CLEOS
Cleos Frey wasn't sure why he had agreed to come along. The forest was cool and pleasant now, with the sunlight filtering through the canopy of oaks and pines in golden pillars, and the air was filled with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. But "learning archery," as Jaime had called it, was not something that held any interest for him.
He stood a little apart from the main group, leaning against a tree, feeling its rough bark against his back. There, in a small clearing, his cousin, Jaime Lannister, along with Addam Marbrand, Derrick Lefford, and a few guards, including Jaime's ever-present sworn sword, Jon, were taking turns shooting arrows at a straw target propped against a large, dead tree. Cleos didn't know the names of the other guards, and he honestly didn't care.
He had come along for only two reasons. First, he had nothing else to do. His days at Casterly Rock were often like that: long and empty, filled with aimless riding or just sitting in his room, trying to be invisible. The second reason, and the more important one, was because Jaime had asked him to.
Jaime was always kind to him. Among all the proud, confident lions in this castle, Jaime was the only one who never laughed at him. In the training yard, when Cleos would trip over his own feet or misgrip his wooden sword until it nearly flew out of his hands, Derrick Lefford would roar with laughter and Addam Marbrand would give him a pitying look. But Jaime never did. He would just patiently show him the correct stance again, his voice calm and without a trace of condescension. "You just need more practice," he always said. "No one is born a master swordsman."
That simple kindness felt like an anchor in the sea of discomfort that was his life at Casterly Rock. Being a Frey in the lion's den was not easy. He had been born here, raised in the same halls as his golden cousins. This was the only home he had ever known. And yet, the name "Frey" clung to him like an ill-fitting cloak. He could feel it in the gazes of the servants, in the way the knights spoke to him with a slightly more patronizing tone. It was the name of a vassal, the name of a bridge-keeper.
And then there was Lord Tywin's gaze. Cleos had only met his uncle a few times, on the rare occasions when the Hand of the King returned to Casterly Rock. But each time, those pale green eyes would sweep over him, and Cleos would feel as though he were being weighed, measured, and found wanting. It was a sharp, oppressive gaze, filled with a cold judgment. He hated that look more than anything. It made him feel small and worthless, like a mouse before a snake.
"You'll have to do better than that!" Derrick Lefford's arrogant voice broke Cleos's reverie. He looked over at the clearing, where Addam Marbrand's arrow had just landed a few inches outside the outermost ring of the target.
Marbrand retorted flatly, taking another arrow from its place. "It's the wind. The wind has been strong lately."
Cleos glanced up at the leaves in the treetops. They were all still. There was no wind at all. It was a blatant lie, but it was part of their game.
"A good archer," Derrick said, taking his stance. He played along with the boy, drawing his bow with a theatrical flourish. "Is one who can become one with the wind." He released his arrow. The arrow flew with a soft hiss and landed with a satisfying thud near the target, better than Marbrand's. He grinned arrogantly, which made Marbrand grunt in annoyance.
"A stroke of luck," Addam said, rolling his eyes. "The wind stopped just as you shot."
"Try again, can you?" Derrick challenged, his face flushed with pride.
"It's Jaime's turn now," Addam said, deliberately ignoring Derrick and turning to Jaime.
Jaime smiled, stepping forward and taking his bow. It was a beautiful yew bow, much finer than the ordinary practice bows they used. "If you insist," Jaime said, his tone light and full of confidence. "I'm already good at this sort of thing."
"Don't get too big for your breeches, Lannister," Derrick said, still a little annoyed at being ignored.
"Just a fact," Jaime replied calmly.
Cleos watched as his cousin took his stance. There was a subtle change in Jaime when he focused. The cheerfulness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a cool intensity. He stood tall, his feet shoulder-width apart. He took a deep breath, raised the bow, nocked an arrow, and drew the bowstring to his cheek in a single, fluid, effortless motion. For a few seconds, he was still as a statue, one with his bow. Then, he shot.
The arrow flew like a golden streak of light. THWACK!
It hit the target dead center in the small black circle at its heart. A perfect shot.
The guards, who had been watching with bored expressions, cheered and clapped. Even the usually stoic Jon had a wide grin on his face.
"See?" Jaime said, lowering his bow. He said it as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "You just have to be calm and focused. That's the essence of archery."
"You say that as if it's easy," Derrick grumbled, voicing Cleos's thoughts.
Jaime shook his head, his smile returning. "No one said it was easy. I practiced many times for this." He paused, and then his green eyes looked straight at Cleos. He held out the bow. "Want to try?"
All the blood seemed to drain from Cleos's face. Him? Archery? In front of all these people? He would rather play with sand than do it. It was more fun and far less embarrassing. But the clumsy and awkward Cleos could never refuse a Lannister, especially not Jaime.
He walked forward reluctantly, feeling everyone's eyes on him. He took the bow from Jaime's hand. It felt heavy and strange in his hands.
"I'll break your bow," Cleos whispered, a last-ditch effort to escape.
"Don't be so modest," Jaime whispered back, his voice reassuring. "Besides, if you do break it, we can make a new one. It's just a bow."
Cleos had almost forgotten. To a Lannister, a beautiful bow was just a toy.
Nodding in resignation, Cleos tried to mimic Jaime's stance. He had used a bow a few times before, when his father had tried to teach him. Of course, in his small, clumsy hands, everything had gone wrong. His arrows had flown wild, and his father had sighed in frustration.
So now he concentrated. He ignored Derrick's smirk and Addam's sympathetic gaze. He took a deep breath, like Jaime had. He nocked an arrow, his fingers feeling clumsy and uncoordinated. He drew the bowstring with all his might, his untrained muscles straining. He aimed, trying to keep the tip of the arrow steady on the target. He held his breath, praying to the Warrior and whoever else among the Seven might be listening. Please, please don't let me embarrass myself.
He aimed and held it for what felt like several minutes, or maybe just a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, until the others were probably bored of watching him. Then, Cleos shot.
The arrow flew quickly, but not straight. It flew in a strange arc, veering far to the left, and disappeared into the dense undergrowth beside the target. It didn't even hit the tree behind it.
A total silence fell over the clearing. Cleos's heart sank into his stomach.
Then, he heard it. A suppressed laugh from Derrick's direction.
Before the laugh could fully erupt, Jaime's voice cut in, sharp and cold. "Derrick."
Cleos didn't see it, but he could feel the sharp glare Jaime was giving the older boy. The laughter stopped instantly.
Then, Cleos felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jaime's. "That was good," his cousin said, his voice warm and comforting. Cleos knew it was a lie, but he was grateful nonetheless. "The shot was strong. You could see from how fast the arrow flew. You just need more practice to aim it."
"Maybe," Cleos replied quietly. And that would take a lifetime, he thought to himself.
"Of course," Jaime said with confidence. "We'll practice together every day if you want."
Cleos could only nod, speechless. He handed the bow back to Jaime, feeling like a beggar returning a borrowed crown.
He returned to his place under the tree, away from the center of attention. He watched as Addam and Jaime took turns shooting again, their banter returning, though a little more subdued now.
Jaime was kind to him. He was truly kind. He had defended him. But even that kindness felt like a reminder of their differences. Jaime was so effortless in everything—archery, sword fighting, even talking. Everything came naturally to him. For Cleos, every action felt like a struggle.
He sighed, and retreated into his own world, the sound of the other boys' laughter fading into the background, like the sound of the wind in the trees.
…
The path back to the castle felt quieter now. Derrick Lefford and Addam Marbrand had split off at a fork, rushing back to clean up before dinner, their laughter and jests fading among the trees. Now there were just the three of them: Jaime, Cleos, and the sworn sword named Jon, who walked a few steps behind like a faithful shadow.
Cleos walked awkwardly, aware of the cold mud patches that were beginning to dry on his tunic. Earlier, when he had jumped over a protruding tree root, he had accidentally landed too close to a puddle from last night's rain, and the splash had hit the bottom of his trousers.
"Sorry for getting you dirty," Jaime said suddenly, his tone filled with genuine regret.
Cleos glanced down at the stain, then at his cousin's worried face. 'I get dirty every day,' Cleos thought to himself. He didn't understand Jaime's way of thinking. Even if they were just practicing swords in a dry yard, getting dirty from sweat and dust was normal. Being dirty was part of being a boy, especially one learning to be a knight. Sometimes, Jaime talked like a worried old man. Like his mother. He didn't know.
"I'll just take a bath," Cleos replied with a shrug, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt.
But Jaime still looked worried. "Your mother won't be angry, will she?"
Cleos almost laughed. Angry over a little mud? His mother would faint if she saw the state of his clothes after a truly serious sword practice session. "She'll just give me more perfume," Cleos tried to joke, his voice a little dry.
Jaime looked relieved. Then he laughed, a free and genuine laugh. "Good. If you run out, I'll give you more."
Cleos shuddered at the thought of having to wear more of the cloying lavender scent his mother favored. He looked up at the evening sky, which was beginning to turn orange. "Don't give her any ideas, Jaime."
"Too late," Jaime said with a smile.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment as they continued to walk. Cleos felt a question forming in his mind, a question he had long wanted to ask but never dared. Now, after Jaime's kindness in the woods, he felt a little braver.
"You're very good at things involving bows and swords," Cleos said, his voice quieter than he had intended. "How do you do it?"
Jaime didn't answer right away. He tilted his head back, looking up at the canopy of trees above them as if the answer were written there. "Practice," he said finally. "Is there any other way?"
"I practice every day… with a sword," Cleos said, a familiar frustration creeping into his voice. "But I can't be like you."
Jaime stopped walking and turned to look at him. He had a strange expression, as if he were really thinking about it. "Everyone has their own learning pace, Cleos."
'But no one is as slow as me,' Cleos thought bitterly. He had seen other boys, boys who had just picked up a sword and in a few months could move with more confidence than he had after years.
Instead, he said, "Did you mean it when you said I could practice with you every day?" He held his breath after asking, afraid the answer was just a momentary courtesy.
Jaime looked straight into his eyes, and there was not a trace of doubt there. "Of course! We're cousins, how could I lie to a cousin? You can come to me anytime and I'll be ready. As long as…" He paused, a small grin appearing on his face. "…you're also ready for more sweat and bruises."
A wave of relief and something that felt like hope washed over Cleos. He didn't care about the sweat. He didn't care about the bruises. It was a small price to pay. "I can handle that," Cleos said, and he was surprised at how strong and confident his voice sounded. "It will be worth it if I can be as strong as you."
Jaime laughed again, this time he looked back. "I'm not the strong one. You should aim to be as strong as this Jon here! He could take me down with one hand if he wanted to."
Jon, who had been silent all this time, looked a little surprised to suddenly be the center of attention. He just gave a small, awkward smile.
Cleos looked at his cousin, at the golden lion who seemed to be able to do everything with ease. "Maybe it's because the goal is easier to reach with you," Cleos said, and the words just came out.
Jaime looked at him, a little confused at first, and then he understood. He smiled, this time not the smile of a confident warrior. It was a warm and understanding smile.
And in return, Cleos smiled back. And for the first time that day, the smile felt genuine.
…
Cleos stepped over the threshold of his room, leaving the dim corridor behind him. Here, in his private space, the world felt a little simpler. The air was filled with the faint scent of lemon soap and polished wood. It was his place, a small pocket within the vastness of Casterly Rock where he didn't have to constantly feel like he was being judged.
He felt tired, but it was a good kind of tired. His muscles ached from drawing the unfamiliar bowstring, and there were mud patches on his tunic, but inside his chest, there was a new spark of warmth. Hope.
A quiet young servant was already waiting there, ready to help him out of his dirty clothes and prepare a bath. Cleos was starting to undo his laces when a familiar, sharp voice broke the silence.
"Have fun?"
Startled, Cleos spun around. His mother, Genna Lannister, was sitting in an armchair by the window, a place he hadn't noticed when he first came in.
"Mother! You startled me!" Cleos exclaimed, his heart pounding.
"That was the point." Genna smiled, but her intelligent eyes were not smiling. Her eyes were observing, analyzing, as always. "I wanted to make sure an archer knows that even in a calm wilderness, a lion will surprise you."
"And the archer will be startled to death," Cleos said flatly, trying to regain his composure.
"Easier for the lion to eat him." Genna laughed, a sharp, knowing laugh. She gestured for the servant to step back for a moment. "Oh, you are filthy," she said, her eyes sweeping over the mud patches on Cleos's clothes. "I hope it was worth everything you did."
"It was worth it," Cleos said, and he was surprised at the note of conviction in his own voice. "Jaime is going to teach me the bow, and maybe the sword too."
His mother looked straight into his eyes, her gaze piercing. "There are many knights in Casterly Rock who are better than Jaime, you know that. Ser Benedict is a master-at-arms who has trained dozens of knights. You just have to train harder." She paused, and a small smile returned to her lips. "But that's good. Being close to your cousin will make your days less boring."
Less boring. It was his mother's way of saying safer. Cleos knew it. Being close to Jaime meant Derrick Lefford and the others would think twice before mocking him. It meant he would be part of the inner circle, not just a Frey who happened to live here.
"Yes," Cleos said quietly. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to voice the confusion that had been bothering him. "Mother, sometimes Jaime says things I don't understand. About 'paper,' 'interests,' and… everything. It makes me wonder if I'm getting stupider."
"Don't say that." Genna sighed, and for a moment, the hardness in her face softened into a genuinely maternal expression. She patted the chair beside her, an invitation. Cleos walked over and sat down awkwardly. "Jaime is more mature in his thinking even though he is only a year older than you," she said, her voice softer now. "Don't blame yourself for that. He is the son of Tywin Lannister. He was raised to think about legacy and power even before he could walk properly."
Hearing that, Cleos nodded slowly. It was a simple, undeniable truth. Jaime was Tywin's son, the heir to everything.
'And I am the son of a Frey,' he thought, and the familiar bitterness rose in his throat. The difference was vast. It was the difference between pure gold and mud.
As if she could read his mind, his mother's hand reached out and stroked his cheek, her thumb gently brushing away a smudge of dirt he hadn't realized was there. "And you?" she said softly, her eyes looking intently into his. "You have Lannister blood in you too. My blood. Never forget that. You are more than what others see, Cleos. You have a quietness that other boys lack. You observe. You listen. It's a different kind of strength, but it is strength."
Cleos's throat felt tight. Praise from his mother was rare, and when it came, it always carried a heavy weight. So many thoughts swirled in his mind—gratitude, frustration, confusion, and a new flicker of pride. He wanted to say something, to explain how hard it was to be him, caught between two names, two worlds. But the words wouldn't come. It was all too complicated.
He swallowed, pulling away from his mother's touch. He stood up, suddenly feeling the need to do something simple, something physical.
"I need a bath."
Genna looked at him for a moment longer, her eyes filled with an understanding that couldn't be put into words. Then, she nodded. "Yes," she said. "You do."
As the servant stepped forward to help him, Cleos was no longer thinking about mud or sweat. He was thinking about Lannister blood and the Frey name, about being strong in a quiet way, and about the promise of training with his strange, brilliant cousin. A bath wouldn't wash all of that away. But at least, it was a start.
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