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Cersei Lannister

The wheelhouse trundled along the Kingsroad, a massive wooden construction painted in deep crimson with golden lions carved into its sides - a clear statement of Lannister wealth and power. The wheels creaked against the well-worn road as six white horses pulled the ornate vehicle forward. Inside, the wheelhouse was furnished with plush velvet cushions in Lannister crimson, and delicate golden threads were woven into the fabric of the curtains that covered the windows.

The fields surrounding them were vast expanses of green, stretching as far as the eye could see when Cersei bothered to look through the curtains. Spring was in full bloom, and wildflowers dotted the landscape with splashes of yellow, purple, and white. The occasional oak tree stood alone in the fields, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun.

"Did you hear, Lady Cersei?" simpered Melara Hetherspoon, a girl of fifteen who hadn't stopped chattering since they left Casterly Rock. "They say Prince Rhaegar might sing at the feast."

Cersei's green eyes flashed with barely contained irritation. "Yes, Melara, you've mentioned it at least twenty times since this morning."

"Oh, but isn't it romantic?" sighed Jeyne Farman, another of the Western ladies. "And the prize money Lord Whent is offering! They say it's larger than any tourney prize in living memory."

"My brother Jaime will win the joust," Cersei stated flatly, her tone brooking no argument. She smoothed her crimson silk dress, adorned with subtle golden embroidery - a gown that had cost more than what most knights would make in a year.

"But surely Prince Rhaegar-" Melara began.

"My brother is the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms," Cersei cut her off sharply. The other girls fell silent, exchanging nervous glances.

Through the window, Cersei could see their escort of Lannister guards riding alongside the wheelhouse, their red cloaks billowing in the spring breeze. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, another display of Lannister opulence. Beyond them, the countryside rolled by - verdant hills, freshly plowed fields ready for planting, and the occasional cluster of peasants who stopped their work to gawk at the passing procession.

"I heard Princess Elia won't be attending," whispered Jeyne, apparently unable to keep quiet for more than a few moments. "They say she's too weak since birthing the princess."

Cersei's lips curled into a slight smile. "How unfortunate," she said, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. The wheelhouse hit a bump in the road, causing the ladies to grab their seats for stability.

"It's true what they say about her health," added Lady Alysanne Lefford, an older girl of eighteen. "My cousin at court says she spends more time in bed than at court functions."

"A proper queen should be strong," Cersei said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The dragon kings of old didn't wed frail women who couldn't leave their chambers."

The other ladies nodded in agreement, eager to align themselves with Cersei's opinion. The wheelhouse continued its journey as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. In the distance, dark clouds were gathering, promising rain for the evening.

"We should reach Harrenhal by tomorrow afternoon," announced Lady Lefford, peering through the curtains. "Look, you can see the God's Eye lake in the distance."

Indeed, when Cersei glanced out, she could see the massive lake's surface glinting like a mirror in the distance. Somewhere beyond it lay Harrenhal, the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, though also the most cursed, if the tales were to be believed.

"They say every great lord in the realm will be there," Melara continued excitedly. "Even the Starks are coming down from the North!"

"The Northerners," Cersei scoffed. "Savages who still worship trees."

"But they say the Lord Stark's daughter is a great beauty," Jeyne ventured, then immediately regretted it when Cersei's sharp green eyes fixed on her.

"Beauty?" Cersei laughed, a sound as beautiful as it was cruel. "What would those Northerners know of beauty? They probably think their sheep are beautiful too."

The other ladies tittered nervously at her jest, but Cersei had already lost interest in the conversation. Her mind wandered to Prince Rhaegar, with his silver-gold hair and deep indigo eyes. She remembered how he had looked at her during her visit to King's Landing years ago, before that Dornish woman had stolen what was rightfully hers.

The wheelhouse rocked gently as it continued its journey, and Cersei found herself wondering what her father's true purpose was in attending this tourney. Tywin Lannister did nothing without purpose, and she knew him well enough to know there must be some greater scheme at play.

As if reading her thoughts, Melara spoke up again. "Your lord father seems in good spirits about this journey, my lady. I haven't seen him so... determined since he was Hand of the King."

Cersei shot her a warning look, and Melara quickly fell silent. Her father's resignation as Hand was not a topic to be discussed so casually, especially not by the daughter of a minor house.

Outside, the first droplets of rain began to fall, pattering against the roof of the wheelhouse. The escort called for the oiled cloths to be drawn over the baggage, and the procession continued its slow progress toward Harrenhal.

"We should change into our finest gowns when we arrive," Lady Lefford suggested, clearly trying to change the subject. "First impressions are everything at such gatherings."

"Indeed," Cersei replied, her mind already on the gowns she had brought - each one carefully chosen to display both her beauty and her house's wealth. "Though some of us needn't try so hard to make an impression."

The other ladies exchanged knowing looks but said nothing. They all knew Cersei's beauty was legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms, rivaling even that of her mother, the late Lady Joanna.

As the rain grew heavier, the sound of it drumming against the wheelhouse roof filled the silence. Cersei found herself hoping the weather would clear by the time they reached Harrenhal. She had no intention of making her entrance in the rain like some common merchant's daughter.

The fields around them had given way to more wooded areas now, the trees casting long shadows in the fading light. Cersei could see their guards pulling their cloaks tighter against the rain, the red fabric darkening with moisture.

"We should probably stop soon," Lady Lefford observed. "It's getting dark, and these roads can be treacherous at night."

As if in response to her words, the wheelhouse began to slow, and they could hear the captain of their guard calling out orders. They would make camp for the night, and tomorrow they would arrive at Harrenhal, where Cersei would remind everyone exactly why House Lannister was the most powerful family in the Seven Kingdoms.

Cersei's thoughts drifted to her father's promise years ago, spoken in his solar at Casterly Rock. She could still remember the pride in his voice, the certainty with which he had declared her future.

"You will wed the prince, but don't tell anyone. It's our little secret."

Those words had sustained her through countless nights of dreams, imagining herself as Rhaegar's queen, wearing a crown of gold and diamonds, ruling the Seven Kingdoms at his side. But then came that terrible day - her mother's death, bringing that malformed creature into the world. The memory made her jaw clench. Not only did that creature kill her mother, but since her mother's death, her father was never the same.

'Tyrion,' she thought bitterly. 'The little monster who killed my mother.' Her fingers tightened on her dress as she imagined pushing him from the heights of Casterly Rock. 'They say dwarfs can fly. Perhaps I should help him discover his hidden talents.'

"Lady Cersei," Melara's voice cut through her dark musings, "does Ser Jaime plan to take a wife soon? Surely many ladies would be honored to wed such a gallant knight."

Cersei noticed the barely concealed hunger in Melara's eyes, mirrored in the faces of the other ladies in the wheelhouse. They all wanted her golden twin, dreaming of becoming the Lady of Casterly Rock. 'Stupid little fools,' she thought with contempt.

True, Jaime was handsome - they shared the same golden hair and emerald eyes, the same perfect features that marked them as Lannisters. But he was nothing compared to her silver prince. Where Jaime was all golden summer, Rhaegar was moonlight incarnate, with his silver-gold hair and eyes of deep indigo that seemed to hold all the sadness in the world.

A smirk played across her full lips as she thought of Jaime's true destiny. Her twin wanted to join the Kingsguard, and she had encouraged him in secret. Her father would be furious when he found out - his golden heir swearing away his claim to Casterly Rock. But Cersei saw the bigger picture. With Jaime in the Kingsguard, she would have eyes and ears in the Red Keep, someone wholly devoted to her interests.

'Poor Father,' she thought with satisfaction. 'For all your cleverness, you never saw this coming. Your precious heir will wear a white cloak instead of ruling the Rock.'

"My brother's marriage prospects are not a matter for discussion," she said coldly to Melara, watching the girl's face fall. "Though I'm sure he has more important matters on his mind than taking a wife."

Tomorrow

"Gods, this castle," Cersei muttered to herself, running her fingers over a black stone wall that still seemed to radiate the heat of dragon fire after nearly three centuries. The chamber was large - too large, really - with high vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadows above. Even the window was unnecessarily massive, as if built for giants rather than men.

She turned her attention to the array of gowns spread across the enormous bed: cloth-of-gold, crimson silk with golden embroidery, deep green to match her eyes, and Myrish lace in ivory that cost more than a knight's ransom. Each one had been chosen with careful consideration.

The door opened without warning, and Cersei didn't need to turn to know who it was. Only Jaime would dare enter her chamber so boldly.

"Have you seen him?" she asked, still examining her gowns.

"You should have seen Ser Arthur Dayne," Jaime said excitedly. "He was practicing in the yard with Ser Barristan. The way they moved - it was like a dance. Ser Arthur asked if I wanted to-"

Cersei turned slowly, fixing her twin with an icy stare that could have frozen the God's Eye solid. Jaime's voice trailed off.

"I asked about the Prince, not your precious knights," she said coldly.

"Oh. Yes, I saw him," Jaime replied, then winced slightly.

Cersei's eyes narrowed. She knew that look - the one he'd worn since childhood when he had news he didn't want to share. "What is it?"

"The King is here."

"What?" Cersei's voice was sharp. "That's impossible. Everyone said he wouldn't leave King's Landing. They said he was too... unwell."

"Well, he's here. Arrived with twenty gold cloaks and Ser Gerold Hightower. Father doesn't know yet - he's still on the road with the main party."

A small, cruel smile played across Cersei's lips. "How unfortunate for Father. He'll be so disappointed to miss the King's arrival."

"Cersei..." Jaime started, his tone cautionary.

"Don't start," she cut him off. "You didn't see his face when the King rejected me for that Dornish woman. All those years of promises..." She turned back to her gowns. "The green silk, I think. With the golden lions at the collar."

"You're still thinking about Rhaegar?" Jaime's voice had an edge to it. "He's married."

"For now," Cersei said dismissively. "That weak wife of his isn't even here. Too fragile to travel, they say. What kind of queen can't even attend a tourney?"

"The kind that gave birth to a princess," Jaime pointed out.

"A girl," Cersei scoffed. "And they say she nearly died doing even that much. No, a prince needs a strong wife. Someone who can give him proper heirs. Someone beautiful enough to stand beside him."

"Someone like you?" Jaime's voice was bitter now.

Cersei finally turned to face him fully. Her twin was beautiful in his crimson and gold doublet, his golden hair catching the light from the window. But his face was troubled.

"Have you spoken to Father about the Kingsguard?" she asked, changing the subject.

"No," Jaime replied, running a hand through his hair. "He'll never agree to it."

"He won't have a choice once it's done," Cersei said with satisfaction. "Just make sure you're ready when the moment comes."

A knock at the door interrupted them. "Lady Cersei?" a servant's voice called. "Lord Whent is hosting a welcome feast in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Your father's party has just arrived through the main gate."

"Tell them I'll be ready shortly," Cersei called back. She turned to Jaime. "You should go. I need to change."

"Cersei..." Jaime tried one more time.

"Go," she said firmly. "And remember what we discussed about the Kingsguard. Don't let Father suspect anything."

After Jaime left, Cersei began to dress with the help of her maids. The green silk gown fit perfectly, emphasizing her slender waist and full bosom. Gold lions with tiny emerald eyes clasped at her shoulders, and her golden hair was arranged in elaborate braids that would have made even a queen envious.

As she studied her reflection in the polished bronze mirror, she allowed herself to imagine how it should have been - herself as Rhaegar's bride, not that sickly Dornishwoman. But perhaps all was not lost. After all, the dragons of old had taken multiple wives.

"My lady," one of her maids said tentatively, "they say the feast is about to begin."

Cersei admired herself one final time in the polished bronze mirror. The gown was one of the most beautiful she had, made of the finest silk from Lys in a deep emerald that matched her eyes perfectly. The bodice was fitted tightly, emphasizing her small waist and full breasts, with golden thread work creating an intricate pattern of lions and vines that caught the light with every movement. The sleeves were tight to the elbow before flowing out in dramatic drapes that nearly touched the floor, lined with cloth-of-gold that flickered like flames when she moved.

The neckline was cut daringly low - but not so low as to appear common - and was adorned with tiny emeralds and diamonds set in gold. A golden belt studded with more emeralds hugged her hips, and the skirts fell in perfectly arranged folds that whispered against the floor as she walked. Her golden hair was arranged in an intricate series of braids that crowned her head like a diadem, with a few carefully arranged curls framing her face.

"You look radiant, my lady," her maid said as she adjusted the final fold of the skirt. "Though I doubt any lady could outshine Princess Elia tonight. She looks so beautiful in her Dornish silk, and so healthy too."

Cersei's hand froze where it had been adjusting a golden lion brooch. "Princess Elia is here?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "I had heard she was too... not doing well after giving birth to the Princess."

"Oh no, my lady. She's quite recovered. She's in the great hall now with Prince Rhaegar. They make such a handsome couple."

A sweet smile spread across Cersei's face, though her eyes remained cold as winter. "How wonderful that the princess is feeling better," she said, while internally seething. 'That Dornish whore should have stayed in her sickbed where she belongs. Probably had to be carried here on a litter like the weakling she is.'

"Is everything ready?" she asked sharply, turning to her maids.

"Yes, my lady."

"Help me with my cloak."

The maids hurried to fasten a crimson velvet cloak around her shoulders, secured with golden lion's head clasps. Cersei lifted her chin, adopting the regal bearing that came naturally to her. Let them all see what a true queen looked like. Let Rhaegar see what he could have had. And most importantly, let that Dornish woman see what real beauty was.

'You may have him now, Princess,' she thought as she prepared to make her entrance, 'but how long can a weak thing like you hope to keep him?'

.

.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths lived up to its ancient name, with dozens of fireplaces casting dancing shadows across the massive blackened walls. Hundreds of candles in golden sconces added their light, making the hall gleam like a dragon's treasury. The ceiling vanished into darkness far above, while long tables stretched in parallel lines across the floor, each groaning under platters of food and flagons of wine.

Cersei entered on Jaime's arm, their golden hair catching the light in identical waves. She felt the room's attention shift, heard the slight pause in conversations, and savored it like the finest Arbor gold. Lords of the Westerlands immediately raised their cups in salute - the Westerlings, the Marbrands, even the dour Lefford managed a smile for the golden twins of Casterly Rock.

"Lady Cersei grows more beautiful by the day," she heard Lord Lydden say to his companion, loud enough to carry.

'As if there was ever any doubt,' she thought, allowing a perfectly measured smile to grace her lips.

She noticed several Storm Lords - including bronze-haired Lord Swann and the massive Grandison - watching her with undisguised interest. Even young Robert Baratheon, that loud oaf from Storm's End, paused in his drinking to stare. Cersei noted their attention with satisfaction while appearing not to notice at all.

The ladies' reactions were even more delicious. Lady Mallister's face went sour as vinegar when her husband's eyes followed Cersei's progress. Young Lysa Tully, sitting with her more comely sister Catelyn, clutched her cup so tightly her knuckles went white. And the Reach girls - those famous beauties from Highgarden and Oldtown - suddenly seemed to find their plates fascinating.

'Look all you want at my brother,' Cersei thought with smug satisfaction, noting how many female eyes were drawn to Jaime. 'Soon he'll wear a white cloak, and none of you will have him.'

Her father sat at the high table, his face a mask of rigid control that Cersei knew well. The slight tightness around his eyes, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw - oh yes, Father was furious. She could imagine the scene: Tywin Lannister, forced to kneel before the king he'd served as Hand, while Aerys made him wait just long enough to make it an insult.

The thought nearly made her laugh.

Her eyes drifted to the Stark table, where the Northern lords sat in their wool and furs, looking as out of place as aurochs in a flower garden. She searched for this supposedly great beauty she'd heard whispered about, expecting to find some lumbering she-bear. When she finally spotted Lyanna Stark, Cersei almost scoffed aloud.

The girl was pretty enough, she supposed, in a wild sort of way - all long face and dark hair, with none of the refinement a true lady should possess. Yet lords from both North and South kept stealing glances at her, including, Cersei noted with irritation, several who should know better.

"Lady Stark seems to be drawing quite a crowd," Jaime murmured, reading her thoughts as he often did.

"Men are easily impressed by novelty," Cersei replied quietly. "Put a dress on a horse and apparently they'll call it a beauty."

They passed the Dornish contingent, where Princess Elia sat beside Prince Rhaegar. Cersei forced herself to look at the woman who had stolen her destiny. The Dornishwoman was wearing a gown of orange silk that made her sallow skin look even more sickly, or so Cersei told herself.

"My prince," Cersei said as they passed, dropping into a perfect curtsy. "Princess." She kept her voice sweet as honey, though the last word tasted like ash in her mouth.

Rhaegar nodded politely, but his eyes seemed distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. 'Not for long,' Cersei promised herself. 'Soon you'll have no choice but to notice me.'

"Shall we find our seats?" Jaime asked, steering her toward their assigned table.

"In a moment," Cersei said, her eyes scanning the hall. The King was mercifully absent - likely hiding in his chambers, nursing his paranoia. But the rest of the great houses were all here: the Tullys with their river lord bannermen, the Arryns perched as proud as their falcon sigil, the Tyrells dripping in jewels and silk, trying too hard as always to appear regal.

Lord Whent had arranged the seating with careful attention to rank and politics. The Lannisters were given a place of honor, though not quite as close to the high table as Cersei felt they deserved. As they made their way to their seats, she noted with satisfaction how conversations seemed to follow in their wake.

"Lady Cersei," called out Ashara Dayne as they passed. "You must tell me who made your gown. It's absolutely stunning."

"A dressmaker in Lannisport," Cersei replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Though I'm afraid she only serves certain houses." The subtle insult made Ashara's perfect face flutter with anger before smoothing over.

They finally reached their seats, Jaime pulling out her chair with practiced courtesy. From this vantage point, Cersei could observe most of the hall while appearing to focus on her meal. The servants were bringing out the first course - a soup of autumn vegetables that steamed in golden bowls.

"You're playing a dangerous game, sweet sister," Jaime whispered as he sat beside her.

"I'm playing to win," she replied, raising her wine cup to her lips. "That's the only game that matters."

The feast continued, course after course of rich food accompanied by rivers of wine. Cersei ate sparingly, aware that every eye in the hall might fall on her at any moment. She watched as Robert Baratheon grew louder with each cup of wine, as Prince Rhaegar occasionally leaned over to whisper something to his frail wife.

'Enjoy it while you can, Princess,' Cersei thought, sipping her wine. 'Your hold on him won't last forever.'

.

.

Cersei found herself surrounded by ladies of the Westerlands, all eager to bask in the attention of their liege lord's daughter. Lady Jeyne Marbrand, resplendent in crimson and silver, leaned forward conspiratorially.

"My lady, is it true that Prince Rhaegar plays his harp in the halls of the Red Keep?" she asked, her eyes shining with romantic notions.

"When I visited King's Landing," Cersei replied smoothly, "the Prince often played in the evening. His music could move even the hardest heart to tears." She didn't mention that her own visits had been painfully brief, or that she'd only heard him play twice.

Lady Alysanne Lefford chimed in, "They say he composes his own songs."

"Indeed," said Cersei, taking a delicate sip of wine. "Though some matters are too... delicate to discuss." She let the implication hang in the air, watching as the ladies exchanged excited glances, undoubtedly imagining songs written about forbidden love.

"The tourney will be magnificent," declared Lady Darlessa Marbrand. "Will you favor any particular knight, my lady?"

Cersei's smile was perfectly practiced. "We shall see who proves worthy," she said, though in her heart, she knew only one knight could ever be worthy of her favor.

The conversation shifted to the ladies of the Stormlands, who had gathered nearby. Lady Jeyne Swann approached with several others, their elaborate hairstyles and rich gowns marking them as southron nobles.

"Lady Cersei," Jeyne said warmly, though her eyes were calculating. "We were just discussing the upcoming feast days. Will you join us?"

"Of course," Cersei replied, noting how the Stormlanders positioned themselves to include her in their circle while subtly excluding the Westerlands ladies. A petty power play, but one she would remember.

"Robert Baratheon can't keep his eyes off the Stark girl," whispered Lady Selmy conspiratorially. "Lord Steffon will be pleased - an alliance with the North would be valuable."

"If he can catch her," added another with a laugh. "They say she rides like a centaur and fights like a knight."

'How barbaric,' Cersei thought, but she merely smiled. "How... unusual."

The conversation continued until Catelyn Tully approached, her younger sister trailing behind her like an unwanted shadow. Catelyn was beautiful in a common sort of way, with her auburn hair and blue eyes, but she lacked the presence of a true lady of high birth.

"Lady Cersei," Catelyn greeted her with perfect courtesy. "I hope you're enjoying the feast?"

"Quite," Cersei replied. She noticed how Lysa Tully stared at her with an unsettling intensity, her eyes slightly too wide, her manner somewhat unhinged. 'The gods were not kind to Lord Hoster in his second daughter,' she thought.

"My betrothed is just there," Catelyn said proudly, gesturing toward the Stark table. "Brandon, the heir to Winterfell."

Cersei followed her gaze to where three young men sat together. Brandon Stark was handsome enough, she supposed, in a wild Northern way - dark-haired and strong-featured, laughing loudly at something his brother had said. The second brother was quieter, his eyes fixed across the hall where Ashara Dayne sat with her Dornish companions.

'How predictable,' Cersei thought. 'Another wolf pup howling at the moon.'

"He is quite handsome," Cersei said diplomatically, though in her mind, she compared Brandon's rough-hewn features to Rhaegar's ethereal beauty. The Stark heir might as well have been a stable boy next to her silver prince.

"He hurt Petyr!" Lysa suddenly shrieked, causing several nearby conversations to stop abruptly.

Catelyn's face flushed red with mortification as she grabbed her sister's arm. "Lysa!" she hissed, shooting Cersei an apologetic look.

"Who is this Petyr?" Cersei asked, her voice dripping with false concern. She watched as Lysa's face transformed, her eyes lighting up at the mere mention of the boy's name.

"Petyr Baelish," Lysa said eagerly, while Catelyn's face tightened with discomfort. "He's the most wonderful, clever boy. His father is the Lord of the Fingers-"

"The Fingers?" Cersei interrupted, struggling to maintain her composure. She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing outright. The Fingers were nothing but a collection of rocky shoals, bare hills, and sheep droppings. 'His father's entire keep could probably fit in our servants' quarters at Casterly Rock.'

"Yes!" Lysa continued, oblivious to Cersei's barely concealed mockery. "He's so brave and gallant. He challenged Brandon for Cat's hand, even though Brandon was so much bigger."

"How... ambitious of him," Cersei said silkily. "It must be quite challenging to maintain knightly aspirations when one's ancestral seat could be mistaken for a particularly ambitious shepherd's hut. Though I suppose even the smallest of birds must sometimes dream of soaring with dragons."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed slightly at the veiled insult, but Lysa remained blissfully unaware, still lost in her praise of Petyr.

"He's going to be somebody important someday," Lysa insisted, her voice taking on that slightly hysterical edge again. "You'll see!"

"Lysa, that's enough," Catelyn said sharply, grabbing her sister's hand. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. "Please excuse us, Lady Cersei. My sister is... overtired."

"Of course," Cersei replied smoothly. "Do take care of her. It must be so difficult when one's emotions overwhelm one's... sense of propriety."

She watched with satisfaction as Catelyn practically dragged her protesting sister away from the table, Lysa still mumbling about Petyr's virtues. 'The mighty House Tully,' Cersei thought with amusement. 'One daughter moon-eyed over a Northern barbarian, the other pining for a peasant who probably has to count his coppers to buy new boots.'

She took another sip of wine, savoring both its taste and her own sense of superiority. This was proving to be an entertaining evening after all.

She turned her attention back to the high table, where Rhaegar sat in quiet conversation with his wife. Even from this distance, his beauty took her breath away. What did it matter if some Northern savage was considered handsome by his own kind? Cersei knew the difference between a wolf and a dragon.

"More wine, my lady?" a servant asked.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes still on Rhaegar. "And bring the Arbor gold this time. This evening calls for something... superior."

.

.

The musicians struck up a lively tune, and Cersei found herself passed from one lordling to another like a precious jewel. First came Stannis Baratheon, stiff as a board and grinding his teeth throughout their entire dance. 'This one wouldn't know joy if it struck him in the face,' she thought as she endured his wooden movements.

Next was Paxter Redwyne, who stared at her chest so obviously she considered having him flogged. The Riverland lords followed - Patrek Mallister at least knew the steps, though he sweated profusely, and young Edmure Tully was more interested in impressing his watching sisters than paying attention to his partner.

When Mace Tyrell approached, puffed up like a proud peacock, Cersei suppressed a sigh. The Lord of Highgarden moved with all the grace of a drunken aurochs, stepping on her toes twice while prattling on about the magnificent harvests of the Reach.

"My lady wife says the roses are particularly beautiful this year," he declared, as if discussing flowers was the height of sophisticated conversation.

"How fascinating," Cersei replied, her smile never wavering even as she thought, 'The roses might be the only intelligent life in Highgarden.'

But then, as if the Seven themselves had decided to reward her patience, she heard a soft, melodious voice behind her.

"My lady, might I have this dance?"

Cersei turned to find Prince Rhaegar standing there, resplendent in black and red, his silver-gold hair falling past his shoulders. Her heart nearly stopped.

"The honor would be mine, my prince," she replied, taking his offered hand. His touch sent shivers through her body - his fingers were long and elegant, a warrior's strength tempered by an artist's grace.

As they moved onto the dance floor, Cersei felt every eye in the hall upon them. Let them look. Let them all see how perfectly matched they were, silver and gold, dragon and lion.

"You dance beautifully, my lady," Rhaegar said as they moved through the steps of the dance.

"My septa always said that grace in dancing reflects grace in spirit, my prince," Cersei replied, her green eyes meeting his violet ones.

"And do you believe that?"

"I believe that true grace comes from strength," she said carefully. "Like the grace of a lion before it strikes, or..." she paused meaningfully, "a dragon in flight."

A small smile touched Rhaegar's lips. "You have your father's wit, Lady Cersei."

"And his ambition," she added boldly, watching his reaction.

"Indeed?" Rhaegar's eyes seemed to look through her, into her very soul. "And what does the daughter of Casterly Rock ambition for?"

"Greatness," she replied without hesitation. "To be more than just another lady in a castle, hosting feasts and bearing children. To make history remember my name."

"A dangerous ambition in these times," he said softly, but she detected interest in his voice.

"These are dangerous times, my prince. Perhaps they require dangerous ambitions."

They turned together, their movements perfectly synchronized. Cersei could see Princess Elia watching them, her face carefully composed, but there was worry in her dark eyes. 'Good,' Cersei thought. 'Let her worry.'

"Tell me, my prince," Cersei continued, "do you not tire of the same conversations at every feast? The same empty courtesies, the same tedious discussions of weather and harvests?"

"You suggest there are more interesting topics?"

"I suggest that a prince who reads ancient scrolls and composes songs that make hardened warriors weep might occasionally wish for conversation that challenges his mind."

Rhaegar's eyes sharpened with interest. "You know of my studies?"

"I make it my business to know what matters, my prince. The prophecies, the legends, the songs of ice and fire - they're all pieces of a greater mystery, are they not?"

For the first time, she saw real animation in his usually melancholic features. "You've read the ancient texts?"

"As many as I could find in Casterly Rock's library. Though I suspect the Red Keep's collection is far more... comprehensive."

The dance was ending, but Rhaegar seemed reluctant to let go of her hand. "Perhaps we might continue this conversation another time, Lady Cersei. Your insights are... intriguing."

"I am at your service, my prince," she replied, dropping into a perfect curtsy. As she rose, she met his eyes one last time. "Always."

She watched him return to the high table, her heart racing beneath her composed exterior. She had done it - captured his attention, shown him she was more than just a pretty face. Let his sickly wife arrange flowers and embroider handkerchiefs; Cersei could match Rhaegar in matters of real importance.

'Soon,' she promised herself, accepting a cup of wine from a passing servant. 'Soon you'll see that I am the only one worthy of you, my prince. The only one strong enough to help you achieve your destiny.'

The hall fell silent as Rhaegar took up his silver-stringed harp. Even the serving maids stopped their work, entranced as the first notes filled the air. When his voice joined the melody, Cersei felt her heart might burst.

He sang of Jenny of Oldstones, of her ghost dancing with her prince. Cersei watched as tears rolled down countless cheeks - even the wild Stark girl was weeping openly. 'Foolish child,' Cersei thought, noting how Lyanna tried to hide her tears from her brothers. 'As if a northern savage could truly appreciate such beauty.'

But Cersei didn't cry. She sat perfectly still, letting the music wash over her like waves against the shores of Casterly Rock. This was what it meant to be royal - not just to rule, but to move people's very souls.

The next day, she found him in the castle's library, surrounded by dusty tomes.

"My prince," she said softly, making sure to seem surprised at finding him there. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

Rhaegar looked up, his indigo eyes brightening with recognition. "Lady Cersei. Not at all. I was just reading about the Doom of Valyria."

She moved closer, noting which books lay open before him. "The signs and portents that preceded it? Fascinating. I've always wondered about the connection between the Fourteen Flames and the dragons themselves."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You've studied the Doom?"

"What better way to understand the rise of House Targaryen than to understand what they rose from?" She picked up one of the books. "Though I find the accounts of Daenys the Dreamer particularly intriguing."

"The prophetic dreams," he said, leaning forward. "Yes, they're crucial to understanding..."

They spent hours discussing ancient prophecies and dragon lore. Cersei made sure to ask just the right questions, to show genuine interest in his theories while maintaining an air of mystery herself.

Three days later, she encountered him in the godswood, where he often went to think.

"The old gods seem to speak to you," she observed, approaching quietly.

"Perhaps they do," he replied, not turning from the heart tree. "Though their words are often unclear."

"Like prophecies," she said, moving to stand beside him. "Sometimes what seems obvious at first glance holds deeper meaning."

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and Cersei felt her pulse quicken.

"You understand," he said softly.

"More than you know," she replied.

Their conversations continued throughout the week. She found him practicing swordplay early one morning, his movements as graceful as his music.

"The warrior prince," she said, watching from the shadows of the practice yard.

"Would you prefer the scholar?" he asked, lowering his blade.

"Why choose?" she countered. "The greatest kings were both. Aegon the Conqueror was as comfortable with a book as with Blackfyre."

His smile then was different - warmer, more genuine than his usual melancholic expression.

Five days after the feast, she found him atop the highest tower, watching the sunset.

"Gold and crimson," she said, joining him. "Like the banners of my house."

"And blood and fire, like mine," he added, watching the clouds burn.

"Perhaps the gods themselves approve of such a combination," she suggested carefully.

His silence spoke volumes.

On the seventh day, she discovered him in an abandoned part of the castle, where old tapestries gathered dust and forgotten statues stood sentinel.

"Do you believe in fate, my prince?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I believe in prophecy," he replied, turning to face her. "In destiny."

"And what does destiny tell you now?"

He moved closer, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light filtering through the high windows. "That some songs must be sung, no matter the cost."

"And some attractions cannot be denied," she added, her heart pounding.

When he kissed her, it was everything she had dreamed of and more. His lips were soft but insistent, his hands gentle as they cupped her face.

"My prince," she breathed when they finally parted.

"Cersei," he said, and her name on his lips was sweeter than any song.

But even as she reveled in her triumph, she saw that familiar distance in his eyes - that look that suggested he was seeing beyond her, beyond this moment, to some greater purpose.

"What troubles you?" she asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"The dragon must have three heads,"

.

.

The crown of winter roses fell into Cersei's lap. The crowd fell silent, then erupted in cheers - all except the Dornish contingent, who watched with barely concealed fury as Rhaegar named another woman his Queen of Love and Beauty while Princess Elia sat with their daughter.

That night, in a secluded tower where even the spiders couldn't reach, Cersei gave herself to her silver prince. His touches were gentle, his kisses fierce, and when it was over, she felt complete.

"The dragon must have three heads," he whispered against her hair. "And you, my golden lioness, will help bring the third one into the world."

But their dream shattered like glass against stone when Prince Rhaegar returned to King's Landing one month later. The King's paranoia had reached new heights, his ravings about traitors growing more frequent and violent.

"The Starks," Aerys spat during a small council meeting, his long yellowed nails scratching the wooden table. "Always the Starks. For thousands of years, they kept to themselves, and now suddenly they reach south?"

Rhaegar tried to reason with him. "Father, these marriages are natural alliances-"

"Natural?" Aerys screeched. "Was it natural when the Blackfyres gathered supporters through marriage? When the Dance of Dragons tore the realm apart because of who married whom?"

Varys stepped forward, his soft slippers making no sound on the stone floor. "Your Grace, I have troubling news. There were discussions between Houses Tully and Lannister regarding a match between Lysa Tully and Jaime Lannister, before he joined the Kingsguard."

"You see?" Aerys's eyes bulged. "They planned to encircle us! Stark, Tully, Baratheon, Lannister - all united against the dragon!"

"Your Grace," Pycelle intervened, his chain clinking. "Perhaps we should-"

"Silence!" Aerys rose, his shadow dancing grotesquely in the torchlight. "I want Rickard Stark here. Now. Let him answer for his treachery!"

When Lord Stark arrived three weeks later, he found no welcome party, no honored guest chambers. Instead, he and his guards were seized immediately. Rhaegar was away at Dragonstone when it happened, having been sent there by his father on some pretense.

The throne room was packed that fateful day. Lords and ladies watched in horror as Aerys accused Rickard Stark of treason. The evidence was nonsensical - marriage alliances twisted into conspiracy, ancient Northern independence painted as current rebellion.

"Your Grace," Stark said, his voice steady even in chains. "I have served the throne faithfully-"

"Lies!" Aerys shrieked. "You plot with the Storm Lord and the Trout! Your son marries south, your daughter marries south - you reach for a crown!"

"I reach for nothing but peace and prosperity for the realm," Stark replied.

"Then let fire judge the truth of your words," Aerys smiled, and that smile sent chills through the court.

When they brought in the wildfire, they all watched from behind a pillar as they suspended Lord Stark above the green flames, as his screams echoed through the hall. The smell of burning flesh would haunt everyone's dreams for years to come.

But it was what came after that truly began the war. Aerys, drunk on power and madness, demanded more heads for his collection.

"Bring me Brandon Stark!" he commanded. "Bring me Robert Baratheon! Bring me Hoster Tully! Let them all burn!"

The ravens flew out that very night, carrying demands that would set the realm ablaze. In his chambers, Varys watched the birds take wing and whispered, "The fire rises."

In Dragonstone, Rhaegar received the news with horror. His message to Cersei was brief but clear: "Everything has changed. The song must be different now."

Cersei read his words and felt her world crumbling. She knew what war meant - her father had taught her well. The realm would bleed, and all their dreams of destiny might burn as surely as Rickard Stark had burned.

Within days, ravens returned - not with heads, but with declarations of war. Jon Arryn raised his banners first, refusing to hand over his ward Robert Baratheon. The North rose in fury, Brandon Stark calling his father's banners while simultaneously strengthening his ties to Riverrun. The Storm Lords rallied to Robert's cause, their fury stoked by both Stark's death and the threat to their lord.

And in King's Landing, Aerys descended further into madness, seeing traitors in every shadow. He ordered the City Watch doubled, demanded that every raven be intercepted, and began storing wildfire throughout the city.

"Let them come," he muttered, staring at the Iron Throne. "Let them all come. We'll burn them all."

The moon rose over King's Landing, casting long shadows through the windows of the Red Keep. Somewhere in those shadows, Varys's little birds carried whispers of war. In the throne room, Aerys muttered to himself, seeing enemies in every corner. And in her chambers in Casterly Rock, Cersei Lannister placed a hand over her belly and prayed - not to the Seven, but to destiny itself.

The realm would burn, but from its ashes, something new would rise. She had to believe that.

Tywin Lannister - 14 Months Later

The chamber door flew open with such force that it made the servants jump. Tywin Lannister's towering presence filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor like a dark omen.

"Father, please," Cersei's voice cracked. "Please, just listen-"

Tywin's boots echoed against the stone floor as he approached the huddled servants. His eyes, cold as winter, fixed on the bundle of blankets. Without a word, he snatched the child from the trembling servant's arms.

"No!" Cersei lunged forward, but the guards held her back. "Father, I beg you!"

The baby's crying ceased as Tywin held him up, studying him like he might examine a curious artifact. Those eyes - Lannister green, but the hair... that damning mixture of silver and gold that could only come from one source.

"How long?" Tywin's voice was quiet, which made it all the more terrifying.

"Father-"

"How. Long?"

Cersei's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Since Harrenhal. We were married in secret, before the old gods and new. He is trueborn, Father. His name is Daenor Targaryen."

"Targaryen," Tywin repeated the name like it was poison. "The same Targaryens that Robert Baratheon is systematically destroying? The same Targaryens whose prince lies dead in the Trident, his rubies scattered in the water? The same Targaryens who are not dead only because of Jon Arryn's mercy."

The baby reached up, tiny fingers grasping at air. For a moment, something flickered in Tywin's eyes - perhaps remembrance of holding his own children, once upon a time.

"Robert will kill him," Cersei said, her voice breaking. "Like he means to kill Rhaegar's other children. Please, Father. He's your grandson."

"My grandson?" Tywin turned, his voice sharp. "My grandson would be the heir to Casterly Rock, not a dragon's bastard-"

"He's not a bastard!" Cersei wrenched free from the guards. "We were married! Rhaegar legitimized him! He's a prince of the blood!"

"A dead prince's son," Tywin corrected coldly. "Do you know what Robert does to Targaryen children, Cersei? What he's likely doing to Rhaegar's other children even now? Jon Arryn is the only thing keeping Rhaenys Targaryen from becoming a pool of blood."

Cersei went pale. "Father... he's innocent. He's your blood."

Tywin looked down at the child again. The boy had stopped crying completely now, looking up at his grandfather with curious eyes. There was intelligence in that gaze, a quiet observation that reminded Tywin painfully of Joanna.

"Leave us," he commanded the guards and servants. "All of you."

When they were alone, Cersei approached cautiously, like one might approach a lion with prey in its jaws. "Father..."

"Do you know what Aerys did?" Tywin's voice was distant, as if speaking from memory. "When I offered you as a bride for Rhaegar? He laughed. Said my servant was not fit to marry his son."

"And now his son's blood runs in your grandson's veins," Cersei said softly. "The grandson of both lion and dragon."

Tywin's jaw clenched. "A grandson who will never sit the Iron Throne. Never rule the Seven Kingdoms. Never even acknowledge his father's name, if he wishes to live, but who knows...in the future...he might be useful."

Hope flickered in Cersei's eyes. "Then... you won't..."

"The child will live," Tywin decided, his voice hard. "But Daenor Targaryen does not exist, at least for now. This is Adrian Lannister, my bastard son from a serving girl who died in childbirth."

Cersei's eyes widened. "Father?"

"The timing fits. The war has kept me away from Casterly Rock long enough that few would question it. The hair can be explained away - the serving girl could have been of Lysene descent."

"You would claim him as your own?"

"Better a lion's bastard than a dragon's trueborn in these times," Tywin said grimly. "He will be raised at Casterly Rock, far from King's Landing and Robert's wrath. You will not acknowledge him as yours. Ever. Do you understand?"

Tears rolled down Cersei's cheeks as she nodded. "I understand."

"The servants who know?"

"They're loyal to me, Father. They've kept the secret this long."

"They'll be taken care of," Tywin declared. "All of them. Better than one of them saying the wrong thing."

Cersei flinched but didn't argue.

"And you," Tywin continued, "will marry Robert Baratheon. You will be queen, as you always wanted. But not as a dragon's wife - as a stag's."

"What about Lyanna Stark, wasn't she supposed to marry him?" Cersei questioned, remembering words from the Tourney that she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon.

"I don't know what happened, but the betrothal is broken between them. Robert will have to marry someone, and who better than the daughter of the most powerful house in Westeros. The septon who married you and Rhaegar. I will find him, let's hope he didn't tell anyone that he married the two of you."

"Yes, Father," Cersei whispered, her eyes fixed on her son, still cradled in Tywin's arms.

The baby made a small sound, almost like a laugh, and grabbed at Tywin's finger. For a brief moment, something that might have been tenderness crossed the Lord of Casterly Rock's face.

"He has the Lannister eyes," Tywin observed. "Like your mother's."

"Like mine," Cersei added softly. "And like his will be the only ones to know the truth."

Tywin nodded once, his decision made. "Have the wet nurse ready him for travel. We leave for Casterly Rock tonight."

As Cersei moved to take her son one last time, to say goodbye to the prince who would become a bastard, Tywin added: "The gods play strange games, daughter. Aerys refused to let his son marry my daughter. Now his son's son will be raised as mine."

"A lion wearing a dragon's skin," Cersei murmured, kissing her baby's forehead.

"No," Tywin corrected. "Just a lion. The dragon in him must die here, tonight. For his own sake."

As Tywin watched his daughter say goodbye to her son, he wondered if this was the gods' justice or their jest. Either way, he would turn it to House Lannister's advantage. He always did.

Chapter Text

Tywin stood at his desk, his fingers ghosting over the infant's wispy white-gold hair. The babe slept peacefully, unaware of what was happening around him. Afternoon light filtered through the high windows of the solar, catching the unusual sheen of the child's hair - neither fully Lannister gold nor Targaryen silver, but something between.

'The gods mock me,' Tywin thought, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The memory of last month's orders came to him - Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were sent to handle Elia and her children. He hadn't ordered Elia's rape and death specifically, but Clegane's brutality had served its purpose. But one of them had escaped his grasp. Rhaenys Targaryen. The girl was still alive, and from what Tywin had heard, Jon Arryn was the one making sure she would continue living. 

And now here lay another dragon spawn, though this one bore the blood of the lion.

The heavy oak door creaked open, and three wet nurses entered. Behind them came four Lannister guardsmen - men Tywin had known since they were boys, men whose loyalty he'd bought and tested a hundred times over. Captain Daven's hand never left his sword hilt as he took position by the door.

Tywin's cold green eyes swept over the wet nurses. "Who else knows?"

The youngest - barely more than a girl - trembled visibly. "No one, m'lord. We swear it."

"Not even your families?" Tywin's voice was soft, almost gentle, which somehow made it more terrifying.

All three shook their heads frantically, eyes wide with fear. The eldest wet nurse, a woman with grey streaking her brown hair, spoke up. "We know better than to gossip about the affairs of House Lannister, m'lord."

Tywin's boots clicked against the stone as he moved to his desk. He retrieved three small pouches, the soft clink of gold audible in the tense silence.

"Your silence will be rewarded," he said, holding out the pouches. When the women reached for them, his grip remained firm for a moment. "But understand this - if I hear so much as a whisper about what you've seen..." His eyes flicked to the guard captain. "Your flesh and bones will part ways."

The women clutched their pouches, faces pale. The youngest looked ready to faint.

"Captain," Tywin nodded slightly.

Daven moved forward, his armor creaking. "Come along, then." He gripped the youngest nurse's arm while his men handled the others. The women didn't resist as they were led out, though the eldest cast one last worried glance at the sleeping babe.

As the door closed, Tywin moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back. "Send for my brother," he commanded the remaining guard, who hurried to obey.

Tywin watched the courtyard below, where servants scurried about their duties like ants. Five minutes passed before he heard the familiar stride of Kevan Lannister entering the solar.

"Brother," Kevan's voice was warm but cautious - he'd learned long ago to read Tywin's moods. "You wanted to..." He trailed off as he noticed the infant. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Tywin, why is there a babe in your solar?"

Tywin turned, his face impassive. "He's mine."

Kevan's eyes widened slightly. "Yours?"

"My bastard son," Tywin clarified, watching his brother's reaction carefully.

Kevan's mouth opened, then closed. He took a moment to compose himself before speaking. "Forgive me, brother, but... why? This seems unlike you."

"Does it?" Tywin moved to stand over the sleeping child. "Tell me, brother - do you truly believe I would ever allow Casterly Rock to pass to that..." his lip curled slightly, "...creature that killed Joanna?"

Understanding dawned in Kevan's eyes, but he spoke carefully. "Jaime is still your heir. Unless..." He studied his brother's face. "Has he said something?"

"He means to continue playing at being Kingsguard," Tywin's voice held carefully controlled contempt. "I talked with him but he is dead set on staying as a Kingsguard, he told me he wants to make up for what he did for killing Aerys."

Kevan stepped closer, examining the infant. The babe stirred slightly but didn't wake. "People will talk, Tywin. A bastard appearing suddenly, at your age..."

"Let them talk," Tywin waved a hand dismissively. "In two months' time, Cersei will wed Robert Baratheon. Once she's queen..." A cold smile touched his lips. "Well, what better gift for your new father than legitimizing his bastard son, Adrian."

"Adrian Lannister," Kevan said thoughtfully. "That's what you'll call him?"

"A proper Western name," Tywin nodded. "Nothing too grand, nothing to draw unnecessary attention."

Kevan was silent for a long moment, studying his brother. "And the mother?"

"A servant girl. Lysene descent, hence the unusual hair. She died in childbirth, naturally." Tywin's tone made it clear this was the official story, not to be questioned.

"Of course," Kevan nodded, then hesitated. "Brother... are you certain about this? A bastard, even a legitimized one..."

"Is better than a dwarf," Tywin cut him off sharply. "The boy has Lannister blood. He'll be raised properly, educated well. In time, people will forget he was ever a bastard at all." He turned to face his brother fully. "I trust I can count on your support in this matter?"

Kevan met his brother's gaze steadily. "Always, Tywin. You know that." He glanced at the child again. "Though I hope you've considered what this might mean for House Lannister's future. The realm has seen enough war over succession."

"The realm has seen enough of many things," Tywin replied cryptically. "Which is why we must adapt. The game never truly ends, brother. The pieces simply move to different positions."

The babe chose that moment to wake, blinking up at the two men with startlingly green eyes - Lannister eyes. He made no sound, simply watched them with an unsettling intelligence.

"Well," Kevan said softly, "he certainly has the look of a lion."

"Indeed," Tywin agreed, his expression unreadable. "And that's all anyone ever needs to know."

.

.

The autumn sun beat down mercilessly as the Lannister procession approached King's Landing. Tywin sat astride his white charger, wearing a crimson cloak with gold threading catching the light, his polished armor gleaming. His face remained impassive despite the heat, green eyes fixed on the city walls ahead.

The wet nurse, Serra, had proven herself worth every golden dragon. She sat quietly in the enclosed carriage, tending to Adrian with a competence that satisfied Tywin's exacting standards. "The babe hardly makes a sound, m'lord," she'd reported that morning, her eyes downcast respectfully. "Sleeps through the night, too. Strong little thing."

Tywin had merely nodded, though privately he was pleased. Even as an infant, the boy showed more promise than the creature that had killed Joanna.

As they approached the city gates, the crowds parted like a tide before them. Tywin observed their reactions with cold satisfaction - the way mothers clutched their children closer, how men lowered their eyes and shuffled backward. Some still bore bandages from the sacking three months past. The memory was fresh; the fear was in the air like a dark cloud.

"They remember," Kevan remarked quietly from beside him, his bay stallion matching pace with Tywin's mount.

"Good," Tywin replied simply. Let them remember. Fear was a far more reliable tool than love.

Behind them rode their escort - thirty of House Lannister's finest. Among them rode Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, his massive form making other men look like children in comparison. His presence alone was enough to make the smallfolk retreat further.

The enclosed carriage followed, its crimson curtains drawn against both sun and prying eyes. Tywin had positioned four trusted guards around it, their hands never far from their sword hilts. The wet nurse knew her instructions - keep the boy quiet, keep him hidden, speak to no one.

As they passed through the city, Tywin noted the signs of recent violence still visible despite hasty repairs - scorched buildings, newly replaced doors, fresh mortar between stones. The sound of hammers rang out as workers rushed to prepare the city for the upcoming royal wedding.

When they finally reached the Red Keep's gates, they passed through and entered the main courtyard; Tywin spotted Cersei waiting in the courtyard. She wore a gown of deep crimson silk with golden embroidery, her hair arranged in an elaborate southern style - already playing the part of queen. But Tywin saw what others might miss - the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted toward the carriage before quickly looking away.

'Foolish girl,' he thought, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. 'Still thinking with her heart instead of her head.'

He dismounted, his boots meeting the cobblestones with a decisive click. Stable boys rushed forward to take the horses, bowing deeply and avoiding eye contact.

"Father," Cersei stepped forward, executing a perfect curtsy. Her voice was steady, but Tywin caught the slight tremor in her hands as she smoothed her skirts. "We've been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

"Daughter," he replied coolly. Her eyes flickered again toward the carriage, and anger flared in his chest.

"Is..." she began quietly. "Is he in the carriage?"

Tywin's green eyes bored into hers. "Follow me," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "We have matters to discuss."

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the keep's entrance. His crimson cloak billowed behind him as he walked, and the sound of Cersei's slippered feet told him she followed obediently.

"Kevan," he called over his shoulder, "see to the arrangements we discussed."

His brother nodded, understanding the command. The carriage and its precious cargo would be taken to the secured chambers Tywin had arranged in advance, far from prying eyes - and far from Cersei's reach.

As they entered the cool darkness of the keep, Tywin noticed how the servants scattered before them, pressing themselves against walls or ducking into side passages. Even here, in the heart of Robert's new kingdom, the Lannisters commanded fear and respect.

"Father," Cersei tried again once they were alone in a corridor, "surely I could just-"

Tywin turned so suddenly that she nearly walked into him. "Surely you could what?" he asked, his voice soft but dangerous and hushed. "Compromise everything we've worked for? Risk your crown for sentiment?"

Cersei's face paled, but she held her ground. "He's my-"

"He is my bastard son," Tywin cut her off sharply, still talking with a hushed tone. "That is what everyone must believe. That is what you must believe, if you wish to be queen." He stepped closer, towering over her. "Or shall I tell Robert Baratheon what really happened at Harrenhal? Shall I tell him whose blood truly runs in the boy's veins?"

Cersei's green eyes - so like his own - filled with tears she refused to let fall. "No, Father."

"Then we understand each other." He straightened, adjusting his sword belt. "You will be queen. The boy will be legitimized as my son. And you will never - never - give anyone cause to question either of those facts." His eyes narrowed. "Am I clear?"

"Yes, Father," she whispered, her face a mask of composed grief.

"Good." He turned to continue down the corridor. "Now, tell me about the wedding preparations. I trust everything is being handled according to our station?"

As Cersei began reciting details about seamstresses and ceremonies, Tywin allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Soon, his daughter would be queen, his grandson would be secured as a legitimate Lannister, and House Lannister would have everything it deserved.

And if he had to break his daughter's heart to achieve it? Well, that was a small price to pay for legacy.

.

.

Tywin's footsteps echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep. Serra followed at a careful distance, and Adrian bundled securely in her arms. The column of Lannister soldiers behind them followed, their armor creating a rhythmic symphony of metal against stone.

The massive doors to the throne room groaned open at the hands of Baratheon guards. Tywin's stride didn't falter, though, for a moment, his mind conjured the image of Aerys perched atop the Iron Throne, fingernails long as daggers, eyes wild with madness. But reality quickly reasserted itself - Robert Baratheon was the one sitting in the Iron Throne.

Robert sat with one leg thrown carelessly over an armrest, his famous warhammer leaning against the throne's side. At seven and a half feet tall, with shoulders like a bull and arms corded with muscle, he cut an imposing figure - though his partial state of dishevelment, with his beard untrimmed and doublet slightly askew, somewhat undermined the regal image.

Jaime stood at his post in his white cloak, his face carefully neutral, though his eyes tracked his father. Tywin ignored him completely.

"Lord Tywin," Robert's voice boomed across the chamber. "Welcome to King's Landing." His tone suggested he found some private humor in those words, given recent history.

Tywin executed a precise bow, neither too deep nor too shallow. "My soon-to-be king," he replied smoothly. "I trust you find the capital... secure under your authority?"

Robert's blue eyes flickered with something - anger? amusement? - before he forced a smile. "Aye, secure enough, thanks to your... timely intervention during the rebellion."

"House Lannister lives to serve the realm," Tywin said. "And soon our houses will be joined. The realm will know centuries of peace under Baratheon and Lannister rule."

Robert's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the marriage, his knuckles whitening slightly on the throne's armrest. Tywin noted these details with cold satisfaction - the man's displeasure meant little so long as he did his duty.

Jon Arryn stepped forward then, his lined face grave. Despite his sixty-five years, he stood straight as a spear, his grey-streaked hair and beard neatly trimmed. His pale blue eyes fixed on Serra and her burden with obvious suspicion.

"Lord Tywin," Jon's voice was measured, diplomatic. "Who is this you've brought to court?"

Tywin gave a subtle signal, and his soldiers filed out of the throne room. Kevan caught his eye briefly before following them, understanding passing between the brothers without a word. Soon, only Serra remained, clutching Adrian protectively to her chest.

Tywin approached the wet nurse. He took the child from her arms, his movements surprisingly gentle for hands that had ordered so much violence. With precise care, he pulled back the blankets covering the babe's face.

"This," Tywin announced, his voice carrying clearly through the throne room, "is Adrian Hill. My son."

Jon Arryn's eyebrows shot up, his mouth falling slightly open. Robert stared hard at Tywin for a long moment before an explosive laugh burst from his chest.

"GODS!" Robert roared, slapping his thigh. "Tywin Lannister has a bastard!" His laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling, making Serra flinch. "The great Lord Tywin - strict, proper, Tywin - couldn't keep his cock in his breeches!" He doubled over, great guffaws shaking his massive frame.

Tywin's face remained impassive, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. He waited with rigid dignity as Robert's mirth slowly subsided.

Still chuckling, Robert descended the throne's steps, each footfall heavy on the metal. He moved with surprising speed for such a large man, crossing the distance to Tywin in long strides. His blue eyes, sharp despite his apparent joviality, studied the infant's face.

"Who's the mother then?" Robert asked, reaching out one massive finger to touch Adrian's cheek. "Must have been something special to catch the great lion's eye."

"A servant girl of Lysene descent," Tywin replied smoothly. "Hence his coloring. She died in childbed."

"Convenient," Jon Arryn murmured, though not quite quietly enough to go unheard.

Robert either didn't hear or chose to ignore his foster father's comment. He was still studying Adrian, his expression now thoughtful. "Brings him to court though, doesn't he? Not hiding him away in some remote keep." He looked up at Tywin, a knowing glint in his eye. "Why is that, Lord Tywin?"

Tywin met his gaze steadily. "I would ask a boon of you, my lord, when you become King. I would have the boy legitimized as Adrian Lannister."

"Legitimized?" Jon stepped forward, frowning. "Your heir is Ser Jaime, is he not?"

"My son seems determined to continue his service in the Kingsguard," Tywin replied, his tone making it clear what he thought of that choice. "And I will not have a dwarf inherit Casterly Rock."

Robert's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "So that's the way of it, is it?" He glanced at the throne, then back at Tywin. "You want me to make your bastard legitimate. And in return?"

"In return, you shall have the wealthiest, most powerful house in Westeros as your steadfast allies. My daughter as your queen. And peace throughout the realm."

"Peace," Robert repeated, his voice suddenly bitter. "Peace bought with Lannister gold and Lannister swords." His massive hands clenched into fists, then slowly relaxed. "And what of justice?"

"Justice was served," Tywin said coldly. "The Targaryens are dead or fled. You will sit the Iron Throne. The realm will heal and prosper under your rule."

Robert's face darkened for a moment before he barked out another laugh, this one shorter and sharper than before. "Gods, but you're a cold bastard, Tywin." He reached out and clapped Tywin on the shoulder, hard enough to make a lesser man stagger. "Very well. When I'm crowned, the boy will be legitimized. Adrian Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock." He grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Consider it a wedding gift to my beloved goodfather."

Jon Arryn's face was troubled, but he said nothing. What could he say? The deal was struck, the pieces were in place. Tywin had won another round in the great game.

"My thanks, my lord," Tywin said, inclining his head slightly. "The realm will not forget your generosity."

As Serra took Adrian back into her arms, Tywin allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. Let Robert laugh. Let Jon Arryn suspect. None of it mattered.

.

.

Tywin entered his chambers, his boots silent on the thick Myrish carpets.

"Five men at Serra's door," he ordered the guards. "No one enters without my permission. If anything happens to the child, your families will beg for death." His cold green eyes swept over them. "Understood?"

The men saluted, armor clinking as they hurried to obey. Tywin had just settled behind his desk, reaching for reports from Casterly Rock, when a commotion erupted outside.

"Ser Jaime, your father hasn't-" came a guard's protest.

The heavy oak door burst open, slamming against the stone wall. Jaime Lannister strode in, his white cloak billowing behind him, golden hair disheveled as if he'd rushed here. His hand rested on his sword hilt, and his green eyes - so like Joanna's - blazed with anger.

"Ah, Ser Jaime," Tywin said without looking up from his papers, his tone suggesting he was addressing a distant acquaintance rather than his firstborn son. "I see the Kingsguard's discipline continues to deteriorate."

"Who is the child?" Jaime demanded.

Tywin's quill scratched against parchment for several long moments before he deigned to respond. "I see your memory for court gossip is as sharp as ever, though your understanding of basic courtesy seems to have dulled." He finally looked up, his face a mask of cold disdain. "Tell me, can you recite all the rules of knighthood but not comprehend simple rumors? The boy is your half-brother."

Jaime's face went through a series of emotions - shock, confusion, disbelief. His hand dropped from his sword hilt as if he'd forgotten it was there. "When?" he managed finally. "How?"

"I believe you understand the mechanics well enough," Tywin replied drily. "A servant girl of Lysene blood, some nine months ago. She died in childbed."

"This isn't like you," Jaime said, taking a step forward. His white armor creaked slightly. "Why?"

Tywin set down his quill before addressing his firstborn son. "Since you seem determined to play at being a glorified bodyguard rather than fulfill your duties as heir to Casterly Rock, I required another son. One who might actually understand the responsibilities of his position."

Color rose on Jaime's face. "You still have a son! Tyrion-"

"That creature is no son of mine," Tywin cut him off, his voice suddenly sharp as Valyrian steel.

"He is your blood!" Jaime's fist slammed down on Tywin's desk, rattling the inkwell. "Your son! My brother!"

"And you are my son, yet here you stand in that white cloak, forsaking your duty to your house." Tywin rose slowly from his chair, his height allowing him to look down at Jaime despite the desk between them. "Do not presume to lecture me about family obligations when you abandoned yours at the first opportunity."

Jaime's jaw worked silently for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less intense. "You didn't need to go that far."

They both knew he wasn't talking about Adrian anymore.

"Didn't I?" Tywin's voice was soft, dangerous. "Tell me, Ser Jaime, what would you have had me do? Leave the dragons alive to threaten Robert's reign? Leave loose ends that could unravel everything we've built?" His lip curled slightly. "You may have forgotten what it means to be a Lannister, but I have not. That girl is lucky to be alive, and only because Jon Arryn is saying that as a girl, she has no right to the Throne, and this is somewhat calming Robert."

"Not like that," Jaime's voice cracked slightly. "Gods, Father, not like that. Clegane... what he did to Elia and Aegon, what he almost..."

"War is ugly," Tywin said dismissively. "Death rarely comes as cleanly as songs would have us believe. But it comes all the same, and House Lannister must think of the future." His eyes bored into Jaime's. "Something you seem incapable of doing."

Jaime stood there, chest heaving slightly, his face a storm of emotions. For a moment, he looked like the boy Tywin remembered years ago when Joanna had been alive when everything made sense.

"Is there anything else I should know about you father?" The last word dripped with sarcasm.

"Unless you've reconsidered your position regarding Casterly Rock?" Tywin raised an eyebrow. When Jaime remained silent, he picked up his quill again. "Then we are done. Do close the door properly on your way out. And next time, remember that even knights are expected to knock."

Jaime turned on his heel, his white cloak snapping behind him. He paused at the doorway, not looking back. "The child... will you at least be kind to him?"

"I will raise him to be worthy of the Lannister name," Tywin replied. "Something you might have considered before throwing yours away."

.

.

The candles had burned low when a soft knock broke the night's silence. Tywin sat at his desk, still fully dressed in his crimson doublet with gold threading, reviewing documents by candlelight.

"My lord," the guard's voice was barely above a whisper, "Lady Cersei is here."

Tywin's quill paused mid-stroke. He'd been expecting this. "Send her in."

The door opened with the barest whisper of sound. Cersei entered like a ghost, her crimson silk dress rustling softly against the stone floor. Her golden hair was loose around her shoulders, and even in the dim light, Tywin could see the redness around her eyes - she'd been crying.

Her gaze swept the chamber until it found the ornate cradle near the bed. The moment she spotted Adrian, her composure cracked. She took a half-step forward, her arms rising instinctively.

"Why are you here?" Tywin's cold voice froze her in place.

Cersei's hands trembled as she lowered them. "I want to see my s-"

"Father," Tywin cut her off sharply, rising from his chair. His shadow, cast by candlelight, stretched long and dark across the floor as he approached her. "You came to see your father, did you not, Cersei?" His green eyes bored into hers. "And your new half-brother?"

Understanding and pain flickered across Cersei's face. She swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. "Yes... Father."

Tywin moved closer, towering over her. "He is no longer your child. He is my son. The sooner you accept this truth, the better for all of us."

Cersei's lower lip trembled, but she forced herself to nod. Tears gathered in her eyes but didn't fall - at least she remembered that much of her training.

After a long moment, Tywin stepped aside, allowing her path to the cradle. Cersei moved forward slowly, as if in a dream. When she reached the cradle, her hands gripped its edges so tightly her knuckles went white.

Adrian lay sleeping peacefully. As Cersei reached down to lift him, his eyes fluttered open - Lannister green, just like hers. A small sound escaped her throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Hello, sweet one," she whispered, cradling him close. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, inhaling his scent. "Aren't you beautiful?"

The baby regarded her with an unnervingly intelligent gaze, reaching up to grab a strand of her golden hair.

"Who cares for him?" she asked, not taking her eyes off Adrian's face.

"Serra. She's proven capable." Tywin watched her carefully. "I kept him here tonight because I knew you would come."

Cersei bounced Adrian gently in her arms; the way she rocked him gently reminded Tywin of Joanna, but he ignored that memory. "Father," she began carefully, "perhaps you could maintain chambers here in the Red Keep. There are many suitable rooms in the Tower of the Hand, or-"

"Once the wedding is over," Tywin interrupted coldly, "I will return to Casterly Rock. With my son."

Cersei's arms tightened around Adrian. "But surely-"

"You will not see him for a very long time." Tywin's voice was final. "Consider it the price for your foolishness. You nearly destroyed everything our house has built through generations. Your reckless actions could have ended us all."

"I loved him," Cersei whispered, a tear finally escaping to roll down her cheek.

"Love is poison," Tywin replied. "A sweet poison, yes, but one that will kill you all the same. You will be queen. That is what matters. That is what you always wanted, is it not?"

Adrian made a small sound, and Cersei quickly soothed him, swaying gently. Her face was a mask of barely contained grief as she gazed down at him. "Not like this," she murmured. "Never like this."

"The time for such sentiments is past," Tywin said. "You will marry Robert Baratheon. You will give him heirs. You will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And you will forget about this child."

"How can you ask that of me?" Cersei's voice cracked. "He's my son. My blood."

"He is my son," Tywin repeated, each word sharp as a blade. "Your half-brother. That is what you will tell yourself every day until you believe it. That is what you will tell anyone who asks. That is what you will remember when you see him years from now, grown into a proper Lannister heir."

Cersei pressed her face against Adrian's head, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The baby reached up, touching her wet cheek with curious fingers.

"It's time," Tywin said after allowing her a moment. "Give him to me."

For a heartbeat, something dangerous flashed in Cersei's eyes - the same wildfire that had led her to risk everything for Rhaegar. Then, slowly, painfully, she placed one last kiss on Adrian's forehead and handed him to Tywin.

"Goodbye, sweet one," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Be good for your... father."

Tywin took the child with ease, noting how Adrian's eyes followed Cersei as she backed away. "You should rest," he told her. "You have fittings for your wedding gown tomorrow."

Cersei straightened, forcing her features into the mask of composure expected of a Lannister. Only her eyes betrayed her pain as she headed for the door. At the threshold, she paused.

"When you look at him," she said softly, "do you see Rhaegar or me?"

"I see my son," Tywin replied. "Nothing more."

The door closed behind her with a quiet click. Tywin looked down at Adrian, who stared back at him with those knowing green eyes.

"You will be worth it," he told the child. "You must be."

In the corridor, Cersei's footsteps faded away, carrying a piece of her heart with them.

.

.

The Great Sept of Baelor blazed, the sunlight illuminating the place inside, casting rainbow patterns across the assembled nobility. Tywin Lannister stood perfectly still, his face a mask of dignified satisfaction as he watched his daughter ascend the marble steps toward the High Septon. Cersei was resplendent in a gown of ivory samite and Myrish lace, her golden hair braided with threads of real gold and crimson ribbons.

Robert waited at the top of the steps, his massive frame barely contained by a doublet of black velvet with golden stags embroidered across the chest.

When Cersei reached him, Robert swept the heavy black-and-gold Baratheon cloak around her shoulders. Tywin noticed how his daughter's face might have been carved from ice - beautiful, but utterly devoid of warmth. Her green eyes were distant as if she were somewhere else entirely.

"In the sight of gods and men," the High Septon intoned, his crystal crown catching the light, "I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

As Robert and Cersei spoke their vows, Tywin allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction. This was what he'd always wanted - his daughter as queen, his house's power secured. If the price was her happiness... well, happiness had never won any wars.

The feast that followed filled the Red Keep with music and laughter - most of it Robert's. Tywin observed from the high table as his new goodson drained cup after cup of wine, growing louder with each one. Beside him, Cersei picked at her food, responding to Robert's booming declarations with monosyllabic answers; the way she was stabbing the food, one would think she was fighting it.

Jaime stood at his post, resplendent in his white armor, his eyes never leaving his twin. Concern etched deep lines around his mouth as he watched Cersei's growing distress.

Seven hours of festivities crawled by. Finally, a drunken lord called for the bedding ceremony. Robert roared with approval, already pawing at his clothes as ladies swarmed around him, giggling and pulling at his garments.

"Careful there, ladies!" Robert bellowed. "Leave something for my queen!"

When the men moved toward Cersei, Jaime's hand fell to his sword hilt. His green eyes glared at anyone who dared to approach. "I'll escort my sister," he announced, his tone brooking no argument. The other men backed away, none willing to challenge the Kingslayer.

As the wedding party disappeared down the corridor, their raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls, Tywin allowed himself a small, cold smile.

"And so you lose again, Aerys," he murmured to himself, imagining the Mad King's rage at seeing a Lannister queen crowned. "Even in death, you lose."

.

.

Seven days later, the throne room was packed with nobles eager to witness the legitimization. Tywin stood before the Iron Throne, Adrian secure in his arms. The boy was quiet, watching the proceedings with those intelligent green eyes.

Robert sat on the Iron Throne, looking uncomfortable. His voice boomed across the chamber as he read from a scroll.

"By royal decree," Robert announced, "I hereby legitimize the natural son of Lord Tywin Lannister. From this day forward, he shall be known as Adrian Lannister, with all the rights and privileges thereof!" He grinned broadly. "A gift for my new goodfather!"

Tywin accepted the scroll with a bow, careful not to disturb Adrian. The boy reached toward the dancing dust motes in a shaft of sunlight, seemingly unimpressed by the momentous occasion.

As the assembled nobles applauded politely, Tywin caught sight of Cersei standing to one side. She wore her new crown and a gown of Baratheon black and gold, but her eyes were fixed on Adrian with such naked longing that Tywin felt a flash of irritation. 'Control yourself,' he thought. 'You are a queen now. Act like one.'

Jaime stood behind Robert, his white armor gleaming. His face was troubled as he looked between his father and the child, as if trying to solve a puzzle whose pieces didn't quite fit.

"The Lannisters of Casterly Rock," Robert declared, raising his wine cup, "now and always!"

The crowd echoed the toast. Tywin looked down at Adrian - at his grandson who would forever be known as his son - and saw the future of House Lannister secure in those Lannister-green eyes.

'Let them drink and celebrate,' he thought. 'Let them toast and cheer. None of them understand what truly happened here today.' He had won - not just the game of thrones, but the game of legacy. His house would continue, strong and pure, through this child of dragon and lion.

Chapter Text

The Lannister procession wound its way up the switchback path to Casterly Rock, crimson banners snapping in the salt-laden breeze. Tywin Lannister rode at its head, his white charger's hooves striking sparks from the stone path. Behind him followed thirty of his household guard, the enclosed carriage, and the baggage train—a modest retinue by Lannister standards, but Tywin had not wanted to draw undue attention on the journey from King's Landing.

Casterly Rock loomed above them, a mountain carved into a fortress, its stone face catching the late afternoon sun. Tywin regarded his ancestral seat with cold satisfaction. After months of warfare and the politics of King's Landing, he was returning home victorious—the realm secured, his daughter crowned queen, and his grandson hidden in plain sight.

The bundle in the carriage behind him stirred. Tywin had agreed to let the wet nurse Serra carry the boy for most of the journey, but now, as they approached the final stretch, he'd need to make a statement. Appearances mattered, especially today.

"My lord," Captain Daven called from behind him, "the household has assembled in the Lion's Mouth."

"As expected," Tywin replied. The Rock's main entrance, the Lion's Mouth, could fit thirty riders abreast. Today it would frame his return—and his announcement.

As they neared the massive cavern entrance, Tywin raised his gloved hand, halting the procession. He dismounted and strode to the carriage, where Serra waited with the child.

"Give him to me," Tywin commanded.

Serra bowed her head. "Yes, my lord." She passed the infant to him.

Tywin looked down at the sleeping child. Adrian's hair caught the sunlight—neither fully golden like a Lannister's nor silver like his true father's, but something between. His eyes, when open, were undeniably Lannister green. Cersei's eyes.

No one must ever know, Tywin thought. Not even you, little dragon. You will be a lion in all things.

"My lord?" Captain Daven's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Proceed," Tywin commanded, adjusting his hold on the infant.

The Lannister guardsmen formed two lines flanking Tywin as he strode toward the Lion's Mouth, the child cradled in one arm. As they entered the cavernous opening, the household of Casterly Rock came into view—nearly a hundred servants and officials lined up in precise order of rank and importance.

Maester Creylen stood at their head, his chain of many metals gleaming in the sunlight. Beside him waited Tywin's steward, master-at-arms, master of horse, and other high officials. Their faces betrayed nothing, though their eyes flickered momentarily to the bundle in Tywin's arms.

Tywin stopped before them, allowing the silence to stretch uncomfortably long. The only sound was the distant crash of waves against the base of the Rock far below.

"My lord," Maester Creylen finally spoke, bowing deeply. "Casterly Rock welcomes your return."

"Is my brother here?" Tywin asked, ignoring the formality.

"Ser Kevan is expected by nightfall, my lord. He was attending to matters in Lannisport."

Tywin nodded once, then turned to address the assembled household. When he spoke, his voice echoed off the stone walls, cold and final as a death sentence.

"I present to you Adrian Lannister, my natural son, legitimized by royal decree. He is of House Lannister and will be accorded all respect due his station."

The shock that rippled through the assembly was palpable, though none dared show it openly. Maester Creylen recovered first, bowing again.

"We are honored to welcome young Lord Adrian to Casterly Rock," he said smoothly.

"Spare me your platitudes, Maester," Tywin replied. "I require actions, not words. Quarters have been prepared?"

"Yes, my lord. The west solar in the family wing has been converted to a nursery, as per your instructions."

"And the wet nurse's accommodations?"

"Adjacent to the nursery, my lord."

"Good." Tywin shifted his gaze to his steward. "Summon the household heads to my solar in one hour. I will give detailed instructions regarding the boy's care."

As if sensing he was being discussed, Adrian stirred in Tywin's arms, small fists waving in the air. His eyes opened—bright Lannister green, alert and almost unsettlingly focused for an infant so young.

Several of the servants gasped softly. The child's eyes were unmistakable.

"This is Serra," Tywin continued, gesturing to the wet nurse who had emerged from the carriage. "She has cared for my son since birth and will continue to do so here."

Serra curtsied deeply, her eyes downcast. "It's an honor to serve House Lannister, my lords and ladies."

Tywin surveyed the assembled staff, his cold gaze challenging anyone to question him. None did.

"You have your duties," he said dismissively. "See to them."

The household dispersed with practiced efficiency, though Tywin noted the whispers that began the moment servants thought themselves out of earshot. Let them whisper. Soon, the entire Westerlands would know that Tywin Lannister had legitimized his bastard son—and none would ever suspect the truth.

He turned to Maester Creylen, who lingered nearby. "Walk with me to the nursery. There are matters we must discuss."

"Of course, my lord."

As they moved deeper into Casterly Rock, Tywin felt Adrian's small hand grasp at the lion-head clasp of his cloak. The child's grip was surprisingly strong.

"Has there been any word from my daughter?" Tywin asked as they walked through the torchlit corridors.

"Queen Cersei sends her congratulations on your safe return," Creylen replied carefully.

"And my son?"

"Ser Jaime remains with the Kingsguard in King's Landing, as is his duty."

Tywin's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Jaime's "duty" was to Casterly Rock, not playing bodyguard. But that was a battle for another day.

"The boy will need a septa eventually," Tywin said, changing the subject. "And tutors as he grows. I have names in mind."

"So young, my lord?" Creylen asked, surprise momentarily breaking through his composure.

"It is never too early to plan a Lannister's education," Tywin replied coldly. "This one especially."

They reached the family wing, where golden lion sconces held torches that cast dancing shadows on the crimson wall hangings. Adrian watched the play of light with unusual interest for an infant.

"My lord," Creylen ventured hesitantly, "if I might ask... the child's mother?"

"Died in childbirth," Tywin answered flatly. "A servant of Lysene descent. That is all anyone needs to know."

"Of course, my lord." Creylen bowed his head. "And regarding Lord Tyrion—"

"My...son will be informed of his new half-brother upon my arrival," Tywin cut him off. "That is all."

They stopped before the door to the newly prepared nursery. Serra had been sent ahead and awaited them inside. Tywin looked down at Adrian once more, studying the child's features in the torchlight. The boy stared back, unblinking.

"Open the door," Tywin commanded the guard. "My son is home."

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion Lannister's short legs dangled from the high library chair as he pretended to read a massive tome about dragons. He'd read it three times already, but the illustrations of Balerion the Black Dread still fascinated him. The book was propped open on the table, but his eyes kept darting to the door.

Father was back.

The whispers had reached him hours ago, carried by kitchen maids and stableboys who didn't realize how well he could hear them around corners. They said Father had brought something—or someone—back from King's Landing. A babe. A bastard.

Tyrion didn't know whether to believe it. Father having a bastard seemed as likely as Casterly Rock floating into the sky. Father was too... Father for that.

The library door creaked open, and Tyrion quickly looked down at his book, tracing the outline of the dragon's wing with one stubby finger.

"Lord Tyrion?" It was only Maester Creylen's apprentice, a gangly youth named Pate. "Your lord father has returned and has... requested your presence in the East Wing."

Requested. That meant commanded. Tyrion closed his book, trying to look unconcerned though his heart hammered in his chest.

"Is it true?" The words burst from him before he could stop them. "About the baby?"

Pate's eyes widened slightly. "It's not my place to—"

"Never mind." Tyrion slid off the chair, landing with a small thump. "I suppose I'll find out soon enough."

The corridors of Casterly Rock felt longer than usual as Tyrion made his way to the East Wing. Servants bustled past, too busy to snicker at him today. Their eyes were bright with gossip, their whispers following him like shadows.

"...his own bastard..." "...after all those years..." "...what does it mean for the Imp..."

Tyrion scowled at that last one. Father hated it when people called him the Imp, though Father himself never called Tyrion by name if he could help it.

As he approached the East Wing, Tyrion noticed Lannister guardsmen clustered outside one of the solar doors. They were speaking in hushed tones, but fell silent when they spotted him. One of them—Ser Addam Marbrand, he thought—straightened and knocked on the door.

"Lord Tyrion is here, my lord."

"Send him in," came Father's voice from within, cold and clear.

The guards parted to let Tyrion through, and he felt their eyes on his back as he waddled into the room. Inside, the afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating a scene Tyrion would never have imagined.

Father stood near the hearth, tall and imposing in his crimson doublet with gold threading, his expression as unyielding as ever. But in his arms was a small bundle wrapped in Lannister crimson. A woman Tyrion didn't recognize—plain-faced with brown hair—stood nervously to one side.

Tyrion's mouth went dry. So the rumors were true.

"Tyrion," Father said, not bothering with greetings. "This is Adrian Lannister. Your half-brother."

Tyrion's mind whirled. A brother. A real, trueborn brother—well, half-brother, and legitimized bastard, but still. Not like Cersei, who was perfect and golden and sixteen years older. Someone new. Someone who might not hate him on sight.

But no, that was a stupid thought. Once the babe grew up enough to understand, he'd hate Tyrion just like everyone else did.

"I..." Tyrion struggled to find words. "Where did he come from?" As soon as the question left his mouth, he realized how stupid it sounded.

Father's eyes narrowed slightly. "I would have thought even you would understand that much about life, Tyrion."

The woman—presumably the wet nurse—stifled what might have been a nervous laugh.

"I meant," Tyrion tried again, feeling heat rise in his cheeks, "who is his mother?"

"A servant girl of Lysene descent. She died in childbird." Father's tone made it clear that was all the information Tyrion would receive. "Adrian has been legitimized by royal decree. He is a Lannister."

Tyrion took a hesitant step forward, curiosity overcoming his nervousness. "May I see him?"

Father hesitated for a heartbeat, then inclined his head. Tyrion approached cautiously, aware of Father's gaze on him.

The infant was small—smaller than Tyrion had expected, though what did he know of babies? Adrian's face was slightly flushed, eyes closed in sleep. What struck Tyrion most was the child's hair—a curious shade that seemed neither fully golden like a Lannister's nor quite anything else Tyrion had seen before.

"How old is he?" Tyrion asked softly.

"Three months," Father replied.

Adrian's eyes fluttered open at the sound of voices, and Tyrion found himself staring into bright green eyes—Lannister eyes. The baby regarded him with what seemed like unusual focus, then his tiny mouth curved in what might have been a smile.

Something warm and unexpected bloomed in Tyrion's chest.

"Hello, Adrian," he said softly. "I'm your brother."

To everyone's surprise, Adrian reached out one tiny hand, fingers grasping at air. Without thinking, Tyrion extended his own hand, and the baby latched onto his index finger with surprising strength.

The room went very still. Even Father seemed momentarily frozen, watching this interaction with an unreadable expression.

"He has a strong grip," Tyrion said, to break the silence.

"Yes," Father replied, and Tyrion thought he detected a note of grudging approval. "He does."

Adrian made a small gurgling sound, still clutching Tyrion's finger. Tyrion found himself smiling—really smiling, not the sardonic smirk he'd learned to use as armor.

"Serra will be his wet nurse," Father said, nodding toward the woman. "You may visit him in the nursery, provided you do not disturb his routine."

The permission surprised Tyrion almost as much as the baby's existence. Father never encouraged him to do anything.

"Thank you, Father," he said, then looked back at Adrian. "I could read to him sometimes. Babies like voices, don't they?"

"I wouldn't know," Father replied dryly. "But you may do so if Serra approves."

The wet nurse bobbed a curtsy. "Reading would be fine, m'lord Tyrion. The little lord seems to like listening."

Tyrion gently withdrew his finger from Adrian's grasp. The baby frowned slightly, then yawned, his eyes drifting closed again.

"He'll need to rest now," Father said. "You may go, Tyrion."

Dismissed as always. But for once, Tyrion didn't mind. His mind was racing with thoughts of books to share with Adrian, of what it might be like to have someone who didn't look at him with disgust or pity.

As he turned to leave, another thought struck him—he was no longer the youngest Lannister. No longer the latest disappointment. Father would have someone new to focus on, someone without Tyrion's deformities, someone who might actually make Father proud.

The warm feeling in his chest twisted into something more complicated. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or worried.

At the door, Tyrion paused and looked back. Father had moved to the window, Adrian still in his arms—one large, one very small. For a heartbeat, they looked like a portrait of what might have been, if Tyrion had been born different.

Will he love you? Tyrion wondered, watching the sleeping infant. Will he be proud of you in ways he never is of me?

Tyrion wasn't sure why the thought made his eyes sting as he slipped out the door, back into the hallway where the guards pretended not to notice the dwarf child walking past.

He had a new brother. A little brother who might need him.

Tywin Lannister

Tywin Lannister's footsteps echoed through the stone corridor as he led Serra to the nursery. Two guards fell into step behind them, their armor clinking softly in the silence. Adrian had fallen asleep after his meeting with Tyrion, his small head nestled against Tywin's shoulder.

The interaction between his sons—if one could call Tyrion that—had surprised him. He'd expected revulsion, perhaps fear from the child when faced with the dwarf. Instead, Adrian had seemed almost... drawn to Tyrion. A curious development, though likely meaningless. Infants had no judgment.

"The nursery is just ahead," Tywin said, breaking the silence. "It was my daughter's, once."

Serra kept her eyes lowered. "A great honor for the young lord, m' lord."

"Indeed."

They reached an ornate doorway carved with prancing lions. Tywin pushed it open, revealing a spacious chamber that had been hastily transformed. The room smelled of fresh paint and new fabrics—his orders to prepare suitable accommodations had clearly been followed to the letter.

Crimson draperies hung from tall windows that overlooked the Sunset Sea. A massive cradle dominated the center of the room, carved from dark wood and draped with red and gold silk. Lion motifs appeared everywhere—on the tapestries, carved into the furniture, painted on the ceiling in gold leaf. A second, smaller chamber connected to the main room—Serra's quarters, furnished simply but comfortably.

"This is... magnificent, my lord," Serra breathed, her eyes wide.

"It is adequate," Tywin replied. The nursery was undeniably lavish, but its true purpose was not comfort but indoctrination. Every aspect of the room reinforced what the boy must become—a Lannister, through and through.

Tywin crossed to the cradle and gently laid Adrian on the plush bedding. The infant stirred but did not wake.

"The boy's schedule," Tywin said, turning to Serra. "He will nurse when he wakes, again at midday, again at dusk, and once during the night. No more."

Serra nodded quickly. "Yes, m'lord. Though sometimes babies need—"

"No more," Tywin repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "He will learn discipline from the beginning. When he cries from hunger outside these times, you will soothe him without feeding him. Is that clear?"

"Yes, m'lord." Her voice was barely audible.

Tywin moved to a side table where several glass bottles stood in a row. "These tinctures will be added to your food daily. They will ensure your milk remains plentiful and healthful." He did not mention that the maester had also included herbs to prevent pregnancy—Serra's sole purpose was caring for Adrian, and Tywin would tolerate no distractions.

"Maester Creylen will examine the child weekly. You will report any changes in his behavior, appetite, or sleep immediately." Tywin fixed her with a cold stare. "And you will speak to no one about his mother or the circumstances of his birth."

Serra swallowed visibly. "I understand, m'lord."

"Do you?" Tywin stepped closer, towering over her. "If I learn you've been gossiping with the kitchen maids or sharing confidences with guardsmen, you will find yourself on a ship to Essos by nightfall—if you're fortunate. If you're not..."

"I would never betray your trust, my lord." Serra's voice trembled. "I swear it by the old gods and new."

"Gods have little to do with keeping secrets," Tywin said dismissively. "Fear is more reliable. Remember that."

Serra curtsied deeply. "May I prepare his bath for when he wakes, m'lord?"

Tywin nodded once. "Go."

When she had disappeared into the adjoining chamber, Tywin turned back to the cradle. He stood there a long moment, studying the sleeping infant. Without the distraction of others, he could see the subtle signs of the boy's true heritage—the slight silvery sheen to his hair in certain light, the shape of his nose and brow that echoed Rhaegar's.

"So much like your father," Tywin murmured, his voice barely audible even to himself. "But no one will ever know."

He brushed a finger against Adrian's cheek. The boy possessed a rare beauty already, a perfect blend of Lannister and Targaryen features masked by enough Lannister coloring to avoid suspicion.

"You were meant for a crown," Tywin said softly, "but perhaps that is not the grandest destiny after all. The Iron Throne is an ugly, uncomfortable seat. Casterly Rock will be yours instead, with all the power and wealth of House Lannister behind you."

Adrian's tiny hand closed around Tywin's finger in his sleep, the gesture oddly possessive. Tywin allowed it for a moment, feeling the strength in that small grip.

"You will be my legacy," he promised the sleeping child. "Not the dwarf. Not Jaime with his foolish honor. Not even Cersei with her crown. You will be a true lion, and the world will remember your name long after mine is forgotten."

He carefully extracted his finger from Adrian's grasp and straightened his doublet. By the time Serra returned to the room, Tywin's expression had resumed its customary cold mask.

"I will return tomorrow," he informed her. "Remember my instructions."

"Yes, Lord Tywin," Serra replied, curtsying again.

As Tywin strode from the nursery, he allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The game had changed, but as always, House Lannister would emerge victorious.

Genna Lannister

Genna Lannister swept through the corridors of Casterly Rock like a ship in full sail, her crimson skirts billowing behind her. Two days of waiting for Tywin to summon her had been quite enough. If her lord brother thought she would simply accept the existence of his supposed bastard without question, he had another thing coming.

"Lady Genna," a servant girl squeaked, pressing herself against the wall as Genna rounded a corner. "Lord Tywin is in his solar with Maester Creylen—"

"Is he indeed?" Genna replied, not slowing her pace. "How fortunate for me."

Emmon had advised patience, of course. "Perhaps wait until he calls for you, my dear," he'd suggested in that reedy voice of his. Genna had silenced him with a look. Tywin might rule the Westerlands, but Genna would never let anyone, not even her dear brother, make her wait.

The guards outside Tywin's solar straightened as she approached. Neither dared question her right to enter, merely opening the door and announcing, "Lady Genna Frey, my lord."

"Lannister," she corrected sharply as she strode past them. "I was born a Lannister, I'll die a Lannister, and all the Freys in the world won't change that fact."

Inside, Tywin sat behind his massive desk, Maester Creylen beside him with a stack of parchments. Both men looked up at her entrance, Tywin's expression impassive as ever, the maester's more apprehensive.

"Sister," Tywin said coolly. "I had planned to send for you this afternoon."

"How convenient, then, that I've saved you the trouble." Genna gestured to Creylen. "Leave us."

The maester glanced at Tywin, who gave a slight nod. Creylen gathered his parchments and scurried out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Genna settled herself into the chair opposite Tywin, arranging her skirts deliberately before fixing her brother with a piercing stare.

"Two days," she said. "Two days you've been back, Tywin, with this... unexpected addition to our family, and not a word to me directly." She leaned forward slightly. "I never took you for the type to stray, brother."

Tywin's expression didn't change. "I assume you've heard the official account."

"Oh yes," Genna waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. "A servant girl of Lysene descent, died in childbirth. How convenient." She studied her brother's face for any reaction. "And I assume this official account is what we'll tell anyone who asks?"

"It is not an account, Genna. It is what happened." Tywin's voice was measured, his green-gold eyes unwavering.

Genna had spent a lifetime reading her brother's moods and tells. There was something in his voice—not quite a lie, but not the full truth either.

"And you legitimized him," she pressed. "Robert Baratheon granted this boon?"

"He did. Adrian is a Lannister in name and law."

"Adrian." Genna tested the name. "Not very Lannister, is it?"

"It's a strong name," Tywin replied. "Distinctive enough to be remembered, common enough not to raise eyebrows."

Genna tapped her fingers on the armrest of her chair. "You've thought this through thoroughly, as always. But what I cannot understand, Tywin, is why. Why acknowledge this child? Why bring him here? Why legitimize him? You, who has always been so concerned with the purity of the Lannister name and legacy."

For a moment, Tywin was silent, his fingers steepled before him. "Jaime has made his choice," he said finally. "He remains in the Kingsguard, renouncing his birthright."

"And Tyrion—"

"Is not my heir," Tywin cut her off sharply. "He never will be."

Genna sighed. This old argument again. "The boy is your son, Tywin. Your blood. And he's clever, far cleverer than—"

"This is not a discussion," Tywin interrupted. "With Jaime's stubbornness, I required another option. The gods have provided one."

"The gods," Genna repeated skeptically. "Or your own appetites?"

Tywin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Do you wish to see him?"

The abrupt change of subject confirmed Genna's suspicions that there was more to this tale than Tywin was sharing. She nodded. "Yes, I would like that very much."

They walked in silence through the corridors toward the family wing. Servants and guards bowed as they passed, eyes carefully averted but ears no doubt straining to catch any scrap of conversation. Gossip about the child had spread through the Rock like wildfire.

"The nursery has been prepared adequately?" Genna asked as they approached the familiar lion-carved doors.

"It has. Cersei's old rooms."

Genna raised an eyebrow at that. Sentimental was not a word she would ever associate with her brother. Calculating, yes. There was always a reason behind Tywin's choices.

The nursery was sunlit and warm, dominated by Lannister colors. A plain-faced woman—presumably the wet nurse—sat near the window with embroidery. She jumped to her feet and curtsied deeply as they entered.

"M'lord. M'lady."

"Where is he?" Tywin asked.

"Sleeping, m'lord. Just nodded off." The woman gestured to the ornate cradle.

Genna moved toward it without waiting for an invitation. The child within was indeed sleeping peacefully, one tiny fist curled beside his head. His hair caught the sunlight—a peculiar color, neither fully gold nor silver, but something in between. His features were delicate, beautiful even in sleep.

"He's a handsome boy," Genna said softly. Then, more pointedly, "He doesn't look much like you, brother."

"He has Lannister eyes," Tywin replied. "And some say he has Joanna's mouth."

Genna shot him a sharp look. The mention of Joanna was unexpected and uncharacteristic. Tywin rarely spoke their sister-by-law's name.

"May I?" Genna asked, gesturing to the baby.

At Tywin's nod, she carefully lifted Adrian from his cradle. The child stirred but didn't wake, settling against her ample bosom with a small sigh.

Genna studied him closely—the sweep of his brow, the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips. There was something familiar there, something that tugged at her memory, but she couldn't quite place it.

"He has a look of her," she said finally. "Around the eyes, perhaps. But the hair—" She looked up at Tywin. "The Lysene mother must have been quite striking."

"She was," Tywin said flatly.

"And her name?" Genna pressed. "Surely you remember the name of the woman who bore your son?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed Tywin's face. "Serra. Her name was Serra."

"Like the wet nurse. How convenient for your memory."

"A coincidence. Nothing more."

Genna bounced Adrian gently as she walked to the window. "And what role do you expect me to play in all this, Tywin? Surely you didn't just bring him here and expect me to ignore him."

"You will help oversee his upbringing," Tywin said. "The wet nurse is suitable for now, but the boy will need proper guidance as he grows. A woman's influence."

"A mother's influence, you mean," Genna corrected, turning to face him. "Though I have four sons of my own who require my attention."

"Your sons are nearly grown. This one needs you more." Tywin's tone made it clear this was not a request.

Genna looked down at Adrian, who slept on, blissfully unaware of the machinations swirling around him. A pawn in Tywin's great game, just as they all were. But a pawn that could become a Lord, if moved correctly.

"And what of Tyrion?" she asked softly. "Have you considered what this means for him?"

"Tyrion remains my son," Tywin said. "That has not changed."

"But no longer your youngest. No longer your last hope for an heir after Jaime." Genna fixed her brother with a level stare. "Children notice such things, Tywin. They feel when they are being replaced."

"Tyrion is not being replaced. He is simply not my heir. He never was."

Genna sighed, returning Adrian to his cradle with gentle hands. "You're making a mistake with Tyrion. I've told you before—he's the most like you of all your children."

A flash of anger crossed Tywin's face. "He is nothing like me."

"He has your mind," Genna insisted. "Your cunning. And now you bring in this child, legitimize him, and make your preference clear. What do you think that will do to the boy?"

"It will teach him the realities of the world," Tywin replied coldly. "Better he learn it now than later."

Genna smoothed Adrian's blanket. "I will help with the child," she said finally. "Not because you command it, but because he deserves better than to be a mere piece in your game." She straightened and faced her brother. "But remember, Tywin—a child is not a sword you can forge exactly to your specifications. They have their own natures, their own wills. This one, too, will surprise you someday."

"Perhaps," Tywin conceded. "But he will be raised properly, as a true Lannister. That is what matters."

Genna studied her brother's face, the face she had known since childhood. There was something he wasn't telling her—she was certain of it. The timing, the child's unusual features, Tywin's uncharacteristic actions... none of it quite fit.

"Very well," she said. "I'll watch over him, teach him, love him as my own. But I warn you, brother—secrets have a way of emerging when least expected. Whatever game you're playing with this child, I hope you've considered all the possible outcomes."

Tywin's expression remained impassive, but Genna knew her words had struck home. "There is no game," he said. "Only family. Only legacy."

"Of course," Genna replied, not believing him for a moment. "Only legacy. It always is with you."

As they left the nursery together, Genna cast one last glance at the sleeping infant. Whatever the truth of his parentage, the boy was a Lannister now. And Lannisters protected their own—even from each other, if necessary.

One Month Later

A month passed at Casterly Rock, and routines settled into place like dust on ancient stone. The days took on a rhythm—the changing of guards, the preparation of meals, the quiet bustle of servants moving through corridors. And now, worked into the ancient patterns of the fortress, came the care of its newest and smallest resident.

Serra moved through the nursery with efficiency, folding tiny garments of the finest cloth. Adrian lay on a plush blanket nearby, silent but watchful, his eyes following her movements with an intensity unusual for a child so young.

"Even when you're quiet, you're loud in your own way, aren't you, little lord?" Serra murmured, smiling at the baby. "Those eyes of yours notice everything."

Adrian kicked his legs in response, tiny fists waving. Unlike other babies Serra had cared for, he rarely cried without cause. He seemed content to observe, to absorb, as if the world itself was a lesson he was determined to learn.

The nursery door opened, and Maester Creylen entered, chain clinking softly against his gray robes.

"Good morning, Serra. Time for the little lord's examination."

Serra curtsied. "Of course, Maester. He's just been changed and fed."

Creylen set his bag of instruments on a nearby table and approached the infant. Adrian's eyes fixed on the gleaming chain around the maester's neck, his gaze steady and curious.

"Quite alert today, isn't he?" Creylen observed, gently lifting the baby to examine him.

"Always is," Serra replied. "Never seen a babe so aware. Watches everything like a little hawk."

Creylen checked Adrian's reflexes, his breathing, the clarity of his eyes. The baby submitted to the examination with unusual patience, only fussing when the maester's cold hands touched his bare skin.

"Excellent health," Creylen pronounced finally. "Strong lungs, good muscle tone."

"Lord Tywin will be pleased to hear it," Serra said, taking Adrian back into her arms.

Creylen packed away his instruments. "The lord asks for daily reports on his son's progress. Most unusual for a father." He glanced at Serra. "But then, this is no ordinary child, is it?"

Outside in the corridor, two serving girls passed with fresh linens, their voices dropping to whispers as they neared the nursery.

"Did you see the hair?" one murmured.

"Lyseni blood, they say," the other replied. "Though I've never seen a Lyseni with quite that shade."

"Nor eyes so green," the first added. "Pure Lannister, those are."

"Hush," her companion warned. "Remember what happened to Marly when she was caught gossiping about the babe?"

"What happened?"

"Gone the next day. No one's seen her since."

Their voices faded as they continued down the hall, unaware that their words had been overheard by a small figure lurking in an alcove nearby.

Tyrion Lannister emerged from his hiding place once the servants had passed, clutching a small wooden toy in his hand. He'd carved it himself—a dragon with articulated wings that could move up and down. It had taken him three days, and he'd cut his fingers twice in the process.

He approached the nursery cautiously, checking for guards. Finding none immediately present, he slipped inside.

"Lord Tyrion," Serra said, not entirely surprised. This was his fourth visit this week. "Come to see your brother again?"

"If it's not inconvenient," Tyrion replied with unusual formality for a ten-year-old. His mismatched eyes went immediately to Adrian.

"Not at all. He just woke from his nap." Serra placed Adrian back on his blanket. "I'll just step out to fetch fresh water. You'll watch him for a moment?"

Tyrion nodded eagerly, already lowering himself to sit cross-legged beside the baby. Serra smiled and slipped out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

"Hello, Adrian," Tyrion said softly. "I brought you something."

He held up the wooden dragon, making the wings flap gently. Adrian's eyes widened, and a delighted gurgle escaped him. His tiny hands reached toward the toy.

"Careful, it's delicate," Tyrion cautioned, though of course the baby couldn't understand. He moved the dragon in small circles above Adrian, who followed it with his gaze, another happy sound bubbling from his throat.

"You like dragons? I do too," Tyrion continued conversationally. "I've read all about them. The Targaryens had the last ones, you know. Great beasts with wings that could shadow a town."

Adrian kicked his legs excitedly, making Tyrion laugh.

"When you're older, I'll read you the books. You'll like them—lots of pictures."

Outside in the corridor, unnoticed by either boy, Tywin Lannister stood in the shadow of the doorway, listening. He'd intended to visit his supposed son when a servant had informed him that Tyrion was making his daily pilgrimage to the nursery.

"The Imp's there again, m'lord," the servant had reported. "Brings toys each time. Carved them himself, he claims."

Now, Tywin watched silently as Tyrion carefully placed the wooden dragon in Adrian's hand, guiding the infant's fingers to feel the smooth wood.

"You should have been named something stronger," Tyrion was saying. "Something like Tybolt or Gerold. Good Lannister names from the histories. But Adrian isn't bad. We can make it grand."

Adrian made another happy sound, and Tyrion beamed.

"You're the only one who doesn't look at me strangely," the dwarf boy continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Everyone else stares. Not you though."

Tywin's expression remained impassive as he observed this unexpected bond. Part of him wanted to intervene, to separate his dwarf son from the boy who would one day inherit everything Tyrion coveted. Such attachment could lead to complications, perhaps even threats to his plans.

But another part—a calculating, coldly rational part—recognized the potential value. Tyrion's intellect was undeniable, even at ten. If the boy directed his considerable mental faculties toward Adrian's benefit rather than his own advancement...

Tywin withdrew silently from the doorway just as Serra returned with fresh water. He would allow these visits to continue, for now. Like everything in Tywin Lannister's world, even this brotherly affection would serve a purpose in the great game of legacy.

Inside the nursery, unaware of their observer, Tyrion gently moved the dragon's wings for his entranced half-brother.

"Watch closely, Adrian," he said with all the seriousness of a maester instructing his student. "This is how dragons fly."

Tywin Lannister

The midnight oil burned low in Tywin Lannister's solar, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, a fitting accompaniment to the late hour. Tywin's quill scratched steadily across parchment, the only sound in the otherwise silent chamber. He paused occasionally to dip the nib in ink.

Three letters to the finest swordmasters in the Seven Kingdoms. One to a noted scholar in the Citadel, inquiring about tutors proficient in history and politics. Another to the master of horse at Highgarden, who bred the finest destriers in the realm. All for a child who could not yet walk.

Never too early to secure the best, Tywin thought. Adrian will have every advantage I can provide.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," Tywin commanded, not looking up from his writing.

Kevan Lannister stepped into the solar, rainwater still dotting his traveling cloak. His brother's face looked drawn from the journey, but his eyes were alert as ever.

"Brother," Kevan greeted him, removing his damp cloak. "I see you're still at work despite the hour."

"There's much to be done," Tywin replied, setting aside his quill and reaching for the wax to seal his correspondence. "You've just returned from King's Landing?"

Kevan nodded, settling into the chair opposite Tywin's desk. "I have. The roads were miserable with the rain."

"And Cersei?" Tywin asked, pressing his seal into the molten wax. "How does she fare as queen?"

"She plays the part well," Kevan replied carefully. "The court responds to her beauty and authority. Though Robert..." He hesitated.

"Speak plainly," Tywin commanded. "I have no patience for delicate sensibilities at this hour."

"Robert has started drinking a little too much, and after you left, he went to hunt twice within two weeks," Kevan said bluntly. "He leaves the governance to Jon Arryn while he wenches and wines. Cersei is... displeased with his behavior."

Tywin's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "She will learn to manage him. Queens have done so since the Dawn Age." He stacked the letters neatly in the corner of his desk. "And the court? How do they receive her?"

"With proper deference, though the Stark contingent remains cool. The North and Dorne hasn't forgotten Elia Martell's Targaryen children, especially Jon Arryn, who still protects the girl."

"Stark's sister's still not married," Tywin observed. "Could the King be waiting for her to change her mind?"

"I doubt it. Her brother guards her jealously in Winterfell. Besides, Robert is finally accepting what happened in the Rebellion, with his brothers by his side now. Stannis has taken Dragonstone, and Renly remains at court."

Tywin nodded, satisfied with this intelligence. "And our finances?"

"The crown owes the Rock nearly one million gold dragons, thanks to your loans during the Rebellion," Kevan reported. "Jon Arryn has promised repayment."

"Let them remain in our debt for now," Tywin said. "It gives us leverage."

Kevan helped himself to wine from the decanter on Tywin's desk, studying his brother over the rim of his cup. "And how fares your... son?"

The slight pause before "son" did not escape Tywin's notice. He met Kevan's gaze steadily. "Adrian thrives. Maester Creylen reports he is advanced for his age in all respects."

"I'm not surprised," Kevan replied neutrally. "And the household? Have they adjusted to his presence?"

"They have little choice in the matter," Tywin said coldly. "Though Genna has taken to him. She oversees his care when her duties permit."

"And Tyrion?"

Tywin's green-gold eyes narrowed slightly. "What of him?"

"I heard he visits the nursery often."

"He does," Tywin confirmed, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts on the matter. "The arrangement serves its purpose for now."

Kevan gestured toward the stack of letters. "Correspondence regarding the boy?"

"Preparation for his education," Tywin confirmed. "I've written to Ser Belon Marr in Lannisport about future sword training. The man trained Jaime in his early years—he'll be suitable for Adrian as well."

"Sword training?" Kevan raised an eyebrow. "The child can't even walk yet."

"He will walk soon enough," Tywin replied dismissively. "And when he does, every aspect of his education must be ready. I've also contacted Master Belenus at the Citadel regarding tutors in history, mathematics, and languages."

"Languages?" Kevan set down his wine cup. "Which ones?"

"High Valyrian, naturally. The tongue of diplomacy. And the dialects of the Free Cities—Braavosi at minimum. A man who cannot speak to foreign merchants in their own tongue is at a disadvantage in negotiations."

Kevan leaned back in his chair, regarding his brother with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. "The boy has been here only a month, and already you plan his entire life."

"Not his life," Tywin corrected. "His preparation. What he does with that preparation will be up to him, though I will ensure he understands his duty to House Lannister."

"And what of his... unusual circumstances?" Kevan asked carefully. "Children ask questions as they grow. About their mothers. Their origins."

Tywin's expression hardened. "He will be told what he needs to know. That his mother was of Lysene descent and died bringing him into the world. That he is a legitimized Lannister with all the responsibilities that entails."

"And when others question? The other houses will wonder."

"Let them wonder," Tywin said dismissively. "Speculation without evidence is merely wind. It passes and is forgotten."

Kevan studied his brother's face, searching for any crack in the implacable mask. "There's something you're not telling me about this child."

Tywin met his gaze without flinching. "There are many things I don't tell you, brother. Not from lack of trust, but because knowledge can be a burden as easily as a weapon."

"Is he truly yours?" Kevan asked directly, his voice low.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of rain against the windows. Tywin's face revealed nothing.

"He is a Lannister," Tywin said finally. "That is all that matters. That is all that will ever matter."

Kevan nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer with the loyalty that had always defined their relationship. "Very well. What do you require of me regarding the boy?"

"For now, nothing beyond discretion," Tywin replied. "Though in time, you will help oversee aspects of his martial training. Your experience commanding men will be valuable to him."

"And your other children? Jaime and Cersei? What have you told them about their new... brother?"

"Cersei knows what she needs to know," Tywin said, his tone making it clear the subject was closed. "Jaime knows of his existence."

Kevan finished his wine and set the cup down with a soft click against the wood. "You think generations ahead, always. It's what has restored House Lannister to greatness."

"I think of legacy," Tywin corrected. "The individual is nothing. The family is everything. Adrian will understand that, even if my other children do not."

"And if he disappoints you?" Kevan asked quietly. "Children rarely grow precisely as we intend."

Tywin's expression darkened momentarily. "He won't disappoint me. I won't allow it."

Kevan said nothing more. Some battles could not be won, and changing Tywin's mind once set was chief among them. Instead, he rose to his feet. "I should retire. The journey was long."

Tywin nodded. "We'll speak more tomorrow. There are matters regarding Lannisport that require your attention."

As Kevan reached the door, Tywin spoke again. "Brother."

Kevan turned. "Yes?"

"Your loyalty has always been House Lannister's greatest asset. Remember that in the years to come."

It was as close to gratitude as Tywin ever expressed, and Kevan accepted it with a simple nod before departing, leaving Tywin alone with his letters and his schemes.

Chapter Text

Fifteen months had passed since Adrian's arrival, and the whispers about Lord Tywin's bastard had settled into acceptance, if not quite approval. The child himself, now eighteen months old, seemed oblivious to the circumstances of his birth as he toddled across the nursery floor with increasing confidence.

"Look at you go!" Serra clapped her hands encouragingly as Adrian navigated the space between a wooden chair and a chest of toys. His steps were still unsteady but remarkably coordinated for his age. "Such a clever little lord."

Adrian beamed at the praise, his unusual silver-gold hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. He wore a crimson tunic emblazoned with a golden lion, custom-made by Casterly Rock's finest seamstresses.

"Li-on," he said clearly, pointing to the sigil on his chest. "Li-on!"

Serra's eyes widened. It had been his first word a month ago, and already his vocabulary was growing daily. "That's right, my sweet. Lion. The proud lion of Lannister."

The nursery door opened, and Tyrion entered, carrying a wooden horse he'd commissioned from a toymaker in Lannisport. At twelve years old, he was still small for his age, but his face had lost some of its childish roundness.

"How's my brother today?" Tyrion asked, setting the toy down.

"Li-on!" Adrian exclaimed, pointing first to his tunic and then to Tyrion. "Tee-on!"

Tyrion laughed. "Close enough. It's Tyrion, but you'll get it eventually."

"He's adding new words every day," Serra reported. "Master Creylen says he's never seen a child so young speak so clearly."

"Lannisters are exceptional in all things," Tyrion replied with a wink. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged. "Come here, Adrian. I've brought you something."

Adrian toddled over, more steady with each step, and plopped down beside his brother. He immediately reached for the wooden horse, examining it with unusual focus.

"Horse," Tyrion said clearly. "Can you say 'horse'?"

"Ho," Adrian attempted, frowning in concentration. "Ho-ss."

"Close enough! That's excellent," Tyrion praised, ruffling Adrian's hair. "You'll be reciting poetry before you're three at this rate."

The door opened again, this time admitting Lord Tywin himself. Serra immediately rose and curtsied deeply. Tyrion remained seated beside Adrian but straightened his posture slightly.

"Father," Tyrion greeted him.

Tywin's cold gaze swept over the scene, lingering momentarily on the wooden horse before settling on Adrian. "How is he progressing?"

Before Serra could answer, Adrian looked up and broke into a delighted smile. "Fa!" he exclaimed, arms reaching upward. "Fa!"

A flicker of something—perhaps pride, perhaps satisfaction—crossed Tywin's face so quickly it might have been imagined. "He attempts to say 'Father'?"

"Yes, my lord," Serra confirmed. "And many other words. 'Lion' was his first, naturally. He also says 'book' and 'red' and 'gold.'"

"Appropriate," Tywin noted dryly. "And his walking?"

"Improves daily, my lord. Maester Creylen says he's advancing faster than—"

"Good." Tywin cut her off, approaching Adrian. The boy was still reaching upward, his little hands opening and closing expectantly.

To Serra and Tyrion's surprise, Tywin actually bent down and lifted the child, holding him. Adrian immediately grabbed at the golden chain of office around Tywin's neck, fascinated by its shine.

"Go-ld," Adrian said clearly.

"Yes," Tywin replied. "Gold. The color of our house. And what is our house, Adrian?"

"Li-on!" Adrian proclaimed triumphantly.

For the briefest moment, the corner of Tywin's mouth twitched upward. "Lannister," he corrected. "House Lannister."

"Lan-ster," Adrian attempted, earning another almost-smile from his supposed father.

"He will be ready," Tywin announced, "to join us for dinner tonight. The family gathers to discuss several matters. It is time they all saw his progress."

Serra looked alarmed. "My lord, he's still so young for a formal dinner..."

"Just for a brief appearance," Tywin clarified. "After the main course. See that he is properly dressed." He set Adrian back down beside Tyrion. "Continue with his words," he instructed his younger son before turning to leave.

"Bye Fa!" Adrian called after him, waving enthusiastically, but Tywin did not wave back at him, he just closed the door.

"Well," Tyrion said after a moment, "it seems you've accomplished what I never could—you've made Father almost smile."

.

.

The Lannister dining hall gleamed with gold and crimson in the light of a hundred candles. Tywin sat at the head of the table, with Kevan to his right and Genna to his left. Emmon Frey, Genna's husband, sat beside her, looking as uncomfortable as always in Lannister company. Dorna Swyft, Kevan's wife, sat beside her husband, and Tyrion was positioned near the foot of the table.

The remains of a lavish meal littered the table—suckling pig, honeyed duck, and lemoncakes—as servants cleared away plates and brought fresh wine.

"The Tyrells grow more ambitious by the day," Kevan was saying. "Their latest proposal for reduced tariffs on Arbor wine is nothing short of—"

He was interrupted as the doors opened, and Serra entered, holding Adrian's hand as he walked beside her, dressed in a miniature version of Lannister formal attire—crimson velvet with gold threading.

Conversation halted as all eyes turned to the child. Adrian, far from being intimidated by the attention, looked around the room with bright interest.

"Come, Adrian," Tywin commanded from the head of the table.

Adrian needed no further encouragement. He let go of Serra's hand and walked almost steadily across the hall. When he reached Tywin, he raised his arms expectantly.

Tywin lifted the boy onto his lap. "This is Adrian," he announced unnecessarily. "He joins us briefly tonight."

"Well, look at you," Genna said warmly. "Walking all by yourself and dressed like a proper little lord."

Adrian beamed at her. "Ge-na," he said, pointing directly at her.

Genna's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "He knows my name?"

"He knows all of you," Tywin replied. "Tyrion has been teaching him."

From his place at the table, Tyrion gave a small, proud nod. "He's a quick study."

"Remarkable," Kevan murmured, studying the child closely. "And how old is he now?"

"Eighteen months," Tywin replied.

"My Lancel didn't speak half so clearly at twice that age," Kevan admitted, leaning forward to address Adrian directly. "Hello, Adrian. I'm your Uncle Kevan."

Adrian studied him for a moment, his green eyes unnervingly focused. "Ke-van," he repeated, then smiled charmingly. "Un-ca."

A ripple of impressed murmurs went around the table. Even Emmon Frey looked begrudgingly impressed.

"The Lannister blood shows strongly in him," Kevan remarked, his eyes lingering on Adrian's unusual hair.

"Indeed," Tywin replied evenly. "As does his intelligence."

"Tee-on!" Adrian suddenly called out, spotting his brother at the far end of the table. "Tee-on book!"

Tyrion grinned. "Yes, we'll read a book later."

"He loves the stories Tyrion reads him," Serra explained to the others. "Especially the ones about dragons and knights."

As the conversation continued around him, Adrian remained remarkably composed, occasionally offering a word or two but mostly watching the adults with that same intense focus.

One Year Later - Adrian (3), Tyrion (13)

Tyrion Lannister's short legs dangled from the oversized chair in Casterly Rock's library, not quite reaching the ornate footstool positioned beneath. He'd long ago stopped caring about such indignities. The library was his sanctuary, one of the few places where his stature mattered less than his mind.

"Again!" demanded the small voice beside him.

Tyrion glanced down at Adrian, his three-year-old half-brother. The boy's eyes—Lannister eyes, green flecked with gold—stared up at him with fascination.

"Again?" Tyrion chuckled, closing the leather-bound volume. "We've read about Aegon the Conqueror three times already. Don't you want to hear a different story?"

Adrian shook his head emphatically. "I want dragons."

Always dragons, Tyrion thought with amusement. Most children his age prefer stories about knights or magic, but Adrian wants dragons.

"Very well," Tyrion sighed dramatically, though secretly pleased. He reopened the book to a colorful illustration of Balerion the Black Dread. "But this time, I'm telling you about Visenya and Rhaenys too. A proper Targaryen tale needs all three dragons."

Adrian climbed onto the window seat beside Tyrion's chair, his small face solemn with anticipation. "Were they big as mountains?"

"Bigger," Tyrion replied, deliberately exaggerating. "Balerion's wings could cover entire towns in shadow. When he roared, brave knights wet their armor in fear."

Adrian giggled at this detail, eyes wide. "Did they breathe fire like the book shows?"

"Fire hot enough to melt stone and turn castles into puddles," Tyrion confirmed, enjoying the boy's rapt expression. It was refreshing to have someone at Casterly Rock who actually wanted his company. "The Field of Fire was—"

"What's a field of fire?" Adrian interrupted, scooting closer.

Tyrion paused, considering how to describe one of history's bloodiest battles to a child. "It's where Aegon and his sisters used all three dragons at once. The grass caught fire, and—"

"And everyone burned up!" Adrian finished with alarming enthusiasm.

There's that Lannister bloodthirst, Tyrion thought wryly. Though something about Adrian's fascination with fire seemed different.

"Not everyone," Tyrion corrected. "King Loren of the Rock—our ancestor—was clever enough to survive."

Adrian's brow furrowed. "But he lost, didn't he?"

"He did," Tyrion admitted. "But sometimes, little brother, knowing when to kneel is wiser than standing your ground." He tapped his temple. "Survival requires this more than this." He made a fist, which made Adrian smile.

"Father says a Lannister never kneels," Adrian countered.

Tyrion barely suppressed a snort. Of course, Tywin would teach him that already. "Your father—our father—has many sayings. You'll learn them all soon enough."

Something flickered across Adrian's face—a shadow of thoughtfulness unusual in one so young. "But you're smart. Smarter than anyone. That's what Maester Creylen told Serra."

Warmth spread through Tyrion's chest at this innocent report. At least someone on this cursed rock appreciates my mind. "Did he now? Well, don't tell Father, or poor Creylen might find himself sent to the Wall."

Adrian giggled again, not fully understanding the joke but enjoying being part of it. The sound echoed in the cavernous library, bright and incongruous among the solemn tomes.

Tyrion found himself smiling genuinely. These afternoon reading sessions had become the highlight of his otherwise lonely days. His father barely acknowledged him, Jaime was away in King's Landing, and Cersei—well, the less thought about his sweet sister, the better, especially based on what he was hearing.

"Tell me about Valyria now," Adrian requested, interrupting Tyrion's thoughts.

"Ah, ancient Valyria," Tyrion sighed with genuine enthusiasm, setting aside the first book and reaching for another volume, this one bound in faded red leather. "The greatest civilization the world has ever known."

He opened to an illustration of the Valyrian peninsula before the Doom, with its fourteen flames and gleaming cities.

"They had magic," Tyrion explained, "and dragon-binding horns, and swords forged with spells."

Adrian ran a small finger over the illustration. "Why did it disappear?"

"The Doom," Tyrion answered dramatically, lowering his voice. "Mountains exploded, seas boiled, and dragons burned—even in their lairs."

Adrian's eyes widened. "Everyone died?"

"Almost everyone. Except—"

"The Targ-ryen!" Adrian finished triumphantly.

Tyrion nodded, impressed by the boy's recall. "Very good. They fled to Dragonstone before the Doom."

"Because they knew it was coming," Adrian added. "Daenys Targ-ryen saw it in a dream."

Tyrion tilted his head, surprised. "That's right. Dragon dreams, they called them. Where did you learn that? It's not in this book."

Adrian shrugged, suddenly looking uncertain. "I don't remember."

Curious, Tyrion thought. Perhaps Creylen has been teaching him more than Father mentioned.

Before Tyrion could inquire further, the library door opened with a creak. A servant woman entered, her eyes carefully avoiding direct contact with Tyrion.

"Lord Adrian," she called. "It's time for your evening meal."

Adrian's face fell. "But we haven't finished about Valyria!"

"Tomorrow," Tyrion promised, closing the book. "We'll continue tomorrow."

The servant approached, her expression softening as she observed them. "It's good of you to teach your brother about history, Lord Tyrion," she said, surprising him with direct address. Then, unable to help herself, she added, "Despite your... circumstances."

Tyrion's momentary pleasure curdled. Ah, yes, the imp playing nursemaid. How touching.

"My circumstances are quite comfortable, thank you," he replied with deliberate cheerfulness. "Though I'd welcome more wine if you're offering."

The woman flushed and extended her hand to Adrian. "Come, my lord. Cook has made honey cakes for dessert."

Adrian slid from the window seat but didn't take her hand. Instead, he turned to Tyrion and, without warning, threw his arms around his brother's neck.

"Thank you for the dragons," he whispered.

Tyrion froze, momentarily stunned by the unexpected embrace. No one at Casterly Rock touched him willingly except Jaime. Certainly not with affection. Awkwardly, he patted Adrian's back, throat suddenly tight.

"You're welcome, little brother," he managed.

As Adrian pulled away, Tyrion caught sight of a figure standing in the shadows of the library entrance—tall, imposing, unmistakable. Tywin Lannister observed the scene with an unreadable expression.

How long has he been there? Tyrion wondered, his chest tightening with familiar anxiety. Does he think I'm trying to turn the boy against him somehow?

Adrian, oblivious to the tension, waved cheerfully. "Father! Tyrion told me about dragons and Valyria and the Field of Fire!"

Tywin stepped into the light, his gaze moving between his sons. "Did he?" His voice betrayed nothing.

"He knows everything," Adrian declared with childish certainty.

Tyrion braced himself for his father's dismissal or cutting remark. Here it comes. 'A mind wasted in a mockery of a body' or something equally charming.

Instead, Tywin merely nodded once. "Ensure that knowledge is put to proper use," he said to Adrian. Then, to Tyrion's astonishment, he added, "Continue these sessions if they interest you both."

With that, he turned and left as silently as he had appeared.

Tyrion stared after him, baffled by what seemed almost like... approval? No, surely not. More likely, Tywin simply saw benefit in having Tyrion occupy Adrian while he attended to more important matters.

The servant cleared her throat. "Come along, Lord Adrian."

As they departed, Adrian turned to wave goodbye once more, his small face bright with affection. "Tomorrow we'll read about the swords with the magic!"

"Valyrian steel," Tyrion corrected automatically, raising his hand in farewell.

When they had gone, Tyrion remained in the library's growing shadows, surrounded by books and unexpected emotions. He reached for the dragon book again, running his fingers over its worn cover.

He hugged me, Tyrion thought, still feeling the ghost of those small arms around his neck. He actually hugged me.

For the first time since Jaime had left for King's Landing, Tyrion Lannister felt a little less alone in Casterly Rock.

A dangerous feeling to indulge, the cynical part of his mind warned. He's Tywin's golden child, not truly yours to love.

Yet as Tyrion carefully reshelved the books, he couldn't help but look forward to tomorrow's reading about Valyrian steel. Perhaps he would tell Adrian about Ice and Brightroar, and watch those remarkable eyes light up again with wonder.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he had found a friend.

Two Months Later

The normally austere courtyard of Casterly Rock erupted with unusual activity as a colorful procession wound its way through the Lion's Mouth. Servants rushed about, gawking at the exotic caravan making its entrance—merchants in foreign garb, sailors with sun-darkened skin, and at their center, a golden-haired man whose booming laugh echoed off the ancient stone walls.

Gerion Lannister had returned.

Adrian pressed his face against a window overlooking the courtyard, his small hands splayed on the glass. At three years old, he had never seen such a spectacle at his somber home.

"Is that my uncle?" he asked, turning to Tyrion, who stood beside him. His brother had told him that their uncle Gerion would visit soon.

"Indeed it is," Tyrion confirmed, a rare smile lighting his face. "The prodigal lion returns at last."

Below them, Gerion dismounted as if he was dancing, his hair longer than Lannister custom, his clothing a flamboyant blend of Westerosi and foreign styles. He clapped a nearby guard on the shoulder like an old friend rather than a servant.

"Why is he dressed funny?" Adrian asked.

"Because Uncle Gerion thinks life is a grand joke," Tyrion replied, "and he's determined to have the last laugh."

As if on cue, Gerion threw back his head and roared with laughter at something a servant said—a sound so genuine it made several nearby guards crack smiles.

"Come," Tyrion said, taking Adrian's small hand. "Father will expect us in the great hall to welcome him properly."

By the time they reached the hall, Tywin Lannister already stood at its center, his expression a careful mask of lordly welcome that did nothing to soften his imposing presence.

"Brother!" Gerion called, striding forward to embrace Tywin, who accepted the gesture with rigid formality. "Still as warm as a winter in the North, I see."

"Your journey was successful?" Tywin asked, ignoring the jab.

"Beyond all expectations," Gerion grinned, his eyes scanning the hall until they found Tyrion. "Ah! My favorite nephew!"

He crossed to Tyrion in a few long strides and swept him into a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. "Still burying yourself in books, I hope?"

"Whenever I can escape other duties," Tyrion replied, his usual cynicism momentarily absent.

Gerion set him down and then noticed the small figure half-hidden behind his brother. "And who might this be?"

Tywin cleared his throat. "My son, Adrian Lannister."

A flicker of surprise crossed Gerion's face, quickly replaced by curiosity as he crouched down to Adrian's level. "Well met, young nephew. I don't believe we've had the pleasure."

Adrian studied the newcomer. "You're my uncle?"

"So it would seem," Gerion replied with a wink. "Though I'm far more handsome than your other uncles, wouldn't you agree?"

Adrian giggled. "You have the same eyes as Father and me."

"Lannister eyes," Gerion agreed, studying the boy more carefully. "Though your hair is an interesting shade. Not quite the golden mane of most lions."

"His mother was Lysene," Tywin stated flatly. "Bring your gifts to the hall, brother. The journey must have tired you."

Gerion's gaze lingered on Adrian for a moment longer, his expression thoughtful, before he rose and clapped his hands. "Gifts! Yes, I've brought treasures from across the Narrow Sea."

At his command, servants began bringing in exotic items from the caravan—spice jars from Qarth, silks from Yi Ti, strange fruits preserved in honey from the Summer Isles, and wooden chests of curiosities.

"For you, brother," Gerion announced, presenting Tywin with an intricately carved box. "A set of golden inkwells from Volantis, worthy of the Lord of Casterly Rock."

Tywin accepted with a curt nod.

"For my scholarly nephew," Gerion continued, handing Tyrion a leather-bound book. "An incomplete history of the Valyrian Freehold, with illustrations I'm told are unmatched in the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion's eyes widened as he reverently opened the volume. "This is... extraordinary. Thank you, uncle."

"And for my newest nephew," Gerion said, kneeling again before Adrian. He produced a small wooden drum, its sides painted with colorful patterns and exotic birds. "From the Summer Isles, where they believe music speaks when words fail."

Adrian accepted the drum with wide eyes, running his fingers over the taut skin stretched across its top.

"Like this," Gerion demonstrated, tapping out a simple rhythm. Adrian immediately mimicked it, his face lighting up at the sound.

"What do you say?" Tywin prompted.

"Thank you, Uncle Gerion," Adrian replied dutifully, but his genuine delight was evident as he continued tapping the drum.

"Perhaps save the musical education for after the feast," Tywin suggested, though his tone made it more command than request.

The great hall was soon transformed for a welcoming feast. Gerion sat at Tywin's right hand along with Kevan and Gemma, Adrian sat nearby, and Tyrion across the table. As wine flowed, Gerion's stories grew more animated, drawing laughter from even the most stoic servants.

"...and then the Summer Islander said, 'That's not a mermaid, that's the harbormaster's wife!'" Gerion finished one tale, causing uproarious laughter to echo through the hall.

Adrian giggled helplessly, though he clearly didn't understand the joke. Tywin's expression darkened with each burst of inappropriate mirth.

"And the pirate captain in Tyrosh," Gerion continued, gesturing with his wine cup. "Frightful man with a forked purple beard. Swore he'd fought the last dragon himself!"

"Dragons are all dead," Adrian stated with the certainty of recently acquired knowledge. "Tyrion told me. The last one was small as a cat."

"So the maesters claim," Gerion agreed, leaning conspiratorially toward Adrian. "But I've seen dragon eggs in the Markets—black as night and hard as stone."

Adrian's eyes widened to saucers. "Real dragon eggs? Can they hatch?"

"Enough fantasy," Tywin interrupted. "Adrian doesn't need his head filled with such tales."

"All boys need a little fantasy, brother," Gerion countered easily. "I certainly did growing up in this mausoleum." He turned back to Adrian. "Though your father is right—most believe the dragons are gone forever."

"I want to see a dragon," Adrian declared firmly.

"Kevan mentioned you might continue your travels to Volantis," Tywin said, pointedly changing the subject. "What business draws you there?"

Gerion held his brother's gaze for a long moment, clearly registering the evasion. He took a slow sip of wine before responding.

"Curiosities, brother. Always curiosities." His eyes flickered to Adrian once more, then back to Tywin. "I find family histories... fascinating."

Tywin's expression hardened. "We shall discuss your future plans later. In private."

"As you wish," Gerion agreed with an easy smile. He turned to Adrian and spoke in a stage whisper. "Your father always did prefer private conversations. Especially about matters of importance."

Adrian nodded solemnly, as though receiving profound wisdom, and returned to tapping his new drum quietly under the table.

As the feast continued, Gerion regaled the hall with more tales of his travels, each more outlandish than the last. Adrian hung on every word, his eyes bright with excitement at descriptions of distant lands and strange customs.

From his seat at the high table, Tywin observed the scene with growing displeasure. When Adrian began asking Gerion about "dragon dreams" he'd heard about from Tyrion, Tywin abruptly stood.

"It grows late," he announced. "Adrian, it's time for your bed."

"But Father—" Adrian began to protest.

"No arguments," Tywin said firmly.

Gerion winked at Adrian. "Don't worry, nephew. I'll be here for some time. We'll have plenty of opportunities for more stories."

Adrian reluctantly slid from his chair but brightened at this promise. "Will you tell me about Asshai tomorrow?"

"If your father permits," Gerion replied, his eyes challenging Tywin over the rim of his wine cup.

As a nursemaid led Adrian away, Tywin remained standing. "Enjoy the hospitality of Casterly Rock, brother. We have much to discuss on the morrow."

Gerion raised his cup in salute. "Family discussions are always entertaining."

After Tywin departed, Gerion turned to Tyrion, who had observed the entire exchange with shrewd eyes.

"So, nephew," Gerion said quietly. "Tell me about this new brother of yours."

Tyrion glanced toward the doorway where Tywin had exited. "Carefully, uncle. Very carefully."

Gerion's customary smile faded, replaced by a look of genuine curiosity. "His hair... reminds me of someone."

"Does it?" Tyrion replied, feigning disinterest.

"Indeed." Gerion took another long drink of wine, his expression contemplative. "Most curious. Most curious indeed."

Tomorrow - Adrian Lannister (Daeron Targaryen)

Adrian's fingers hurt from tapping his new drum all morning. The drum was the best present ever. Better than the wooden lion Father gave him. Better than the picture books. The drum made noise and noise was exciting.

Uncle Gerion was coming to teach him how to play it properly. Adrian sat on his bed, legs swinging back and forth, not touching the floor. His chamber was big with stone walls that made sounds echo. The servants had lit the fire because Casterly Rock was always cold, even when it was sunny outside.

The drum sat on his lap. It had funny birds painted on it that Adrian had never seen before. They had long curly feathers and beaks as red as blood. Adrian liked blood-red things.

The door opened with a creak. Uncle Gerion came in with a big smile that showed all his teeth. Father never smiled like that.

"There's my little drummer!" Uncle Gerion said. His voice was loud and bouncy. "Have you been practicing?"

Adrian nodded fast. "I can do this." He hit the drum three times. Bam-bam-bam.

"Not bad!" Uncle Gerion sat on the bed next to him. The bed went down on his side because he was big. "But drums tell stories in the Summer Isles. Let me show you."

Uncle Gerion's hands moved fast on the drum. Bam-ba-ba-bam-bam. The sounds made Adrian's heart feel jumpy and happy.

"That's how they call people to feasts," Uncle Gerion explained. "And this—" he tapped a slower beat, "—is for sad times, like when someone dies."

Adrian frowned. "I don't like that one."

"Most don't," Uncle Gerion laughed. "Try the happy one."

Adrian tried to copy the beat. His small hands couldn't move as fast as Uncle Gerion's big ones. It sounded wrong. Bam-ba-bam-bam.

"Almost!" Uncle Gerion didn't sound disappointed like Father would. "Try again."

Adrian tried harder. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth. Bam-ba-ba-bam-bam.

"There you have it!" Uncle Gerion clapped his hands. "A natural musician!"

Pride made Adrian's chest feel big. He was good at something new!

"Can we go outside?" Adrian asked. "My room makes the drum too loud."

Uncle Gerion thought for a moment. "The western courtyard should be empty this time of day. Let's see if your father's lions will appreciate Summer Islands music."

Adrian jumped off the bed, hugging his drum tight. He liked the western courtyard. It had a fountain with stone lions that spit water and flowers that smelled nice.

As they walked through the long hallways, servants bowed to them. Some looked surprised to see Uncle Gerion holding Adrian's hand. Father never held his hand.

"Uncle Gerion," Adrian asked as they walked, "why is your hair long? Father's hair is short."

Uncle Gerion laughed. "Because your father follows rules, and I like to break them."

"Breaking rules is bad," Adrian recited what he'd been taught.

"Sometimes," Uncle Gerion agreed. "But sometimes rules are just... boring."

Adrian thought about this. It was confusing. Father said rules were important.

The courtyard was warm with sunshine when they arrived. Adrian ran to the fountain and sat on its edge. The stone was sun-hot under his legs.

"Now we can be loud!" Uncle Gerion declared. He took a bigger drum from under his cloak that Adrian hadn't noticed before.

"You have one too!" Adrian pointed excitedly.

"Every drummer needs a partner," Uncle Gerion winked. He began tapping a new rhythm, faster than before.

Adrian tried to follow. His hands were clumsy at first, but then something funny happened. He could feel the beat in his chest, like his heart was telling his hands what to do. Bam-ba-ba-bam. His small fingers found the rhythm.

Uncle Gerion's eyebrows went up. "Well now! You've got the gift, nephew!"

"What gift?" Adrian asked, still drumming.

"Music," Uncle Gerion said. "It's in your blood."

Adrian liked that idea. Music in his blood. Like the Lannister gold in his hair, Father always said.

They played together, making louder and louder sounds. Adrian laughed every time Uncle Gerion added a funny noise or changed the beat suddenly. The courtyard filled with sounds that bounced off the stone walls.

A servant walked by and stopped to stare. Then another. Soon there were three servants standing by the archway, watching with wide eyes.

"We have an audience!" Uncle Gerion announced, playing faster.

Adrian didn't know what "audience" meant, but he liked how the servants were smiling. Nobody smiled much at Casterly Rock except for Tyrion, Serra, and Genna sometimes.

"What's all this commotion?" a familiar voice called.

Tyrion appeared in the courtyard, walking with his funny waddling steps that Adrian was never supposed to mention.

"Nephew!" Uncle Gerion greeted him. "Come join our Summer Islands band!"

Tyrion shook his head. "I fear I have no musical talent."

"Nonsense!" Uncle Gerion pulled a tiny drum from his pocket. "Even the tone-deaf can manage a simple beat."

Adrian ran to Tyrion, still holding his drum. "Please play, Tyrion! It's fun!"

Tyrion looked at Adrian's excited face and sighed. "How can I refuse such an enthusiastic invitation?" He took the small drum reluctantly.

Uncle Gerion showed Tyrion an easy beat. Bam-bam. Bam-bam.

Tyrion tried it, looking embarrassed. His short fingers tapped uncertainly.

"See? You're a natural too!" Uncle Gerion lied, but in a nice way that made Tyrion almost smile.

The three of them sat by the fountain, playing their drums. Adrian in the middle, Tyrion and Uncle Gerion on either side. Uncle Gerion started singing words in a strange language that sounded like water flowing.

More servants gathered to watch. One started clapping along. Then another. Adrian had never seen servants act this way before. Father would be angry.

But Father wasn't here, and the sun was warm, and the drums were talking to each other like friends.

Adrian laughed so hard his sides hurt when Uncle Gerion stood up and started dancing with his drum, his feet making funny patterns on the stones. Even Tyrion chuckled, his mismatched eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Your turn, Adrian!" Uncle Gerion called.

Adrian stood up and tried to copy the dance, his little legs stomping and jumping. He probably looked silly, but he didn't care. This was the most fun he'd ever had.

"Is this how they dance in the Summer Isles?" Adrian asked, twirling in a wobbly circle.

"Close enough!" Uncle Gerion laughed. "Though they wear fewer clothes and more feathers!"

Tyrion snorted. "Perhaps we should avoid teaching him that particular tradition."

Adrian didn't understand what was funny, but laughed anyway because the grown-ups were laughing.

For a long wonderful time, they played and danced and made noise that echoed all through the courtyard. Adrian felt something new and strange—like his chest might burst with happiness.

Chapter Text

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Four Months Later - Adrian Lannister (4)

Adrian's favorite word was "why."

"Why is the sky blue?" he asked Serra while she combed his pale gold hair in the morning.

"Because the gods made it that way," Serra answered, not looking up from her task.

"Why did they make it blue and not green?"

Serra sighed. "Perhaps they thought blue was prettier."

"Why is prettier better?"

"Adrian," Serra's voice got the tired sound it always did now. "Some things just are."

But that wasn't a good answer. Everything had reasons. Adrian learned that from Tyrion. Tyrion always had reasons for everything.

Adrian was four now. Uncle Gerion had given him four little wooden animals for his nameday, one for each year. The lion was his favorite. He carried it everywhere in his pocket.

Today, Adrian was following Maester Creylen through the halls of Casterly Rock. The Maester was teaching him the names of all the Lords of the Rock, which was boring but important.

"And after Lord Tytos came your father, Lord Tywin," the Maester said.

"And after Father comes me," Adrian added proudly.

The Maester's face did something funny. "Well, there is your half-brother Jaime..."

"Father says Jaime wears a white cloak now. He can't be Lord."

"Very good, Adrian," the Maester nodded. "Your memory serves you well."

Adrian liked when people said he was good at remembering. He remembered everything—like the song Uncle Gerion taught him from the Summer Isles, and all the words in the book about dragons Tyrion read to him three times.

"Can we go to the library now?" Adrian asked. "I want to see Tyrion."

"Your father requested your presence in his solar at midday," the Maester replied. "It's nearly time."

Adrian's stomach felt jumpy. Father didn't often ask for him specifically. Sometimes that was good. Sometimes it wasn't.

When they reached Father's solar, Adrian stood very straight like he'd been taught. The guard announced him, and he walked in with careful steps.

Father sat behind his big desk, writing something with his special gold pen. He didn't look up.

Adrian waited. He'd learned that Father didn't like to be interrupted.

Finally, Father set down his pen. "Adrian. Maester Creylen tells me your speech has improved considerably."

Adrian wasn't sure what "considerably" meant, but it sounded good.

"Yes, Father," he replied.

"Address me properly," Father said, his green-gold eyes watching carefully.

Adrian remembered the new word he'd been practicing. "Yes, my lord Father."

Father almost smiled. Almost. "Better."

Father stood and walked around the desk. He was so tall that Adrian had to tilt his head back to see his face.

"Tomorrow, Lord Serrett will visit Casterly Rock," Father explained. "You will join us for the midday meal."

"Yes, my lord Father," Adrian repeated, proud he got it right again.

Father nodded. "What have you learned this week?"

This was a test. Father often tested him. Adrian took a deep breath and recited what Maester Creylen had taught him.

"House Lannister ruled as Kings of the Rock until Loren the Last knelt to Aegon the Con-Conqueror." Adrian stumbled a bit on the hard word but kept going. "Our words are 'Hear Me Roar' and our sigil is a golden lion on crimson."

"And what does a lion never do?" Father asked.

"A lion never concern itself with the opinions of sheep," Adrian replied promptly, repeating one of Father's favorite sayings.

This time Father did smile, just a little. From his desk, he took a small wooden figure—a lion standing on its hind legs, beautifully carved.

"For your correct answers," Father said, handing it to Adrian.

Adrian took the lion carefully. It was much nicer than his other toys, painted gold with tiny red gems for eyes.

"Thank you, my lord Father."

When Adrian left the solar, he felt warm inside. Father was pleased with him.

In the kitchen, Adrian perched on a tall stool, watching the cooks prepare dinner. He wasn't supposed to be here, but the head cook, Marla, let him stay if he was quiet.

"What's that?" Adrian pointed to a strange spiky fruit.

"A pineapple," Marla said, slicing it open to reveal yellow flesh. "From the Summer Isles. Your uncle brought it."

"Why is it called a pineapple when it's not an apple?"

Marla chuckled. "The shape, I suppose. Would you like to taste it?"

Adrian nodded eagerly. Marla gave him a small piece. It was sweet and tangy and like nothing he'd ever tasted before.

"Extraordinary," Adrian declared, using one of Tyrion's favorite words.

Marla nearly dropped her knife. "What did you say?"

"Extraordinary," Adrian repeated. "It means very unusual and special."

The kitchen maids giggled. Adrian didn't understand why, but he liked making them laugh.

In the library, Tyrion was showing Adrian a book with pictures of the Wall.

"It's seven hundred feet high," Tyrion explained, "and made entirely of ice."

"Why would anyone build a wall of ice?" Adrian asked, tracing the illustration with his finger.

"To keep out the wildlings," Tyrion answered. "And perhaps other things."

"What other things?"

Tyrion's mismatched eyes twinkled. "Others. White Walkers. Creatures of ice and death that come with the long night."

Adrian's eyes widened. "Are they real?"

"What do you think?"

Adrian thought hard. "Maester Creylen says they're just stories. But you said all stories come from somewhere."

"Very good," Tyrion smiled. "Critical thinking is the cornerstone of wisdom."

"Critical thinking is the cornerstone of wisdom," Adrian repeated, liking how the big words felt in his mouth.

Three days later, Adrian was playing with his wooden animals in the hallway outside Father's council chamber. He wasn't supposed to be there either, but the guard liked him and pretended not to see him.

Adrian could hear voices from inside discussing boring grown-up things. Father's voice was the loudest, talking about taxes and gold.

The door suddenly opened, and a servant emerged. Before it closed, Adrian heard Father say, "The proper allocation of resources is the cornerstone of effective taxation."

Adrian went back to playing with his animals, making the lion fight the wolf.

Later that afternoon, Father held a meeting with Lord Serrett, a thin man with a funny-looking mustache. Adrian was brought in to greet the lord, wearing his best clothes.

"My son, Adrian," Father introduced him.

"A handsome lad," Lord Serrett said, not really looking at Adrian. "You must be proud."

"Indeed," Father replied. "Adrian, what did you learn about House Serrett this morning?"

Adrian remembered his lessons. "House Serrett's sigil is a peacock in green, blue, and gold. Your seat is Silverhill."

Lord Serrett looked slightly more interested now. "Well taught, my lord."

"He has an exceptional memory," Father said. "Tell Lord Serrett what you've learned about governance."

Adrian wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't learned about "governance" yet. But he remembered what he'd heard outside the council chamber.

"The proper allocation of resources is the cornerstone of effective taxation," he repeated perfectly.

A surprised silence fell. Lord Serrett's eyes widened, and he looked from Adrian to Father with new respect.

"Remarkable," he said finally. "I've never heard a child his age speak so... precisely."

Father placed a hand on Adrian's shoulder.

"The future of House Lannister will be in capable hands," Father said, and the pride in his voice made Adrian stand taller.

Later, as Adrian was leaving, he heard Lord Serrett say to Father, "The boy is truly exceptional, my lord. A credit to your house."

Father's reply was too quiet to hear, but Adrian knew he had done well.

That night, in his big bed with the lion carvings, Adrian thought about all the new words he'd learned. Words were power—he understood that now. The right words made Father proud, made servants listen, made lords look at him with respect.

Tomorrow, he would ask Tyrion to teach him more big words. And he would ask Uncle Gerion, who was still visiting, to tell him stories about the places beyond the sea with funny names like Qarth and Asshai.

And maybe, if he learned enough words and said them perfectly enough, Father would smile at him again with that almost-smile that made Adrian feel warm all the way to his toes.

Adrian fell asleep with his new wooden lion clutched in one hand, dreaming of words floating around him like brightly colored butterflies, waiting to be caught.

One Year Later - Adrian Lannister (5)

Adrian fidgeted in his chair at the high table. His new boots pinched his toes, and the stiff collar of his crimson doublet scratched his neck. But he didn't complain. Father said Lannisters never complain, especially not at important feasts with important guests.

The Great Hall of Casterly Rock glowed with a hundred candles. The light made the golden plates and cups shine like little suns. Adrian had counted twenty-eight lords and ladies at the long tables. They wore silks in green and gold and blue that looked like butterfly wings when they moved.

"Sit still," Aunt Genna whispered from beside him. She was big and loud usually, but tonight she used her quiet voice. "Remember what your father said."

Adrian nodded. Father had said many things before the feast. Stand straight. Speak clearly. Make House Lannister proud. Adrian wasn't sure how to do the last one, but he was trying his hardest.

Uncle Tygett sat across the table, talking loudly about hunting and fighting. Adrian liked Uncle Tygett because he was teaching him how to use a wooden sword, but he didn't like how Uncle Tygett sometimes laughed at Tyrion. Nobody should laugh at Tyrion. Tyrion was the smartest person in the whole castle.

Uncle Tygett laughed, his face red from wine. He was talking loudly to another lord, laughing in the way grown-ups did when they said things children weren't supposed to hear.

"You should have seen her," Uncle Tygett boasted, not noticing that Adrian was listening. "The tavern wench from Lannisport with the biggest pair of—"

"Tygett!" Aunt Genna cut in sharply. "There are children present."

Uncle Tygett glanced at Adrian and waved dismissively. "He doesn't understand. Do you, boy?"

Adrian wasn't sure what Uncle Tygett was talking about. Something about a woman with big something. Maybe she had big hands? Or big feet?

"Were her eyes big, Uncle Tygett?" Adrian asked innocently. "I met a lady with very big blue eyes once."

The men around Uncle Tygett roared with laughter. One slapped the table so hard wine spilled from his cup.

"Not quite her eyes, nephew," Uncle Tygett smirked.

Aunt Genna's face turned almost as red as her dress. "Tygett Lannister, that is enough! You will watch your tongue or I'll have you seated with the stable boys."

Uncle Tygett rolled his eyes but nodded. "As you wish, sister." He winked at Adrian. "I'll tell you when you're older, lad."

Adrian frowned, confused. Grown-ups were always saying that.

"Where's Tyrion?" Adrian asked Aunt Genna.

"In the library, I expect," she replied. "Your brother doesn't care for these affairs."

Adrian wished Tyrion was here. Feasts were boring without him. Uncle Gerion was gone too, back to his travels across the sea. He'd promised to bring Adrian a Dothraki horse-hair bracelet next time.

Father sat at the center of the high table, talking to a fat lord with a flower on his clothes. They were discussing boring things like trade and ships. Adrian tried to listen because Father said a lord must always listen, but his mind kept wandering.

Then Father stood up, and everyone got quiet.

"Lords and ladies of the Reach," Father said in his important voice. "To honor our guests, I have arranged for special entertainment this evening. From Highgarden comes the renowned singer, Alyn of the Greenblood."

A tall man with dark curly hair stepped into the center of the hall. He wore green and gold clothing that shimmered when he moved. In his hands was the most beautiful instrument Adrian had ever seen—a wooden harp with silver strings that caught the candlelight.

"I am honored to perform for the great Lord Tywin and his esteemed guests," the singer said with a bow.

Adrian sat up straighter, suddenly not bored anymore. The singer had a nice voice, smooth like honey.

The singer began to play, his long fingers dancing across the strings. Adrian felt something strange happen. The music seemed to flow into his ears and then all through his body, making his skin tingle. It was like the feeling when he rode his pony fast, or when he stood on the highest tower of Casterly Rock and looked out at the sea—exciting and scary all at once.

First, the singer played a happy song about knights and tourneys. People clapped along and laughed. Then he played something slower about a sad princess in a tower. Some of the ladies dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs.

But it was the third song that made Adrian forget to breathe. The singer called it "The Doom of Valyria." The music started low and quiet, almost whispering, then grew like a storm until it filled the whole hall.

Adrian didn't move. He didn't even blink. The music painted pictures in his head—cities of white stone, dragons flying through purple skies, and then fire and darkness and the sea rushing in to swallow everything. It was the most beautiful, most terrible thing he had ever heard.

When the song ended, the hall was silent for a heartbeat before erupting in applause. Adrian didn't clap. He couldn't. His hands were frozen in his lap, and his eyes burned with tears he didn't understand.

"Adrian?" Aunt Genna touched his arm. "Are you well?"

Adrian nodded, not trusting his voice.

The singer looked around the hall, smiling at the applause. Then his eyes found Adrian, and his smile changed, becoming curious. He walked closer to the high table, still playing softly.

"The young lord seems moved by the music," the singer said, bowing to Father.

Father looked at Adrian with a strange expression. "My son has an interest in history," he said carefully.

"And music, it seems," the singer replied. He came closer and knelt on one knee before Adrian, still playing gentle notes. "Would my young lord like to hear a special song?"

Adrian nodded eagerly, finding his voice. "Yes, please."

The singer smiled. "This is a very old song from before the Conquest. They say Aegon the Dragon himself enjoyed it."

He began to play a melody unlike any Adrian had heard before. It had no words, just notes that seemed to dance and swirl like water in a stream. Adrian's fingers twitched in his lap, wanting to touch the strings, to make that magic themselves.

Without thinking, Adrian began to hum along, finding the notes as if he'd known them forever. The singer's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn't stop playing. Instead, he slowed down, playing each phrase clearly.

Adrian hummed the melody perfectly.

The hall had gone quiet again. Adrian didn't notice. He was lost in the music, his eyes half-closed, swaying slightly in his chair.

The singer played a new phrase, more complex. After hearing it once, Adrian hummed it back without a mistake.

"By the Seven," someone whispered. Adrian didn't see who.

The singer finished with a flourish and stood, bowing deeply to Adrian. "My young lord has the gift of music in his blood."

Adrian blinked, coming back to himself. Everyone was staring at him. Father's face was unreadable, but his eyes never left Adrian.

An old lady in silver and blue leaned toward Father. "Such gifts are rare, Lord Tywin, even among great houses. The boy is blessed by the gods."

Father nodded curtly. "House Lannister has many talents."

From the corner of his eye, Adrian saw Aunt Genna watching him with a strange look on her face. Her forehead was wrinkled like when she was trying to remember something important.

"Who does he remind me of?" Adrian heard her mutter to herself. "Those eyes, yes, but the way he lost himself in the music..."

The feast continued with more songs and food and wine. Adrian ate his honey-glazed pigeon pie without really tasting it. All he could think about was the music and how it had made him feel like he was flying.

Later, as the guests began to leave, the singer approached the high table again. He carried something wrapped in green silk.

"With your permission, Lord Tywin," the singer said, "I would like to present a gift to your son."

Father hesitated, then nodded once.

The singer handed the silk bundle to Adrian. "For a natural musician."

Adrian unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a small finger harp, like a tiny version of the singer's instrument but with fewer strings and made of pale wood.

"It's called a psaltery," the singer explained. "For small hands to learn music's secrets."

"Thank you," Adrian breathed, touching the strings gently. They made a soft, sweet sound that seemed to vibrate inside his chest.

"The boy is too young for such things," Uncle Tygett scoffed. "He should focus on swordplay and riding, not plucking strings like a girl."

"There is strength in many forms, Lord Tygett," the singer replied smoothly. "Prince Rhaegar himself was said to play the harp beautifully."

Father's face darkened slightly. "Adrian will learn all the skills befitting a Lannister," he said in a tone that ended the discussion. But he did not take away the gift.

That night, alone in his chamber, Adrian sat cross-legged on his bed with the small harp in his lap. He tried to remember the melody from the feast, his small fingers fumbling on the unfamiliar strings.

At first, the sounds were awkward and jarring. But then, as if guided by something inside him, his fingers found the right strings. The melody came haltingly at first, then more surely—the ancient song the singer had played.

Outside his door, a servant passing with clean linens paused, listening to the eerily beautiful music coming from the young lord's room. It didn't sound like a child playing; it sounded like someone older.

The servant hurried away, making the sign of the seven against her chest.

In his room, Adrian played on, lost in the music that somehow felt like coming home.

Tywin Lannister - Night

The fire in Tywin Lannister's solar hissed and crackled as he poured two glasses of Arbor gold. The hour was late, but Tywin had never required much sleep. Sleep was a luxury afforded to those with fewer responsibilities, and the Lord of Casterly Rock's responsibilities were endless.

"The singer made quite an impression today," Kevan said, accepting the offered glass. His brother looked tired—these days, he always looked tired. But he remained dependable, as always.

"He did," Tywin replied, taking his seat behind the massive oak desk. "As did Adrian."

Tywin did not need to elaborate. They had both witnessed the boy's unusual affinity for music. The memory of it stirred something uncomfortable in his chest—a reminder of the truth he buried deeper with each passing day.

"The Florents were impressed," Kevan noted. "Lady Florent spoke of nothing else at dinner."

"As well she should." Tywin took a measured sip of wine. "The boy exceeded expectations."

And he had. Tywin had arranged many such displays of Adrian's talents over the past year, carefully positioning the boy as a prodigy, a credit to House Lannister. Each time, Adrian performed flawlessly, whether reciting histories, demonstrating courtesy, or today, revealing yet another unexpected talent.

"You've done well with him," Kevan said carefully. "Though I wonder if perhaps he's becoming too... refined. Tygett mentioned the boy struggles with swordplay."

Tywin's jaw tightened. "Tygett expects too much from a five-year-old. Adrian will learn the sword in time. It's his mind that sets him apart."

"True," Kevan agreed. "Though a Lannister needs both sword and mind."

"And he shall have both." Tywin stood, moving to the window that overlooked the Sunset Sea. The moon cast a silver path across the dark waters. "I've arranged for Ser Belon Marr to train the boy."

"An impressive choice. And his other studies?"

"I've secured additional tutors—High Valyrian, mathematics, and history beyond what Creylen can provide. He'll be fluent in three languages. By ten, he'll understand the politics of all Seven Kingdoms in detail." Tywin turned back to face his brother. "When the time comes for him to rule the Rock, he will be prepared as no Lannister has been before."

Kevan studied him over the rim of his wine glass. "You've thought far ahead."

"A lion must always think ahead."

"And what of Tyrion?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. Tywin's mouth thinned to a hard line.

"What of him?"

"He is still your son, Tywin. Your firstborn son, with Jaime in the Kingsguard."

"He is what he is," Tywin replied coldly. "The gods saw fit to make him a dwarf. I cannot unmake that."

"No," Kevan agreed. "But favoring Adrian so openly—"

"I favor competence," Tywin cut in. "Nothing more."

A knock at the door interrupted them. At Tywin's command, a servant entered.

"My lord, young Lord Adrian is here to say goodnight, as requested."

Tywin nodded. "Send him in."

Adrian entered the solar with the careful dignity he'd been taught. He wore his nightclothes—Lannister crimson, of course—and his pale gold hair was neatly combed. In his hands, he clutched the small harp from the singer.

"Lord Father," he said, bowing properly. "Uncle Kevan."

"Adrian," Tywin acknowledged. "I trust you're prepared for bed."

"Yes, Lord Father." The boy approached the desk. "Thank you for the feast today. The singer was magnificent."

"You found his performance to your liking?" Tywin asked, studying the boy's face—those Lannister eyes set in features that increasingly reminded him of someone else.

"Very much so," Adrian replied, his vocabulary precise as always. "He taught me three notes on the psaltery before he left. Would you like to hear them?"

Tywin was about to refuse—music was well enough for feasts, but not something to be pursued too avidly—when he caught Kevan watching him closely. Let his brother see that he was not overly strict with the boy.

"Briefly," Tywin allowed.

Adrian's face lit up. He positioned his small fingers on the strings and plucked a simple sequence of notes. The sound was surprisingly pleasant for a beginner.

"The singer says I have a natural talent," Adrian explained, looking up at Tywin hopefully.

"So it seems." Tywin did not smile, but he inclined his head slightly. "You may practice in your leisure hours, after your other studies are complete."

"Thank you, Lord Father!" The enthusiasm in Adrian's voice was genuine. Cersei had sounded like that once, long ago, before disappointment hardened her.

"It's time for your rest now," Tywin said. "You begin lessons with Maester Creylen at dawn."

Adrian nodded solemnly. "Yes, Lord Father. Goodnight, Lord Father. Goodnight, Uncle Kevan."

"Goodnight, Adrian," Kevan replied warmly. "You did House Lannister proud today."

The boy beamed at the praise and bowed again before departing, the servant closing the door behind him.

Silence settled between the brothers. Kevan broke it first.

"He's a remarkable child, brother. You've shaped him well."

"He is remarkable in his own right," Tywin replied. "I merely provide direction."

Kevan swirled his wine thoughtfully. "Tygett was in King's Landing two months ago."

Tywin returned to his seat, his expression carefully neutral. "And how fares the capital?"

"Well enough. Tygett spent time with both Jaime and Cersei."

"And?"

Kevan hesitated. "Jaime is... managing. They call him Kingslayer behind his back, but he stands tall. His place in the Kingsguard is secure, however dishonorable the circumstances."

Tywin's mouth tightened. His golden son, reduced to a mocked kingslayer. Another failure he could not erase.

"And Cersei?" he prompted when Kevan did not continue.

Kevan looked uncomfortable. "Not well, according to Tygett. He said she looks more like a ghost than a human sometimes. Even the birth of Prince Joffrey three years ago didn't bring her much joy."

This was not surprising. Tywin had seen the emptiness in Cersei's eyes at her wedding to Robert Baratheon. The price of her crown had been high—higher than she knew.

"She will endure," Tywin said flatly. "She is a Lannister."

Kevan hesitated before adding, "She has sent many letters requesting permission to visit Casterly Rock these past five years. Perhaps some time away from court would do her good. She might benefit from reconnecting with her home... and getting to know her young half-brother."

Tywin's expression remained impassive, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his wine glass. "The queen's place is in King's Landing, at her husband's side."

"Even queens need respite, brother."

"King Robert is not known for his understanding nature," Tywin replied coldly. "Nor his willingness to be separated from what he considers his."

What remained unspoken was clearer than what was said: Tywin would not risk Cersei seeing Adrian. The boy was his project now, his legacy—not hers.

"Yes," Kevan agreed, not sounding convinced. After a pause, he added, "Tygett mentioned the Targaryen girl as well."

Tywin's head snapped up. "Rhaenys? What of her?"

"Nothing substantial. Tygett had no opportunity to see her himself. Merely repeated rumors that Jon Arryn treats her like a daughter at times."

"Does he." Tywin's voice was dangerously quiet. It was not a question.

The fate of Rhaenys Targaryen had been a point of contention at the end of the rebellion. Robert had wanted the girl dead—all Targaryens dead—but Jon Arryn had persuaded him otherwise. The eight-year-old princess remained in King's Landing, a ward of the crown, her claim to the throne nullified by Robert's ascension. A compromise that satisfied no one.

"Jon Arryn always was soft-hearted," Tywin said dismissively. "His attachment to the girl means nothing."

"Perhaps," Kevan conceded. "Though it does present a potential complication for the future."

Tywin knew what his brother meant. Any surviving Targaryen could become a rallying point for those discontented with Robert's rule. Though a girl had never sat the Iron Throne, Rhaenys was still Rhaegar's daughter, still carried the blood of the dragon.

As did Adrian, though only Tywin and Cersei knew the full truth of that.

"I've considered all potential complications," Tywin assured his brother. "And planned accordingly."

Kevan nodded, finishing his wine. "I never doubted it." He rose to leave. "Still, Tywin, I would counsel caution regarding Adrian."

"Regarding what, specifically?" Tywin's tone cooled.

"Your investment in him. Your other children notice, even from afar. Tyrion certainly does. I worry about the consequences of such obvious favoritism."

"I favor results," Tywin replied. "Nothing more."

Kevan sighed. "As you say, brother. Goodnight."

After Kevan departed, Tywin remained at his desk, reviewing the day's correspondence without truly seeing it. His mind kept returning to Adrian—the boy's performance at the feast, his natural grace, his quick mind.

From a drawer, Tywin withdrew a small carved wooden lion—similar to the one he'd given Adrian last year, but older, the gold paint chipped with age. Joanna had given it to him on their wedding day, a playful gift for the serious young lion she had agreed to marry.

"My legacy," Tywin murmured to the empty room.

Not Jaime, bound to the Kingsguard and forever stained by his actions. Not Cersei, a queen in title but apparently failing in spirit. Certainly not Tyrion, the misshapen mockery who had taken Joanna from him.

No, it would be Adrian—the perfect mixture of Lannister cunning and Targaryen fire, raised as a lion but carrying the blood of dragons. The boy who would restore House Lannister to glory beyond even what Tywin had achieved.

He replaced the wooden lion and moved to the window, staring out at the dark waters of the Sunset Sea. The truth of Adrian's parentage was a secret he would take to his grave. The boy himself would never know. There was no need. He was being shaped into a true Lannister, regardless of his Targaryen blood.

And yet, watching Adrian with that harp, hearing the strange, haunting notes he had produced so naturally... For a moment, Tywin had seen a ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen in the boy's face.

Tywin Lannister did not believe in ghosts. But he believed in blood, in legacy, in the inexorable power of inheritance. That was why he had claimed Adrian as his own, why he molded the boy so carefully. Whatever dragon's blood flowed in his veins would serve the lion's purposes.

It had to. Tywin had wagered too much on this particular game to lose.

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