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."
AN: I AM ALIVE! To confirm a few things, the uplift here won't be going the route of gunpowder, steam engines, or anything like that. It'll be something as simple as a printing press, etc.
As always, thanks for reading, and I have a Patreon! You can read two chapters early there. I'll be uploading them on this site every Friday.
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.
AN: 'Jaime' who has just arrived in this world doesn't seem to be able to change Tywin's mind. Thank you for reading! You can read 3 chapters early on Patreon!