GERION
Casterly Rock, 275 AC
Gerion Lannister had always believed that a castle needed laughter. Without it, it was just a cold pile of stones, no matter how much gold lined its walls. He did his part to fill the halls of Casterly Rock with cheer, walking through them with a smile on his face that was like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. He winked at a young serving girl, who blushed and nearly dropped a basket of laundry, and exchanged a rough jest with a guard, whose hoarse laughter echoed for a moment in the high corridor.
He stopped before a set of well-carved oak doors and, without knocking, entered. The room was his sister Genna's private solar, a comfortable sitting room filled with plush furniture and embroidered cushions. And there she was, sitting by a window overlooking the Sunset Sea, her head bent over an embroidery frame, her needle moving with a steady pace.
"Embroidering again? Is that all you do these days?" Gerion grinned, his voice filling the previously quiet room.
"Better than wandering about and charming ladies with foolish jokes," Genna retorted without looking up, her voice as sharp as her needle, but lacking any real venom. It was the tone an older sister used with her incorrigible younger brother.
Gerion grunted, his expression mock-offended. "Hey! As a man, it is a duty. We can't let the ladies grow dull from a lack of attention, or I'll lose my charm."
"Funny joke, your charm is just a gold coin," Genna replied, finally setting down her work and looking at him. Her eyes, like all the Lannisters', were intelligent and sharp, with the slight weariness of an older sister who had heard all her brother's jests before.
"That's one of our family's advantages," Gerion said with a laugh, collapsing onto the settee opposite his sister's. It was soft and comfortable. "And my charm is more than just gold, I'll have you know. There's also my hair."
Genna snorted, a sound remarkably similar to Tywin's. Gerion continued. "Where is Cleos? He said he wanted to see the ships in the harbor this afternoon." Cleos Frey, Genna's eldest son, was an awkward lad of eight namedays, who had his mother's eyes but his father's weasel-like nose.
"He has probably gone without you," Genna said. "He has been a bit restless lately. Though he doesn't show it much."
"Hah," Gerion sank deeper into the sofa, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Speaking of ships, I sometimes dream of an adventure across the continent. Where we would find many people with various personalities, foods of all kinds, and of course, stunning lands. Have you ever thought of that, sister?"
Genna looked at him, her expression softening for a moment. "Those thoughts are tempting, Gerion. When I was a girl, I dreamed of sailing to Braavos. But since I've had two children, all I want now is to make sure they don't die from choking on a chicken bone." Her body, which had begun to plump with motherhood, shifted on the sofa to get comfortable again.
"Pffftt, they're stronger than you think," Gerion countered. But he understood. Genna had always been the more practical one, even when they were children. She had her purpose. Outwardly she was a mother and the wife of an unimportant Frey, but here, at Casterly Rock, she was a sharp advisor and a keen observer. She had her place.
Gerion, on the other hand, often felt like a ship without a rudder. Tywin ruled the Seven Kingdoms at the King's side, drowning in tasks that were surely boring. Kevan was his loyal shadow, managing the Westerlands with humorless efficiency. Even Tygett, with all his moodiness, was a respected warrior. And Gerion? He was the last son, the fun uncle. It wasn't a bad legacy, but sometimes it felt… empty. To be honest, he was a little envious of Tywin's purpose, even if it meant spending his days arguing about grain taxes.
His thoughts turned to the greatest source of his amusement and confusion lately: his nephew, Jaime.
"You know who has a purpose these days?" Gerion said, leaning forward. "Jaime."
Genna raised an eyebrow. "The boy has always had a purpose. He will be the Lord of Casterly Rock."
"No, it's more than that," Gerion said. "I know about all his lessons with Maester Creylen and his training with Ser Benedict. But there's something else. Something strange. Lately, he's been spending most of his time with the blacksmiths and the carpenters."
This caught Genna's attention. She set down her embroidery frame completely. "The blacksmiths? I thought he already had the finest practice sword money could buy."
"Oh, he still has them forging swords," Gerion said. "But also other odd things. I visited him in the workshop yesterday. He's having them make little metal blocks, dozens, even hundreds of them. Each one the size of my thumb, and on the end is a single carved letter."
Genna frowned. "Letters? What for? Printing?"
"That's what I asked him!" Gerion exclaimed. "And he just smiled, that little secret smile of his, and said, 'It's still a process, Uncle. I don't know if it will work or not.'"
Gerion shook his head in amusement. "And that's not all. He's also having the carpenters build… a thing. A huge wooden frame, as tall as a man, with this and that in strange places. And on top of it is a giant piece of wood, thicker than my arm. He's also having them make shallow wooden trays and some sort of rectangular frame that can be opened and closed."
"It sounds like expensive nonsense," Genna said, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.
"Perhaps," Gerion agreed. "But the way he directs it… he's not like a boy playing. He speaks to the head blacksmith and the master carpenter as if he were their Lord, giving precise instructions, checking their work, making them redo it if it's not to his liking. A nine-year-old boy, Genna! Telling a man who has worked with wood for forty years how to cut a dovetail joint."
"And they listen to him?"
"Of course they listen to him," Gerion said. "He's Jaime Lannister. And he pays them well from his own pocket money, I hear."
"That is Tywin's son, no doubt," Genna murmured.
"Then there was his other request," Gerion added, almost forgetting. "Two weeks ago, he came to me and asked if I could help him get some cloth. Not silk or velvet. Linen cloth. A great deal of it. 'The best quality, Uncle,' he said, 'but it doesn't need to be dyed.' As if that were the most common thing in the world for a boy to ask for."
"Linen?" Now Genna was truly confused. "For sails? Shirts?"
"Perhaps!" Gerion threw up his hands in cheerful surrender. "I got it for him, of course. What uncle wouldn't spoil his favorite nephew? But I have no idea what it's all for. Metal blocks, a giant wooden frame, piles of linen cloth… Either he's building the strangest siege weapon in history, or he's completely mad."
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the mystery of their nephew. Gerion was amused. Since Joanna's death, the boy had changed, becoming more serious and mature beyond his years. But this was something new. This was a strange, detailed obsession that seemed to have no clear purpose.
"Perhaps we should be more concerned about him," Genna said quietly, a protective older sister's tone in her voice.
"Concerned?" Gerion laughed. "Genna, the boy is happier than I've ever seen him. His eyes sparkle when he talks about his 'project.' Let him be. It's better than him moping in his room. Whatever he's building, it's given him a fire. And frankly, I can't wait to see what it is."
He rose from the sofa, stretching like a contented cat. "Alright, I'm off to find Cleos here and there. And if he has indeed gone to the port, perhaps I can find some entertainment in one of the better taverns."
…
Eight-year-old Cleos Frey proved to be as slippery as a buttered eel. Gerion had checked all the usual haunts: the stables, where the boy loved to stare at the great warhorses with quiet admiration; above the training yard, where he would sometimes watch his cousin Jaime move like a golden flame; and even the kitchens, in the hopes that the scent of pork pie might have lured him in. But the boy was nowhere to be found.
Gerion wasn't overly concerned. Within Casterly Rock, a boy was safer than a dragon in its lair. Most likely, Cleos had found a quiet corner to daydream, or perhaps he had indeed snuck down to the port without his uncle. The boy was quiet, but there was a restless spirit in him.
The fruitless search had led him out of the castle gates and down the grand, winding road to Lannisport. Here, the air changed. The majestic coolness of the Rock was replaced by a humid warmth and the bustling pulse of life. The air was filled with a hundred different scents: the sharp tang of fishnets drying in the sun, the sweet aroma of exotic fruits being unloaded from Tyroshi ships, and beneath it all, the unavoidable smell of thousands of humans and animals living in close quarters.
This was Gerion's element. While Tywin looked down on the city from above as an asset and Kevan saw it as a responsibility to be managed, Gerion saw it as a stage. A stage filled with characters, comedies, and small tragedies. He loved it.
He didn't find Cleos at the main docks, so he let his feet carry him to the place he always ended up when he was seeking either entertainment or escape. A tavern.
It wasn't the most lavish tavern in Lannisport. Far from it. It was a crowded, smoky, and perpetually loud establishment tucked into a wind-sheltered alley near the fish market. Its clientele were not wealthy merchant captains or knights off duty. They were dockworkers with thick arms, sailors with weather-beaten faces from a dozen different lands, and small-time merchants who had been haggling all day. It was a real place, with dirt under its fingernails and truth at the bottom of its cups.
The moment he pushed open the heavy wooden door, a wave of noise and warmth hit him. Loud laughter, a fierce argument in a language he didn't recognize, and the off-key singing of a song about a girl from the Summer Isles, all blended into a single, deafening hubbub. The smell of sweat, spilled ale, and smoked fish was so thick you could almost chew on it. It was the smell of life without pretense.
Gerion grinned, feeling right at home. He made his way through the crowd, clapping a man he knew on the back and ignoring a glare from a sailor. He reached the wet, scarred wooden counter.
Behind it stood Robb, the tavern keeper. He was a man who looked as though he were built from the barrels he served: round, sturdy, and with a thick mustache that could hide a mouse.
"Give me the usual," Gerion said over the din.
Robb's small eyes lit up when he saw him. "Coming right up, My Lord!" the man replied, his rough, loud voice cutting through the noise. He took a pewter tankard from a hook, blew into it to clear out some imaginary dust, and filled it to the brim from a cask.
The drink was placed before him with a satisfying thud. Gerion tossed a few copper coins onto the counter, more than enough to pay, and took a deep swallow. The ale was cold, bitter, and perfect.
He leaned his elbows on the counter, surveying the crowd. In a far corner, a particularly animated group of men were gathered around a table, their voices louder than the rest. They were gesturing wildly, slamming their cups on the table, and arguing with a passion usually reserved for brawls or politics.
"What's with them?" Gerion asked, nodding toward the group. "Isn't this tavern loud enough without their addition?"
Robb followed his gaze, picking up a wooden mug and starting to wipe it with a dubious-looking cloth. "Ah, them," he said with a snort. "They're discussing a ship, My Lord. Serwyn, that perfume merchant, plans to build one. This time he's not making a trading ship, but one to cross the continent. He wants to experience 'adventure,' he says."
Gerion raised an eyebrow. Serwyn. He knew the man, at least by reputation. A man who had built a small fortune from importing strange scents from across the sea. A man who owned one of the fanciest houses in Lannisport. A man whose hands were soft and whose clothes always smelled of flowers.
"Is he tired of being rich?" Gerion took a sip of his drink, amusement dancing inside him.
Robb laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh from his belly. "Seems so, that's what people think. After years of smelling like women, he seems to have decided to go back to being a tough man. That is, to have the smell of an adventurer. Haha!"
Gerion laughed along. The image of the soft Serwyn, with his neatly trimmed beard, trying to be a rugged adventurer was indeed ridiculous. He'd probably faint if a sail ripped or if he had to eat hardtack for a week. "What about his wife? Will she be joining him? I doubt Lady Serwyn would be pleased to trade her silk sheets for a hammock."
Robb's laughter faded. He set down the mug he was polishing and looked at Gerion, his expression growing more serious. "As far as I know, his wife passed a few years ago, My Lord. A fever, I heard. Now he's only close with his children, and they're grown and have their own businesses. The perfume shop is run by his eldest son now." Robb shrugged. "Perhaps that's why he decided on it. He's lonely, and wants to see the world."
Those words hit Gerion with unexpected force.
Lonely and wants to see the world.
Suddenly, the noise of the tavern seemed to fade. The laughter, the arguments, the singing, it all receded to a distant, meaningless hum. All he could hear was the echo of Robb's last sentence in his head.
He stared into his tankard, seeing his distorted reflection in the dark surface of the ale. The face of a smiling man, a man always ready with a joke. But behind the smile, in the eyes of that reflection, he saw something else. Something he recognized in Robb's words.
Loneliness.
It was a strange word to apply to himself. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. He was surrounded by family, servants, knights. He was never truly alone. And yet… he often felt alone. Alone in the middle of a crowd. He was the younger brother, the cheerful uncle. His role was defined for him. He was the entertainment, a pleasant diversion from the seriousness of Tywin and Kevan. But no one truly depended on him. No one truly needed him. Genna had her children. Tywin had his kingdom. Kevan had Tywin. And Gerion? He had his jokes.
And the desire to see the world… by the Seven, how he felt it. It was a constant hunger inside him, a yearning for something more than the familiar golden corridors of Casterly Rock. He had spoken of it to Genna, but he had said it lightly, as if it were a boy's dream. But it wasn't. It was a real, aching desire. A desire to see the Titan of Braavos with his own eyes, to hear the songs of the red priests in Volantis, to feel the heat of the Dornish sun on his skin. A desire to be more than just Gerion Lannister, the younger brother. A desire to be Gerion, the adventurer.
And now, here, in this smelly tavern, he was hearing that a lowly perfume merchant was about to do the very thing he only dreamed of.
Serwyn was no longer ridiculous. Suddenly, he was an object of envy. A man who, after fulfilling all his duties, building his business, raising his children, had finally decided to do something for himself. He was not trapped by a name or a legacy. He was just a lonely man who wanted to see what was beyond the horizon. And he was going to build a ship and do it. It was that simple.
Gerion drained the rest of his ale in one long gulp, the bitter taste unable to mask the sudden bitterness in his own heart. He set the tankard back on the counter with a soft thud.
A profound silence had filled his head, a vacuum where only his own thoughts swirled. What was holding him back? Gold? Status? The Lannister name? All the things that were supposed to be his strength suddenly felt like the bars of the most beautiful cage in the world. He was a well-fed lion, with a gleaming coat and a full belly, but he was still in a cage, while a humble perfume merchant was building his own wings.
He felt Robb's gaze on him, the curious look of a tavern keeper who had seen a thousand stories begin and end over his counter. But Gerion couldn't find any words to say. His jests and his smiles had abandoned him, lost somewhere out on a sea he had never seen.
He just stared into his empty tankard, as if he could find the answer at the bottom. But all he saw was the reflection of a man who suddenly felt very, very small.
AN: I changed the storyline a bit. For some reason Gerion had never been to the free cities. Thank you for reading! You can read 3 chapters early on Patreon!
JON
A knight's duty, according to the teachings of Ser Warren Cole, was to protect. Protect your Lord, protect your lands, protect the weak and the innocent. Jon had held fast to those teachings. He had trained until his muscles felt like they would tear, he had taken blows that would have knocked a smaller man unconscious, and he had spilled blood, both his own and his opponent's, in the dust of the tourney grounds. He was a knight. The sword and shield were his tools, courage and loyalty were his core.
Right now, his tools were a clumsy pair of iron shears, and his enemy was a seemingly endless pile of white linen cloth.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The sound was the only music in the carpenter's workshop that had been commandeered as his young Lord's private space. The workshop itself was strange enough. In one corner stood a giant wooden frame that looked like a mad wine press. On the workbenches normally used for planing boards, there now sat shallow wooden trays and hundreds of little metal blocks, each with a letter on top. And everywhere, on every available surface, were piles of cloth.
And his duty? His duty, as the sworn protector of the heir to Casterly Rock, was to sit on a hard stool and cut these piles of cloth into pieces the size of his thumb.
It was tedious. It was boring. It was women's work, or perhaps the work of a servant being punished. It made him want to roll his eyes so hard he could see his own brain.
But the money the boy paid... the money was very tempting. A shining Gold Dragon slipped into his hand "for your troubles, good Jon," as if it were just a few copper pennies. It was more than he earned in a full month as a guard. So, he sat there and he cut. Besides, he couldn't exactly refuse a Lannister.
"Keep your head up high and proud, Jon."
Lord Jaime's cheerful voice broke his reverie. The boy was sitting across the room, near his own bucket of cloth scraps, grinning at him.
"I can still see your frown from here," the boy continued, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "A frown that seems to say, 'I hate this nonsense and I wish I were buried alive.'"
Jon coughed, cleared his throat, and quickly straightened his aching back. He tried to arrange his face into an expression he thought looked diligent and focused. "Oh, no-no, Lord Jaime. I love doing this. It makes me concentrate so hard all day that I think I'll be able to spot an enemy's weaknesses at a single glance!"
It was the most foolish excuse he had ever made, and he knew it.
"Good," Jaime said, his grin widening, "because we're going to be doing this for a very, very long time."
Jon's heart sank into his boots. Damn it!
"Do you not have plans in the library again, Lord Jaime?" he tried, a desperate attempt to gain a reprieve. It was late afternoon, the time when the boy would usually be closeted with Maester Creylen, or sitting alone in a corner, writing rapidly on sheets of parchment. Jon had seen the results: neat stacks of pages, filled with clear handwriting, which the boy then bound himself into thin books using a needle and thread.
Jon didn't understand his young master's strange obsession with books and ink. It wasn't natural. A boy his age should want to be outside, hunting or riding, not getting his fingers stained with ink. Once, a few weeks ago, Jaime had given him a complex set of instructions to relay to the master carpenter, something about the angle on one of the wooden trays. Jon, his mind filled with horses and swords, had of course gotten one of the details wrong.
When he returned and reported the job was done, the boy had just looked at him, sighed a long, sad sigh, and said, more to himself than to Jon, "As my guard, you should have taken notes."
Taken notes! As if Jon were a maester or a scribe! His heart rebelled at the idea. But then he thought of the warm, heavy Gold Dragon in his pouch. Yes, for another dragon, he would certainly carry notes, a quill, and even the damn inkwell if asked. The boy's money was like the tide in Lannisport, it seemed to never run out. And for that, Jon was grateful to be a part of all this madness.
His mind drifted back, away from the smell of sawdust and this tedious task. He thought of home. Clearwater. A small, wet, green village that wasn't even on most maps, where the biggest event of the year was the harvest. He was a farmer's son, destined for a life of plowing the same soil as his father and his grandfather. But his father had bigger dreams for him.
Jon could still remember the day clearly, his father, a good, quiet man with hands as calloused as stone, standing with his cap in his hands before Ser Warren Cole, his voice trembling with nervousness. House Cole was a vassal of House Crakehall, and Ser Warren was a true knight, a good, no-nonsense man who valued hard work over lineage. Whether out of pity or because he saw a spark of potential in young Jon's eyes, he had agreed.
Ser Warren had taught him everything: how to care for a horse, how to polish armor until it shone like a mirror, and most importantly, how to use a sword. He was a patient teacher and a good mentor. Under his tutelage, Jon grew from a clumsy farm boy into a capable squire, and eventually, a knight.
The day he was knighted was the proudest day of his life. But pride didn't fill a stomach. The tourneys were where the money was, but also where bones were broken and dreams were shattered. He had won a few melees, earned enough to buy a decent suit of armor and a strong warhorse. But then came the offer. A position as a household knight at Casterly Rock.
It was like a dream. To serve House Lannister, the richest and most powerful House in the Westerlands. It was the pinnacle for a lowborn knight like himself. A steady income. Honor. Glory. He could send money home regularly to his parents, ensuring they would never go hungry. He could even save, something his father had never been able to contemplate.
And now, thanks to the funny little man before him, his savings were growing faster than mushrooms after a rain. So, yes. He would cut cloth. He would take notes. He would do whatever nonsensical thing this golden heir asked of him.
"Enough theorizing, Jon, and now it's time for practice." Jaime's voice brought him back to the present. "So no, I don't have plans to go to the library now." The boy's face was focused on his work again, his shears moving with a neat speed and precision.
Jon nodded, suppressing a sigh. "What is all this for, Lord Jaime? Haven't we cut so much cloth already?" The bucket between his feet was already nearly full of small white scraps.
Jaime looked up, his green eyes looking straight into Jon's, filled with a strange, infectious enthusiasm. "Listen, here we are going to make paper," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And since you, me, or anyone here has never tried it, we have to prepare a lot of material. If we fail on the first, or second, or fifth attempt, we don't want to run out of material, do we?"
Paper. Of course. Jaime was always talking about paper. How expensive parchment was. How rare it was. How it limited the spread of knowledge. Jon didn't really understand half of what he talked about, but he understood the obsession.
"So why not just let your people do this?" Jon asked, trying one last time. "Surely you must be tired, My Lord."
Jaime laughed, a clear, genuine laugh. "Tired? I'm just moving my fingers, this isn't tiring at all! Besides, this is my idea, and if I can do it for a while, why not? This is the first experiment, so I want to experience the process myself. To understand every step. If you don't understand the process, you can never improve it." He paused, and that sly grin returned. "Though, when it comes to the pulping, I'll be leaving more of that to you."
Jaime winked, and Jon groaned internally. Pulping. That meant sweaty, back-breaking work, turning these scraps of cloth into a slurry. Of course the boy would leave that part to him.
Jon picked up another handful of cloth and began to cut, the rhythm of his shears becoming faster, driven by resignation. He was Ser Jon of Clearwater. A knight of the Westerlands. Protector of the Young Lion.
And a professional cloth-cutter. And soon, a pulp-pounder.
…
As the heavy workshop door closed behind them, the world seemed to take a breath. The sharp smell of sawdust and cloth dust was replaced by the cool, clean evening air, carrying the faint scent of salt from the sea. The sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky over the Sunset Sea with strokes of orange, pink, and purple. It was a sight that would make a singer write a song, but to Jon, it was just a marker that another strange workday was nearly over. His back ached, and his fingers were stiff from gripping the shears for hours.
"Tired?" Jaime's voice came from beside him, filled with an energy that Jon certainly didn't possess. They walked side-by-side down the path leading back to the main keep, their footsteps making a soft crunching sound on the gravel.
Jon glanced at his young lord. The boy's green eyes were bright in the twilight, and his golden hair looked like a crown of fire. "Not a bit," Jon lied smoothly. "It was just women's work."
Jaime looked at him, his eyebrows raised in a mock-shocked expression. "So you mean men shouldn't do it?"
Jon nearly stumbled over his own feet. By the Seven, this child loved to twist words. "Uh, not really, that's not what I meant, My Lord," Jon cut in quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly. "What I meant was... that stage doesn't require much strength. And women's strength isn't as great as men's. That's all."
Jaime's laughter burst out, a clear, free sound that was pleasant in the quiet air. "Oh come on, I'm just teasing, Jon. I know what you meant." He patted Jon's arm in a friendly manner, a gesture that was strangely reassuring. "Are you hungry? Let's sneak into the kitchens and grab some food."
Jon's grin appeared instantly, wiping away all his fatigue. He had served Young Lord Jaime for over two years, and he had learned that the boy had two very different sides. There was Lord Jaime, the thinker who spoke of paper and printing presses with the gravity of a grand maester. And then there was Jaime, the boy, whose eyes would sparkle with mischief and who loved a simple little adventure. Jon preferred the latter.
"This idea of yours is the most interesting one yet, My Lord," Jon said, his grin matching his master's.
They didn't take the main path back to the great hall, but veered onto a smaller, servant's path, a route that led them to the back door of the kitchens. This was a conspiracy they had undertaken many times, a little ritual that had developed between them.
The kitchens of Casterly Rock were a world entirely different from the rest of the castle. It was a vast, hot cavern teeming with life. Fires roared in giant hearths large enough to roast a whole ox. Dozens of cooks and kitchen hands rushed to and fro, the sound of clanging copper pots, chopping knives on cutting boards, and shouted orders creating a symphony of organized chaos. The air was thick with a magnificent array of smells: the sharp scent of onions being sautéed, the sweet aroma of apple pies baking, the savory smell of frying chicken, and the delicious smell of fish being grilled with lemon.
As they entered, a few of the younger servants looked up, their eyes widening in surprise to see the heir of the castle and his sworn sword entering through the back door. But they quickly bowed their heads and returned to their work. They were used to this by now.
In the midst of it all, like a queen in her bustling kingdom, stood Rhae. She was the head cook, a middle-aged woman with arms made strong from kneading dough and a face that always seemed a little flushed from the heat of the fires.
"Young Lord Jaime!" she exclaimed, her warm, raspy voice cutting through the noise. "I was wondering when you'd show your handsome face again. Your stomach starting to rumble, eh?"
"Always for your cooking, Rhae," Jaime replied with a smile, easily slipping into the relaxed atmosphere. He walked over to a water barrel, took a dipper, and poured himself some warm water, drinking it in a few gulps. "Just a drink," he said to Rhae. "I won't eat much. It's almost dinner, and it would be impolite if I just sat there and stared."
"Nonsense," Rhae said with a laugh. "A growing boy needs fuel." She picked up a freshly baked pastry from the oven and handed it to Jaime. "Here, try this. Still warm."
Jaime took it, blew on it slightly, and took a bite. His eyes closed for a moment in bliss. "Seven, Rhae, this is incredible."
Jon watched the interaction with a small smile. Here, in the kitchens, among the common folk, Jaime seemed most at ease. He didn't have to be a genius or a lord. He could just be a boy who liked pastries.
"Try this grape, Young Lord, it's very sweet," Jon said.
Jaime took one, popped it in his mouth, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Yes, you're right. The farmer must have taken good care of it," his eyes sparkled. "Oh, Jon, want to hear a story?"
"Out with it," Jon said, grabbing a piece of fried chicken from a nearby tray as Rhae pretended not to see.
"Alright," Jaime said, leaning against a table in a conspiratorial manner. "I was watching Addam today in the practice yard."
Jon nodded as he chewed. Addam Marbrand. They saw him almost every day. Addam was one of the few other pages who could keep up with Young Lord Jaime in training, a friendly boy with brown hair and a too-quick smile.
"He's getting better, isn't he?" Jaime continued. "His movements are quick, and he's learning to read his opponent's moves."
"He has talent," Jon agreed. "Ser Benedict says he has a good wrist."
"He does," Jaime said, and that mischievous grin appeared on his face. "But I have a prophecy for him."
Jon raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "A prophecy?"
"I have seen his future," Jaime said with a funny, mock-seriousness. "One day, he will be a great knight. Maybe even captain of the guard. But he will be defeated, not by a sword or a spear, but by a pair of blue eyes and a sweet smile."
Jon burst out laughing. It was absolutely true. Addam, though a promising fighter, had a notorious weakness for a pretty face. He would blush and stammer whenever one of Lady Genna's handmaidens walked past. Of course, only they knew this.
"He asked me about adventure songs yesterday," Jaime continued, his eyes dancing. "About knights who rescue princesses. I told him, 'Be careful, Addam. Sometimes the princesses don't need rescuing, and they can be more dangerous than any dragon.' He didn't understand, of course. He just looked at me as if I had gone mad."
"He might not be wrong," Jon joked, and Jaime punched him playfully on the arm.
It felt good to laugh. It was a harmless joke, a sharp observation shared between two people who understood the small world of their training yard. It was a rare and precious moment of normality.
After their laughter died down, Jaime took one more pastry for the road. "Thanks for the food, Rhae. As always, you're the best."
"Anytime, Young Lord," the woman said with a warm smile.
They left the kitchen the same way they had entered, returning to the quieter, more formal corridors of the castle. A smile was still on Jon's face, and he could still taste the savory chicken on his tongue.
And there she was. Standing like a marble statue in the middle of the corridor, as if she had been waiting for them.
Cersei Lannister.
Her arms were crossed, and her fine brows were furrowed in an expression of cold disapproval. The smile on Jon's face vanished instantly. The air around them seemed to drop several degrees.
"As a Lannister," she said, her voice as sharp as winter ice, "you should pay more attention to your conduct." Her gaze was fixed on Jaime, completely ignoring Jon's existence.
Jaime didn't seem intimidated. His smile faded slightly, but the mischief in his eyes remained. He did something with his mouth, pushing out his lower lip in a childish, mock-pout. "What did I do, sister? We were just eating a warm snack."
Cersei snorted, a sound full of contempt. "You sneak out of the kitchens like a thief. If someone saw you, they would think you never get any food. You embarrass our name by consorting with the cooks."
"Rhae is the best cook in the Westerlands," Jaime retorted cheerfully. "I don't see it as an embarrassment. I see it as an act of ensuring I stay on her good side."
"You shouldn't care about a servant's 'good side'," Cersei hissed. "They are here to serve us. Not the other way around."
"Of course," Jaime said, his tone still light. "And they serve us better if they are happy. I call it maintaining the assets."
Cersei narrowed her eyes, frustrated at her inability to pierce her brother's cheerful mood. "Whatever you say, Jaime. Whatever."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned with a sharp rustle of her silk gown and walked away, her back straight and angry.
Jon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The girl's presence was like a sudden storm cloud.
He glanced at Young Lord Jaime. The boy was watching his sister's retreating back, his smile gone, replaced by a more complex expression, a mixture of annoyance and sadness.
Then, he turned to Jon and shrugged, a small, tired smile returning to his face. "Well," he said. "Not everyone can appreciate a warm snack, I suppose."
Jon didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. As they continued their journey towards the great hall for the inevitable, silent dinner, he reflected on how different the two twins were. They looked like two sides of the same golden coin, but where one was cold, hard, and cared only for its outer shine, the other… the other had an unexpected warmth, a sense of humor, and a complexity that continued to surprise Jon.
He preferred the latter side of the coin. Very much so.
CERSEI
Cersei Lannister sipped her tea, the warmth of the fine porcelain cup a small comfort in her hands. From the window of her solar, she could see the leaves of the garden trees swaying gently in the sea breeze. It was a peaceful sight, a sight that should have been calming. And yet, within her, there was a constant restlessness, an irritation that buzzed like a fly trapped in a bottle.
The source of that irritation, like most things in her life lately, was Jaime.
Her mind drifted back to the past, to a world that felt so distant though only two years had passed. A world where "Jaime and Cersei" was a single word, a single thought, a single soul in two bodies. They were mirrors of each other, golden and perfect. They shared secrets in the dark, their world a fortress that no one, not even their father, could penetrate. He was half of her soul, and she was half of his. It was that simple. That true.
Now… now everything was different. Strange.
They were still close. They still talked. The warmth was still there, in the flash of his eyes when he smiled at her, but beneath that warmth was a widening chasm, a crack that had begun the day the Imp was born and their mother had died, and had widened into a gulf ever since.
This new Jaime was a stranger. Half of her soul would not have spent hours hunched over dusty books with Maester Creylen, returning smelling of old parchment and with eyes sparkling over some boring fact about taxes during King Jaehaerys's reign. Half of her soul would not have wasted time in filthy workshops, consorting with blacksmiths and carpenters, making strange contraptions of metal and wood that had no clear purpose. And worst of all, half of her soul would not have shown such a strange, unnatural concern for… the smallfolk.
She had seen him talking to the cooks in the kitchens as if they were his friends. She had even heard him argue with Father, with Father!, about the importance of "serving the interests" of the peasants. It was nauseating. It was weak.
No. Jaime was no longer half of her soul. He was a disappointment, a puzzle she no longer wished to solve. Their relationship was now more filled with taunts than secrets, more arguments than understanding. She would find her other half elsewhere, when she was grown.
Someone great. Someone powerful, who understood that the smallfolk were there to serve, not to be served. Someone who would never choose a book over a sword, and who would never dirty his hands with strange inventions. Someone destined for great things, just like her.
Oh, she would be queen. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew her hair was gold. Father would see to it for her. Father might not smile, but he understood ambition. And there was no greater prize, no stronger alliance, than marrying his daughter to the crown prince. Her true other half was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Handsome, mysterious, a warrior and a singer. He was fire, and Cersei was gold. Together, they would rule the world.
"The braids worn by the main actress in that play were lovely, weren't they?"
Melara Hetherspoon's slightly shrill voice pulled Cersei from her daydreams of thrones and dragons. She shifted her gaze from the window and looked at her friends. Melara sat opposite her, her large brown eyes shining with simple enthusiasm. At her side, Jeyne Farman sat quietly, her plump figure looking awkward in the delicate chair. They had gone to Lannisport a few days ago to watch a troupe of traveling players perform a drama about love and betrayal. It was a foolish story, but the acting was good enough that Cersei had enjoyed it slightly.
"Would you like one like that? I could braid it for you," Cersei replied, a friendly smile playing on her lips. It was a smile she had practiced, one that made people feel special.
Melara's face immediately flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. "Oh, no, I think it would suit you better, My Lady. Besides, the woman there had blonde hair too."
Of course it would suit me better, Cersei thought, taking another sip of her tea to hide her satisfaction. She was the most beautiful in all the Westerlands, perhaps in all the Seven Kingdoms. Any hairstyle would suit her. She didn't need to take inspiration from a lowborn actress paid in copper coins.
"Don't think so little of yourself," Cersei said, her voice filled with feigned warmth. "You are beautiful yourself, Melara. And that hairstyle would make you stand out. It would highlight your eyes."
Melara beamed, completely taken in by the compliment. "That is a kind thing to say, Cersei." Then she turned to Jeyne, who had been silent all this time. "What about you, Jeyne? Are you interested in trying it?"
Cersei glanced at Jeyne. Jeyne's hair was a dull, straight brown. To imagine it in the same intricate braids worn by the slim leading lady in the play… Cersei had to stop herself from shuddering. Perhaps it could charm the stableboys, she thought, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips at the thought.
"No, I am comfortable with my style as it is," Jeyne said quietly, her voice barely a whisper.
Nodding, Melara then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Well, you already look good with that hairstyle. It will surely attract many knights."
What knight would want her? Cersei thought cruelly. Perhaps a shadow knight in her dreams. Jeyne was kind, yes, but she was also plump and shy. Knights wanted glittering prizes, not a silent sack of grain.
"The knights would be lucky to have you, Jeyne," Cersei said, her voice as sweet as honey. "You just have to be outside more to show your charm."
"Like in the training yard!" Melara exclaimed, her eyes lighting up again as she took the bait. "There's Addam Marbrand there, he's so handsome. And Derrick Lefford, they say he'll be a great fighter. And… Jaime."
As she said the last name, the same blush as before returned to Melara's cheeks, and she quickly looked down, feigning interest in the pattern on her teacup.
Cersei felt a wave of cold annoyance. So, simple Melara had set her heart on her twin brother. How… boring. How predictable. Every girl in Casterly Rock, from a lord's daughter to a scullery maid, looked at Jaime with the same adoring gaze.
Take him, Cersei urged her in her mind. You are both strange, it's a perfect match. He can make you strange little contraptions, and you can stare at him with those cow eyes all day. The idea, somehow, was satisfying. It would be the final proof that she and Jaime had gone their separate ways. She was destined for a prince, while Jaime… Jaime was destined for the daughter of a minor, unimportant lord. The balance of the universe would be restored.
"Jaime does train hard," Cersei said lightly, deciding to play along. "Father says he has a natural talent."
"He's more than talented!" Melara said with passion, forgetting her shyness. "He moves like a dancer! And he's always kind to me. Yesterday, he saw me drop my hair ribbon, and he picked it up for me."
Cersei had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. A basic act of courtesy, and this girl was already planning their wedding. "Jaime was taught to be courteous to all ladies," she said, deliberately emphasizing the word "all."
But Melara didn't catch the hint. She was too lost in her fantasy. "I think I will take a walk near the training yard tomorrow morning," she said, more to herself than to anyone else. "Perhaps I will wear my blue dress."
Cersei looked at her friend, at the hope shining in her innocent face, and she felt something strange. It wasn't jealousy. By the seven, no. It was closer to pity. A cold, superior pity. Melara and Jeyne, with their little dreams of hair braids and smiles from squires, they lived in a completely different world from her. Their world was made of small things and simple hopes.
Cersei's world was made of gold and fire and thrones.
"That's a fine idea, Melara," she said, her smile never wavering. "Wear the blue dress. I'm sure someone will notice you."
She leaned back in her chair, sipped her tea again, and let their unimportant chatter wash over her. They spoke of new dresses and gossip from the court. Cersei occasionally contributed a comment, playing her part as the perfect friend, the benevolent golden goddess who descended from her throne to sit with mortals.
But inside, her mind was already far away. She was thinking of King's Landing. She was thinking of the Red Keep, with its towering spires and magnificent halls. She was thinking of Prince Rhaegar, with his melancholy violet eyes.
That was her world. That was her destiny.
She glanced at Melara, who was still chattering about Jaime's bravery, and then at Jeyne, who was quietly eating a third pastry. They were pawns in her game, temporary companions she would leave behind when she ascended to her rightful place. They were part of her childhood, a childhood she realized, with a sudden clarity, she was very eager to leave behind.
…
The tedious tea party finally came to an end. Cersei rose with an elegance she had practiced since she could walk, her movements fluid and controlled. Melara and Jeyne followed her, like two little lapdogs trailing their mistress. They walked out of her private solar into a long hall whose high, vaulted ceiling was supported by pillars and whose walls were adorned with tapestries woven with real gold thread, depicting Lannister victories of the past.
They walked slowlypretending to admire the scenery, though Cersei had seen these tapestries a thousand times until she knew every stitch by heart. The girls' chatter returned to trivial matters—a new ribbon sold by a merchant in Lannisport, a rumor about a guard supposedly having an affair with a kitchen maid, and the weather that might be fine for the upcoming festival.
Cersei let their words flow around her like water, occasionally giving a nod or a small smile to appear as if she were listening. In truth, her mind was elsewhere. The tea party had confirmed what she had long suspected: she had outgrown her friends. Melara, with her childish fantasies about knights, and Jeyne, with her shy nature and insatiable appetite, they were simple creatures. They were content with their small world. They had no ambition, no fire. They were pale little moons, destined to forever be outshone by the sun, herself.
Suddenly, the sound of laughter and energetic footsteps from the end of the gallery broke her reverie. A group of boys appeared from a corridor, walking towards them. They were clean and full of energy, wearing simple leather training tunics and each carrying a wooden sword at his side. In the lead, with a natural arrogance, was Derrick Lefford. At his side, the more reserved Addam Marbrand. And behind them, of course, was Jaime, with his shadow-like sworn sword, Jon, following a few steps behind.
"Ahh, where are the pretty ladies off to?" Derrick Lefford's voice rang out, a little too loud in the hall. He was a few years older than Jaime and Addam, a squire to Uncle Kevan, and he carried himself with the arrogance of a young man who had just realized he was strong and important. "Tired of your tea party?"
Cersei stopped, forcing her friends to stop as well. She felt a wave of irritation. Derrick Lefford, with his straw-colored hair and his too-wide grin, was the type of boy she despised most: arrogant without the intelligence to back it up. She wanted to claw his annoying face.
"We were thinking of finding a new view, Lord Lefford," Cersei replied, her voice as sweet as honey but with a hint of venom behind it. She deliberately used his title, a subtle reminder of their status, a way of saying, I know who you are, and I am not impressed. "And where are you off to?"
"The usual, men's business," Derrick said, puffing out his thin chest while patting the hilt of his wooden sword. "We're going to practice. Want to watch? Surely that's more amazing than trees and buildings, right?" His grin widened, as if he had just offered the greatest prize in the world.
Watch you swing a wooden sword like a farmer chopping wood? Cersei thought. I'd rather stare at a horse.
Before she could deliver another sharp retort, Jaime stepped forward. "Be quiet, Lefford," he said, his tone light but with an undeniable authority that made Derrick immediately pout. "Let the ladies do their things."
Then, Jaime smiled at them, the girls, and the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was his famous smile, the one that could melt the hearts of serving maids and make noble ladies sigh. It was the smile that used to belong only to her.
And as expected, Melara immediately blushed. She lowered her head, her cheeks turning the color of a summer rose, and began to fidget nervously with the end of her ribbon.
Annoying. So annoying.
"Lady Cersei, Lady Melara, Lady Jeyne," Addam Marbrand greeted, giving a polite nod. He was always more courteous than Derrick, more reserved.
"We are on our way to the training yard," Jaime said, filling the awkward silence. "Ser Benedict has prepared some new drills for us."
"I'm going to take you down today, Lannister," Derrick joked, his bad mood quickly recovering as the topic returned to fighting.
"In your dreams, Lefford," Jaime replied with a smile.
Cersei just smiled faintly. This talk of sword practice was incredibly boring.
"Well, we wouldn't want to keep you from your 'men's business'," Cersei said, her voice sweet again, but this time with a slight chill that anyone listening closely would have noticed. "We're sure you have many important things to do."
Jaime caught her tone. His smile faltered slightly as he looked at her, a question in his eyes. But he said nothing. "Then, we'll take our leave," he said to his friends. He gave a final nod to the girls. "Have a good day."
The group of boys walked past them, leaving a faint trail of soap and leather. As they left, Cersei heard Derrick whisper something to Addam, and their suppressed laughter.
Once they had turned a corner and disappeared from view, the atmosphere among the three girls changed. The excitement caused by the boys' presence evaporated, leaving an awkward silence.
Cersei was the first to break it. She had had enough. Enough of Melara's blushing, enough of Jeyne's silence, and enough of pretending that their chatter was interesting.
She turned to face them, her friendly smile gone, replaced by an expression of polite indifference. "I am going to see my Aunt Genna," she said, her voice flat and final. "You may go wherever you please."
It was a dismissal, not a suggestion.
"Ah, yes, of course, My Lady," Jeyne and Melara said in unison, a little taken aback by her sudden change in mood. They curtsied slightly, an awkward and unnecessary gesture between friends, but Cersei didn't correct them. Right now, they were not her friends. They were her followers, and she was done with them for the day.
Without another word, Cersei turned and walked away in the opposite direction, her gown swishing behind her. She didn't look back. She didn't care where they went or what they did. She just wanted to be alone.
As she walked down the now-empty corridor, her cold anger began to subside, replaced by a familiar feeling of emptiness. The encounter had bothered her more than she had expected. Not because of Derrick Lefford's arrogance; she could handle boys like that in her sleep. No. It was because of Jaime.
The way he had smiled at Melara. It was shallow courtesy, she knew that. It was what was expected of a young lord. But still, it felt like a small betrayal. Once, that smile was for her alone. Once, she was the only girl he protected. Now, he distributed his charm freely, like a prince tossing copper coins to the smallfolk.
As she walked towards her aunt's chambers, the image of Prince Rhaegar returned to her mind. He would never smile at common girls like Melara Hetherspoon. He would never waste his time with empty chatter in a corridor. He was a true prince. And Cersei would be his queen.
…
The corridor leading to Aunt Genna's chambers felt like a sanctuary. Here, she could drop the exhausting mask of friendliness she had to wear in front of her boring friends.
She found her aunt exactly as she had expected, sitting in her favorite armchair by the window, her golden-blonde head bent over an embroidery frame. Her needle moved with a steady, practiced precision, pulling silk thread through the taut linen. Another lion she was embroidering, or perhaps that ugly, boring Frey sigil. Cersei honestly didn't care. Her aunt's calm, non-judgmental presence was what she sought.
Without a word, Cersei walked to her own sewing basket, took out her unfinished embroidery frame, the deep red silk thread, and her needle. She sat on the sofa opposite her aunt and began to work. She was embroidering a roaring lioness. It would be a masterpiece.
"Are you tired of your friends, Cersei?" Genna spoke without looking up, her sharp, practical voice breaking the comfortable silence. Her aunt had an uncanny ability to know her thoughts without needing to see her face.
Cersei didn't bother to hide her annoyance. "I am just tired of watching them talk about men as if they were jewels," she replied, stabbing her needle into the cloth with a little more force than necessary. "Addam this, Derrick that. Who cares about sweaty boys and their empty minds?"
"That is what a girl your age usually does." Genna finally looked up, a thin, amused smile on her lips. "They are just becoming interested in the opposite sex. It is the dance of nature, my dear niece. As inevitable as the tides."
"And they seem to want to get married and have children quickly too." Cersei snorted, the words coming out full of contempt.
"They are indeed destined for such things," Genna said calmly, returning to her embroidery. "Melara will marry a knight or a minor lord, bear a few sons, and consider herself fortunate." She paused, and Cersei felt her aunt's gaze on her. "Your role, of course, is different."
Of course it was different. Cersei was a lion. They were sheep. "I would never be content with such a fate," she said firmly. "To be the wife of a landed lord, overseeing kitchens and birthing rooms. I would rather die."
Genna chuckled softly. "I know, my child. I know." She set her embroidery in her lap. "But even a lioness must marry. It is the way of the world. When you marry, Cersei, what color dress would you like to wear?"
The question diverted Cersei's thoughts instantly. Her wedding. Not just any wedding, but her wedding. The image appeared in her mind with such clarity, so real she could almost smell the hundreds of candles in the Great Sept of Baelor. She saw herself walking down the aisle, not in Casterly Rock, but in King's Landing. She saw the entire court watching her, their eyes filled with awe. And at the end of the aisle, waiting for her, was Prince Rhaegar.
"Of course I would want a red dress," she answered, her voice filled with unshakable conviction. "Deep red, the color of our House. It highlights my hair and eyes better. That way, everyone will only look there. To their queen."
"Then you must tell Jaime now." Genna said the words in a joking tone, but her aunt's eyes were watching her carefully. "He has been collecting a lot of cloth lately, you could ask him for a little to make a dress."
Jaime's name was like a bucket of ice water poured over her beautiful dream. The image of King's Landing vanished, replaced by a much less pleasant one: her twin brother, surrounded by piles of dusty linen cloth.
Cersei frowned in disgust. "He is strange," she said, her annoyance returning with full force. "I don't understand why he does that. The other day he came home with his clothes covered in ash and sweat. It was truly disgusting."
"He is a boy," Genna informed her patiently, as if explaining a simple fact of life. "It is normal. They like to make things. They like to get dirty."
'Normal?' Cersei thought to herself, stabbing her needle again fiercely. 'There is nothing normal about it.'
Jaime used to be perfect. He was her reflection, clean and shining and golden. This was not normal. This was a deviation.
Cersei was sure she knew the cause. It was those books. And the old man who gave them to him. Ever since Jaime had started spending so much time in the library with Maester Creylen, he had changed.
It must have warped his brain. Yes, that was the only explanation. Too much reading had made Jaime's mind soft and twisted. It had made him forget who he was.
"He is not like the other boys," Cersei said finally, her voice filled with certainty. "Addam Marbrand doesn't spend his time like that. Derrick Lefford doesn't care about books. They care about winning tourneys and getting the attention of girls. That is what a boy from a great House should be doing."
"Jaime is different," Genna agreed, but there was no hint of disapproval in her voice. "Tywin was different too when he was young. While the other children were playing, he was studying his father's ledgers, finding ways to restore our honor. Perhaps Jaime just has his own way of being strong."
Cersei didn't believe it. Tywin's strength was obvious. It was in his cold gaze, in his firm commands, in the way he crushed his enemies.
She set down her embroidery, suddenly feeling restless. The cozy room felt suffocating. She needed fresh air, but more importantly, she needed certainty.
"Father will arrange for me to marry Prince Rhaegar, won't he, Aunt?" she asked, the question coming out more abruptly than she had intended.
Genna looked at her, the thin, amused expression on her face gone, replaced by the seriousness of a player in the great game. "Your father will do what is best for House Lannister," she said carefully. "And there is no better alliance than one with the Iron Throne."
It was a "yes." Cersei felt it. It was a "yes" wrapped in political caution.
A genuine, satisfied smile touched Cersei's lips. That was enough for now. Jaime could continue playing with his dirty toys. He could continue to warp his brain with books and theories. It no longer mattered. Their paths had truly diverged.
Her path led to King's Landing, to a crown and a throne.
And Jaime's path… honestly, Cersei didn't know where his path led. And she found that she no longer cared.
One more chapter for today :p See you next week! You can read 3 chapters early on Patreon!
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Daario
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Daario said:
As she walked towards her aunt's chambers, the image of Prince Rhaegar returned to her mind. He would never smile at common girls like Melara Hetherspoon. He would never waste his time with empty chatter in a corridor. He was a true prince. And Cersei would be his queen.
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[Lyanna Stark exists]
ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT?