father, wasn't testing his intellect or judging his worth. He was simply teaching him how to stay alive.


    "Don't thank me. Thank your blood," the knight grumbled, but there was a note of pride in his voice. "Now, be off with you. Get some water and rest. Tomorrow we start on the more complex stances."


    Jaime nodded, returning the wooden sword to the rack. He walked out of the dusty practice yard, the afternoon sun warm on his sticky skin. The exhaustion felt good, in a strange way. It was a pure, physical fatigue, a welcome distraction from the relentless mental gymnastics that were his new destiny. Here, in the practice yard, he didn't have to think. He just had to move. He could let the ghost of the original Jaime take over, let the boy's instincts guide him.


    But the moment he stepped out of the yard and back into the cool stone corridors, the silence returned, and so did Steven.


    "Jaime."


    The voice was as cold as ice and as sharp as a shard of glass. He froze, every tired muscle in his body tensing. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. There was only one person in the world who could say his name like it was both a possession and an accusation.


    He turned slowly. Cersei was standing there, a few paces behind him, her arms crossed over her chest. The light from a high, arched window caught her golden hair, making it seem like a halo around her beautiful, angry face. Her eyes, a mirror of his own, were narrowed into dangerous green slits.


    "Cersei," he said, and his voice sounded more nervous than he would have liked. "What is it?"


    A soft, contemptuous snort escaped her lips. "I should be asking you, what is it? What is wrong with you?" She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "You're strange. For two months, since… since then, you've been a stranger."


    Jaime felt a powerful urge to retreat. For the past two months, he had consciously avoided his twin sister. It was a cowardly act, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Being near her felt… wrong. Deeply wrong. He had watched the television show, yes, but that had been years ago in his old life, a passing entertainment. He'd preferred lighthearted comedies after a long day of teaching. He'd never been a die-hard fan, so many of the details were hazy. But the one thing he remembered with sickening clarity was the nature of the Lannister twins' relationship.


    And then, there were the memories. Fragments that weren't his, bubbling up at unexpected moments. A game of hide-and-seek in the dark tunnels beneath the castle. Small hands exploring where they shouldn't. A shared secret that had felt thrilling and forbidden to the children, but felt repulsive and monstrous to the man inside the boy's body. Gods, they were children. The thought made him shudder, a mixture of horror and a guilt that was not his own. So he had avoided her, immersing himself in lessons with Maester Creylen and drills with Ser Benedict, using duty and exhaustion as a shield.


    Now, that shield had been shattered.


    "I'm not strange," he said weakly.


    "You're a liar!" Cersei hissed, her eyes flashing. "You don't seek me out. You don't talk to me. You spend your time with that dusty old maester or swinging sticks in the yard. You didn't even sit beside me at supper last night! You left me alone!" The pain in that last word was so real, so childishly raw, that it pierced his heart.


    "Is it because of the Imp?" she asked, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Has that little monster poisoned your mind against me? Because if he has, I'll—"


    "Enough!" The word was out of Jaime's mouth before he could stop it, louder than he'd intended. A pair of guards down the corridor glanced in their direction.


    The fury on Cersei's face instantly morphed to shock, then back to a smoldering rage. Before she could scream, Jaime grabbed her arm. The touch sent a strange jolt through him, a mix of familiarity from Jaime's memory and revulsion from Steven's soul. "Not here," he snarled. He pulled her, half-dragging her, into a nearby alcove hidden behind a thick tapestry.


    Once they were inside the dim, quiet space, he let go of her arm as if he'd touched a hot coal.


    "This has nothing to do with Tyrion," he said, his voice calmer now, but firm.


    "Then what?" Cersei demanded, rubbing her arm where he had held it.


    Jaime took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He couldn't tell her the truth. How could he possibly explain that he was a stranger inside her twin brother's body? He had to find another truth, one she could accept.


    "Everything has changed, Cersei," he said quietly. "Mother… Mother is gone." Saying the words felt strange, like reciting a line from a play. "Father is different. Everything is colder now. I… I have to grow up. We both do."


    "I don't want to grow up if it means becoming like you!" she shot back. "And don't you dare speak of that monster as if he's anything to us. He killed her. He made everything cold."


    "Don't say that," Jaime said, and this time, there was real force in his voice, a strength that came from Steven's conviction. "You must not say that. It isn't true."


    "Not true?" Cersei laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "He murdered our mother and he lives!"


    "He didn't murder her! He's a baby, Cersei. Babies don't murder anyone. Mother died bringing him into the world. It's a sad, terrible thing, but it's no one's fault." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And you have to stop calling him that. He is our brother. He is our blood. He is… he is all we have left of Mother."


    It was a gamble, tying Tyrion to the sacred memory of their mother. He saw something flicker in Cersei's eyes, a confusion, a pain, but it was quickly swallowed by her hatred.


    "He is not what's left," she hissed. "He is the price we paid. I hate him. I will always hate him."


    Jaime sighed, a profound weariness settling over him, heavier than the fatigue from his sword practice. Arguing with his father was difficult; it was a game of chess. Arguing with Cersei was like trying to reason with a hurricane. Her emotions were so powerful, so absolute, that they left no room for logic.


    He had to try another way. The same way he had approached his father. He had to speak the language a Lannister understood. The language of pride and power.


    "Fine," he said, his tone shifting, becoming colder, more analytical. "Hate him if you must. Hate him in your chambers. Hate him in your heart. But you must stop showing it to everyone."


    Cersei frowned, her arms crossing again. "You can't tell me what to say. And the dwarf deserves it."


    "This isn't about what he deserves," Jaime said patiently. "This is about us. This is about House Lannister. Think, Cersei. Every time you call him 'Imp' in front of the servants, they hear. Every time you push him or refuse to sit near him, the knights and the guests see. What do they think?"


    "They think I'm right!"


    "No," Jaime said, shaking his head. "Some might pity him. Others might think you are cruel. But the other lords, the guests from other Houses who come here… they will see something else. They will see a crack in our House. They will see that Lord Tywin's children hate one another. They will see that the golden heir of Casterly Rock has a malformed brother, a little monster that his own sister is disgusted by."


    He saw the line between her brows deepen. He knew he was getting through.


    "Do you want them whispering behind our backs? Do you want the Ladies telling their daughters that the beautiful Lannister twins have a stain on their family? That they are not as perfect as they seem?" He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tyrion is a Lannister. He bears our name. Every insult you throw at him, bounces off and hits us, too. His flaw… becomes our flaw if we show it to the world. It becomes a weapon our enemies can use against us."


    Cersei snorted, but it lacked its earlier conviction. "Let them try."


    "Oh, they won't dare say it to Father's face," Jaime agreed. "But they will whisper it in their own courts. They will laugh at us. They will say, 'Look at the mighty lions, they cannot even keep their own house in order.' Your hatred for Tyrion, Cersei… you are turning it from a family matter into a public weakness. You are handing our enemies an arrow and showing them where the gap in our shield is."


    He saw it now. The doubt. It was just a flicker in her green eyes, a brief battle between her burning hatred and her ice-cold pride. Pride was the strongest muscle in any Lannister, and he had just pressed on it, hard.


    "So what would you have me do?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Pretend I like him?"


    "I am not asking you to like him," Jaime said softly, sensing an opening. "I am asking you to be smart. Ignore him. Treat him like a piece of furniture, if you must. Show the world that a Lannister is not affected by something as trivial as… physical appearance. Show them that our strength is so great we do not even notice his flaws. That is how we win, Cersei. Not by screaming, but by showing cold indifference. It is what Father would do."


    Invoking their father was the final blow. He was the standard they both, in their different ways, strove to meet.


    Cersei said nothing for a long time. She just stared at the stone floor, her golden hair hiding her expression. The alcove felt quiet and suffocating. Jaime could hear his own heart beating in his ears.


    Finally, she looked up. The anger was still in her eyes, but now beneath it was something else, a cold glint of calculation. "You've been doing a lot of thinking lately, brother," she said, her tone flat.


    "Someone has to," Jaime replied.


    She gave him one last, long, appraising look, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time in two months. Then, without another word, she turned and stepped out of the alcove, the tapestry swinging back into place behind her, leaving Jaime alone in the gloom.


    He leaned against the cool stone wall, letting out his breath in a shaky sigh. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. Confronting Cersei, fighting his own revulsion, trying to plant a seed of logic in a ferocious field of emotion. He didn't know if it would work. It probably wouldn't. But he had to try.


    …


    He stepped out from behind the tapestry, back into the main corridor. The torches on the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows like ancient ghosts. He began to walk, with no clear destination in mind. His feet seemed to have a will of their own, carrying him down familiar hallways, past the portraits of Lannister ancestors who stared down with cold, judgmental, painted eyes. He passed the doors to the high halls, and the passage to the kitchens, from which the faint sounds of clattering pots and shouting cooks could be heard.


    He wasn't thinking about where he was going. His mind was still filled with Cersei's flushed, angry face, the battle between hatred and pride in her eyes. He had planted a seed, an idea of how Lannister pride could be stronger than a child's hate. But seeds took time to grow, and the soil of Cersei's heart was rocky and unwelcoming. He could only hope.


    Without realizing it, his feet had carried him to a quieter, more private wing of the castle. The air here was warmer, the floors covered with thick tapestries to muffle the sound of footfalls. These were the family quarters, where the public grandeur of Casterly Rock softened slightly into something resembling a home. And here, at the end of the corridor, was the door that had been his subconscious destination.


    The nursery door.


    He stopped before it. It was slightly ajar, allowing a soft sliver of light from within to spill onto the darker stone floor. The low, monotonous sound of humming came from inside, a lullaby sung in a low key by a wet nurse. For the past two months, since he had woken in this strange world, he had found himself drawn to this door. Usually at night, when the rest of the castle was asleep and he couldn't quiet his own mind. He would stand outside, listening to the sound of a baby's steady breathing, and feel a strange sort of peace. It was the only place in this vast, cold fortress that didn't feel weighed down by history or ambition.


    Tonight was different. After his conversation with Cersei, he felt the need to see him. To remind himself why he was fighting this seemingly impossible battle.


    He pushed the door gently. It swung open silently on its well-oiled hinges. The room was warm and cozy, heated by a low-burning fire in the hearth. A stout woman in a simple wool dress sat in a rocking chair near the fire, humming her tune as she mended a tear in a small shirt. She was one of several nurses assigned to the babe. She looked up as Jaime entered, her eyes widening in surprise and a little fear to see the heir of Casterly Rock standing in her doorway.


    Jaime put a single finger to his lips, a gesture for silence. The woman nodded quickly, her eyes dropping, and returned her focus to her sewing, though her fingers seemed to tremble slightly now. Jaime ignored her. His attention was on the carved wooden crib that sat in the center of the room.


    He approached with slow steps, his soft leather boots making no sound on the rug. He peered over the edge of the crib.


    There, swaddled in soft wool blankets, Tyrion was asleep.


    Even in the gentle firelight, the differences were obvious. His head seemed too large for his small body, his brow prominent. His legs, bundled in the blankets, looked shorter and more crooked than they should be. His hands, fisted near his face, were plump and stubby, his fingers short. This was not the perfect, golden babe that was expected of House Lannister. This was something else, something broken, by the standards of this world.


    But beneath all that, he was just a baby. His small face scrunched up in his sleep, as if he were dreaming of something confusing. His lips twitched, making a small bubble of drool. His tiny chest rose and fell with the steady, peaceful rhythm of his breathing.


    Jaime felt a tightness in his own chest. He reached out a hand, hesitated for a second, then gently laid the tip of his finger on the baby's cheek.


    The skin was warm. Impossibly soft and warm, full of fragile life.


    The touch was like a lightning strike into a past that wasn't his, yet felt more real than the stone beneath his feet. Suddenly, he wasn't in Casterly Rock. He was in a bright, modern living room, the smell of freshly baked cookies in the air. He was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. His nephew, Michael. He could feel the solid weight of him in his arms, smell that distinct, sweet baby smell, a mixture of milk and powder. He remembered how Michael's tiny fingers had gripped his own with surprising strength, how the baby's blue eyes had looked up at him with absolute, unquestioning trust. Michael didn't care if Steven had had a bad day at work, or if he was feeling lonely. He just knew that this was a warm hand, this was a soothing voice, this was safety.


    A sharp, painful wave of longing stabbed Steven so deeply he almost gasped. He missed his world. He missed the simple things: a cup of coffee in the morning, the laughter of his students, the sound of traffic outside his apartment window. He missed a life where his biggest problems were test scores and school budgets, not dynastic hatred and the threat of war.


    He pulled his hand back from Tyrion's cheek, but the warmth lingered on his fingertips. He looked down at his sleeping brother, and a different wave of sadness washed over him. A sadness for this child.


    He could understand, on the most basic, childish level, why Cersei hated Tyrion. To a seven-year-old, the world was a simple place of direct cause and effect. Their mother went into the birthing chamber to have this baby, and she never came out. In the mind of a grieving, confused child, it was easy to draw a straight line between Tyrion's arrival and their mother's departure. It was a flawed, cruel logic, but it was a child's logic. Perhaps, with time and guidance, Cersei could be made to see beyond it.


    What he couldn't understand, what truly horrified him, was how that hatred could persist and harden into something so cold and permanent in an adult. In the future Cersei he remembered from the show. And even worse, in his father.


    Tywin Lannister was a man of pragmatism to his very core. He was a cold strategist who viewed the world as a giant cyvasse board. Emotion was a weakness to be exploited in others and eliminated in oneself. And yet, in the case of Tyrion, all his logic and pragmatism seemed to evaporate.


    How could a man like Tywin not see the simple truth? That this baby was helpless. That he had no malice. That he did not "murder" anyone. The difficult birth was a medical tragedy, a stroke of terrible luck, not an act of aggression. Could not the most logical of minds grasp that?


    Steven looked at Tyrion's sleeping face, and the answer began to form in his mind, cold and terrible. The adult Tywin and Cersei didn't hate Tyrion for what he did. They hated him for what he was .


    To them, Tyrion was a symbol. He was the physical embodiment of imperfection. In a family that built its entire identity on an image of golden perfection—of beauty, wealth, and strength—Tyrion was a stain that could not be washed away. He was a walking, breathing reminder that even the lions of Casterly Rock were not immune to the cruel whims of fate.


    And for Tywin, it must have been even worse. Tyrion wasn't just a blemish on his legacy; he was the eternal reminder of his greatest loss. Every time Tywin looked at his dwarf son, he didn't see a child. He saw the price he had paid for Joanna's death. He saw the one time in his life when he had been truly powerless, when all his gold and all his armies could not save the woman he loved. Tywin's hatred for Tyrion wasn't the hatred for a murderer. It was the hatred for a mirror that reflected his own failure and grief.


    They had turned an innocent baby into a vessel for all their pain, their anger, and their disappointment. They had condemned him before he could commit his first sin.


    He leaned over the crib, so close he could feel the warmth of Tyrion's breath on his cheek. The room was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the near-silent scrape of the nurse's needle. The entire cold, ambitious world of Casterly Rock felt a universe away. Here, in this soft circle of light, there were just the two of them. Two souls, stranded in the wrong place.


    He whispered the words, so quietly that not even the nurse could hear. They were meant more for himself than for the sleeping baby.


    "I'm here," he breathed into the tiny ear. "Don't be afraid."


    It was a simple whisper, the words of comfort any brother might offer.


    But in the silence of his own heart, it felt like something far greater. It felt like an oath. A promise. A promise from Jaime to Tyrion Lannister. A promise that for as long as he drew breath in this body, this child would never be alone. He would be his shield, his voice, and if it came to it, his sword.
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • Jaime III New
  • Threadmarks

    • JAIME

    ​


    Lannisport was a symphony of ordered chaos. The smell of salt and fish from the harbor mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the bakeries and the sharper tang of the stables. The shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the groan of cart wheels over cobblestones created a relentless soundtrack to the city's life. And yet, amid this bustle, there were pockets of silence.


    One of them was the Sept of Lannisport.


    The moment Jaime stepped over the intricately carved threshold, the sounds of the city seemed to fade away, replaced by a solemn, echoing quiet. The air inside was cool and smelled of cold stone, long-burnt incense, and wax. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through seven massive stained-glass windows, each depicting one of the aspects of the Seven, casting a tapestry of color across the polished marble floor. The Father was bearded and judgmental, the Mother smiled with mercy, the Warrior raised his sword, and so on. It was a place designed to make mortals feel small and the gods feel near.


    Behind him, standing as still as a statue, was Jon, a household knight assigned as his guard for today's journey. He was a quiet, dependable man, whose presence was more reassuring than a hundred chattering guards.


    Jaime walked down the main aisle, his boots making soft, rhythmic taps that echoed in the vaulted ceiling. In his previous life, Steven Evans had not been the most faithful of men. Sure, he believed in the existence of God, a greater power that governed the universe. But for him, it was an accepted fact, like gravity or photosynthesis. He felt no need to attend church every week or recite memorized prayers.


    His philosophy was simple: as long as he did good, God would be pleased, right? An omnipotent and omniscient being couldn't possibly have an ego so fragile that it required constant adoration. Steven felt that God didn't need worship. He just wanted humanity to do the job He had given them: to do good unto all things, to be keepers of their fellow man, and to leave the world in a slightly better state than they found it.


    But Steven Evans was in a different world now. He felt so lonely, his old friends gone.


    So, now, he came here. Not out of habit or duty, but out of a genuine need. He felt like a sailor stranded on an endless ocean, searching for a lighthouse in the dark. Perhaps, if he was sincere enough, if he truly opened his heart to the gods of this world, he would get a hint. A sign. A dream. Anything to tell him he was not alone in this madness.


    He stopped before the altar of the Father, whose face was carved from white marble with an expression of stern justice. He knelt on the plush velvet kneeler, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together. He did not recite the standard prayers. Instead, he spoke from his heart, a silent whisper meant only for the gods.


    I hope my family back there is always healthy, may they be happy, and let Michael grow up healthy.


    I do not know what I was sent here for, but I hope I can do something good. So for that, could you please give me a sign? What should I do?


    He remained kneeling there for a long time, letting the silence of the sept wash over him. There was no celestial voice, no divine vision. Just the quiet of stone and colored glass. And yet, when he finally rose, he felt a little lighter. The burden was still there, but his shoulders felt a little stronger to bear it.


    He walked over to an alms box set into a nearby pillar, an iron-banded oak box with a narrow slit in the top. He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a gold coin. A Golden Dragon. It was a staggering sum, enough to feed a family for a month in decent comfort. Without hesitation, he pushed it through the slit. The clink of it falling onto the pile of other coins below sounded impossibly loud in the quiet sept.


    "A generous offering, young lord."


    Jaime turned. Septon Orland was standing there, an old man with thinning white hair and a gentle smile that seemed etched into his wrinkled face. He was the head of this sept, a man known for his piety and kindness.


    "The gods have given my House much, Septon," Jaime replied. "It is only right to give a small piece back."


    The Septon nodded, his pale blue eyes full of sympathy. "You have been a frequent visitor of late, my lord. It warms my heart. I am sure your lady mother rests easy in the Mother's arms, seeing her son's devotion."


    "I can only pray," Jaime said, and he let a genuine smile touch his lips, for a part of his words was true. He did pray for the woman he only knew through a child's memories, which were themselves being suppressed by the thirty-year-old soul of Steven. He felt a sorrow for the original Jaime's loss, a strange empathy for the boy whose body he was borrowing. "Septon," he asked, turning the conversation in the direction he had planned, "if we do good, the Seven will be pleased, will they not? And will they make our path easier?"


    "Of course, my lord," Septon Orland replied warmly, his eyes twinkling. "The Seven are seven aspects of one divinity, and each aspect values virtue. The Mother smiles on acts of mercy, the Smith values honest labor, the Father judges us by the justice we show to others. By living piously and performing good deeds, we not only ensure our place in the heavens, but we also bring the blessings of the gods into our lives in this world. The path of the righteous may not always be easy, but its light will never be extinguished."


    It was the expected answer, a comforting and orthodox one. It was the kind of answer any priest in any world would give.


    Jaime sighed, as if contemplating a deep theological problem. "That is a relief to hear. And yet, something has been troubling me. Since I began spending more time in Lannisport, I listen to the common folk talk in the markets and on the docks. To many of them, the Father, the Mother, the Warrior… they are not just different aspects. They are different gods. A sellsword will swear by the Warrior, as if the Mother has no care for the life he takes. They splinter the unity of the Seven."


    He paused, looking at the Septon with an expression of sincere concern. "It troubles me, and I was thinking, perhaps it is also due to a lack of media that can enlighten their thinking. They cannot read the Seven-Pointed Star. They only hear the stories passed down, which may have changed over time."


    Septon Orland nodded slowly, his expression growing serious. "You have a keen eye and a sharp ear, young lord. It is a problem the Faith has long wrestled with. The faith of the smallfolk is often simple, sometimes to the point of superstition. They understand the gods through the lens of their immediate needs."


    "But does that not weaken the true faith?" Jaime pressed gently. "Does it not make them more vulnerable to heresies or the influence of foreign gods?"


    "It does," the Septon admitted with a weary sigh. "But the solution is not easy. Our holy books are difficult to duplicate. Each copy of the Seven-Pointed Star takes a learned brother months, even years, to copy by hand onto expensive vellum. It requires a great deal of manpower. And finding men who can read and write well, and who are willing to dedicate their lives to such a painstaking task, is no simple thing."


    "I understand," Jaime said, "but what if there were more men who could read and write?"


    The Septon frowned. "That would be a blessing, of course, but…"


    "Think on it, Septon," Jaime continued, his voice filled with a genuine-seeming passion. "Right now, only the nobility and the maesters are truly learned. But what of the classes just below? The merchants, the master craftsmen, even the clerks who work for them. They are the backbone of this city. They deal with numbers, contracts, and bills of lading every day. They have a need for literacy, and many of them must surely have the wit for it."


    He gestured around at the grand, stained-glass windows. "What if, just if, there was a place in Lannisport where the sons of these men could learn? A school. Not to become maesters or lords, but just to learn to read the words, to write their names, and to properly sum their figures. Would that not be a great good?"


    Septon Orland's eyes widened as he began to grasp the implication.


    "It would improve their trade, of course," Jaime continued, anticipating the next argument. "A merchant who can read his own contracts is less likely to be cheated. A craftsman who can read an order will make fewer mistakes. It would make the entire city more prosperous. And a more prosperous city means larger offerings for the sept, does it not?"


    "But more than that," he said, his voice softening again, returning to his original theme. "If more people could read, then there would be more people who could read the Seven-Pointed Star and also copy it. The Faith would no longer be something they only hear from a Septon once a week. It would be something they could hold in their own hands. They would read of the unity of the Seven for themselves. Their faith would become deeper, more personal, and truer. You would have more candidates for septons. You would have a populace that is not only richer, but more pious."


    He paused, letting the picture form in the old man's mind. A better, richer, holier city.


    Septon Orland stared at him, utterly speechless for a moment. His gentle smile was gone, replaced by an expression of profound awe. "My lord," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "That… that is the most sensible and most noble idea I have heard in a very long time. A school… for the common folk…" He seemed to be tasting the words. "Of course, there would be challenges. Finding teachers, the funding…"


    "The funding can be found," Jaime said with quiet confidence. "And teachers… That is simple, perhaps there are some of the learned brothers who would see this as a holy calling. For now, it is just an idea. A prayer, perhaps."


    "A most powerful prayer," the Septon said, his eyes misting over. "The Seven truly work through you, young Lord Jaime."


    Jaime just smiled. If they knew the strange truth, they might think otherwise.


    He took his leave of the now-energized Septon and walked back down the main aisle. As he stepped out of the great sept doors, back into the sunlight and the noise of Lannisport,


    "Jon," he called, and the knight was instantly at his side. "We're going home."


    As they walked across the square before the sept, a great flock of pigeons that had been pecking at crumbs on the stones was startled by their approach. With a unified thunder of wings, they took to the air, circling over Jaime's head in a grey and white cloud before scattering to the four corners of the city.


    Jaime stopped for a moment to watch them fly, they looked so free, and it was a joy to see.
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • Oberyn I New
  • Threadmarks
    • OBERYN​








    The journey had been long and tedious, a tour of the grandeur and oddities of the Seven Kingdoms. Oberyn had gazed at the stars from the towers of Starfall, tasted the sweetest wine in the Arbor, inhaled the dust of ancient manuscripts in Oldtown, and felt the salt spray on his face as he sailed past the Shield Islands and Crakehall. Every castle had its own soul, every lord his own particular brand of pride. But nothing had prepared him for Casterly Rock.





    The stories did not lie, but neither could they capture the truth of it. Casterly Rock was not a castle built upon a mountain; it was a mountain that had been forced to become a castle. It was an act of conquest against nature itself, a monument of petrified arrogance and cold strength.





    Their welcome, like the castle itself, was impressive and without warmth. Lord Tywin Lannister was a man who seemed carved from the same material as his home—hard, uncompromising, and with a cold glint of authority in his eyes. The small feast they had prepared was perfect. Every dish was served with precision, the wine was among the finest Oberyn had ever tasted, and the conversation was painfully polite.





    And now, a day after their arrival, they were enduring another performance, a private tour of some of the castle's more hospitable sections, guided by his sister's potential husband.





    Watching Jaime Lannister walk ahead of them, Oberyn couldn't suppress the amused smile that kept pulling at the corners of his lips. The boy was a miniature copy of his father in coloring, his hair shining like a newly minted golden dragon, his eyes as green as emeralds. But that was where the resemblance ended. He was small, his steps still a bit unsteady as he navigated the uneven stone paths of the garden. His cheeks still had that characteristic childish plumpness, the kind that aunts and nurses yearned to pinch.





    And this little man, the future lord of all this wealth and power, was the one proposed for his sister, Elia. Graceful, kind Elia, who was already a young woman. It was a cosmic joke, a political absurdity that could only happen in Westeros. Oberyn knew that marriages between older women and younger lords were not unheard of, but to see the contrast so starkly in person was deeply amusing.





    "So," Elia finally spoke, her soft, melodic voice breaking the comfortable silence between them. She had been quiet for most of the tour, observing everything with her characteristic tranquility. "What do you often do each day, Lord Jaime?"





    The boy turned. They had reached a secluded garden courtyard, a pocket of green hidden within the massive stone fortress. An oak tree provided dappled shade over beds of roses and lavender. "Sword practice," he answered, his voice clear and without hesitation. "Reading, visiting Lannisport, or playing with Tyrion."





    Oberyn raised an eyebrow at that last part. Ah, yes. The Imp. Since their arrival, whispers about Lord Tywin's second son had crept through their retinue like snakes among the rocks. The Lannister servants and guards never spoke his name. It was always "the dwarf," "the Imp," or, in crueler whispers, "the monster." Wild rumors had reached beyond the Westerlands—of a babe born twisted and malformed, with a tail, claws, and demonic red eyes. The truth, as always, was likely far more boring, but Oberyn found himself hoping, just a little, that the rumors were true. Life was too often dull; a real monster would be a welcome sight.





    However, the way Jaime Lannister said the name "Tyrion" so casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, like mentioning the weather, ruined that entertaining fantasy. Clearly, the tales of a demon babe were just that—tales. It was a disappointment. A small one.





    "You like to read?" Oberyn interjected, his curiosity piqued. "I would have thought your head was full of nothing but swordplay." Since his arrival, the only time he had seen the boy show any passion was in the practice yard that morning. He had watched from above, seeing the boy move with a speed and precision unnatural for his age, his eyes focused on the wooden sword as if it were the rarest gem in the world.





    Jaime looked at him, his green gaze steady and unafraid. "To be a master swordsman requires tactics, and tactics come from a clever mind. Therefore, one must study a great deal."





    This child was truly a prodigy. Oberyn had to suppress a snort. The words sounded like something memorized, a maxim drilled into his head by his father or a maester.





    "Perhaps you could come to Oldtown then," Elia said kindly, trying to ease the tension her brother had created. "You would find many books there."





    "Of course, one day I will travel," Jaime smiled at Elia, and it was the first genuine smile Oberyn had seen from him, briefly transforming his serious face into that of a boy. "But I still have many books here, and they won't be finished in ten years' time."





    "By then you will surely be married," Oberyn said lightly, glancing at Elia with a teasing smirk. Elia's expression didn't change, but Oberyn, who knew her better than anyone, saw the slight twitch at the corner of her eye. Ah, teasing his sister was one of life's simple pleasures.





    "If fate wills it," Jaime said quietly. He showed no excitement or embarrassment, just a resigned acceptance. This boy was wrapped in gold and trained courtesy.





    They reached a stone bench in the shade of the oak tree, and Jaime gestured for them to sit. Oberyn deliberately sat in the middle, with Elia on one side and her tiny potential husband on the other. The distance between them felt vast.





    "So, tell me," Oberyn decided to dig deeper, casting aside the pleasantries. Their mission here was a formality, of course; the betrothal would be decided by his mother and Lord Tywin in private meetings. But if Elia was truly to be bound to this House, Oberyn wanted to know what kind of foundation she would be standing on. "What do you want in the future?"





    Jaime looked at him, his green eyes clear and focused. "As an heir, of course I want to make Casterly Rock prosperous. And you, what do you desire?"





    A classic answer, straight to the point, and immediately turning the question back. Oberyn gave him a point for that.





    "Me?" Oberyn laughed, leaning back against the cool stone. "I want to see the world. All of it. I want to drink wine in the Summer Isles, fight in the pits of Meereen, study poisons in Asshai, and bed the most beautiful women in every city in between. The world is too large to sit in one chair, no matter how golden that chair may be."





    Elia smiled softly at her brother's outburst. "And I," she said, her voice as calm as the water in a garden pool, "I want to see my people happy and healthy. I want to see the gardens bloom, and children play without fear. Peace is a prize more precious than any victory."





    Two very different philosophies, the fire and water of House Martell. Oberyn looked at Jaime, expecting confusion or incomprehension on the boy's face. Instead, he saw the gears turning behind those green eyes.





    "Those are noble wishes," Jaime said, first to Elia, with a tone of sincere respect. Then he turned to Oberyn. "And your travels, Prince Oberyn, they have their purpose as well. Travel is a way to learn the weaknesses of enemies and the strengths of allies. The knowledge you gain from distant cities could strengthen Dorne in a way no army could."





    Oberyn stopped smiling. The boy had taken his wild, selfish passion for adventure and turned it into a strategic asset. He had taken his lust for life and framed it in the language of power.





    "And your gardens, Princess Elia," Jaime continued, his voice softening as he spoke to her. "A garden needs more than hope to grow. It needs water, good soil, and protection from storms. Peace does not simply happen; it must be built and defended. It needs strong walls and vigilant guards on those walls."





    Oberyn stared at him, truly studying him now. This wasn't rote memorization. It couldn't be.





    "You speak of walls and tactics," Oberyn said, his voice a little sharper now. "But what binds a kingdom? What makes the people follow a lord? Is it the walls? Or something else?"





    "Some would say it is fear," Jaime answered instantly, and Oberyn knew he was quoting his father. "Others would say it is love. I think both are wrong."





    "Oh?" Oberyn leaned forward, genuinely intrigued now. The amusement of the situation had faded, replaced by sincere curiosity. "Then what is it, little lord?"





    "Interest," Jaime said with chilling simplicity. "A farmer does not follow a lord because he fears his sword or because he loves his banner. He follows him because the lord protects him from bandits, ensures he has enough food to survive the winter, and provides a just court if his neighbor steals his cow. If a lord serves his people's interests, his people will serve him. Loyalty is not an emotion; it is a transaction."





    A silence fell over them in the garden. Elia was looking at Jaime with a soft expression of astonishment. Oberyn felt as if his entire world had tilted slightly. He had debated maesters, but he had never heard a boy whose feet couldn't even touch the ground from the bench he sat on speak like this.





    "A transaction," Oberyn repeated slowly. "So, to you, ruling is like being a merchant?"





    "It is the most complex form of trade," Jaime corrected. "You do not trade silk for spices. You trade security for service. Prosperity for taxes. Justice for obedience. A good lord is a good merchant. He ensures both sides get fair value in the exchange. A tyrant is a bad merchant. He demands too high a price for shoddy goods, and eventually, his customers will go to another shop, or burn his to the ground."





    Oberyn leaned back, a real, unforced laugh bubbling out of him. It startled Elia and seemed to surprise Jaime as well. "By the seven hells," he said, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "You are the most interesting Lannister I have ever met, and I have only been here for a day."





    The boy didn't blush or look proud. He just gave a slight nod, as if it were a logical observation.





    Oberyn glanced at his sister. Elia's face was thoughtful, a small frown between her brows.





    Oberyn's initial amusement had completely evaporated. The joke of this betrothal suddenly felt far more complicated. Marrying Elia to a boy was one thing. Marrying her to… this… was something else entirely.





    He had come to Casterly Rock expecting gold, arrogance, and perhaps a funny little monster in the dungeons. Instead, he had found this—a child who spoke with the logic of a maester and dreamed of swords like a hero from the songs.





    "You know, young Lord Jaime," Oberyn said, his tone more serious now. "I am beginning to think a visit to Oldtown will not be enough for you. You may have to see the whole world, just as I plan to. If only to see if your theories on trade hold true everywhere."





    Suddenly, something shifted. The mask of the serious little man cracked and fell away, replaced by something entirely unexpected: the bright, genuine grin of a young boy. His green eyes, which had been so sharp and analytical, now sparkled with a pure, unadulterated light.





    "You first, Prince Oberyn, and perhaps I will follow later," Jaime said, his voice filled with a cheerfulness that had been entirely absent before. "I haven't even passed my tenth nameday."





    Then, with a completely new energy, he leaned forward on the bench, closing the distance between them. His small face was filled with genuine curiosity. "Now, tell me about the experiences you've had on your way here," he whispered conspiratorially, as if they were schoolmates sharing a secret. "I'm sure there were many interesting ones."





    Oberyn grinned broadly. This boy… he was like a cyvasse player, able to change his entire strategy in a single move. A moment ago, he was a cold philosopher. Now, he was an eager boy wanting to hear tales of adventure. And Oberyn, if there was one thing he loved almost as much as the adventure itself, it was recounting it.





    "Interesting?" Oberyn repeated, his voice once again filled with theatrical bravado. "My friend, you don't know the half of it. Before we sailed past boring Crakehall, we stopped in Oldtown. Elia dragged me to the Citadel, of course, the dullest place in Westeros. But at night…" He leaned in, too, lowering his voice. "At night, in the taverns near the port, you can find sailors from the Summer Isles with skin as black as obsidian and warriors from Lys with silver hair and purple eyes. I had a drinking contest with a Braavosi captain who swore he once saw a kraken pull a ship to the bottom."





    Jaime's eyebrows shot up. "Truly?"





    "Of course not," Oberyn laughed. "The man was a liar and a cheat, but the stories were good! And the wine there… a red from the Arbor so sweet it could make a Septon throw off his robes and dance on a table."





    "Oberyn," Elia chided gently, but there was an amused smile on her lips.





    "Only speaking the truth, sweet sister," Oberyn said. "At Starfall, the seat of House Dayne, the towers are made of a pale stone that seems to drink the starlight. They have a sword there, called Dawn, that they say was forged from the heart of a fallen star. I ached to hold it, but they are very possessive of the thing."





    The conversation flowed easily after that, fueled by Jaime's eager questions and Oberyn's exaggerated tales. Elia would occasionally interject to provide a more accurate detail or to gently correct her brother.





    But as he spoke, Oberyn kept watching the boy. He saw how Jaime's eyes never left his face, how he absorbed every detail, how he asked follow-up questions in the sunlight.





    …





    Night in Casterly Rock had a different kind of silence. It was not the peaceful quiet of the water gardens of Sunspear, filled with the soft rustle of palm fronds and the whispers of lovers. It was the heavy, dense silence of uncountable tons of stone, the silence of a gilded tomb pressing in from all sides. In their lavish guest chambers, a roaring fire in the massive hearth seemed to fight a losing battle against the chill that clung to the air.





    Oberyn lounged in a velvet-upholstered armchair, swirling a goblet of dark red wine in his hand. The firelight danced on the surface of the liquid, making it look like blood and shadow. Across the room, Elia sat near a window, a book open in her lap, though Oberyn could tell from her distant gaze that she was not reading. And between them, in the chair closest to the fire, sat their mother, the Princess Martell, ruler of Dorne. She was still, her long, slender fingers tapping softly on the arm of her chair, her dark, intelligent eyes staring into the fire, as if reading fates in the flames.





    This was their ritual. After a day of pleasantries, forced smiles, and careful observation, they would gather. Here, in the privacy of their rooms, the masks came off. Here, they were not polite ambassadors. They were analysts.





    "The boy is interesting enough," Oberyn began, breaking the comfortable silence. He took a sip of his wine, letting the rich, fruity taste coat his tongue. "He acts like a grown man, yet some of his words hit their mark."





    His mother turned from the fire, her gaze shifting to him. Their mother possessed neither Elia's delicate beauty nor Oberyn's sharp good looks. Her beauty was in her intelligence, in the aura of calm authority that radiated from her. "He must get that from his father," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "Children, especially boys, always want to be like their fathers. The father is the first thing they will observe and imitate. Lord Tywin is a man who values intelligence and strategy. Of course his son would strive to emulate those traits."





    It was a logical explanation, a politician's explanation. Oberyn could see the truth in it. The boy's philosophy of "transactions" sounded like something distilled directly from the ruthless teachings of Tywin Lannister.





    Elia closed her book gently and joined the conversation. "And yet he lacks Lord Tywin's coldness," she said, her voice melodic. "At least, not entirely. He jests from time to time, and there is still a boyishness there. Did you not see how his eyes lit up when you spoke of the pirates in the Stepstones, Oberyn? That was not a young lord. That was a boy who wanted to hear a story of adventure."





    "He's a combination of his mother then," the Princess Martell said with a faint smile, a rare expression that softened her face in the candlelight. "She was a kind woman, with a warmth that could melt even the ice in her husband. She was intelligent, but her kindness was what stood out most."





    "Perhaps so, if your description is to be believed, Mother," Elia nodded. She paused, her expression growing more serious. "But while Jaime's nature is thus, his twin's, Cersei, is very different. I only spoke with her briefly this afternoon when the Septas had us embroidering together. But I could see a great deal of pride in such a small child, and she seems to look down on everyone."





    Oberyn snorted softly into his cup. "You only just noticed? The girl walks as if she has a right to the very air we breathe."





    Elia shot him a chiding look before turning back to their mother. "She asked me of Sunspear. But not out of curiosity. She asked as if she were interrogating a servant. 'Is it true your castles are made of mud?' 'Is it true you let the smallfolk walk barefoot in your gardens?' Every question was layered with contempt."





    Their mother nodded slowly, unsurprised. "Great power breeds such traits, depending on whether one can suppress them or not. The girl has been raised at the top of the world, inside this mountain of gold. She has known nothing but wealth and the highest station. Pride is the air she breathes. Though I doubt the girl can suppress it," she said that last sentence like a certainty, a final judgment that had been passed.





    "She needs to see the world," Oberyn said, rolling his eyes. Cersei Lannister was beautiful, no doubt. A perfect porcelain face, the same golden hair as her brother. But her eyes… those sharp green eyes were cold and devoid of any warmth. They did not see other people; they only judged them, looking for flaws and weaknesses. It was a boring kind of beauty to Oberyn. He had seen it a hundred times. It was an untested beauty, an arrogance born of ignorance.





    Their mother gave a soft chuckle, a sound as dry as autumn leaves. "She is certainly not ready." She paused, her gaze growing sharper as she looked at both her children. "But we are not here to judge the characters of children for our own amusement. We are here for a purpose. So, tell me. Forget the girl for a moment. What of the boy, Jaime? Would he make a good husband for you, Elia? Would he be a strong ally for Dorne?"





    The question hung in the air, shifting the mood from casual chat to strategic analysis.





    Elia was the first to answer, choosing her words with care. "He is intelligent," she said. "And he seems to have a good heart beneath all his father's teachings. He spoke of his brother, Tyrion, with genuine affection. He is not cruel. I believe he will be an honorable man."





    Honorable. The word tasted bland in Oberyn's mouth. Honor was a luxury rulers could seldom afford.





    "Honor does not win wars, Elia," Oberyn said. "But his intelligence… that is a different weapon. He listens. I noticed that. When we spoke, he wasn't just waiting for his turn to speak. He was truly listening, processing, analyzing. He sees the world as a board, a puzzle to be solved. That makes him dangerous. And that makes him valuable."





    "So you approve of this match?" his mother asked, her eyes fixed on him.





    Oberyn shrugged, swirling the wine in his cup again. "It is a plausible move. Uniting the wealth of the Lannisters with the strength of Dorne… it would create a bloc that would make even the Targaryens think twice. The question is not whether it is a clever move. The question is, can we trust them?"





    "We can never truly trust anyone outside of Dorne," their mother said quietly. "But we can trust their interests. Lord Tywin's interest is to see his House remain at the apex of power. And for now, our interests may align."





    "And what of the boy?" Oberyn pressed. "He speaks of loyalty as a transaction. Do you trust in such a loyalty, Mother?"





    "I trust in a loyalty I can understand," she answered. "I would rather have a loyalty born of mutual interest than one born of blind sentiment. Sentiment can change. Self-interest is far more constant." She looked at Oberyn, then at Elia. "The boy is more than a reflection of his father. There is something else there. I saw it at supper. The way he watches everyone, even when he is not speaking. He is not just a child mimicking; he is a player who has already learned the game. That makes him predictable, to a degree. And it makes him an ally we can manage. Whatever the final outcome of our visit, it will be important to remain on good terms with him."
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • Oberyn II New
  • Threadmarks
    • OBERYN​



    The morning air in the Westerlands had a sharp chill to it. Here, in the vast training yard of Casterly Rock, it felt clean and refreshing, carrying the faint scent of salt from the unseen sea and the damp smell of the castle's ancient stones. For Oberyn, it was a pleasant diversion.


    The blunted tip of his practice spear danced through the air, a threatening blur of wood. Before him, a small figure in gold and red moved with unnatural speed.


    Jaime Lannister.


    The boy dodged, his wooden sword rising in a perfect defensive stance. His skill was undeniable. The sword moved with speed and precision, not like a toy in a child's hand, but as if it were a natural extension of his arm. His movements were economical, every step with purpose, every parry calculated. Oberyn had seen grown knights with years of training who lacked this innate grace.


    This was their fifth day at Casterly Rock, and for the third time, he found himself in this yard in the morning, engaged in a strange war game with a seven-year-old. The first session had been a formality proposed by the Master-at-Arms. The second and third were at Jaime's own request, a request delivered with formal politeness but with a spark of eagerness in his eyes that Oberyn could not refuse.


    And if he was honest, he was enjoying it.


    Of course, it was no challenge. With the advantages of age, height, and years of experience, Oberyn could evade the boy's every attack as easily as breathing. He moved around Jaime, his spear a fluid barrier, occasionally jabbing quickly only to pull back before it landed, forcing the boy to react. The child might be a prodigy, but he still needed more reach, more strength, and more time. Time would grant him all of that.


    "You're too stiff in the shoulders," Oberyn said lightly, leaping back as Jaime's sword cut through the air where he had been a moment before. "You think like a Westerosi knight. Strong slashes, straight thrusts. A sword can dance. Let it dance."


    Jaime didn't answer, too focused on catching his breath. His face was flushed with exertion, but his green eyes never wavered, constantly watching, searching for an opening.


    Oberyn grinned. He decided it was time to end this game. He let Jaime advance, baiting him with a slow movement of his spear. The boy took the bait, lunging forward with a quick, direct thrust aimed at the chest.


    It was a good move. Fast and committed. Against a slower opponent, it might have worked.


    But Oberyn was not slow.


    At the last possible second, he pivoted, letting the tip of the wooden sword pass harmlessly by his side. Jaime's momentum carried him a fraction too far forward. And there was the opening.


    Oberyn struck with the butt of his spear, a short, sharp jab to the small wooden shield strapped to Jaime's arm. The boy blocked it, but his whole body shuddered slightly from the impact of the much stronger blow. It was the jolt he needed. Jaime's balance wavered for an instant.


    Then Oberyn made his move.


    He saw the wide-open gap on the boy's right side. With a deft flick of his wrist, he spun the spear, its blunted tip whipping around in a fast, inescapable arc. He aimed not with the strength to injure, but with the precision to end it.


    Thwack!


    The sound of wood hitting flesh and soft bone was sickening. The spear connected with Jaime's ribs, just below his raised arm. Oberyn could see the pain flash across the boy's cherubic face, his eyes widening in shock and his breath rushing out in a hiss. He stumbled sideways, landing hard in the dust of the practice yard, his sword falling from his grasp.


    Oberyn lowered his spear, expecting tears or perhaps an outburst of frustrated anger. He got neither.


    Jaime gasped for a few moments, curled in on himself. Then, slowly, he rolled onto his back. He stared up at the pale blue sky of the Westerlands, and then he did the last thing Oberyn expected.


    He laughed.


    It wasn't a small chuckle, but a real, unrestrained boy's laugh, echoing in the quiet yard. He threw a hand up towards the sky as if trying to catch a cloud.


    "Alright, alright," he said between his still-panting breaths. "I yield."


    Oberyn couldn't help but smile. This child was full of surprises. He walked over and offered his hand. "Up you get."


    Jaime took his hand, and Oberyn helped him to his feet. He was light, as a lean boy should be, and he swayed a little as he stood, one hand pressed to his side.


    "You have skill, Prince Oberyn," Jaime said, a tired smile on his dirty face. There was no trace of resentment in his voice, only sincere admiration and the joy of a good fight. "I have been analyzing you for a while now, but it seems my skills are not yet enough to compensate."


    Analyzing me. Oberyn almost laughed again. A seven-year-old talking about analyzing his fighting style as if it were a mathematics problem. "Take it easy," he said, clapping the boy gently on the shoulder. "Wait a while and you will be taller. You will be stronger. By then, your skills will have improved, and you will be a real threat."


    "I will ask for your advice along the way," Jaime nodded, the smile still there, bright and genuine. "May I send a raven later to ask a few things?"


    "Of course, who would forbid it?" Oberyn replied as they walked to the edge of the practice yard and sat on a cool stone bench.


    And with that last sentence, Oberyn understood.


    This wasn't just about sparring. It had never been just about sparring. The boy didn't need his advice on how to hold a sword; Casterly Rock was full of knights and masters-at-arms who could teach him that. The request to send a raven, the request for "advice"—it was an overture. A boy's way of forging a connection without appearing to be politicking.


    The child didn't just want to learn how to fight from him. He wanted to befriend him. Or, more accurately, he wanted to build a bridge between Casterly Rock and Sunspear, a personal line of communication separate from the formal negotiations between their mothers and Lord Tywin.


    And honestly, there was no harm in that at all. Quite the opposite. This was a good thing. Having a personal relationship with the future Lord of Casterly Rock… that was a very valuable asset. It was a back door into the Lannister fortress, a channel of communication that could prove very useful in the years to come.


    Oberyn grinned, this time to himself. "Send as many ravens as you like," he said. "But I warn you, my replies may take a long time to arrive. I do not like to stay in one place for too long."


    "That doesn't matter," Jaime said, his eyes shining. "It just means I'll have more to hear about the places you visit."


    "By the way," Oberyn said, his tone as light as possible, as if it were a thought that had just occurred to him. "You keep talking about your brother, Tyrion, but I have yet to meet him. I hear he is quite amusing, may I see him?"


    It was a calculated jab, delivered with a smile. He used the word "amusing," a deliberately neutral and innocent word, to see how the boy would react. He had heard the rumors, of course. Who hadn't? The Imp of Casterly Rock. The monster whose birth had killed the beautiful Lady Joanna. He wanted to see if Lannister pride would make the boy show even a flicker of shame. He expected an awkward silence, a change of subject.


    Instead, he got something far more interesting.


    Jaime's eye twitched. It was an infinitesimal movement, almost imperceptible, a brief tremor in the muscle below his left eye. A momentary crack in his armor of composure. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, swallowed by a soft laugh that sounded like the chime of a small bell.


    "Tyrion is indeed amusing," Jaime said, and there was not a trace of hesitation in his voice. There was only warmth, a genuine affection that took Oberyn slightly aback. "His cheeks are so plump they make you want to touch them constantly. His eyes, his eyes are large and beautiful, so full of mirth and life."


    Oberyn stared at the boy. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie with the same certainty that he knew the sun rose in the sky. Every whisper he had heard, every averted gaze from the servants when the youngest Lannister's name was mentioned, screamed against this beautiful description. This was not a lie to deceive. This was something else. This was a shield, a declaration. This boy was not just accepting his deformed brother; he was actively creating a beautiful counter-narrative to protect him.


    And that, Oberyn realized, was far more fascinating than any gruesome truth.


    "So, may I see him?" Oberyn pressed, his grin widening. He wanted to see how far this boy would defend his fortress. "Honestly, your description alone has made me even more curious!"


    Without a flicker of hesitation, Jaime nodded. "Of course, why not? Just be sure not to be noisy, Tyrion is usually asleep at this time."


    "My lips will be sealed," Oberyn promised, placing a hand over his heart.


    They returned their practice weapons to the racks, the dust of the yard still clinging to their clothes. Jaime led the way, stepping out of the bright sunlight and back into the dim labyrinth of stone corridors. This journey felt different from their previous tours. Before, Jaime had shown them places of power and beauty—galleries filled with treasure, balconies with breathtaking views. Now, they walked down corridors that were more private, more hushed. The guards they passed seemed to stiffen slightly as they saw their destination, their gazes flicking from Jaime to Oberyn with a tightly controlled curiosity. Clearly, the wing housing the Imp was not a place guests often visited.


    They arrived at an unremarkable wooden door, the same as any other in the corridor. Jaime stopped and turned to Oberyn, placing a finger to his lips with a comically conspiratorial expression. It was such a childish gesture that it momentarily contrasted with the maturity he had shown earlier, reminding Oberyn again just how young his host truly was.


    The door opened silently, and they stepped inside. The room was warm and quiet, lit only by the soft light from a window and a small, crackling fire in the hearth. A nurse sitting in the corner of the room looked up at them, but Jaime just gave her a brief, reassuring nod before walking towards a large crib in the center of the room.


    Oberyn followed, his heart pounding with a strange anticipation. He felt like an explorer about to discover a new land. They stood side-by-side, two young men from two ends of Westeros, looking down into the crib.


    And there he was.


    The rumors, it turned out, were not entirely wrong. They were just unimaginative.


    The baby in the crib was… disproportionate. His head was too large for his thin neck, pressing into the pillow beneath it. His forehead bulged, and his small face seemed squashed beneath its weight. His legs were short and crooked, and his arms seemed too stubby for his small body. Even in sleep, there was an undeniable aura of incongruity about him. This was not a baby anyone would describe as "beautiful." This was a baby that would make people whisper, that would make septas pray harder.


    This was the cold, undeniable truth. And it did not match Jaime's poetic description of plump cheeks and cheerful eyes in the slightest.


    Oberyn glanced at Jaime. The boy showed no sign of discomfort or shame. He was looking down at his brother with an expression that could only be described as pure affection, a soft smile playing on his lips.


    Oberyn knew this was a test. He had to say something. The wrong words here would shatter the bridge they had just built. He could have remained silent, or he could have been brutally honest.


    "He is… adorable," Oberyn said, keeping his voice neutral, letting the slight pause hang in the air.


    Jaime didn't blink. He didn't acknowledge the irony in Oberyn's words. It was as if he truly believed this baby was the most adorable creature in the world, and Oberyn's words were merely an affirmation of a clear fact.


    "I know," he said with a grin, his eyes never leaving his brother. "One day I was holding him, and he laughed so hard, it was as if I was the only person who could make him do that."


    Oberyn listened, fascinated. He could imagine it. Not the baby's laugh, but the sight of Jaime holding him, his own small face lit up with genuine joy. And seeing the look in Jaime's eyes now, Oberyn thought, perhaps it was true. Perhaps to Jaime, this baby's laugh really did sound like the sweetest music in the world.


    "Then he gripped my fingers so tightly," Jaime continued, his voice dropping to a wonder-filled whisper. "Like he didn't want me to leave. I wonder how a baby can have such strength?"


    "Perhaps he knows who protects him," Oberyn said softly, and the words came out on their own, without calculation.


    Jaime finally turned to look at him, and in those green eyes, Oberyn saw something new. He saw gratitude. He saw an acknowledgment that Oberyn understood, at least in part, what was happening here.


    "Everyone… they only see what's different about him," Jaime said, his voice barely audible. "They don't take the time to see him. To really see him."


    "Difference makes people uncomfortable," Oberyn said.


    Jaime just nodded.


    They stood in comfortable silence for a few more moments, just watching the baby's steady breathing. Oberyn realized this was the most honest moment he had experienced since arriving at Casterly Rock.


    "Your father," Oberyn asked carefully, "does he visit him often?"


    Jaime's expression tightened for a fraction of a second. "Father is very busy," he said, a diplomatic answer that said everything.


    "And your sister?"


    "Cersei… is grieving in her own way," Jaime replied, once again protecting his family even as he admitted their faults.


    It was then that Oberyn understood it completely. This boy, Jaime Lannister, was an anomaly. He was raised in the proudest, most ruthless house in Westeros, taught to value strength and perfection above all else. And yet, somehow, he had developed a capacity for unconditional love that would make a High Septon weep. He did not just tolerate his brother's weakness; he celebrated it, building a beautiful fantasy world around him to shield him from the cold reality.


    This was not a weakness. Oberyn realized that with a sudden clarity. In a world full of men like Tywin Lannister, who would sacrifice anything for legacy, this kind of blind, protective loyalty was not a weakness. It was a different kind of strength entirely. It was a strength that could not be bought with gold or won with a sword. It was a strength that could make a man do unexpected things, noble things, and terrible things, all in the name of love.


    Oberyn had come to this room expecting to see a monster. Instead, he had found a knight. Not a knight in shining armor, but a true knight, protecting the weak from the strong, even when the strong were his own family.


    They left the room as quietly as they had entered, leaving Tyrion to his peaceful sleep. As they walked back down the corridor, back into the world of politics and posturing, Oberyn saw his companion in a completely new light.


    He was no longer just a clever heir or a suitable match for Elia. He was an unknown factor. A wild card. A boy with a dangerously loyal heart. And in the great game they were all playing, a card like that was the most valuable of all.


    And perhaps, the most fragile.


    …


    Two days later, Oberyn and his retinue returned to Sunspear; there would be no betrothal, and they returned home in peace.
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • Gerion I New
  • Threadmarks
    • GERION​

    Casterly Rock, 275 AC​

    Gerion Lannister had always believed that a castle needed laughter. Without it, it was just a cold pile of stones, no matter how much gold lined its walls. He did his part to fill the halls of Casterly Rock with cheer, walking through them with a smile on his face that was like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. He winked at a young serving girl, who blushed and nearly dropped a basket of laundry, and exchanged a rough jest with a guard, whose hoarse laughter echoed for a moment in the high corridor.

    He stopped before a set of well-carved oak doors and, without knocking, entered. The room was his sister Genna's private solar, a comfortable sitting room filled with plush furniture and embroidered cushions. And there she was, sitting by a window overlooking the Sunset Sea, her head bent over an embroidery frame, her needle moving with a steady pace.

    "Embroidering again? Is that all you do these days?" Gerion grinned, his voice filling the previously quiet room.

    "Better than wandering about and charming ladies with foolish jokes," Genna retorted without looking up, her voice as sharp as her needle, but lacking any real venom. It was the tone an older sister used with her incorrigible younger brother.

    Gerion grunted, his expression mock-offended. "Hey! As a man, it is a duty. We can't let the ladies grow dull from a lack of attention, or I'll lose my charm."

    "Funny joke, your charm is just a gold coin," Genna replied, finally setting down her work and looking at him. Her eyes, like all the Lannisters', were intelligent and sharp, with the slight weariness of an older sister who had heard all her brother's jests before.

    "That's one of our family's advantages," Gerion said with a laugh, collapsing onto the settee opposite his sister's. It was soft and comfortable. "And my charm is more than just gold, I'll have you know. There's also my hair."

    Genna snorted, a sound remarkably similar to Tywin's. Gerion continued. "Where is Cleos? He said he wanted to see the ships in the harbor this afternoon." Cleos Frey, Genna's eldest son, was an awkward lad of eight namedays, who had his mother's eyes but his father's weasel-like nose.

    "He has probably gone without you," Genna said. "He has been a bit restless lately. Though he doesn't show it much."

    "Hah," Gerion sank deeper into the sofa, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Speaking of ships, I sometimes dream of an adventure across the continent. Where we would find many people with various personalities, foods of all kinds, and of course, stunning lands. Have you ever thought of that, sister?"

    Genna looked at him, her expression softening for a moment. "Those thoughts are tempting, Gerion. When I was a girl, I dreamed of sailing to Braavos. But since I've had two children, all I want now is to make sure they don't die from choking on a chicken bone." Her body, which had begun to plump with motherhood, shifted on the sofa to get comfortable again.

    "Pffftt, they're stronger than you think," Gerion countered. But he understood. Genna had always been the more practical one, even when they were children. She had her purpose. Outwardly she was a mother and the wife of an unimportant Frey, but here, at Casterly Rock, she was a sharp advisor and a keen observer. She had her place.

    Gerion, on the other hand, often felt like a ship without a rudder. Tywin ruled the Seven Kingdoms at the King's side, drowning in tasks that were surely boring. Kevan was his loyal shadow, managing the Westerlands with humorless efficiency. Even Tygett, with all his moodiness, was a respected warrior. And Gerion? He was the last son, the fun uncle. It wasn't a bad legacy, but sometimes it felt… empty. To be honest, he was a little envious of Tywin's purpose, even if it meant spending his days arguing about grain taxes.

    His thoughts turned to the greatest source of his amusement and confusion lately: his nephew, Jaime.

    "You know who has a purpose these days?" Gerion said, leaning forward. "Jaime."

    Genna raised an eyebrow. "The boy has always had a purpose. He will be the Lord of Casterly Rock."

    "No, it's more than that," Gerion said. "I know about all his lessons with Maester Creylen and his training with Ser Benedict. But there's something else. Something strange. Lately, he's been spending most of his time with the blacksmiths and the carpenters."

    This caught Genna's attention. She set down her embroidery frame completely. "The blacksmiths? I thought he already had the finest practice sword money could buy."

    "Oh, he still has them forging swords," Gerion said. "But also other odd things. I visited him in the workshop yesterday. He's having them make little metal blocks, dozens, even hundreds of them. Each one the size of my thumb, and on the end is a single carved letter."

    Genna frowned. "Letters? What for? Printing?"

    "That's what I asked him!" Gerion exclaimed. "And he just smiled, that little secret smile of his, and said, 'It's still a process, Uncle. I don't know if it will work or not.'"

    Gerion shook his head in amusement. "And that's not all. He's also having the carpenters build… a thing. A huge wooden frame, as tall as a man, with this and that in strange places. And on top of it is a giant piece of wood, thicker than my arm. He's also having them make shallow wooden trays and some sort of rectangular frame that can be opened and closed."

    "It sounds like expensive nonsense," Genna said, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

    "Perhaps," Gerion agreed. "But the way he directs it… he's not like a boy playing. He speaks to the head blacksmith and the master carpenter as if he were their Lord, giving precise instructions, checking their work, making them redo it if it's not to his liking. A nine-year-old boy, Genna! Telling a man who has worked with wood for forty years how to cut a dovetail joint."

    "And they listen to him?"

    "Of course they listen to him," Gerion said. "He's Jaime Lannister. And he pays them well from his own pocket money, I hear."

    "That is Tywin's son, no doubt," Genna murmured.

    "Then there was his other request," Gerion added, almost forgetting. "Two weeks ago, he came to me and asked if I could help him get some cloth. Not silk or velvet. Linen cloth. A great deal of it. 'The best quality, Uncle,' he said, 'but it doesn't need to be dyed.' As if that were the most common thing in the world for a boy to ask for."

    "Linen?" Now Genna was truly confused. "For sails? Shirts?"

    "Perhaps!" Gerion threw up his hands in cheerful surrender. "I got it for him, of course. What uncle wouldn't spoil his favorite nephew? But I have no idea what it's all for. Metal blocks, a giant wooden frame, piles of linen cloth… Either he's building the strangest siege weapon in history, or he's completely mad."

    They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the mystery of their nephew. Gerion was amused. Since Joanna's death, the boy had changed, becoming more serious and mature beyond his years. But this was something new. This was a strange, detailed obsession that seemed to have no clear purpose.

    "Perhaps we should be more concerned about him," Genna said quietly, a protective older sister's tone in her voice.

    "Concerned?" Gerion laughed. "Genna, the boy is happier than I've ever seen him. His eyes sparkle when he talks about his 'project.' Let him be. It's better than him moping in his room. Whatever he's building, it's given him a fire. And frankly, I can't wait to see what it is."

    He rose from the sofa, stretching like a contented cat. "Alright, I'm off to find Cleos here and there. And if he has indeed gone to the port, perhaps I can find some entertainment in one of the better taverns."

    …

    Eight-year-old Cleos Frey proved to be as slippery as a buttered eel. Gerion had checked all the usual haunts: the stables, where the boy loved to stare at the great warhorses with quiet admiration; above the training yard, where he would sometimes watch his cousin Jaime move like a golden flame; and even the kitchens, in the hopes that the scent of pork pie might have lured him in. But the boy was nowhere to be found.

    Gerion wasn't overly concerned. Within Casterly Rock, a boy was safer than a dragon in its lair. Most likely, Cleos had found a quiet corner to daydream, or perhaps he had indeed snuck down to the port without his uncle. The boy was quiet, but there was a restless spirit in him.

    The fruitless search had led him out of the castle gates and down the grand, winding road to Lannisport. Here, the air changed. The majestic coolness of the Rock was replaced by a humid warmth and the bustling pulse of life. The air was filled with a hundred different scents: the sharp tang of fishnets drying in the sun, the sweet aroma of exotic fruits being unloaded from Tyroshi ships, and beneath it all, the unavoidable smell of thousands of humans and animals living in close quarters.

    This was Gerion's element. While Tywin looked down on the city from above as an asset and Kevan saw it as a responsibility to be managed, Gerion saw it as a stage. A stage filled with characters, comedies, and small tragedies. He loved it.

    He didn't find Cleos at the main docks, so he let his feet carry him to the place he always ended up when he was seeking either entertainment or escape. A tavern.

    It wasn't the most lavish tavern in Lannisport. Far from it. It was a crowded, smoky, and perpetually loud establishment tucked into a wind-sheltered alley near the fish market. Its clientele were not wealthy merchant captains or knights off duty. They were dockworkers with thick arms, sailors with weather-beaten faces from a dozen different lands, and small-time merchants who had been haggling all day. It was a real place, with dirt under its fingernails and truth at the bottom of its cups.

    The moment he pushed open the heavy wooden door, a wave of noise and warmth hit him. Loud laughter, a fierce argument in a language he didn't recognize, and the off-key singing of a song about a girl from the Summer Isles, all blended into a single, deafening hubbub. The smell of sweat, spilled ale, and smoked fish was so thick you could almost chew on it. It was the smell of life without pretense.

    Gerion grinned, feeling right at home. He made his way through the crowd, clapping a man he knew on the back and ignoring a glare from a sailor. He reached the wet, scarred wooden counter.

    Behind it stood Robb, the tavern keeper. He was a man who looked as though he were built from the barrels he served: round, sturdy, and with a thick mustache that could hide a mouse.

    "Give me the usual," Gerion said over the din.

    Robb's small eyes lit up when he saw him. "Coming right up, My Lord!" the man replied, his rough, loud voice cutting through the noise. He took a pewter tankard from a hook, blew into it to clear out some imaginary dust, and filled it to the brim from a cask.

    The drink was placed before him with a satisfying thud. Gerion tossed a few copper coins onto the counter, more than enough to pay, and took a deep swallow. The ale was cold, bitter, and perfect.

    He leaned his elbows on the counter, surveying the crowd. In a far corner, a particularly animated group of men were gathered around a table, their voices louder than the rest. They were gesturing wildly, slamming their cups on the table, and arguing with a passion usually reserved for brawls or politics.

    "What's with them?" Gerion asked, nodding toward the group. "Isn't this tavern loud enough without their addition?"

    Robb followed his gaze, picking up a wooden mug and starting to wipe it with a dubious-looking cloth. "Ah, them," he said with a snort. "They're discussing a ship, My Lord. Serwyn, that perfume merchant, plans to build one. This time he's not making a trading ship, but one to cross the continent. He wants to experience 'adventure,' he says."

    Gerion raised an eyebrow. Serwyn. He knew the man, at least by reputation. A man who had built a small fortune from importing strange scents from across the sea. A man who owned one of the fanciest houses in Lannisport. A man whose hands were soft and whose clothes always smelled of flowers.

    "Is he tired of being rich?" Gerion took a sip of his drink, amusement dancing inside him.

    Robb laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh from his belly. "Seems so, that's what people think. After years of smelling like women, he seems to have decided to go back to being a tough man. That is, to have the smell of an adventurer. Haha!"

    Gerion laughed along. The image of the soft Serwyn, with his neatly trimmed beard, trying to be a rugged adventurer was indeed ridiculous. He'd probably faint if a sail ripped or if he had to eat hardtack for a week. "What about his wife? Will she be joining him? I doubt Lady Serwyn would be pleased to trade her silk sheets for a hammock."

    Robb's laughter faded. He set down the mug he was polishing and looked at Gerion, his expression growing more serious. "As far as I know, his wife passed a few years ago, My Lord. A fever, I heard. Now he's only close with his children, and they're grown and have their own businesses. The perfume shop is run by his eldest son now." Robb shrugged. "Perhaps that's why he decided on it. He's lonely, and wants to see the world."

    Those words hit Gerion with unexpected force.

    Lonely and wants to see the world.

    Suddenly, the noise of the tavern seemed to fade. The laughter, the arguments, the singing, it all receded to a distant, meaningless hum. All he could hear was the echo of Robb's last sentence in his head.

    He stared into his tankard, seeing his distorted reflection in the dark surface of the ale. The face of a smiling man, a man always ready with a joke. But behind the smile, in the eyes of that reflection, he saw something else. Something he recognized in Robb's words.

    Loneliness.

    It was a strange word to apply to himself. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. He was surrounded by family, servants, knights. He was never truly alone. And yet… he often felt alone. Alone in the middle of a crowd. He was the younger brother, the cheerful uncle. His role was defined for him. He was the entertainment, a pleasant diversion from the seriousness of Tywin and Kevan. But no one truly depended on him. No one truly needed him. Genna had her children. Tywin had his kingdom. Kevan had Tywin. And Gerion? He had his jokes.

    And the desire to see the world… by the Seven, how he felt it. It was a constant hunger inside him, a yearning for something more than the familiar golden corridors of Casterly Rock. He had spoken of it to Genna, but he had said it lightly, as if it were a boy's dream. But it wasn't. It was a real, aching desire. A desire to see the Titan of Braavos with his own eyes, to hear the songs of the red priests in Volantis, to feel the heat of the Dornish sun on his skin. A desire to be more than just Gerion Lannister, the younger brother. A desire to be Gerion, the adventurer.

    And now, here, in this smelly tavern, he was hearing that a lowly perfume merchant was about to do the very thing he only dreamed of.

    Serwyn was no longer ridiculous. Suddenly, he was an object of envy. A man who, after fulfilling all his duties, building his business, raising his children, had finally decided to do something for himself. He was not trapped by a name or a legacy. He was just a lonely man who wanted to see what was beyond the horizon. And he was going to build a ship and do it. It was that simple.

    Gerion drained the rest of his ale in one long gulp, the bitter taste unable to mask the sudden bitterness in his own heart. He set the tankard back on the counter with a soft thud.

    A profound silence had filled his head, a vacuum where only his own thoughts swirled. What was holding him back? Gold? Status? The Lannister name? All the things that were supposed to be his strength suddenly felt like the bars of the most beautiful cage in the world. He was a well-fed lion, with a gleaming coat and a full belly, but he was still in a cage, while a humble perfume merchant was building his own wings.

    He felt Robb's gaze on him, the curious look of a tavern keeper who had seen a thousand stories begin and end over his counter. But Gerion couldn't find any words to say. His jests and his smiles had abandoned him, lost somewhere out on a sea he had never seen.

    He just stared into his empty tankard, as if he could find the answer at the bottom. But all he saw was the reflection of a man who suddenly felt very, very small.
    AN: I changed the storyline a bit. For some reason Gerion had never been to the free cities. Thank you for reading! You can read 3 chapters early on Patreon!
     
  • New
  • Threadmarks
    • Reader mode
    You must log in or register to reply here.

    Users who are viewing this thread

    Total: 1 (members: 0, guests: 1)
    Back
    Top