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.
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.
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.
JAIME
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.
Edit: If you want to give advice for this story, feel free to DM me
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.
AN: It's been a while since I read the books, I've had to look at a lot of wikis, lol. I hope this isn't going off the rails.
I already had an idea for this story in my head, but because of your discussions I have even more, haha. Award Quote ReplyReport292Daario30/8/2025Reader modeNewAdd bookmark Threadmarks SamarkandSubscriber30/8/2025NewAdd bookmark#108Given what we know is out there in the shadows of this world? Even an atheist is going to be finding their faith. And to everyone who says The Seven In One don't exist? That's in their favor. It means I'm not venerating some eldritch horror where the price of worship may be far, far too high.
My own take on the Seven is the prism analogy: just as one of those creates a rainbow, the divine light of the One shines through the human soul, with each of its seven faces representing certain universal aspects of humanity. By living in accordance with each of the Seven, one is bringing the divinity of the One into the material world.
Creating a literate population is also a prerequisite for the introduction of a printing press. Which Lannisport in particular is primed to create. Gutenberg was a goldsmith whose knowledge of metallurgy helped him create durable lead printing blocks, after all. And Westeros canonically has cotton, which can be used for expensive but more producible rag paper. Award Quote ReplyReport37kilerog30/8/2025NewAdd bookmark#109Samarkand said:Given what we know is out there in the shadows of this world? Even an atheist is going to be finding their faith. And to everyone who says The Seven In One don't exist? That's in their favor. It means I'm not venerating some eldritch horror where the price of worship may be far, far too high.
My own take on the Seven is the prism analogy: just as one of those creates a rainbow, the divine light of the One shines through the human soul, with each of its seven faces representing certain universal aspects of humanity. By living in accordance with each of the Seven, one is bringing the divinity of the One into the material world.
Creating a literate population is also a prerequisite for the introduction of a printing press. Which Lannisport in particular is primed to create. Gutenberg was a goldsmith whose knowledge of metallurgy helped him create durable lead printing blocks, after all. And Westeros canonically has cotton, which can be used for expensive but more producible rag paper.Click to expand...Way I look at it, any true version of God is not going to be stopped by little things like different universes. Either the Seven are the local version of The One God, and my prayers will reach them regardless of how "real" the locals find them. Or, if the Seven really don't exist, then the prayers will reach God in the classic way. Either way, if you assume power in prayer, it should be no less diminished. Award Quote ReplyReport16SamarkandSubscriber30/8/2025NewAdd bookmark#110kilerog said:Either way, if you assume power in prayer, it should be no less diminished.
You're also not burning people in the name of God.
...this time around. Award Quote ReplyReport9connoisseuroffiction30/8/2025NewAdd bookmark#111Daario said:"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."Click to expand...This is why there are so many statues and art during the medieval and renaissance era. They are a visual medium of the stories of the Bible.
No mentions of the Crone in the chapter? It's the most appropriate aspect of the Seven.Last edited: 30/8/2025 Award Quote ReplyReport12Prostagma30/8/2025NewAdd bookmark#112Samarkand said:You're also not burning people in the name of God.
...this time around.
R'hllor has the monopoly on that one in this world. Fire = foreign god, people probably won't be burnt at the stake because of this.
Edit: or be Targaryen and get that special dispensation to do all the crazy shitLast edited: 30/8/2025 Award Quote ReplyReport4HectonkhyresWhy is there all this WORLD here?30/8/2025NewAdd bookmark#113Samarkand said:Given what we know is out there in the shadows of this world? Even an atheist is going to be finding their faith. And to everyone who says The Seven In One don't exist? That's in their favor. It means I'm not venerating some eldritch horror where the price of worship may be far, far too high.
My own take on the Seven is the prism analogy: just as one of those creates a rainbow, the divine light of the One shines through the human soul, with each of its seven faces representing certain universal aspects of humanity. By living in accordance with each of the Seven, one is bringing the divinity of the One into the material world.
Creating a literate population is also a prerequisite for the introduction of a printing press. Which Lannisport in particular is primed to create. Gutenberg was a goldsmith whose knowledge of metallurgy helped him create durable lead printing blocks, after all. And Westeros canonically has cotton, which can be used for expensive but more producible rag paper.Click to expand...In theory anything, or damn near it, can be used to produce paper. It will be shitty paper but, as long as it is a fibrous plant material you can soften with water and then jam in a press, it can be used as the base for something at least paper-adjacent. Chaff and shredded corn husks, sawdust, doesn't matter. It might not be durable enough, it might not be smooth, it might not bend very well unless you have the right materials... but it will exist.
I'm one of those guys who sees the gods as old mechanisms, their purposes obfuscated by the millennia, manufactured as tools of the Great Empire of the Dawn. Each an engine for directing one aspect of their slave population's existence. The same gods are probably known by other names in other nations with many of the Essosi gods we see being rebranded and worshipped singly. Even the fourteen deities of Valyria... fourteen being a conspicuous doubling of seven.
I have no real evidence there but it won't leave me regardless.
Samarkand said:You're also not burning people in the name of God.
...this time around.I'm remembering crazed fanatics with seven pointed stars carved into their flesh burning Weirwoods alongside their enemies while chanting strange rites.
I wonder how much relation the Seven has with the Church of Starry Wisdom, though that one is a reference to actual Nyarlathotep worship. There are so many motifs carried worldwide and so many references to other media.