King's Landing was very different to anywhere Ren had been before. The cramped, crowded city seemed a whole other world to the vast open wilderness of the North, even to the woodlands and rolling hills of the Riverlands. There were so many people, none of whom he knew bar his mother, Uncle Ned and the dozen Stark and four Bolton guards that had accompanied them south. His mother had chosen them specifically for their speed on horseback, wanting to reach the city as fast as possible, and return to the north equally as quickly. She disliked the south, he knew. He might have only been ten years old, but he had heard whispers of the brutality of the Mad King, who had kept his mother prisoner during Robert's Rebellion. There had even been whispers that Aerys Targaryen was Ren's father, though Lord Bolton didn't allow that talk in the Dreadfort. Ren knew he wasn't a Targaryen, anyway. His mother hated Targaryens, and had his father really been the old king, he would not be here today.

His uncle felt similarly, disliking southron politics - the only reason they were here was because King Robert had demanded the presence of his uncle for the tourney to celebrate Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella's eight nameday, and his mother had brought him along - but Ren didn't mind the city himself. The overwhelming sights, sounds and smells were a lot to take in, but he found himself able to blend in here, stay mostly invisible in a way he had never been able to in Winterfell or the Dreadfort, where everyone knew him as Rosennis Stark's bastard, and he had to do his best to stay out of sight of Lord Bolton or Catelyn Stark. Here, he was just another skinny boy in plain clothes, and everyone's eyes just passed him by.

He wasn't here to hide away all the time, though. That was why he had gone to the practice yard early on his first morning in the Red Keep, blunted tourney sword in hand, ready to train as he had done every day since he was old enough to pick up a sword.

He had expected to be the first one there - he always was, whether he was in Winterfell or the Dreadfort, and was always the last to leave before lunch - however an angry looking dark-haired boy, perhaps only two years his elder but twice as strong by the look of him, was there already, practicing determinedly hacking at a dummy with a sword that looked far too big for him. The boy was good, though. Not as good as Ren, but few people under sixteen were. Not many over sixteen were. That wasn't arrogance, as he often told his mother when she reproached him for it, it was a fact. This boy was definitely stronger than he was though; Ren's greatest weakness was that although he was tall for his age, his frame was rather lean and lanky.

"What are you looking at?" Ren realised the boy was looking his way, heavy brow lowered in somewhat defensive suspicion - he spoke with a Westerlands accent, like the queen and the redcloaked guardsmen - until he saw the sword in Ren's hand, and his angry eyes lit up. "Do you want to spar? It's not as much fun with a dummy," Ren smiled.

The boy was definitely far stronger, but Ren was quicker. He also had an advantage in that he fought with his left hand, which tended to throw his opponent slightly, so - as normal when fighting with boys his own age - he triumphed, but after a longer fight than usual; like he said, the other boy was good. He knocked the large sword - which couldn't have helped with his balance - out of the boy's hands, and had his own sword at his throat. The boy's dark blue eyes widened, clearly not used to losing.

"You cheated," He accused, looking angrier than before. "I should've won, you're too skinny to beat me," Ren glowered at him, irritated, lowering his sword.

"I didn't cheat," He snapped. "I'm just better," For a moment he thought the other boy would hit him. Clearly he was thinking about it, but then a bark of laughter sounded behind them. Both spun around, unaware they were being watched, and saw a man stood in the shade, leaning against a column. Tall, handsome, with a lion's mane of golden curls and a rather arrogant smirk, Ren recognised him instantly. Even if he hadn't had memories of him winning the joust at the Riverrun tourney he and his mother had attended when he was four - and other memories, that Ren wasn't quite sure of himself - Ser Jaime Lannister wasn't an easy man to mistake. His resemblance to the queen was uncanny, and though the white cloak of the Kingsguard wasn't draped around his shoulders - he must be off duty - he wore a red tunic and the Lannister lion roared from the pommel of his sword.

"He's right, boy," The knight lazily pushed off the column, speaking to the other boy. "He is better," The boy scowled, which seemed to amuse Lannister. "Don't sulk, that doesn't make you bad. I bet you could beat someone twice your age, is that right?" He was now looking at Ren, who raised his eyes to answer, not missing the strange look that flashed through Lannister's expression as he saw his face, but was quickly hidden.

"Yes. Ser," He added after a pause; his mother was strict about manners, even though he was only a bastard and it didn't really matter like it did with Robb, Edrick and Domeric. "I beat the Master-of-Arms at the Dreadfort two moons ago, and he's six-and-thirty," Lannister's smirk grew.

"See, Loreon," He turned back to the other boy, who he seemed to know. Perhaps he was his squire; that meant he was highborn, which explained his annoyance at losing. Highborns were very proud, even his mother and siblings to some extent. Ren supposed he was too, having grown up around them. "No need to show that famous temper of yours. Even if the lad isn't afraid to tell you he's better,"

"My mother tells me I shouldn't get too arrogant," Ren narrowed his eyes, slightly irritated by this. Lannister turned to him with glittering eyes.

"I bet she does," Ren remembered the man knew his mother from Robert's Rebellion. And Riverrun. "What's your name, boy?"

"Renan, Ser. Snow," He disliked giving his baseborn name, where his trueborn siblings could call themselves Bolton, his cousins Stark. Lord Bolton would kill him without a second thought for using his name, whilst Lady Catelyn would probably do the same if he dared to use Stark. But what about Lannister? No, I was only four, I don't know what I saw.

"Ross Stark's boy," Lannister didn't seem all that surprised. It was rare Ren heard anyone call his mother that. She hadn't been Lady Stark in nine years, and no one but his uncles Ned and Benjen called her Ross. He didn't correct the man, though. Ross Stark's son sounded better than Lady Bolton's bastard. "You fight with your left hand. She - writes with her left,"

"How long were you watching, Uncle?" The boy, Loreon, asked. Uncle? Ren's eyes widened a fraction in surprise. That meant this boy, the boy that he had been sparring with was the prince, for Ser Jaime was the queen's brother. But the prince was younger, surely, there was no way in the seven hells that this giant had just turned eight.

"Long enough," Lannister said idly, eyes still on Ren. He smirked, as though reading his mind. "Don't worry, boy, he's not the prince," The boy looked at him, anger at losing apparently forgotten.

"You thought I was Joffrey?" He grinned, shaking his head. "My mother is Ser Jaime's sister, the younger one, Lady Banefort. Formerly Giana Lannister. I'm the King's bastard. Storm, not Baratheon," He said this matter-of-factly, but took on a darker look at those words. Jaime Lannister still hadn't taken his eyes off Ren.

"Snow," Lannister eyed him appraisingly. "I haven't seen you since you were a year old. I knew your mother during the days of dear old Aerys," His eyes flashed and he smiled in dark amusement. Ren could easily believe that this man had slashed a sword across the throat of the Mad King he was sworn to protect. He himself didn't quite understand why his Uncle Ned despised the man so much for that act; from the little he had heard of the old king, from his mother and various others, the man had been a true monster. "I saw you walk for the first time, before you fell flat on your arse," Loreon sniggered and Ren scowled. Lannister grinned. "Let's see how far you've come," He held his hand out to Loreon. The boy understood what he meant, handing over his blunted sword, grinning as Ren's eyes widened in realisation.

"Good luck. I don't last a minute," Loreon's words weren't exactly encouraging as Lannister turned to him, intentions clear. Ren raised his sword in time, and Lannister smirked, striking at his left, then his right, testing him, how he moved. This is one of the most skilled fighters in all Seven Kingdoms; that thought didn't make him nervous, rather sent a cold thrill up his spine.

Fighting with Jaime Lannister was unlike anything Ren had done before. The knight was holding back, that was plain to see, and despite Ren's best efforts - which had disarmed grown men before in the yards of Winterfell and the Dreadfort, to much astonishment from onlookers - he remained irritatingly relaxed, barely even breaking a sweat to keep up. He was faster, more agile, better than anyone Ren had ever seen before, and he wasn't even trying. At no point during their spar did Ren have the upper hand; it was like a cat toying with a mouse.

After some time - though Lannister had drawn it out, challenging him, the fight was still annoyingly fast - the inevitable happened, and he was soundly beaten, sword at his throat. He stood, breathing heavily whilst Lannister looked as unruffled as before.

"I don't feel as bad about losing now," Loreon laughed, then added. "Though I bet I'm a better lance," That was doubtlessly true, as Ren had never tried jousting in his life, but he was hardly going to tell the boy that.

"Bet you're not,"

"Have you even got a horse that can tilt?"

"I've got a seventeen-hand courser," Lannister laughed at that.

"Your mother rides the courser," He corrected. "I'm guessing yours is the shaggy garron stabled beside it?" Ren scowled as Loreon leered.

"I can still ride the courser. I can show you tomorrow," That was a lie. Though Ren was a more than capable horseman - he had to be to keep up with Domeric, his stepbrother had to be half horse himself - he wouldn't dare ride his mother's horses. The beasts tended to look calm enough when she was mounted atop them, but turned half-wild the moment anyone else (even Domeric, with some of them) tried to do the same. He was starting to think she trained them that way.

"No," Lannister said, and both of them turned to him in confusion. "You'll be reporting to me tomorrow, as my squire," Loreon's mouth dropped open, and Ren couldn't believe he was serious. If that's not proof...

"I'm not even one-and-ten," He spoke after several seconds of dumbstruck silence. "And I'm baseborn. And - "

"You're better than someone twice your age," Lannister cut him off. "And you're tall enough to look older. That's not a problem," He held up a hand, anticipating his protest. "It doesn't matter that you're a bastard, any man can become a knight," Ren broke off, but still looked uneasy. He had never thought about being a knight; there were very few knights in the north, as they didn't follow the faith of the Seven. Lannister muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath about Stark stubbornness, before raising his voice to a normal volume again. "Would you rather spend your days being looked down on as a bastard in your mother's husband's castle?" That struck close to home. He had thought about what he was to do when he came of age, for Lord Bolton would not suffer his presence in the Dreadfort for much longer. The best option he had was looking for a position at Winterfell, Master-of-Arms perhaps, household guard, or even steward.

"Alright," He said slowly. "But... why?" Would he say anything?

"Like I said," Lannister's tone was light. "You're better than someone twice your age. You could be one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, with proper teaching,"


"Did you ask him to do it?" Ren pushed open the doors to his mother's horse's stable, knowing he'd find her here since she wasn't in her rooms.

"Ask who what?" She frowned, glancing at him as she fit the new bridle the king had gifted her to the horse. "Speak clearly, Ren,"

"Ser Jaime," Her fingers stilled on the noseband, and she turned back to him, face blank. "He asked me to be his squire," She stared at him for a second. "Did you ask him to?" He pressed. "I know you knew each other," Riverrun, Riverrun, Riverrun. She was silent, thinking, and he knew to press no further.

"I did nothing," She said after a while. "He asked you himself,"

"But why?" Ren asked. She had returned to the bridle, fingers gentle with the head-shy animal, murmuring soothing nonsense in the Old Tongue when it shied away. As she did so, her sleeve slipped down her arm, revealing several nasty-looking bruises and a few minor wounds. What could she possibly have been doing to get those? They were almost like the marks he got from training; he eyed the outline of the long dagger she always kept hidden in her skirts suspiciously. Forgetting that, though, he wanted her to tell him the truth, now was as good a time as any; or perhaps there truly was nothing to tell, and his father really was just some Targaryen guardsman.

"Has he seen you fight?" He nodded; she knew he had without looking around. "Then there's your answer. He's not one to play favourites, trust me,"

Knowing he'd get nothing more out fo her, Ren left his mother with her horse, stewing in his own thoughts, one memory in particular refusing to leave his head. A dark corridor at Riverrun, a crack in a door, muffled voices, a golden man with a lion's mane of hair, his mother in his arms, smiling like he'd rarely seen her smile before. He had only been four years old at the time, so he wondered if he remembered it truly as it was. He was only ten now, but he wasn't stupid. He hadn't known what they were doing at the time; hadn't up until several months ago, in fact, when listening for an hour outside Theon Greyjoy's bedroom door (waiting for him to come to an archery session the Stark ward had forgotten) had destroyed any innocent notions he may have had about that encounter.

What he had seen didn't make Jaime Lannister his father. When he thought it like that, it sounded stupid, uselessly wishful thinking by a naive little bastard boy. It wasn't like he wanted the man to be his father, if he got to chose. He wanted a father like his Uncle Ned, strong but honourable, kind to his family, even his bastard Jon Snow.

But stood in front of his mother's looking glass, he couldn't deny that he could see it. Not in his dark hair, sharp chin and thin lips, but in the slant of his jaw, the way he smiled, his high cheekbones, his green eyes, even his nose. He wanted to ask her, but even the idea was unthinkable.


There was a big stir a week or two before Ross was meant to return back north, brought by the arrival of Lord Tywin's party from the Westerlands. It wasn't Lord Tywin himself that caused the upset, but rather his daughter, Giana Banefort, who accompanied him, unexpected by anyone given that she hadn't left the Westerlands since the birth of her bastard son. Her distance was most likely enforced by her father, but was perhaps wise, as Cersei's face when she saw her sister within a hundred yards of her husband was nothing short of hateful. If she had known the woman was coming, she would have certainly done her best to stop it. The queen greeted Giana with a gracious smile, but the look in her eyes was poisonous. Ross found it all rather amusing, and irritating at the same time. Cersei wished her sister was gone, but all Ross wanted was for her own to be standing beside her.

Giana did not seem like the silly, vacuous girl Ross remembered from Harrenhal. She supposed everyone changes from that age; Jaime definitely had. The woman still laughed easily and exuded an air of generosity and kindness, but she had grown up for sure. The story was that she was there for the tourney, but Ross recognised the look in her eyes; of course she was here for her son (the prospect of shortly leaving Ren was one Ross was trying not to think about). Nonetheless, Robert doted on her like he'd never doted on Cersei. Giana still acted a little darling, not even on purpose; she was still naive in that respect, because Ross didn't get the impression the woman was trying to lead Robert on. She was managing to, though, that was unmistakeable. Maybe the king was attracted to her simply because he saw her as a better version of Cersei, or maybe he just wanted to spite the queen, but regardless, he wanted her, that was plain for everyone to see. Ross saw Jaime's smile tighten as he stood behind Robert's chair at the opening feast, whilst the king dishonoured both his sisters at once by blatantly flirting with Giana the entire night.

Ross left the feast rather late. The halls on the way back to her chambers were mostly deserted, which is why she chose that way; at least her years here during the rebellion had taught her the best ways to go to not be bothered. She came across a strange scene, however, not too far from the great hall, but a good enough distance to not be overheard.

"Come on, you enjoyed it the first time,"

"Robert, no," The dainty form of Giana Lannister was stood beside a shadowed alcove, looking exasperated as she tried to remove the king's enormous hand from her waist. "I've told you, I'm married now," Stood slightly further back was a kingsguard knight, Barristan Selmy, with an uncomfortable expression on his face as he looked determinedly at a point on the wall. But as ever, Barristan the Bold did nothing.

"So am I," Robert grunted. He was drunk, yes, but not as drunk as he could've been. Sober enough to know better. Ross narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, and you're very handsome, but I actually like my husband," The woman tried again to squirm out of his grip. "And as much as I love Loreon, I don't particularly want to give him a black-haired brother or sister. It was bad enough pushing him out, let alone - oh!" She suddenly noticed Ross standing there. Robert looked up at her exclamation and straightened, though kept his arm around Giana. Selmy's expression became even more uncomfortable.

"Ross!" The king had no trace of shame on his face. "Tell Giana how lovely she looks this evening," He smiled charmingly.

"I'll tell Lady Giana that we're starting to make a habit of this," Ross raised an eyebrow wryly, and Giana's lips twitched. "All due respects, your Grace, but get off her," Robert looked shocked, then angry.

"This is none of your business, Stark,"

"You're right, it's not," She shrugged. "But do you really want to go down in history as the king who got not one, but two bastards on his wife's younger sister? Lord Tywin would hardly be pleased. What is it he likes to say? A Lannister always pay his debts," Forget Lord Tywin, Jaime would readily become a kingslayer twice over if this man got his sister pregnant again. Robert scowled, as he tended to do when he was speaking to her and realised she had a point.

"I'm glad I never married you," He mumbled. "You're too much like Ned by half," He let go of Giana, who stepped away, brushing down her skirts. Robert eyed her darkly. "I wish I'd married you," He swayed slightly where he stood. "We'd have had five more children, just like Loreon. And you're not a poisonous bitch like your sister," Giana opened her mouth, but the king was already stumbling away down the darkened corridor. Selmy hastened to follow, but Ross stepped into his path.

"Well done, Ser Barristan," She deliberately pulled the sleeve of her gown slightly up her arm, revealing the ends of the white scars from years ago, a few of the deeper scratch-marks that had never quite healed fully. "I'm glad to see that standards of knightly honour are as high as they ever were round here," Her tone was mocking but her expression was cold.

"Apologies, my lady," The old knight sighed. "I have to go after the king," He stepped around her and went after Robert. She stood in the same spot for a few seconds, staring angrily at the space where his head had been, before she remembered she wasn't alone.

"What was that?" Giana frowned slightly as she lowered her sleeve.

"A token from the Mad King," Ross didn't especially fancy elaborating on that. If the woman was too slow to work it out, she wasn't going to walk her through it. Unfortunately, however, Giana wasn't as dim as she came across.

"Oh - " She cut off her shocked exclamation. "That's - I'm so sorry," Ross said nothing. "Just then, with Ser Barristan... Did he know about - you know,"

"The Kingsguard guards the king," Ross looked at her. "Wherever he goes,"

"And he just let it happen?" Giana looked aghast. She might have grown up, might have suffered the shame of a bastard, but she had never known what it felt like to watch your family burn to death before your eyes, dread every footstep in the corridor, to hate a man more than death itself. In truth, not many highborn ladies had, so Ross could hardly hold it against her. Not really.

She nodded, once.

"The Kingsguard serve the king," Her tone was hoarse. "They don't judge him," Giana was silent for a moment. Just a moment, however.

"Did Jaime - " Her green eyes widened again in horror, but Ross cut her off with a look.

"Jaime would've stabbed him the back any time during that last year if I'd asked him to," She smiled slightly. "But I didn't. So yes, he did stand there outside the door whilst Aerys visited me. He even held my son, as the king couldn't stand the baby crying. Then afterwards he brought me moon tea," She broke off. "Well, until they found it. This is from the day my maid found my tea," She held her wrist up to the torchlight, where a wide white scar slashed down the pale skin. Then she realised she had probably drunk too much, and was certainly sharing too much, and shook her sleeve back down. "Robert's no Aerys," She said bluntly. "But I'd advise against wandering off alone with him again. People will talk, if nothing else," Giana looked like she was about to say something, but Ross had already left.


Ren's mother left King's Landing a month or so later, with his uncle and the rest of the Stark and Bolton men, leaving him alone with practically strangers. His uncle hadn't been pleased to hear that he was squiring for one of the most infamous knights in the realm, but his mother had talked him out of refusing to allow it. Ren hadn't quite known what to expect after they had all gone. He had been given a tiny sleeping cell near the White Sword tower, which he shared with two other boys, squires as well, but both highborn. Those two had known each other for years - one was a Rykker, the other a Brune - and perhaps for this reason, or the fact both were four-and-ten, they didn't pay Ren much attention. He didn't mind, though. He had made a firm friend in Loreon Storm, who was regarded by most of the other boys in the training yard to be someone to respect, despite his bastard name and only being eleven. When he wasn't acting sullen, Loreon had a good sense of humour and was not afraid of giving advice to the others where needed, making him generally well-liked; equally, his Baratheon temper was one to fear, and more than a few of the others had reportedly been on the receiving end.

In contrast, Ren did not like Loreon's brother, Prince Joffrey. The boy was eight, slightly older than his half-siblings Edrick and Aileen, though the prince and the twins were about as different as could be. Edrick excelled in the training yard. Aileen was a skilled rider. Edrick was brave and adventurous. Aileen loved to read, spending hours in the library at Winterfell and the Dreadfort alike. Joffrey was none of those things.

Ren doubted the prince even knew he existed - they had sparred once, Ren had won, and Joffrey had thrown a tantrum (hardly an unusual occurrence) - but he had seen how the spoilt boy acted. Loreon had muttered to him the first time he saw the prince that Joffrey's twin sister Myrcella would likely be better with a sword, if they gave her one. The boy had little interest in learning how to fight; every so often he would demand to be brought down to the yard so he could flail around and bully some of the smaller boys, but for the most part he shunned his sword lessons. Loreon told Ren that a year ago - when he had first arrived from Casterly Rock where he had grown up - that he had tried to befriend his half-brother, but the boy was as bad as the queen, apparently, and refused to listen to anything Loreon had to say on the principle that he was a bastard, 'unworthy' of talking to a prince. From that moment on, there would never be any love between the two; Loreon was proud in his own way, and extremely stubborn, making any chance of reconciliation impossible.

Joffrey might have bullied anyone he thought he could get away with picking on, but his favourite target by far was his younger brother, Tommen, who had just turned six. Tommen was a rather placid boy, with few ambitions other than to play with whatever pet caught his interest (a fawn, this week), but Ren had caught him one day running through the castle, alone - which was unusual, the queen seemed to like to keep him wrapped up in padding - and in floods of tears. The boy hadn't been looking where he'd been going, and had run straight into Ren coming around a corner, falling over onto his behind and just sitting there and crying some more. Ren was never one for tears, having put up with far too many from his sister Morganna back home (the girl was masterful at turning them on to get what she wanted), and although a selfish (logical) part of him knew he'd likely be blamed for the prince's disappearance, and should leave the scene as soon as possible, instead he stopped.

"Why don't you get up," Tommen looked up at him with wide, watery eyes, the same green as his own. "Come on, there's no use in just sitting there," He held out a hand, which the prince took after a moment's hesitation, lip trembling. Ren would've thought that no one had spoken harshly to him in his life, if he hadn't seen that harridan of a queen constantly snapping at him, where she cooed over her precious Joffrey.

"My arm hurts," Tommen sniffed.

"It's just a bruise, I'm sure you'll live," Ren said, then realised that might have been a bit short. Six years old or not, the boy was still a prince, and had the potential to get him into a lot of trouble. "Do you want to go and see your brother, Loreon? I was going there anyway,"

"He's always training," Tommen looked forlorn. "Mother says I'm too young to train," Ren thought about that for a second.

"Come on," He decided, consequences be damned. "Let's go and find Loreon,"

As predicted, Loreon was in the training yard, once again struggling with that giant sword - a gift from his father - which he insisted on using after the master-at-arms wasn't there to make him put it down.

"Tommen?" He looked up in surprise as they approached. "What are you doing here?" He glanced at Ren.

"I found him on his own, crying," Ren shrugged. "I didn't want any trouble, at least there's an explanation for why he'd be with you,"

"Why were you crying?" Loreon frowned. Tommen's lip began to tremble again.

"Joffy... he - " He broke off, sobbing. "He k-killed my fawn. I screamed - and screamed, but he j-just laughed, and said he'd t-tell mother I was being a baby again. So I ran away," The two older boys looked at each other.

"Why didn't you hit him?" Loreon asked. "If he'd done that to me, I'd smash that pretty face in," Ren didn't doubt it. Loreon would be happy to do that anyway.

"He's b-bigger than me," Tommen sniffed.

"Hits like a girl, though," Ren muttered.

"He's right," Loreon snorter. "I bet if you learnt how, you could hit him harder," It was true, Tommen was only two years younger than his brother, and where Joffrey was tall for his age, he was rather skinny too, where his brother was more sturdy. Well, plump, at the moment, but even so. The little prince looked up at them with wide eyes.

"I don't want to hit anyone," He paused. Gods save us. "Not even Joff - "

"Do you want him to kill one of your kittens next?" Loreon interrupted with a flat look. Tommen shook his head vehemently, looking like he was going to start crying again. "Then don't let him. Because he will, Tom, you know that,"

"Don't think of it as hitting someone," Ren continued, when the boy still looked unsure. "Think of it as protecting your other animals," It would be worth teaching this pampered prince how to fight if only to rub it in Joffrey's stupid face that his younger brother was better than him. Tommen considered that.

"I... s'pose," He wiped his nose on his velvet sleeve, nodding quaveringly. "But what about Mother? She doesn't want me fighting,"

"Just tell Father you want to learn how to use a sword and he'll be delighted," Loreon shrugged. "She can't stop him," He eyed Tommen doubtfully. "Actually, I'd better mention it to him," He was probably right in that, the king would probably laugh in the younger boy's face. It was common knowledge in court that Robert Baratheon had little time for his trueborn children; he actively disliked Joffrey, had no patience with the placid Tommen and didn't know what to do with a dainty little princess like Myrcella. Ren would have just put that down to the man not being interested in his children, if he hadn't delighted in his bastard son, Loreon Storm. Loreon went on every hunt the king held, and they regularly sparred together in the training yard. That was why Loreon insisted on that stupid greatsword, because the king had given it to him. If the queen hadn't disliked Loreon enough simply because he was the child of her husband and her younger sister, the blatant favouritism of him over her true born children only made her hatred of him worse. Loreon himself had said matter-of-factly that if he wasn't half-Lannister and Lord Tywin protected those of his blood, even bastards he had little to no time for, then Cersei would have had him killed long ago.

Loreon did indeed mention the matter of Tommen's training to King Robert, who responded as predicted, first by laughing, followed with a grunt of 'perhaps the boy will amount to some sort of soldier after all'. So Tommen joined them in the training yard a week or so later, wrapped up in enough padding to make him almost completely round. Loreon and Ren both snorted at the sight of him, and many of the other boys also laughed, though somewhat more subtly. He was hopeless when the master-at-arms gave him a wooden practice sword and set him against one of the younger boys around his age, but not for lack of trying. Despite his timid disposition, Tommen showed more grit than Joffrey did, getting up doggedly off the floor every time he was knocked over. Yes, he might have been openly sobbing as he did so, but at least he didn't throw the sword down and have a tantrum like his brother would've.

"I hear Tommen made it to his first training session today," Ser Jaime said later that day, sounding amused. The two of them had just finished a sparring match; Ren was breathless whereas, frustratingly, the knight hadn't even broken a sweat.

"Loreon spoke to the king,"

"How was the boy?" His tone was doubtful, and Ren smiled faintly at that.

"He got knocked over at least once a minute," He said. "And cried the whole time. But he got up though, after every one. He'll have plenty of bruises, but at he's better than Joff - " He broke off, realising he was talking to Joffrey's uncle. To his surprise, however, Ser Jaime only laughed.

"It doesn't take much to be better than Joffrey," He shook his mane of hair. "His mother asked me to try and teach him how to fight just before you arrived, because apparently the master-at-arms was always so unfair to him," His expression showed exactly what he thought of that. "But he's my nephew, so I tried to teach him. It only took five minutes before he threw the sword down and stormed off," Ren wrinkled his nose and Ser Jaime laughed. "Back to it, then," He grinned. "I don't know what you were laughing about Tommen for, you'll have just as many bruises before the day is out,"

Ren's sword was already in his hand, rising to block the knight's oncoming strike.