JAIME LANNISTER

Day 25, 9th Moon, 275 AC

Within Father's clean and boring solar, nine-year-old Jaime went through the document Father had set him to read and explain what would fix it. Father was away at King's Landing more than not, but when home, he had Jaime read lordly business every morning. Father's severe eyes watched from across the desk the whole time.

Now Jaime read parchments about the Westerlands' bigger problems; vassal houses too now, instead of just villages or towns. The Warden of the West, his father, would tightly frown if Jaime gave the wrong answer for solving a problem. This time took him a few minutes and Jaime's words earned him a nod. Right today, Jaime put the document down. Father gave no smile, but he never did.

Father's green eyes, specked with gold, were as hard as earlier. "Jaime," said Father. "Your lessons with Maester Gawin will be history. To rule the Westerlands, you must know the Westerlands." Jaime frowned and Father gave a levelled stare. "You will remember that." Picking up a quill, Father tilted his head to the door. "We're finished. Go."

"Yes, Father." He wasted no time getting out of there. In the castle halls and well away from Father, he took a breath and his shoulders eased. "I don't want to rule. I want to be a knight, not at a stuffy desk all day," he mumbled.

Casterly Rock was tall and massive, but he could walk to the training yard with his eyes closed. Free from Father's scrutiny, he went to the inside yard on the ground level. Empty right now, but the master-at-arms would be here for his lesson soon. Very soon.

Not wanting to tarry, Jaime donned his armour as easy as breathing.

Swordsmanship had to be the thing he did best. Something about it just came to him. However, Father never seemed pleased about that. Cersei's ease of being perfect made Jaime suspect Father saw him as a disappointment, but swordcraft was more interesting than being a lord.

Shaking his head, Jaime lifted his sparring sword from the rack. At the sound of boots on rock, the heir of Casterly Rock turned towards it. In two years, Jaime would be old enough to squire for a knight. He couldn't wait for his eleventh nameday.

An armoured man approached and picked up a sword and shield. Ser Dareon grinned. "Let's begin, Jaime."

Every frustration melted from him. Swords and shields meeting one another. Every breath was life entering his body. Here and now, he was just Jaime, not the Heir of Casterly Rock, not future Warden of the West. Him. Just him and his blade, training to become a knight.

A knight protects the innocent and the weak. A man that rides into battle to defend the good of the world. A man bestowed glory and honour for noble deeds; the good of true knights.

A smile pulled at his lips, and Jaime did nothing to hide it as he trained to protect. This was him. What he wanted to be.

"Shield up! Or I'll ring your head like a bell," Ser Dareon said, delivering a swing towards Jaime's head.

He blocked and fought on. Parry, thrust, delivering blows and dodging them. Confidence flowed within him until Ser Dareon used a new technique.

Spinning out of the way, he signalled for a short drink. There had to be a way to counter that set of moves. With his form steady Jaime bit his lip and took a breath; Ser Dareon opposite him. That technique started and he spotted an opening. He took it, doing what seemed right.

Ser Dareon's sword thudded near his feet. "I yield! Good work."

Taking a step back, he caught his breath and approached his tutor, who handed him a waterskin with a proud smile. Sometimes Ser Dareon seemed more like a father to Jaime than Father did. He couldn't help the niggling guilt, but it rang true inside.

Ser Dareon, his large sword on the ground, clasped Jaime's shoulder and gave him a nod. "Well done, Jaime. I'll have to fight harder, because my pride is in danger." Ser Dareon smiled. "You're becoming quite the problem solver. New techniques on the morrow; you're ready for them."

A grin spread across his lips. "Your pride is in danger. You're training me."

Ser Dareon just laughed while Jaime hung his sparring sword and shed the plate armour. "I won't be going easy on you, young lord!" the knight promised, voice bouncing off the solid rock walls and ceiling.

Excitement shook within him for tomorrow.

Returning to the higher levels of the castle with an old letter in his pocket, Jaime made his way to bath in his bedchamber or be scolded for the stench, as Father called it. Passing his sister's bedchamber, he scowled and shook his head. His own was on the opposite side of Casterly Rock. A tall monster of rock.

So deep in his silent complaints, he almost missed the cries of a babe. Tyrion!

Abandoning lordly pretences, he bolted through the halls and through the open doorway of the nursery. No nursemaid around. The familiar sight inside pierced his heart like a blade.

Clearly with no idea she had an audience, Cersei stood over Tyrion's cot reaching in with a vicious look. "You killed our mother, you little monster," she muttered to the dwarf babe. "Why did the gods let you live instead of Mother?" Cersei pinched Tyrion and the babe cried again. "I could rid us of you so easily," she whispered, her hands creeping towards his neck.

His heart pounded against his chest. "No! Cersei!" Jaime shouted, ripping her hands away from Tyrion, and stood between them. "He's just a babe!"

Cersei stared, her eyes wide until she blinked. Hate covered his twin sister's face. "He murdered Mother, Jaime!" she said, trying to get around, but he wouldn't move. "That little fiend killed her."

"No. She died in childbed." He kept Tyrion from harm. "What if Mother died in childbed with us? Would we be monsters?"

That question silenced Cersei, but fury never left her face. "We're normal. He's an abomination," she said, sweeping across and leaving the nursery.

Turning to his little brother, he found red marks on his belly from Cersei pinching the babe. Gently rubbing them and wishing he could get rid of them, Jaime jumped when little fingers grabbed his thumb.

Letting Tyrion hold it, even when the babe pulled it to his chin, he searched for any hidden harm. "I'll protect you, little brother," he whispered. Tyrion murmured with a babe's lisp and Jaime smiled. He retied the laces of his brother's tunic. "You're innocent, Tyrion." Playing with the tiny fingers, he called for the nursemaid and took his leave.

Inside his bedchamber stood a steaming tub like any other day, but his thoughts lingered on Tyrion's cries. Cersei made it a habit of hurting their brother. Their innocent brother. Today scared him, though. It was the first time he'd caught her being so close to killing Tyrion.

Father avoided the nursery. And if he saw Tyrion while Jaime played with him, Father always turn bitter. Servants whispered that the day Mother died in childbed, something died in Father too. If Father wanted Tyrion dead as Cersei did, Tyrion would be. Father always got what he wanted, but Tyrion was a dwarf babe and something Father loathed. It made him uneasy.

He was too small to stop Father from doing something to kill Tyrion. For many years he would be too small and weak compared to Father.

Clothes on the floor, he dropped the old note on his desk and got in the tub. Its warmth relieved his muscles, and he relished it. However, what nearly happened in the nursery churned in his mind. Shape and size didn't matter; Jaime loved Tyrion all the same.

Washing, he frowned while looking at the tub. When he becomes a squire, he wouldn't have a servant to ready one for him. That made him grimace and he shook his head. Closing his eyes, he kept still when light steps sounded in his bedchamber, the soft thud of clothes dropping to the floor. Next to him, the rising water sloshed.

Familiar hands grasped his shoulders, and he opened his eyes. His sister, who often joined him and there was an annoyed expression on her face. "What is it, Cersei?"

The look on her face told him she thought he was really stupid for asking that. "Why do you defend him?" Her eyes sharply searched him. "Mother is dead because of him."

He turned towards her, so they sat face to face, looking his twin in the eyes. It was wrong. So much hate towards a babe of all things. He shook his head. "The maester said it happens with hale and healthy babes too."

Cersei seated herself in his lap and Jaime's eyes landed on the desk where the week-old letter was. But Cersei touching him the way he liked stole his attention. His sister leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "But far less often."

The words stirred something within him, and he looked away, eyes returning to the curled letter on his desk. The little thing had left doubts in his head since he received it. The last part jumped to the front of his mind.

-, what does she do until you agree?

Cersei's lips on his, her hand cupped his cheek, but the letter kept repeating itself in his head. He sat still while she kissed him; he usually kissed her back. "Mayhaps you're right," he muttered the lie, looking away from Cersei's eyes. When he met her gaze, she had a smirk of victory and his heart sank.

The proven correct doubts made Jaime boil inside, so he left Cersei in the tub and dried off. Dressed, he turned to his twin, that letter hidden within the pocket of his breeches. "Tyrion's innocent, Cersei," he said and left his bedchamber and her alone in his tub.

Descending to the towering rock castle's ground level, he reached the best stable within his home. Only the family horses were kept here. He walked to his destrier and ran his hand against its chest; too short to stroke its the mane.

Cersei loved him but hated Tyrion, which caused Jaime to shift his feet. In the tub, his sister had given the affection he usually gave back, but this time she'd talked about Tyrion being guilty of Mother's death. Something he made sure she knew he disagreed on. It was as though she was trying to change his mind by pleasing him when they were together.

Sadness stirred at the idea she tried controlling him with touch.

To his misfortune, Cersei knew he liked to think in the family stable, and she appeared roughly two hours later smiling with bright glee. Normally she found him much faster.

"Father just told me the best news," his sister said with joy and happiness, a bounce in her step. "He thinks that King Aerys will agree to marry me to the prince. The prince! Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. I'm going to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaime! To marry the prince and be Cersei Targaryen. The babes will have his silver hair and my green eyes, or my golden hair and his indigo eyes!"

She was his twin and someone he'd always been close with, no matter what. The excitement of Cersei, when talking about marrying the prince, stung Jaime. As if he didn't matter anymore. That letter had hinted at something like this.

He turned away and gazed at his horse instead, hiding the ache from Cersei. She had a talent for knowing how he felt. Taking a breath and smoothing his features, he forced a smile while she couldn't stop talking. "Have you told Uncle Kev and Aunt Genna yet?"

She seemed too overwhelmed with the news because his fake cheer had seemed to have fooled her. "Thank the Seven. I'll be the queen. Hm? Oh, no, I haven't. Bye, Jaime!" And she rushed out the stable' door, going back to the halls of Casterly Rock.

Now alone, for a while at least, he took the week-old letter out and was reluctant to read it. There was no sigil or name to say who sent it.

Jaime Lannister,

When the Lioness marries and breeds with the Dragon Prince she wants, what happens to the Lion?

When you disagree about something, what does she do until you agree?

Frowning, he shoved the letter in his pocket and left the stables, dejected about Cersei and the letter that sparked his growing doubts.

The one place Cersei avoided most of the time was the nursery, and Jaime didn't want to see his sister right now. Inside, his babe brother played on the floor with the toys given by Aunt Genna and Uncles Kevan, Tyg and Gery. Father never gave Tyrion any gifts.

Sitting down across from Tyrion, he watched the mismatched eyes look up at him. Tyrion gave a white-teethed grin. The Maester Gawen had said the last of the teeth were done, and Jaime was glad. His brother wouldn't be in pain and crying from them hurting. Reaching over to Tyrion's mop of pale hair, he gave it a ruffle earning a giggle, which made him smile.

Tyrion grasped Jaime's arm and stared up at his eyes. "Big brotha sad. Jaime sad," Tyrion said with conviction.

Not wanting the reason at the front of his mind, he nodded to the intelligent babe. "Yes, Tyrion. Jaime is sad."

"Why?" It was asked with such an innocent voice; he almost laughed.

"It's complicated," he said while that old letter repeated itself in his head over and over again. Out of the corner of his eyes, Father scowled at the sight in the nursery before leaving.

"Grumpy fatha," Tyrion muttered, playing with a toy but sad. "Not like me."

Putting his hand on Tyrion's holding the toy, he met the mismatching eyes and smiled. "I like you, little brother."

The shine in Tyrion's eyes eased Jaime. "Big brotha nice."

He wrapped a gentle arm around Tyrion's back. "Thanks, Tyrion."

Tyrion grinned.