Forged in Fire: A Targaryen's Redemption- Aerys SI

by Mtle232

When William Thompson dies saving his girlfriend in NYC, his story doesn't end - it begins anew as he's reborn as Aerys Targaryen. Armed with the knowledge of a dark future and born into a dynasty on the brink, William must navigate his new life as a Targaryen prince while trying to prevent the realm's descent into madness.

9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Paths of the Realm (Part 3)

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255 AC, The Sunset Sea

The ship pitched violently as another wave crashed against its hull, sending spray across the deck and soaking anyone foolish enough to remain topside. I gripped the railing with white knuckles, determined not to retreat below despite the foul weather. The salt air stung my face, and my clothes clung to my skin, heavy with seawater and cold as ice.

"You're as stubborn as your grandfather," came Ser Duncan's rumbling voice from behind me. He moved with surprising grace for a man of his size, especially on a heaving deck. "Though he'd have enough sense to come in from this weather."

I managed a tight smile without turning. "Just a little longer. I want to see them when they first appear."

The old knight sighed but took up position beside me, his massive frame offering some shelter from the worst of the wind. "The Iron Islands won't vanish if you wait in your cabin, Your Grace. They've been there for thousands of years, much to the Westerlands' dismay."

At the mention of the Westerlands, my thoughts turned to Tywin. He'd barely spoken since we'd set sail from Barrowton three days prior. Not his usual contemplative silence, but something colder and more deliberate. I couldn't blame him. The ironborn had raided Lannister shores for generations, and now we were sailing toward them as guests rather than conquerors.

"How is Tywin faring?" I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.

"Maintaining dignity through sheer force of will," Ser Duncan replied dryly. "And young Lord Steffon is finally discovering the limits of his stomach. This weather has not been kind to him."

I winced in sympathy. Steffon had spent most of the voyage alternating between his bunk and the ship's rail, offering his meals back to the sea with impressive regularity.

"Perhaps I should check on them both," I suggested, finally relenting as another wave drenched us.

"A wise decision, Your Grace."

Below deck, the ship's movement was no less pronounced, but at least we were spared the constant soaking. I found Tywin in our shared cabin, seated on his bunk with a book open on his lap, though his eyes were fixed on the wall rather than the pages.

"Contemplating the many ways to sink an island?" I asked lightly, shaking water from my hair.

His green-gold eyes flickered to me, and the corner of his mouth twitched in what might generously be called a smile. "If only it were possible. My ancestors certainly tried."

I sank onto my own bunk, pulling off my sodden boots. "Your distaste is understandable, Tywin. The ironborn have given the Westerlands little reason to love them."

"Yet we sail there as honored guests," he observed, his tone carefully neutral. "An interesting diplomatic choice."

"The ironborn are part of the Seven Kingdoms," I reminded him. "Ignoring them hasn't made them less troublesome. Perhaps engagement might succeed where isolation has failed."

Tywin closed his book with deliberate care. "Some dogs cannot be domesticated, no matter how gently you approach."

"And some can become the most loyal companions, with the right handling," I countered. "Besides, Lord Quellon is reportedly not like his predecessors. He's instituted reforms, encouraged trade rather than raiding."

"Surface changes," Tywin dismissed. "The ironborn follow strength. Quellon shows strength by enforcing new ways, but the old ways remain in their hearts." He paused, studying me. "Still, I respect your willingness to try. Just don't expect miracles from a single royal visit."

Before I could respond, a particularly violent lurch of the ship was followed by a pitiful groan from the adjoining cabin. We exchanged glances, momentary allies in our shared concern for our friend.

"I should check on him," I sighed, rising again.

"Tell him it's nearly over," Tywin advised. "The captain says we should sight Great Wyk by nightfall, Pyke by morning."

I nodded and made my way to Steffon's cabin, bracing myself against the walls as the ship continued its battle with the Sunset Sea. I found our friend curled miserably on his bunk, his normally ruddy face a concerning shade of green.

"I'm dying," he declared dramatically as I entered. "Tell my father I died bravely in battle with the sea itself."

"The mighty heir of Storm's End, felled by a few waves," I teased gently, sitting beside him. "You've survived worse, my friend."

"Not like this," he groaned, closing his eyes as the ship lurched again. "The Sunset Sea is cursed. The ironborn are welcome to it."

I patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Tywin says we'll reach the islands by nightfall. Your suffering is nearly at an end."

"Unless they decide to drown us as a greeting," he muttered darkly.

"They wouldn't dare," I assured him. "Not with Ser Duncan beside us. One look at him and even the Drowned God would think twice."

This earned a weak chuckle that quickly turned into another groan. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

I stayed with him awhile longer, distracting him with stories and speculation about what we might find in the Iron Islands. Despite his condition, Steffon's natural curiosity eventually surfaced.

"Do you think they really live in squalor, as people say?" he asked, propping himself up slightly. "Tywin's father claims their halls are nothing but driftwood and misery."

"We'll soon find out," I replied. "Though I suspect, as with most things, the truth lies somewhere between the tales and reality. The ironborn may not match the splendor of Casterly Rock, but few places do."

"Just promise me something," Steffon said, suddenly serious despite his discomfort. "If they offer us something called 'sea stew,' don't accept it. My great-uncle visited Pyke once and said it contained things no man should ever consume."

I laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. Now try to rest. You'll want your strength when we arrive."

The captain's prediction proved accurate. As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, a shout from the lookout drew us all to the deck. There on the western horizon, emerging from the mist like the backs of great sea creatures, were the Iron Islands.

Even Steffon, pale and unsteady, joined Tywin and me at the rail as we approached. Ser Duncan stood slightly behind us, his experienced eyes scanning the waters for any unwelcome approaches. The ironborn weren't known for attacking announced royal visits, but centuries of habits die hard.

"They look... bleak," Steffon observed, squinting against the fading light.

He wasn't wrong. Even from a distance, Great Wyk appeared harsh and unwelcoming—all jagged cliffs and windswept heights, with little sign of the lush greenery that blessed the mainland. The setting sun cast long shadows across the island, making it seem more forbidding still.

"Not exactly the Riverlands, is it?" I agreed, though something about the stark landscape resonated with me. It reminded me, in some ways, of the North—unyielding, demanding respect rather than affection.

"No wonder they raid," Tywin remarked quietly. "Their islands offer them nothing but stone and salt."

It was perhaps the most sympathetic thing I'd ever heard him say about the ironborn, a glimpse of the analytical mind that could see beyond personal grievance to understand root causes. This was the Tywin that would make a formidable Hand for me when I mount the Iron Throne—if his harder edges could be tempered by wisdom.

"All the more reason to help them find better paths," I replied, equally quiet. "Men raid when they see no alternative. Offer them one, and perhaps the next generation might choose differently."

We sailed past Great Wyk as night fell, lights from fishing villages and watchtowers winking along the coast. Our captain, a grizzled Northman from White Harbor who'd made this journey many times, guided us safely through the increasingly narrow channels between the islands.

"We'll anchor here for the night," he announced as we found a sheltered bay on the eastern side of Great Wyk. "Safer than navigating the smaller passages in darkness. We'll reach Pyke by midday tomorrow, if the weather holds."

After a simple dinner that even Steffon managed to keep down, I found myself back on deck, wrapped in a thick cloak against the night chill. The sea had calmed considerably in the shelter of the bay, and stars glittered overhead in a rare break from the clouds. The silhouettes of the islands surrounded us, black shadows against the slightly lighter darkness of the night sky.

"May I join you, Your Grace?"

I turned to find Tywin approaching, his own cloak pulled tight against the wind.

"Of course," I nodded, making room at the rail. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I find myself strangely alert," he admitted. "Perhaps it's being so close to ancestral enemies."

We stood in companionable silence for a time, listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the creaking of the ship's timbers. In the distance, the dark mass of Great Wyk loomed, a few scattered lights marking human habitation.

"I've been too harsh," Tywin said abruptly. "About this visit."

I glanced at him, surprised by the admission. Tywin Lannister was many things, but rarely self-critical.

"You have your reasons," I acknowledged. "The ironborn have done little to endear themselves to House Lannister."

"True," he agreed. "But that's not the only consideration. You're right that ignoring them has solved nothing. And I've heard things about Lord Quellon that suggest he might be... different."

"Different how?" I prompted, curious about what sources of information Tywin might have that I didn't.

He seemed to choose his words carefully. "My father's mismanagement has given me reason to cultivate additional sources of information. Traders who visit both Lannisport and the Iron Islands speak of changes under Quellon's rule. Fewer raids. More trade ships. Harsh punishment for captains who ignore his edicts against reaving."

"You didn't think this worth mentioning earlier?" I asked, more amused than annoyed.

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "I was still deciding whether to believe it. The ironborn changing their ways is like a wolf deciding to eat grass."

"Even wolves eat berries sometimes, when meat is scarce," I pointed out. "Perhaps Quellon has simply recognized that the old ways lead nowhere but to repeated defeat and humiliation."

"Perhaps," Tywin conceded. "We'll know soon enough." He hesitated, then added, "Whatever we find, I'll comport myself as befits your companion and a representative of House Lannister. You have my word."

"I never doubted it," I assured him. "Your self-control is legendary, even at thirteen."

This earned a genuine, if brief, smile. "Someone in my family must possess it."

We fell silent again, each lost in our own thoughts as we contemplated the dark islands around us. Despite the relative calm of the night, there was something undeniably eerie about the Iron Islands—a sense of ancient, unforgiving power that had nothing to do with their human inhabitants and everything to do with the sea that had shaped them.

"What do you hope to accomplish here?" Tywin asked eventually. "Beyond the usual diplomatic niceties."

It was a fair question, and one I'd been asking myself since proposing this detour. What did I hope to change? In that other timeline, the Iron Islands under Balon Greyjoy would rebel twice—once during Robert's reign, and again during the War of the Five Kings. They would remain a festering wound in the side of Westeros, never fully integrated, always ready to strike when the mainland showed weakness.

But that was decades away. Here and now, Quellon Greyjoy was attempting reforms that his son would later abandon. What if those reforms were encouraged, supported by the crown? What if the Iron Islands found a place within the Seven Kingdoms that didn't require giving up their identity but channeled their strengths toward common goals?

"I want to understand them," I said finally. "Not as raiders or enemies, but as subjects of the realm with unique challenges and strengths. The ironborn are unparalleled sailors and shipbuilders. In a hopeful future, they might be the realm's greatest naval asset rather than its coastal terror."

"A noble aim," Tywin acknowledged, though his tone suggested skepticism. "But centuries of history would need to be overcome."

"History is written by choices," I replied. "Different choices can write a different future."

He studied me in the darkness. "You speak as if you've already seen it."

The comment hit uncomfortably close to the truth, and I shifted my gaze back to the distant island. "I've studied enough history to recognize patterns. The ironborn raid because their islands are poor in resources but rich in harbors and skilled sailors. Change the equation, give them profitable alternatives, and perhaps the pattern changes too."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then at least we'll better understand the enemy," I said pragmatically. "Either way, knowledge is gained."

Tywin seemed satisfied with this answer. "A Lannister approach, if I may say so. My father could learn from you."

Coming from Tywin, there could be no higher praise. I accepted it with a nod, though inwardly I wondered what he would think if he knew my true motivations—not just to understand the ironborn, but to fundamentally alter the course of a future only I could see.

Morning brought clearer skies and calmer seas. We set sail with the rising sun, navigating the increasingly complex channels between islands. Great Wyk gave way to Saltcliffe, then Pyke appeared on the horizon—a collection of small rocky islets connected by swaying rope bridges, with the castle itself spread across several of the largest outcroppings.

From a distance, it was both impressive and precarious—a castle seemingly built in defiance of nature itself, clinging to rocks that the relentless sea had been trying to reclaim for centuries. Parts of it had already surrendered to the inevitable; our captain pointed out ruins of old sections that had collapsed into the sea during storms over the generations.

"They rebuild, move inland, then watch as the sea takes more," he explained. "Been happening since the castle was first raised, they say. Someday nothing will remain but the Sea Tower on the largest isle."

"Yet they stay," I observed.

"Ironborn stubbornness," the captain shrugged. "They call it strength; others call it folly. Either way, Pyke has stood for thousands of years, one way or another."

As we approached the harbor, I noticed a significant number of ships—more than I would have expected for islands supposedly focused on raiding rather than trade. Many flew the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, but others displayed different sigils, some from distant shores.

"Looks like the reforms you mentioned might be real," I remarked to Tywin, who stood beside me studying the harbor with a critical eye.

"More ships than I expected," he admitted. "Though how many are traders versus raiders is harder to determine from appearance alone."

Steffon, finally recovered now that we approached land, joined us at the rail. "Is that our welcoming party?" he asked, pointing toward the dock where a group of men had gathered.

Indeed, a reception committee awaited us—grim-faced men in salt-stained leather and mail, standing stiffly as our ship maneuvered toward the designated berth. At their center stood a tall figure whose bearing marked him as their lord even before I could make out details of his appearance.

"Lord Quellon, I presume," I murmured. "And his household guard."

"No women," Tywin noted. "Traditional ironborn reserve those for the feasting hall, not official welcomes."

As we drew closer, I could make out Lord Quellon more clearly. Even from a distance, he cut an impressive figure—tall and broad-shouldered, with the muscled build of a warrior rather than a lord who ruled from comfort. His beard was dark and full, his stance that of a man accustomed to the rolling deck of a ship rather than the stable ground of a castle.

Our ship docked with practiced efficiency, lines secured and gangplank extended. As the ranking member of our party, Ser Duncan disembarked first, his massive frame drawing visible reactions from the ironborn. Even among these hardened seafarers, a man of Duncan's size was a rarity.

"Lord Quellon," Ser Duncan announced formally, "may I present His Royal Highness, Prince Aerys Targaryen, son of Crown Prince Jaehaerys, accompanied by Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lord Steffon Baratheon of Storm's End."

I descended the gangplank next, followed by Tywin and Steffon. The wind whipped at our cloaks, carrying the smell of salt and fish and something else—a distinctive ironborn scent I couldn't quite identify but would come to recognize during our stay.

Lord Quellon Greyjoy stepped forward and bowed with surprising grace for a man of his size. "Prince Aerys," he said, his voice deep and roughened by years of shouting over storm winds. "The Iron Islands welcome you and your companions. You honor us with your presence."

Up close, he was younger than I had initially thought—perhaps forty or so, with only the faintest threads of gray in his dark beard. His eyes were a stormy shade that seemed to shift between blue and gray depending on the light, and they studied me with unconcealed curiosity.

"Lord Quellon," I replied with a formal nod. "Thank you for your welcome. My grandfather speaks highly of your efforts to strengthen ties between the Iron Islands and the mainland."

A flicker of surprise crossed his weathered features. "His Grace is generous with his praise. Please, follow me. You must be weary after your journey. We've prepared chambers in the Sea Tower, the most comfortable part of Pyke."

As we followed Lord Quellon from the harbor toward the winding path that led up to the castle, I took the opportunity to observe our surroundings more carefully. Lordsport, the main settlement on Pyke, was larger and more organized than I had expected. Stone buildings lined the waterfront, with wooden structures rising up the slopes behind. Shipyards bustled with activity, and the markets appeared to be doing brisk business.

The people watched our procession with undisguised interest. The ironborn were much as I had imagined—hard-faced men and women with the lean, tough build of those who wrestle with the sea for survival. But they weren't the unwashed savages of mainland stereotype. Their clothing, while practical, showed craftsmanship. Their weapons, visible but not brandished, were well-maintained.

"Your port seems prosperous, Lord Quellon," I observed as we began the climb toward the castle.

"We've seen better days," he replied modestly, though I detected a hint of pride beneath the words. "But yes, trade has increased these past few years. The sea gives many gifts to those willing to work with her, not just against her."

"An interesting perspective," Tywin commented, his tone carefully neutral. "Different from traditional ironborn views, if I understand correctly."

I tensed slightly, but Quellon merely nodded, apparently taking no offense. "The old ways have their place in our history and our hearts," he said. "But a man who cannot adapt is a man who drowns when the tide rises."

It was a very ironborn metaphor, but the sentiment could have come from any forward-thinking lord on the mainland. Perhaps the reports of Quellon's reforms weren't exaggerated after all.

As we approached the castle proper, the infamous swaying bridges came into view. Narrower than I had imagined, they stretched between rocky outcroppings, with nothing but crashing waves and jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. The sight made even Steffon, normally fearless to the point of recklessness, pause momentarily.

"The Sea Tower is on the largest island," Quellon explained, noting our hesitation. "The bridge there is the newest and widest. The older bridges to the lesser towers can be... challenging for those not born to them."

"We've climbed to the Eyrie and descended again," I assured him. "Your bridges hold no fear for us."

Quellon smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his stern face. "Good. Many mainlanders find them daunting. Even some ironborn prefer solid ground."

The bridge to the Sea Tower proved less intimidating than it appeared from a distance. While it swayed slightly with each step and the wind's buffeting, the rope construction was sturdy and the wooden slats well-maintained. Still, I found myself breathing easier once we reached the other side, and Steffon's relieved exhale behind me suggested I wasn't alone.

The Sea Tower itself was impressive—a circular stone fortress rising seven stories from the rocky isle, with walls that looked capable of withstanding the fiercest storms. Unlike the rest of Pyke, which had a makeshift quality from centuries of collapse and rebuilding, the Sea Tower had the solidity of original construction.

"The tower has stood since Pyke was first built," Quellon confirmed as we entered the great hall. "The only part that has never surrendered to the sea."

The interior was a surprise. After the harsh exterior, I had expected a similarly austere interior, but the great hall of Pyke was almost warm in its appearance. Massive fireplaces combated the perpetual dampness of island life. Tapestries depicting sea battles and kraken hunts adorned the walls. The furniture was solid ironwood and weirwood, much of it clearly salvaged from ships too damaged to repair.

Most striking were the candle arrangements—hundreds of them in iron sconces and chandeliers, casting a golden glow that softened the otherwise martial atmosphere. It created an effect somewhere between welcoming and eerie, like being inside the belly of some great sea creature.

"Impressive," I acknowledged sincerely. "Your hall does honor to House Greyjoy's status."

"It serves," Quellon replied with typical ironborn understatement. "Your chambers have been prepared in the upper levels. The views are unmatched, though the wind can howl fiercely around the tower at night."

As servants appeared to guide us to our rooms, I noticed a woman enter from a side door—tall and straight-backed, with dark hair streaked with silver and sharp features that might have been beautiful in a severe way when she was younger. She wore a simple gown of deep blue, with a silver seaweed pattern at the sleeves and hem. Her only ornamentation was a necklace of small pearls that gleamed softly in the candlelight.

Quellon turned and gestured her forward. "Prince Aerys, may I present Lady Sunderly, my wife of recent marriage."

The woman approached and curtseyed with precise formality. "Your Highness," she said, her voice surprisingly melodious for her stern appearance. "House Greyjoy is honored by your presence."

"The honor is mine, my lady," I replied with equal formality. "I trust our unexpected visit hasn't caused undue inconvenience."

"The ironborn are accustomed to the unexpected, Your Highness," she answered with the ghost of a smile. "The sea teaches us to be prepared for all tides, fair or foul."

There was something in her expression I couldn't quite place—a wariness perhaps, or simply the natural reserve of ironborn nobility toward mainlanders. Whatever it was, I sensed she would be a more complicated host than her husband.

"You and your companions must be weary," she continued. "I've had hot water brought to your chambers, and fresh clothing laid out. We feast in your honor this evening, but until then, please consider Pyke your home."

With that, we were escorted to our chambers in the upper levels of the Sea Tower. The rooms were surprisingly comfortable—smaller than mainland accommodations for guests of our status, but well-appointed with sturdy furniture and thick furs to ward off the perpetual chill. As promised, hot water waited in copper tubs, a luxury I hadn't expected on the notoriously austere islands.

The windows offered a spectacular view of the surrounding sea, whitecaps visible to the horizon in all directions. Standing there, watching the endless dance of waves, I could almost understand the ironborn perspective. Surrounded by such immensity, such power, how could one not develop a philosophy built around strength and survival?

As I bathed and changed into fresh clothes, I reflected on my initial impressions. The Iron Islands were indeed harsh, the landscape unforgiving compared to the fertile mainland. But I also saw potential—harbors busy with ships, people who clearly possessed skills beyond raiding and pillaging, a lord apparently willing to consider new paths.

If Quellon Greyjoy truly sought to reform ironborn culture, to guide it away from the old ways toward something that could coexist with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, then perhaps my visit could reinforce those efforts. The crown's support might be the difference between lasting change and a temporary aberration soon washed away by the inexorable tide of tradition.

Later, refreshed and in clean attire, I rejoined Tywin and Steffon in Tywin's chamber to compare observations before the feast.

"Well?" I asked, settling into a chair by the hearth where a fire crackled against the sea dampness. "First impressions?"

"Better than expected," Steffon admitted, lounging on the bed with his hands behind his head. "They're not quite the barbarians my father described. Lord Quellon seems almost... reasonable."

"Lady Sunderly less so," Tywin observed from his position by the window. "Did you notice how she watched us? Assessing, calculating."

"She's newly married to Quellon," I pointed out. "Perhaps just protective of her position."

Tywin shook his head slightly. "It's more than that. There's tension beneath the formality. Something recent, I would guess."

"Grief, perhaps?" I suggested, remembering what I knew from that other timeline about Quellon's losses. "I've heard he lost children recently."

"That would explain much," Tywin nodded. "Grief can sharpen edges that might otherwise soften with time."

Steffon sat up, suddenly serious. "Should we mention it? Offer condolences?"

"Only if they raise the matter first," I advised. "Some wounds are too fresh for strangers to probe, no matter how well-intentioned."

A knock at the door interrupted our conference. Ser Duncan entered, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe despite the tower's relatively generous proportions.

"Lord Quellon requests your presence in his solar before the feast," he announced. "A private conversation, he said."

I exchanged glances with my companions. Such a request wasn't unusual—many lords had sought private audiences during our progress—but the timing was interesting.

"Just me, or all of us?" I asked.

"Just you, Your Grace," Ser Duncan confirmed. "Though he specifically mentioned that your friends would be entertained by his captains in the meanwhile."

"Divide and conquer?" Steffon suggested with raised eyebrows.

"Or simple courtesy," I countered. "Not everything is strategy, Steffon."

"In the Iron Islands? Everything is strategy," Tywin disagreed. "But not necessarily hostile strategy. He likely wants to speak plainly, without witnesses from either side."

"Then I'll hear what he has to say," I decided, rising. "Ser Duncan, you'll accompany me?"

"To the door, at least," the old knight nodded. "Though Lord Quellon indicated the conversation was for your ears alone."

"Standard procedure," I assured him. "You'll remain within shouting distance; I assume?"

A smile creased his weathered face. "Always, Your Grace."

Lord Quellon's solar occupied the top floor of the Sea Tower, a circular room with windows facing in all directions, offering an unobstructed view of sea and sky. Unlike the great hall with its hundreds of candles, the solar was simply lit by a few well-placed lamps that complemented the fading daylight.

The Lord of the Iron Islands stood by the eastern window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the darkening horizon. He turned as I entered, gesturing toward a pair of chairs positioned near a small hearth where a fire took the edge off the evening chill.

"Prince Aerys," he greeted me, his manner less formal than during our arrival. "Thank you for indulging an old sea wolf's request."

"Hardly old, my lord," I replied as I took the offered seat. "And no indulgence required. Private conversations often accomplish more than public ones."

He smiled slightly as he settled into the chair opposite mine. Up close, in the gentler light, I could see the lines of care etched around his eyes and mouth—signs of a man who carried heavy responsibilities.

"Direct," he observed. "Good. We ironborn have little patience for the flowery courtesies of the green lands."

"Yet you've been implementing changes that bring the Iron Islands closer to those green lands," I noted. "Trade rather than raiding, bridges rather than barriers."

Quellon studied me with those storm-colored eyes. "You're well-informed for one so young. Yes, I've made certain... adjustments to our traditional ways. Not always to universal acclaim."

"Reform rarely is," I acknowledged. "Especially when it challenges centuries of tradition."

"Tradition," he repeated, testing the word as if it tasted strange on his tongue. "A comforting word for habits that may no longer serve." He reached for a decanter on the small table between us, pouring a finger of amber liquid into two glasses. "Distilled from a plant that grows only on Harlaw," he explained, offering me one. "Stronger than most mainland spirits, but cleaner in the aftermath."

I accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. The ironborn were known for their direct approach to diplomacy—refusing their hospitality would be unwise.

"To new understandings," I proposed, raising the glass slightly.

"New understandings," he agreed, mirroring the gesture before taking a measured sip.

I followed suit and immediately regretted my bravado. The liquor burned like liquid fire, searing a path down my throat and exploding in my chest. Only years of courtly training prevented me from coughing or gasping outright.

Quellon watched with barely concealed amusement. "Most mainlanders react more... expressively on their first taste."

"I've had practice," I managed after a moment, my voice only slightly strained. "Your health, Lord Quellon."

This seemed to please him. He set his glass down and leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious.

"I'll speak plainly, Prince Aerys. Your visit is unexpected but not unwelcome. The question that interests me is: why? The Iron Islands are rarely included in royal progresses. We're remembered when we raid, forgotten when we don't. So why come now, when I've been working to ensure we give the mainland less reason than ever to remember us?"

It was a fair question, and I took another small sip of the fiery liquor to buy time for consideration. The burning was less shocking now, though no less intense.

"Because that very work is worthy of recognition," I answered finally. "My grandfather believes that lords who seek positive change should be acknowledged and supported, not ignored until problems arise."

Quellon's eyebrows rose slightly. "So this is King Aegon's doing?"

"The journey was my initiative," I clarified. "But my grandfather approved it precisely because he values what you're attempting here."

"And what does he think I'm attempting, exactly?" Quellon asked, his tone careful now.

I set my glass down and met his gaze directly. "To navigate the narrowest of channels—honoring ironborn identity while finding a place for your people within the broader realm. To transform without betraying. To adapt without surrendering."

Something flickered in those storm-gray eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "You speak as if you understand the challenge."

"I can't claim to fully understand," I admitted. "I wasn't raised ironborn. But I've studied enough history to recognize that people need both roots and wings. Destroy the roots, and they wither. Clip the wings, and they never discover their potential."

Quellon leaned back, studying me with new interest. "Those are not the words I expected from Jaehaerys' son. Your father is known for his... traditional views."

"My father is a good man," I said carefully. "But we sometimes see different paths to the same destination."

"And what destination would that be?"

"A realm where strength doesn't require oppression. Where different cultures complement rather than combat each other. Where the Iron Islands prosper without requiring others to suffer."

Quellon's laugh caught me by surprise—a deep, genuine sound at odds with his otherwise reserved demeanor. "By the Drowned God, they told me you were unlike other princes, but I didn't quite believe it." He shook his head, still smiling. "You speak of impossible things as if they're merely difficult."

"Isn't that what you're doing as well?" I countered. "Your reforms—freeing thralls, restricting reaving, encouraging trade—many ironborn must see these as betrayals of your ways."

The smile faded from his face. "Some do," he acknowledged. "The old captains, particularly. Those who remember when the ironborn commanded fear throughout the western shores." He took another swallow of his drink. "But they also remember the consequences—Targaryens on dragonback, burning our fleets. Lannisters and Gardeners marching through our towns with fire and sword." His eyes grew distant. "Fear works both ways, Prince Aerys. I would rather my people learn that lesson from history than experience it anew."

"A wise perspective," I agreed. "And one the crown would support. Which brings me to the purpose of this conversation—how can the Iron Throne assist your efforts? What would make the path of reform more attractive to your captains and lords?"

Quellon's eyebrows rose again. "Direct indeed," he murmured. Then, more seriously: "You truly come offering help, not demands?"

"Both, in truth," I admitted. "The crown would welcome certain guarantees—continued peace with the mainland, formal end to thralldom, acknowledgment of mainland laws regarding raiding and reaving."

"And in exchange?"

"Trade agreements. Preferential access to certain markets. Investment in your harbors and shipyards. Perhaps even royal commissions for your shipwrights." I leaned forward slightly. "The Iron Islands have the finest sailors in Westeros, my lord. Why should those skills be wasted on raiding when they could command respect—and gold—as traders, mercantile protectors, or even admirals in a royal fleet?"

Quellon's expression remained carefully neutral, but I detected interest in his eyes. "Fine words, Prince Aerys. But words are wind, as we say in the Islands."

"Then let me speak of specifics," I countered. "First, the crown would be willing to establish a trading post here on Pyke, with regular shipments of timber, grain, and other mainland goods at favorable rates."

"We already trade for those," he pointed out.

"At mainland prices, after mainland merchants have taken their cut," I replied. "The crown could negotiate better terms, ensure more consistent supply."

He nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. "Continue."

"Second, we could provide maesters and craftsmen to help develop your mining operations. The Iron Islands are rich in ore—it's why they bear the name—but your extraction methods are centuries old. Modern techniques could double, perhaps triple your yield."

This caught his attention more visibly. "The mines have been producing less each year," he admitted. "Our diggers go deeper, but the quality diminishes."

"Because you're following old veins rather than finding new ones," I explained. "The Citadel has developed methods for locating untapped deposits. Combined with better smelting techniques, you could produce higher quality steel with less ore."

"And the crown would provide these... experts? At what cost?"

"In exchange for a portion of the increased yield, yes. As for cost—consider it investment in the realm's stability. Every ironborn employed in productive mining or trading is one less tempted toward raiding."

He smiled thinly at this pragmatic framing. "At least you're honest about your motivations."

"Honesty serves us both better than pretty lies," I replied. "Which brings me to a third proposal, perhaps the most important: education."

Quellon's brow furrowed. "Meaning?"

"The Iron Islands have few maesters, fewer schools. Knowledge of the wider world is limited to what captains bring back from their voyages. What if the crown helped establish learning centers on each major island? Not to replace your traditions," I added quickly, seeing his expression, "but to supplement them with skills needed for this new direction."

"Reading and sums," he said thoughtfully. "Shipbuilding theory and navigation. Laws of trade."

"Exactly. The ironborn who master these skills would command respect in ports from Lannisport to Qarth. Your sons would have opportunities beyond raiding or fishing."

At the mention of sons, something flashed in Quellon's eyes—a grief so sudden and raw that I immediately regretted my choice of words. He turned slightly toward the window, his profile silhouetted against the darkening sky.

"My sons," he repeated quietly. "Yes. They would have needed such opportunities."

The past tense told me everything. The rumors were true—Quellon had lost children recently. I hesitated, uncertain whether to acknowledge the loss or let the moment pass.

"I've heard whispers of your recent sorrows, Lord Quellon," I said finally, keeping my voice gentle. "If the rumors are true, you have my sincere condolences. No parent should endure such loss."

He was silent for a long moment, still gazing out toward the sea. When he spoke again, his voice had a rough edge that hadn't been there before.

"Three sons in less than a year," he said, each word measured as if weighing anchor. " My firstborn son and heir Harlon to greyscale, despite the maester's efforts to cut away the stone. Quenton to a fever that swept through the islands last autumn. And my newborn Donel, who barely managed to outlive my first wife, Lady Stonefree, before the Drowned God claimed them both." He turned back to face me, his expression composed once more through sheer force of will. "So you understand why your talk of futures holds particular weight for me, Prince Aerys. I have one remaining son, Balon, scarcely weaned, by my new wife. Everything I build now is for him and the children I hope will yet come."

"I didn't know the full extent," I said honestly, the weight of his losses settling heavily between us, even though I also felt a flicker of relief that poor Harlon was put out of his misery before the Unholy Demon that would be his future Half-brother Euron could get his hands on him "Such grief would break many men."

"The ironborn do not break," Quellon replied, though without the usual bravado such words might carry. "We endure, like the rocks against which the sea crashes forever without victory."

His words brought home the reality of life on these harsh islands—a constant battle against elements that showed no mercy, forging a people who viewed softness as fatal weakness. Yet beneath the necessary hardness, they felt loss as keenly as any mainland lord.

"It's for the living we must plan," I said after a respectful pause. "And your vision for the Iron Islands deserves support, not just for the realm's benefit but for its own merit."

"You speak well for one so young," Quellon observed, his manner shifting subtly toward something less guarded. "Perhaps too well. It makes a man wonder what lies beneath the words."

"Only the truth as I see it," I replied simply. "The Iron Islands can continue as they have been—isolated, feared, periodically crushed when their raiding exceeds the mainland's tolerance. Or they can transform, using their strengths to command respect and prosperity rather than resentment and retaliation."

"And you believe the crown would truly support such transformation? Not merely with words, but with gold and action?"

"I do," I assured him. "My grandfather sees beyond old grievances. He understands that a prosperous, engaged Iron Islands benefits the entire realm."

Quellon considered this, then rose and moved to a small chest near his desk. From it, he withdrew a rolled parchment which he brought back to his seat.

"I've been developing proposals of my own," he explained, unfurling the document. "Things I believed necessary for the Islands' future, but hesitated to present directly to the crown, knowing how we are viewed at court."

I leaned forward with genuine interest as he spread the parchment on the table between us. It contained a detailed plan for reforming ironborn society—provisions for education as I had suggested, but also legal reforms, trade initiatives, and most surprisingly, a gradual restructuring of religious practices.

"You would reform even the Drowned God's worship?" I asked, genuinely surprised. The ironborn were notoriously devout in their harsh faith.

"Reform, not replace," Quellon clarified. "The drowning ritual, for instance—more symbolic than actual in most cases. And the more extreme practices regarding thralls and salt wives... these must change if we are to be truly part of the Seven Kingdoms."

His willingness to consider even religious adaptation spoke volumes about his vision for the Islands. This was no half-measure, but a comprehensive reimagining of ironborn society from its foundations.

"Remarkable," I acknowledged sincerely. "Few lords would have the courage to consider such wide-ranging changes, let alone implement them."

"Courage or foolishness," he replied with a hint of dry humor. "The line blurs when you challenge centuries of tradition."

"The greatest leaders often walk that line," I observed. "History remembers those who reshape their times, not those who merely endure them."

Our conversation continued in this vein for nearly an hour, delving into specific reforms, potential challenges, and strategies for implementation. Throughout, I was struck by Quellon's clear-eyed pragmatism. He harbored no illusions about the difficulties ahead, nor about the resistance he would face from his own people. Yet his determination was unwavering.

"The old ways are dying," he said at one point, gazing out toward the darkening sea. "We can either die with them or find new strength in adaptation. I choose adaptation."

"A choice worthy of support," I assured him. "When I return to King's Landing, I'll speak directly with my grandfather about the proposals we've discussed. With royal backing, your reforms stand a much greater chance of taking root."

"And outlasting me," Quellon added, a shadow crossing his features. "That is my greatest concern. Changes implemented by one lord can be undone by the next. Without time to become tradition themselves, my reforms may wash away like footprints on the shore."

His words carried a weight I understood all too well. In that other timeline, Quellon's son Balon had indeed reversed many of his father's changes, returning the ironborn to their old ways with disastrous consequences, especially for themselves and the North.

"Then we must ensure they become tradition," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Build them so deeply into ironborn life that removing them would cause more disruption than maintaining them."

Quellon nodded slowly. "A worthy aim. Perhaps your royal visit itself contributes to that goal. When the smallfolk and captains see the crown's heir speaking with me as an equal, not a conquered vassal, it lends weight to the new direction."

"Use my presence however it serves your purposes," I offered. "I'm happy to speak with your captains, visit your shipyards, anything that reinforces your authority and vision."

A genuine smile crossed his weathered features. "Careful, Prince Aerys. Such blank offerings are dangerous on the Iron Islands. You might find yourself blessed by the Drowned God before you realize what's happening."

I returned his smile, relieved to see his mood lighten. "I'll keep my wits about me. Though I draw the line at full immersion in your Drowned God's embrace."

He laughed at that, a sound that seemed to surprise even him. "Your visit may prove more valuable than either of us anticipated," he admitted. "At minimum, it's given me reason to hope the crown might actually understand what I'm attempting here."

"Understanding is the beginning of cooperation," I replied. "And cooperation, the foundation of lasting change."

Our private discussion concluded as servants arrived to announce the feast was prepared. As we rose to join the gathering below, Quellon placed a hand briefly on my shoulder—a gesture that would have seemed ordinary in the mainland but represented significant familiarity from an ironborn lord.

"You've given me much to consider, Prince Aerys," he said. "Perhaps more than you realize."

Before I could respond, the moment passed, and Lord Quellon's formal manner returned as we made our way downstairs to the great hall. But something had shifted between us—a foundation laid for what might become genuine alliance rather than mere political accommodation.

---

The feast itself was a revelation in ironborn culture. The great hall of Pyke had been transformed, with additional candles creating a warm, golden atmosphere despite the storm that had begun to rage outside. Long tables formed a U-shape around an open central space, while servants busied themselves setting out platters of food that defied mainland stereotypes of ironborn cuisine.

Yes, there was fish in abundance—but prepared with surprising sophistication. Delicate sea bass baked with herbs, massive crabs cracked and seasoned, oysters presented on beds of salt. Alongside these were roasted meats, dark breads, and vegetables that must have been traded from the mainland. The ironborn might live on harsh islands, but their lords ate well.

I was seated at the high table between Lord Quellon and Lady Sunderly, with Tywin, Steffon, and Ser Duncan positioned strategically among the ironborn captains and minor lords at the side tables. As the feast began, I noticed the careful political arrangement—supporters of Quellon's reforms placed near my companions, traditionalists kept at a respectful distance.

"Your hall does your house proud, Lord Quellon," I commented as servants filled our cups with a surprisingly good Arbor gold. "The ironborn reputation for austerity seems somewhat exaggerated."

"We save our austerity for voyages and battle," he replied. "When ashore, we see no virtue in unnecessary discomfort. Life provides enough hardship without adding to it voluntarily."

Lady Sunderly, who had been quietly observing our exchange, finally spoke. "The mainland often misunderstands us," she said, her melodious voice carrying easily despite the growing noise of the feast. "They see only what they fear or what confirms their prejudices."

"A common human failing," I acknowledged. "On all sides, I suspect."

"Indeed," she agreed, studying me with those sharp eyes. "Though uncommon in one so young to recognize it."

Before I could respond, Lord Quellon rose, and the hall gradually fell silent as he lifted his cup.

"To Prince Aerys Targaryen," he announced, his deep voice carrying to every corner of the room. "Who honors the Iron Islands with his presence. May the salt and iron of our lands strengthen the bonds between our peoples."

"Prince Aerys!" the assembled ironborn echoed, raising their cups in a gesture that seemed genuine rather than merely obligatory.

As I stood to acknowledge the toast, I felt dozens of eyes assessing me—some curious, some wary, all measuring this mainland prince against whatever standard they held for worthy men.

"To Lord Quellon and House Greyjoy," I returned, pitching my voice to carry as I'd been taught since childhood. "For their hospitality and their vision. May the Drowned God grant fair winds to those who sail toward new horizons."

The deliberate inclusion of their deity earned approving nods from many present, though I noticed a few of the older captains remained stone-faced. These would be the traditionalists, I guessed—men who viewed Quellon's reforms as weakness rather than adaptation.

As we settled back to our meal, Lady Sunderly leaned slightly toward me. "You've studied our ways," she observed. "Most mainlanders wouldn't invoke the Drowned God, especially Targaryens with your family's... history with our faith."

She referred, I knew, to the Targaryen conquest and subsequent suppression of ironborn independence. Over centuries, relations between the Iron Throne and the Drowned God's followers had been tense at best, openly hostile at worst.

"Understanding begins with respect," I replied. "Even for beliefs different from one's own."

Something shifted in her expression—not quite approval, but a lessening of her initial reserve. "Quellon said you were unlike other princes. Perhaps he was right."

The feast progressed through many courses, with entertainment provided in a distinctly ironborn fashion. Between servings, captains and warriors rose to tell tales of great voyages or battles, each striving to outdo the last in both heroism and eloquence. Unlike mainland feasts where professional singers performed rehearsed ballads, here the entertainment came from the guests themselves, raw and unfiltered.

Most tales focused on honorable combat or clever navigation through dangerous waters, carefully avoiding mentions of raiding mainland shores—a diplomatic choice that didn't escape my notice. Lord Quellon had clearly instructed his captains on appropriate topics for royal ears.

As the evening advanced and the wine flowed freely, I found myself drawn into conversation with various ironborn lords and captains who approached the high table. Each seemed eager to take the measure of this unexpected royal visitor, and I made a point of engaging them all with equal attention, regardless of their apparent status.

"You handle them well," Lady Sunderly observed during a brief lull. "Many mainland lords would have shown disgust or fear by now."

"At what?" I asked, genuinely curious about her perception.

"Our manners. Our tales. The way we speak of death and battle as naturally as others discuss the weather."

I considered this. "Death is part of life everywhere, my lady. The ironborn merely approach it more directly than most."

"A diplomatic answer," she noted with the hint of a smile.

"An honest one," I countered. "The Iron Islands face the sea's dangers daily. Such an environment breeds either frankness about mortality or paralyzing fear. I admire the former."

This earned me a more genuine smile, transforming her severe features momentarily. "You would have made a decent ironborn, Prince Aerys, despite your Targaryen blood."

"High praise indeed," I replied, recognizing the compliment for what it was. "Though I suspect I'd make a poor sailor."

"Oh, the sea sickness passes," she assured me with surprising warmth. "It's the salt in your blood that determines whether you belong on water. Some have it, some don't."

Further conversation was interrupted as Lord Quellon rose again, signaling for attention. The hall quieted, anticipation visible on many faces. This, I sensed, was a planned moment rather than a spontaneous toast.

"Friends, captains, ironborn," Quellon began, his voice carrying authority that silenced even the most inebriated guests. "Prince Aerys's visit offers us more than honor—it brings opportunity. The Iron Islands stand at a crossroads, as all who sail these waters know."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some approving, others more uncertain.

"For too long, we've followed currents that carry us ever in circles, returning to the same dangerous shoals. The old ways served when we stood alone against the world. But we are part of the Seven Kingdoms now, have been for more than two centuries." He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall. "It is time we claimed the benefits of that position, not merely chafed at its limitations."

The murmurs grew louder. I noticed Tywin watching intently from his position at one of the side tables, while Steffon seemed to be engaged in quiet conversation with his ironborn neighbors, gauging their reactions.

"Prince Aerys and I have spoken of possibilities," Quellon continued. "Trade agreements that favor ironborn ships. Royal investment in our harbors and mines. Education that would make our sons masters of more than just the sword and axe." He gestured toward me. "The crown extends a hand not to control but to cooperate. I, for one, believe we should grasp it."

An older captain with a salt-white beard stood without waiting for permission. "Fine words, my lord. But what of our ways? What of the pride that makes us ironborn? Would you have us become merchants like the Manderlys, counting coppers while others claim glory?"

I tensed, recognizing the challenge for what it was—the first public opposition to Quellon's vision. How he handled this moment would reveal much about his position among his people.

Quellon faced the captain directly, neither angry nor defensive. "Is it glorious to raid fishing villages, Sigrin? To return with meager plunder while risking the realm's wrath? Our ancestors raided because survival demanded it. What honor is there in continuing from mere habit when better paths lie open?"

"The Drowned God—" Sigrin began, but Quellon cut him off with a raised hand.

"The Drowned God demands strength and courage," he stated firmly. "Show me where in our faith it demands us to cling to methods that no longer serve us. Adaptation is strength, Sigrin. Rigidity is weakness, no matter how tradition dresses it."

A tense silence fell over the hall. Even the servants had paused their tasks, watching this confrontation between lord and captain. I remained perfectly still, aware that my presence complicated the dynamics. Quellon was using me to bolster his position, but that same foreign presence might galvanize opposition if handled poorly.

The old captain held Quellon's gaze for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "You've led us well, Lord Reaper. If you see new currents worth following, I'll reserve judgment until we see where they carry us." He raised his cup. "To new voyages, then. May they prove worthy of ironborn blood."

The tension broke as others raised their cups, echoing the sentiment. Not unanimous approval, I noted, but acceptance enough to move forward. Quellon had navigated the challenge skillfully—acknowledging the concern while maintaining his authority.

As the feast resumed its previous energy, Lord Quellon turned to me with a slight nod that acknowledged the significance of what had just transpired. "The first public test," he said quietly. "Sigrin speaks for many of the old captains. If he's willing to wait and see, others will follow his lead."

"You handled it perfectly," I replied, equally quiet. "Respect without concession."

"The ironborn approach to most conflicts," he agreed with the hint of a smile. "Though usually involving more axes."

"Verbal axes serve better at feasts," I observed dryly, earning a genuine laugh from both Quellon and, surprisingly, Lady Sunderly.

"You grow on me, Targaryen," she admitted. "Perhaps there's hope for the green lands after all."

As the feast continued into the night, I found myself reflecting on the complex reality of the Iron Islands. These weren't the one-dimensional raiders of mainland stereotype, but a people with their own history, traditions, and internal divisions. Quellon's reforms represented not just policy changes but a fundamental cultural shift—one that would require delicate balancing between honoring ironborn identity and adapting to a changing world.

By the time the feast finally wound down in the early hours of the morning, I had spoken with dozens of ironborn lords and captains, listened to countless tales of seafaring adventures, and even been persuaded to share a few stories of my own journeys. The impression I'd formed was cautiously optimistic: resistance to change existed, certainly, but so did recognition that the old ways offered diminishing returns.

---

255 AC, Pyke, Iron Islands

Three days into our stay on Pyke, the initial novelty of ironborn hospitality had begun to wear thin. The Sea Tower, impressive as it was, offered limited diversions. We'd toured the castle thoroughly, viewed the famous Seastone Chair—a massive throne carved from oily black stone whose origins predated even ironborn settlement—and attended enough feasts to satisfy even Steffon's legendary appetite.

Now, confined to our chambers by a particularly tedious morning storm that had finally blown itself out, boredom had set in with a vengeance.

"If I read one more ironborn saga, my eyes might actually bleed," Steffon declared, tossing aside a leather-bound volume detailing the conquests of Harwyn Hardhand. "Does nothing happen on these islands except raiding, drowning, and more raiding?"

Tywin, who'd been writing letters at the small desk near the window, didn't look up. "What did you expect from a culture built on little else?"

"I expectedsomethingto do," Steffon replied, flopping dramatically across his bed. "Lord Quellon's been shut away with his captains all morning. Lady Sunderly is terrifying enough that I've been avoiding her. And the ironborn our age either stare at us like we're exotic creatures or challenge us to increasingly dangerous knife games."

I had to agree with his assessment. The hospitality had been genuine enough, but the ironborn seemed uncertain how to entertain mainland guests, especially ones who couldn't participate in their usual pastimes of sailing and raiding.

"We could explore beyond the castle," I suggested, gazing out the window where sunshine had finally broken through the clouds. "The storm's cleared, and we've hardly seen anything of the island itself."

Tywin looked up from his correspondence, a skeptical expression on his face. "Explore what? From what I've observed, Pyke consists of rocks, more rocks, and occasionally wet rocks."

"Don't forget the angry seagulls," Steffon added with a grin. "Vicious little bastards. One nearly took my finger yesterday when I was eating outside."

"Nevertheless," I insisted, "I'm going mad within these walls. Surely there's somewhere we could go without offending our hosts or requiring a full honor guard."

Tywin sighed, recognizing the tone that meant I wouldn't be dissuaded. "I suppose the beach below the castle might be accessible. I noticed a path leading down when we arrived."

Steffon perked up immediately. "A beach? With actual sand rather than just murderous rocks? Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Because it looked like a small strip of sand surrounded by, yes, murderous rocks," Tywin replied dryly. "Hardly the golden shores of Lannisport."

"Still better than another afternoon listening to you scratch away at those letters," Steffon countered, already pulling on his boots. "Who are you writing to so diligently anyway?"

"My sister," Tywin replied, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Genna enjoys hearing about our travels."

His answer reminded me that despite his composed exterior, Tywin was still just thirteen—a boy who missed his younger sister and took the time to share his experiences with her. These glimpses of Tywin's humanity were rare but precious, reminders of the person beneath the calculating exterior.

"The beach it is, then," I decided, getting to my feet. "We'll need to inform Ser Duncan of our plans."

Tywin raised an eyebrow. "You intend to bring a seven-foot knight in full armor to a beach excursion?"

"I intend to inform him where we're going," I clarified. "As future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, I can occasionally walk on a beach without an armed escort."

"Tell that to Ser Duncan," Steffon laughed. "He'd follow you into a privy if protocol allowed it."

In the end, we reached a compromise with my dedicated Kingsguard. Ser Duncan would observe from a distance, allowing us the appearance of independence while keeping us within sight. The old knight seemed relieved by the arrangement, having spent the morning alternating between standing guard outside my chambers and pacing the corridor like a caged shadowcat.

"Stay within view of the castle," he instructed as we prepared to leave. "The ironborn may be our hosts, but old habits and resentments run deep on these islands."

"We'll be fine," I assured him. "We're just going to the beach, not raiding Old Wyk."

His weathered face creased with a reluctant smile. "Even so, keep that dagger close, Your Grace. And Lord Tywin, I notice you've been carrying steel despite our formal status as guests."

Tywin didn't bother denying it. "A precaution only, Ser Duncan. One you yourself taught us—trust but verify."

"Just be discreet," the old knight sighed. "And Lord Steffon..."

"Yes?" Steffon looked up innocently from where he was tying his boot laces.

"Try not to start any incidents. Your enthusiasm sometimes outpaces your judgment."

Steffon placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I am the very soul of diplomacy, Ser Duncan. When have I ever caused trouble?"

"Shall I list the incidents chronologically or by severity?" Tywin asked without missing a beat.

Their banter continued as we made our way through the Sea Tower and across the rope bridges connecting Pyke's scattered sections. The castle seemed quieter than usual, with many of the household occupied by Lord Quellon's extended council with his captains. This worked to our advantage, allowing us to slip away with minimal notice.

The path down to the beach proved steeper and more treacherous than it had appeared from above—a narrow track worn into the cliff face that zigzagged precariously downward. Loose stones skittered beneath our boots, threatening to send us sliding over the edge with each misstep.

"If I die on these stairs," Steffon grunted as he carefully navigated a particularly crumbling section, "have the decency to tell my father it was defending your honor against a dozen ironborn raiders."

"I'll tell him you were carried off by a kraken," I promised. "Very heroic, very tragic."

"Better yet," Tywin added unexpectedly, "we'll say you died trying to teach ironborn children the finer points of Westerosi court dance. He'll be so confused he'll forget to grieve."

Steffon and I both turned to stare at him in shock. Tywin making jokes was rare enough to be noteworthy, especially ones with actual humor behind them.

"What?" he asked, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm not entirely without humor."

"Evidence suggests otherwise," Steffon replied with a grin. "But I welcome this disturbing new development."

We finally reached the bottom of the path, where it opened onto a small cove sheltered between two jutting arms of black rock. The beach itself was a narrow crescent of coarse gray sand, nothing like the golden expanses of the Westerlands or the white shores of the Stormlands. The tide was out, revealing tide pools among the rocks and a broader stretch of beach than had been visible from above.

Steffon immediately kicked off his boots, struggling out of his heavier garments with childish enthusiasm. "Last one in is a three-legged donkey!" he called, racing toward the water in just his smallclothes.

Tywin watched him go with a mixture of disdain and reluctant amusement. "Sometimes I forget he's close to our age," he remarked. "He acts half his years."

"And thinks twice them," I reminded him, beginning to remove my own boots. "Are you joining us, or will you maintain your lordly dignity on shore?"

Tywin hesitated, glancing back up toward where Ser Duncan's distinctive figure could be seen watching from a ledge halfway up the cliff. "I suppose a short swim wouldn't hurt," he conceded finally. "Though I doubt the water's anything but freezing."

Steffon's immediate howl upon hitting the waves confirmed this assessment. "SEVEN BLOODY HELLS!" he shouted, the sound echoing around the cove. "It's like swimming in ice!"

"Such language from a noble lord," Tywin tsked, meticulously folding his clothes into a neat pile before approaching the water's edge with considerably more caution than Steffon had shown.

I joined them both, gasping as the cold water struck my skin. The Sunset Sea in early autumn was indeed brutally cold, especially for those accustomed to the warmer waters around King's Landing. But after the initial shock, it became invigorating rather than merely painful.

"It's not so bad once you get used to it," I called to Tywin, who was still wading in with painful slowness, his expression suggesting he was reconsidering all his life choices.

"Liar," he replied through gritted teeth. "This is what the seventh hell feels like."

Steffon, meanwhile, had already recovered from the initial shock and was swimming with powerful strokes toward a collection of rocks jutting from the water about thirty yards offshore. "Come on!" he shouted back at us. "There are tide pools out here with strange creatures in them!"

Ironborn children, it turned out, were as drawn to beaches as children anywhere in the world. We'd been swimming for perhaps fifteen minutes when voices alerted us to new arrivals. Half a dozen local children, ranging from about six to thirteen years of age, came scrambling down the cliff path with the sure-footed confidence of those who'd made the descent hundreds of times.

They paused at the sight of us—clearly recognizable as outsiders despite being stripped down to smallclothes—before a bold girl of about twelve approached the water's edge.

"You're the dragon prince," she stated matter-of-factly, pointing at me with none of the deference mainland children might show. "And those are your greenlander friends."

I waded closer to shore, shivering slightly as the air hit my wet skin. "I am Prince Aerys," I confirmed. "And these are Lords Tywin and Steffon. And you are?"

"Asha," she replied. Then, after a moment's consideration, added somewhat grudgingly, "Of House Blacktyde."

The name meant little to me—one of the minor ironborn houses—but I nodded respectfully anyway. "Well met, Asha of House Blacktyde. Is this your usual swimming cove?"

"When the tide's right," she acknowledged. "Though most days I'm on my father's ship. He only just returned to port this morning."

The other children had begun to edge closer, curiosity overcoming their initial wariness. A boy of about ten asked bluntly, "Is it true you have purple eyes? My father says Targaryens aren't proper people but lizards with human skin."

"Torrhen!" the girl hissed, clearly mortified. "You can't just say that to his face!"

I laughed, not offended by the child's honesty. "I'm afraid we're just people, though my eyes are indeed purple as you can see. Disappointing, I know. Real lizards would be far more interesting."

This broke the ice, and within minutes the ironborn children were splashing into the water alongside us, their bodies apparently better adapted to the cold than our mainland-raised ones. They swam with impressive skill, even the youngest, moving through the water with the natural ease of those raised alongside it.

"They're like little otters," Steffon observed as one particularly small boy dove under the surface and stayed down so long I began to worry before he popped up grinning several yards away.

"They're ironborn," Tywin replied, having finally managed to immerse himself fully, though his lips had taken on a bluish tinge from the cold. "They practically live in the water."

The children showed us their favorite spots—tide pools teeming with colorful creatures, caves accessible only during low tide, rocks perfect for leaping into deeper water. They seemed especially amused by our ignorance of things they considered basic knowledge.

"You don't know what sea urchins are?" Asha asked incredulously when Steffon nearly stepped on a spiny black creature nestled in a rocky crevice. "They'll put nasty spines in your foot that fester for weeks! Even the smallest ironborn knows to watch for them."

"We have different dangers in the Stormlands," Steffon defended himself. "I can spot a deadly adder from fifty paces, but your sea creatures are strange to me."

This exchange of knowledge continued, with the children teaching us about their marine environment while we shared stories of the mainland that they found equally exotic. I was struck by their knowledge—not just practical understanding of tides and marine life, but surprising awareness of the wider world gained from their seafaring culture.

As we explored the cove together, I spotted a weathered piece of wood among the debris near the base of the cliff—part of a broken ship's hull, curved and worn smooth by the sea. Its shape reminded me instantly of something I'd known in that other life: a surfboard.

"What do you suppose this was?" I asked, dragging the wooden plank toward the water. It was about seven feet long, slightly tapered at one end, and surprisingly buoyant when I tested it in the shallows.

"Just wreckage," one of the boys shrugged. "Lots washes up after storms."

"I think it could be something more," I replied, an idea forming. "Have any of you ever tried standing on wood like this while riding the waves?"

Blank stares met this question.

"Standing? On the water?" Asha asked skeptically. "The Drowned God might walk on water, but the rest of us swim in it."

"Not on the water itself," I explained, positioning the makeshift board in the shallows. "On this, while the wave carries it to shore. Where I come from, it's... it's a game people play."

This was stretching the truth, since surfing didn't exist anywhere in Westeros, but I couldn't exactly explain that I'd learned of it in another life on another world.

"Show us," demanded one of the older boys, clearly unconvinced.

I studied the waves breaking into the cove. They were relatively small but clean, rolling in steadily rather than crashing chaotically. Perfect for a first attempt at introducing surfing to Westeros.

"Watch closely," I said, wading out with the wooden plank until I was waist-deep. I positioned myself beside the board, waiting for a promising wave to approach. When I spotted one, I pushed the board forward and threw myself onto it, using my arms to paddle as I'd seen surfers do in my prior life.

My first attempt was less than graceful. The board slipped sideways, dumping me unceremoniously into the cold water while the children howled with laughter from shore. Tywin looked like he was questioning our friendship, while Steffon was already grabbing another piece of driftwood to try for himself.

"You have to time it better," I called to him, pushing my wet hair from my eyes. "Wait for the wave to start carrying you, then try to stand."

After several more attempts—and many undignified falls—I finally managed a brief, wobbly stand on the board as it skimmed toward shore on a small wave. It lasted perhaps three seconds before I tumbled off, but the children cheered as if I'd performed a miracle.

"I want to try!" Asha insisted, wading out to claim the board from me. "Show me how to do it."

Soon a full-fledged surfing competition was underway, with children and nobles alike taking turns trying to master the strange new sport. Steffon, with his natural athleticism, proved surprisingly adept once he got the timing right. Tywin refused to participate at first, watching with arms crossed from shore, but eventually even he was persuaded to make an attempt—though his dignified persona suffered significantly when a wave flipped him headfirst into the foam.

We lost track of time entirely, caught up in the simple joy of play that transcended our different backgrounds. The ironborn children, initially wary of strange mainlanders, now called encouragement and playfully mocked our failures with the easy camaraderie of newfound friends.

I found myself watching with unexpected emotion as Steffon helped the smallest boy position himself on the board, while Asha offered Tywin surprisingly technical advice on improving his balance. These moments—so simple, so human—were what I hoped to foster throughout the realm. Understanding born not from formal treaties or political marriages, but from shared experiences that revealed our common humanity.

Our impromptu surfing competition might have continued all afternoon if not for the commotion that suddenly erupted from further down the beach, around a rocky outcropping that had previously hidden that section of shore from our view.

Angry shouting, followed by a pained cry, drew our attention instantly. The ironborn children froze, exchanging knowing glances that suggested whatever was happening wasn't unusual.

"We should go," Asha said abruptly, gathering the younger children with authoritative gestures. "The tide's coming in anyway."

"What's happening?" I asked, wading toward shore and retrieving my clothes. The shouting continued, accompanied now by what sounded unmistakably like the crack of a whip.

Asha's expression darkened. "Just men's business. Nothing for you greenlanders to concern yourselves with."

Before she could usher the children away, another cry rang out—this one clear enough that the words carried to us: "Please, master! The rope slipped—it wasn't deliberate!"

I exchanged glances with Tywin and Steffon, both of whom had also begun dressing hurriedly. Something in that desperate plea demanded investigation, regardless of ironborn customs or diplomatic concerns.

"Stay here," I told the children, pulling on my tunic with still-damp skin. "We'll see what's happening."

"It's not your concern," Asha insisted, a strange mix of defiance and what might have been shame coloring her features. "This is ironborn business."

"I'm a prince of the Seven Kingdoms," I replied, not unkindly but firmly. "The Iron Islands are part of those kingdoms. That makes it my concern."

I didn't wait for her response, instead moving quickly toward the source of the disturbance with Tywin and Steffon close behind. As we rounded the rocky outcropping, the scene before us became clear—and my blood ran cold at what we witnessed.

A small group of ironborn men were constructing what appeared to be a boathouse at the edge of the beach where it met the cliff face. Logs had been positioned as supports, with a pulley system rigged to lift heavier pieces into place. But something had clearly gone wrong—a rope had snapped or slipped, sending a massive log crashing down onto the sand.

This accident alone wouldn't have drawn our intervention. It was what followed that stopped us in our tracks.

Four men had been working the pulley when it failed. Three were typical ironborn—bearded, hard-faced men in salt-stained leathers. But the fourth was different—darker-skinned with the olive complexion and black curly hair common in parts of Essos. This man now lay on the ground where the falling log had apparently thrown him, and standing over him was a fifth ironborn—older, with iron-gray hair and a face contorted with rage.

"Worthless thrall scum!" the older man snarled, unfurling a short whip that he'd drawn from his belt. "Those ropes were your responsibility!"

"Please, master," the Essosi man pleaded, raising his hands defensively. "The salt-rot weakened them—I told you they needed replacing!"

"Are you saying this ismyfault?" The whip cracked, striking the prone man across his raised arms. "Hold him down! Let's see if a proper lesson improves his memory about who's to blame!"

Two of the ironborn builders moved to comply, grabbing the Essosi man's arms and forcing him face-down onto the sand. The third builder stood back, his expression uncomfortable but making no move to intervene.

The scene was horrifying yet depressingly familiar from history books—the treatment of thralls, captives taken during raids and forced into generational servitude, had long been an ironborn custom. Lord Quellon had officially outlawed the practice, but clearly old habits persisted.

"We should get Ser Duncan," Tywin murmured, his face carefully composed but eyes burning with cold fury. Even with his family's golden legacy built partially on the misery of miners, Tywin had always despised public displays of cruelty, viewing them as inefficient and beneath a proper lord's dignity.

"No time," I replied grimly, already striding forward. "He's too far up the cliff."

The whip cracked again, drawing a pained cry from the Essosi man. A line of blood appeared across his back where his thin shirt had torn under the impact.

"LEAVE HIM!" I shouted, my voice carrying across the beach with a command I hadn't consciously summoned.

The tableau froze. The ironborn with the whip turned slowly, his weathered face darkening as he took in the three of us—boys still damp from swimming, but clearly mainlanders by our appearance.

"This isn't your affair, greenlanders," he growled, clearly not recognizing me despite my distinctive Targaryen features. Perhaps he hadn't attended the welcoming feast, or maybe rage had clouded his judgment. "Go back to your playing before you get hurt."

I continued forward until I stood just beyond arm's reach, Tywin and Steffon flanking me slightly behind. "I am Prince Aerys Targaryen," I stated, keeping my voice level but projecting authority as I'd been taught since childhood. "And I said, leave him."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the man's face, quickly replaced by obstinate resentment. "Prince or no, this is ironborn business. This thrall is mine by right of conquest—the salt wife that bore him was taken by my own hand from Myr twenty years ago."

"There are no thralls in the Seven Kingdoms," I countered. "Lord Quellon has forbidden the practice. This man is free by your lord's own decree."

"Quellon's decree means nothing against the old ways," the ironborn spat. "What is taken by the iron price belongs to the taker. This dog's mother was mine, and so is he."

The Essosi man had taken advantage of the distraction to pull free from his captors, though he remained on his knees, blood soaking through his torn shirt where the whip had struck.

"Release him," I demanded again. "Now. Or answer to Lord Quellon for defying his explicit commands in front of the Heir of the crown prince."

For a moment, it seemed reason might prevail. The other ironborn had backed away, clearly unwilling to oppose a royal command directly. But the older man's face had flushed an ugly red, humiliation and rage warring across his features.

"Greenlander princes," he snarled, his hand tightening on the whip. "Coming here with your soft ways, corrupting even the Lord Reaper himself. The Drowned God spits on your commands!"

What happened next occurred with the suddenness of a wave breaking against rocks. The ironborn lunged forward, not toward his former captive but toward me, the whip forgotten as he drew a wicked curved knife from his belt. Behind me, I heard Tywin's sharp intake of breath and Steffon's warning shout, but they were too far back to intercept him.

Time seemed to slow, as it had on the High Road during the mountain clan attack. I saw the blade coming toward me with perfect clarity—a killing stroke aimed at my throat with the casual expertise of a man who had slain before and expected to do so again.

My hand moved without conscious thought, drawing the dragon-tooth dagger from the sheath at my hip where it had remained since that first desperate encounter. The black tooth caught the sunlight as it arced upward, meeting the ironborn's attack with unnatural precision.

The curved knife glanced off the dragon tooth with a sound like stone striking stone, the deflection throwing the ironborn momentarily off-balance. His momentum carried him forward, bringing him within the dagger's range.

I had no time to think, only react. The black tooth plunged forward, finding the soft spot beneath the man's ribs with terrifying ease. Hot blood gushed over my hand as the dagger sank to its hilt, the ironborn's forward motion impaling him more effectively than any conscious thrust I could have made.

His eyes widened in shock and pain, the knife falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. His mouth worked soundlessly, blood bubbling at the corners as he stared at me with utter disbelief—not just that he was dying, but that a boy he'd dismissed as a soft greenlander had dealt the killing stroke.

I pulled the dagger free with a sickening sound, and the ironborn collapsed to his knees before pitching forward onto the sand. Blood spread in a dark stain beneath him, turning the gray sand black where it soaked in.

The beach fell completely silent. The other ironborn stood frozen in shock, while the Essosi man remained on his knees, staring at his former tormentor's body with an expression I couldn't begin to interpret. Tywin and Steffon had moved to my side, Tywin with his own dagger drawn, Steffon having armed himself with a piece of driftwood in the absence of proper weapons.

"Seven hells," Steffon breathed, breaking the silence. "You killed him."

It was a statement of the obvious, yet it needed saying—as if putting the reality into words might make sense of what had just occurred. I stared at the body, then at the black dagger still clutched in my bloody hand. Unlike my first kill on the High Road, there had been no frenzy of repeated stabbing, no loss of control. Just one clean thrust that had ended a man's life with brutal efficiency.

"He tried to kill the prince, the future king" Tywin stated flatly, addressing the remaining ironborn. His voice held no emotion, just cold certainty. "You all witnessed it. We acted in self-defense."

Self-defense. The words seemed inadequate for the weight of taking a life, yet legally accurate. The ironborn had attacked first, with lethal intent. I had responded in kind.

My second kill, I realized distantly. Two lives ended by my hand before I'd even seen my twelfth nameday. What kind of king would I become if violence came so readily to me, even in defense?

One of the ironborn builders—younger than the others, with only a patchy attempt at a beard—suddenly dropped to his knees.

"Forgive us, Your Grace," he said urgently. "Steffarion was always wild, even before Lord Quellon's reforms. He never accepted the changes." He glanced at the dead man, then back to me. "He would have killed you. You had no choice."

"He's right," the Essosi man added, his voice heavily accented but clear. "That man has killed three thralls—former thralls—since Lord Quellon's decree. Always claiming accidents or disobedience. No one dared stand against him because his crew is loyal and violent."

I nodded mechanically, wiping the dagger clean on a piece of cloth Tywin had silently offered. The dragon tooth gleamed black once more, as if it had never tasted blood. I returned it to its sheath, noting with detached curiosity that my hand didn't shake at all.

"We need to inform Lord Quellon," I said, my voice sounding strangely normal to my own ears. "And Ser Duncan."

As if summoned by his name, the massive figure of my Kingsguard appeared around the rocky outcropping, sword drawn and expression grim. He must have seen the confrontation from his vantage point and made his way down as quickly as possible.

"Your Grace!" he called, taking in the scene with a professional's swift assessment—the dead ironborn, the blood on my clothes, the tense standoff among the survivors. "Are you injured?"

"I'm unharmed, Ser Duncan," I assured him, though the words felt hollow. No physical injury, certainly, but something had changed within me nonetheless. "This man attacked me. I defended myself."

The old knight's relief at finding me alive quickly transformed into focused authority. He organized the ironborn to carry their dead comrade back to the castle, assigning one to run ahead and inform Lord Quellon of what had transpired. The Essosi man—whose name, I learned, was Lazos—was sent to the castle's maester to have his wounds treated.

"You're wounded as well, my lord," Ser Duncan instructed one of the other builders, who had suffered a gash from the falling log. "Tell the maester exactly what happened here."

As the others departed, carrying the dead man between them, Ser Duncan turned to us with a grave expression.

"This complicates matters," he stated unnecessarily. "Killing an ironborn on his own islands, even in self-defense..."

"He drew steel against the heir of the crown prince," Tywin pointed out. "The penalty for that is death throughout the Seven Kingdoms."

"Laws and customs are different here," the knight reminded him. "And wounds are fresher. The Greyjoys bent the knee to dragons, not to boys with daggers, no matter how justified."

I knew he was right. Whatever progress Lord Quellon had made with his reforms, the ironborn remained a proud, volatile people. The death of one of their own at a mainlander's hands—a Targaryen's hands, no less—could easily inflame old resentments and undermine everything our visit had hoped to accomplish.

"We should prepare to leave," I decided. "Our continued presence will only make things more difficult for Lord Quellon."

"But we've only just begun to establish relations," Steffon protested. "Leaving now might look like we're fleeing."

"Better that than staying until more blood is shed," Tywin countered. "The prince is right. We've done what we came to do—opened dialogue, offered support for reforms. The rest can be handled through correspondence until tensions ease."

Ser Duncan nodded approval. "A wise assessment, both of you. Let's return to the castle and speak with Lord Quellon. The decision ultimately rests with him, but I suspect he'll agree that an abbreviated visit serves everyone's interests."

As we made our way back up the treacherous cliff path, I found myself lost in troubled thoughts. The ease with which I had killed disturbed me deeply. Not the physical act itself—I had trained with weapons since I could walk—but the emotional aftermath, or rather, the lack of it. Where was the horror I had felt after my first kill? The sickness, the overwhelming guilt?

Perhaps it was the clear-cut nature of this confrontation compared to the chaotic desperation of the mountain clan attack. Or perhaps something was changing within me—a hardening that came with power and its exercise. Neither option offered much comfort.

Lord Quellon received the news with grim-faced understanding. We met in his solar, the same room where we had spoken so optimistically just days earlier. Now a different mood prevailed—not hostile, but weighted with the reality of what had occurred.

"Steffarion Pyke was known to me," Quellon acknowledged after hearing our account. "A raider from the old school, resistant to change. I had hoped time would soften his stance, but clearly I misjudged his stubbornness."

"He deliberately defied your decree regarding thralls," I pointed out. "And drew steel against me when confronted."

"Both capital offenses," Quellon agreed. "You acted as any man would—as any prince must—when faced with a blade. There's no blame to be apportioned to you, Prince Aerys."

"Yet my continued presence may cause difficulty for you with your more traditional captains," I observed. "Those already resistant to your reforms now have a convenient grievance—a mainlander killing an ironborn on his own shores."

Quellon's weathered face showed respect for my political awareness. "Indeed. Though the circumstances justify the action, symbolism often matters more than facts in such situations." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps a change in our plans would be prudent."

"We could depart for the mainland tomorrow," I suggested. "Return to court with positive reports of your reforms and prepare the groundwork for the trade agreements we discussed."

"A reasonable approach," Quellon nodded. "Though I would suggest not immediately returning to the mainland. Perhaps visit Harlaw first? My goodbrother Lord Harlaw is among my strongest supporters for reform. His keep at Ten Towers would welcome you, and such a visit would demonstrate that you don't hold all ironborn accountable for one man's actions."

The suggestion had merit. Leaving Pyke immediately would ease tensions there, while visiting another ironborn house would prevent our departure from appearing like a complete withdrawal.

"Lord Rodrik is a reasonable man," Quellon continued. "And his son, young Rodrik, is approximately your age, Prince Aerys. They call the boy 'the Reader'—an unusual nickname for an ironborn, as you might imagine. You may find more in common with him than you expect."

Something in Quellon's tone suggested this was more than a casual observation. Perhaps he saw in the scholarly Harlaw heir and me a possible bridge between our cultures—young nobles who might understand each other across the divide of ironborn and greenlander tensions.

"Harlaw it is, then," I agreed. "If you'll arrange passage, we can depart at first light tomorrow."

Quellon seemed relieved by my acceptance. "I'll send word immediately. My own ship will convey you—a sign of continued goodwill despite today's unfortunate events."

As we left Quellon's solar to prepare for our departure, Ser Duncan fell into step beside me, his massive presence comforting in its constancy.

"You did what was necessary, Your Grace," he said quietly, correctly interpreting my troubled silence. "A prince who cannot defend himself cannot defend his people either."

"I know," I replied, equally quiet. "That's not what concerns me."

"What, then?"

I hesitated, unsure how to articulate the disquiet I felt. "How easily it happened. How natural it felt. Two lives taken by my hand, Ser Duncan. Two men dead because they stood against me."

The old knight was silent for several steps before responding. "Power and death have always walked hand in hand, Prince Aerys." He always knew how to laid own the realities of the world plainly as a giant hand was placed on my shoulder for comfort. His gigantic frame always a pillar of support that I appreciated.

The incident with the ironborn and his former thrall had accelerated our departure from Pyke, but as Lord Quellon had suggested, we didn't immediately return to the mainland. Instead, his ship delivered us to Ten Towers on the island of Harlaw—seat of House Harlaw, the richest and most powerful house in the Iron Islands after the Greyjoys themselves.

---

The sail from Pyke to Harlaw was mercifully short, with calmer waters than our journey to the Iron Islands had experienced. Quellon had insisted on accompanying us personally, perhaps to ensure there were no further "incidents" before we left ironborn territory.

"Lord Harlaw is my goodbrother," Quellon explained as his ship cut through the gray-green waters between the islands. "Married to my sister Gwynesse. A practical man, even by mainland standards. His folk farm more than they reave these days, though many consider that a shameful thing to admit."

"Farming seems considerably more sustainable than raiding," Tywin observed dryly. "Especially since the mainland kingdoms have grown progressively less tolerant of ironborn incursions."

Quellon smiled thinly. "Indeed. Though try explaining that to captains who've been raised on tales of the Old Way since before they could walk. The Iron Price versus the Gold Price—it's bred into our bones, even when reason argues otherwise."

"Change often begins with the young," I suggested. "Those not yet set in their ways. I understand you mentioned earlier Lord Harlaw has a son about my age?"

"Rodrik, yes," Quellon nodded. "Called 'the Reader' by those who think it clever to mock a boy's interests. Though none do so to his face anymore—he may prefer books to axes, but he's still ironborn enough to break a few noses when challenged."

This piqued my interest. A bookish ironborn would certainly be unusual, and potentially a valuable ally for Quellon's reform efforts in the future.

Ten Towers came into view as we rounded a headland—a castle unlike any I'd seen before, even among the unusual structures of the Iron Islands. Rather than a single unified fortress, it consisted of, as its name suggested, ten distinct towers of varying heights and architectural styles, connected by stone bridges and covered walkways.

"Each tower built by a different Harlaw lord," Quellon explained, seeing our curious looks. "Rather than tear down what their predecessors built, they simply added their own mark. Makes for a drafty, confusing place, but there's a certain practical wisdom to it. Why waste good stone?"

The approach to Ten Towers was considerably more organized than Pyke's ramshackle harbor. A proper stone quay extended into a sheltered natural bay, with warehouses and shipyards arranged in orderly rows. Even the fishing vessels seemed better maintained, their crews working with disciplined efficiency rather than the chaotic energy of Pyke's smallfolk.

"Lord Harlaw runs his lands like a mainland lord," Steffon observed as we prepared to disembark. "Everything so... orderly."

"The Harlaws have always had more contact with the mainland than most ironborn," Quellon confirmed. "Trade rather than just raiding. It shows in how they manage their affairs."

Lord Rodrik Harlaw awaited us on the quay—a tall, lean man with iron-gray hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. Beside him stood a woman I assumed was Lady Gwynesse, Quellon's sister, with the weathered beauty common to ironborn women. And slightly behind them stood a boy of about my age, clutching a book half-hidden in the folds of his cloak, his eyes watching us with keen interest rather than the usual suspicion or hostility we'd encountered from other ironborn youths.

"Lord Quellon," Harlaw greeted his goodbrother with a formal nod. "Prince Aerys, Lords Tywin and Steffon. Ten Towers welcomes you." His accent was less pronounced than most ironborn, his manner courtlier—evidence of greater interaction with the mainland.

"Lord Harlaw," I replied with equal formality. "Thank you for your hospitality, especially on such short notice."

A ghost of a smile touched his austere features. "Word travels quickly in the Iron Islands, especially when it involves Targaryens and daggers. I trust your journey from Pyke was uneventful?"

"Blessedly so," I acknowledged, appreciating his directness. "Though I regret the circumstances that hastened our departure."

"Regrets are unnecessary," Harlaw dismissed with a wave. "Steffarion Pyke was a relic of a dying age—one we would all do well to leave behind."

The political implications of that statement weren't lost on any of us. Clearly, Lord Harlaw shared Quellon's reform-minded views, or at least saw the practical benefits of them.

"Allow me to present my lady wife, Gwynesse," he continued, "and my son and heir, Rodrik."

Lady Gwynesse acknowledged us with quiet dignity, while young Rodrik stepped forward with a bow that would have been entirely appropriate at court in King's Landing—clearly practiced and deliberately performed to counter any expectations of ironborn crudeness.

"Your Grace," he addressed me directly, his voice steady despite his obvious nervousness. "I've read much about House Targaryen. It's an honor to meet you in person."

I couldn't help but smile at his formality. "The honor is mine, Rodrik. I understand you're quite the scholar? A love of learning is always worthy of respect."

The boy's face lit up, though he quickly schooled his features back into proper decorum. "I merely seek to understand the world beyond our islands, Your Grace. There's so much history, so many ideas..."

"Perhaps you could show Prince Aerys your library during his stay," Lord Harlaw suggested, a hint of pride softening his stern demeanor. "I believe even the Red Keep might find some of our rarer volumes interesting."

"I'd enjoy that greatly," I replied sincerely, noting how the boy practically vibrated with excitement at the suggestion.

We were escorted into the castle—or rather, castles—where I immediately understood Quellon's comment about it being "drafty and confusing." Each tower had its own character, from the oldest with its rough-hewn stones and narrow windows to the newest with more sophisticated mainland-influenced architecture. The covered bridges between them twisted and turned unexpectedly, creating a labyrinth that would confound any attacker not intimately familiar with the layout.

"The Tower of Books is where we'll be staying," Lord Harlaw explained as we navigated the complex. "It houses both our library and our finest guest quarters. Built by my grandfather, who believed comfort and knowledge went hand in hand."

"A wise perspective," I commented, earning an approving nod from Lord Harlaw and an eager smile from his son.

The Tower of Books proved aptly named. Five of its seven floors were dedicated to the library—an impressive collection by any standard, and utterly shocking for an ironborn house. Thousands of volumes lined the shelves, arranged with meticulous care. Ancient scrolls, leather-bound tomes, even delicate Essosi manuscripts with gilt-edged pages—all preserved with a reverence I'd only seen in the Citadel and the Red Keep's own library.

"Impressive," Tywin acknowledged, genuinely surprised. "I hadn't expected such a collection in the Iron Islands."

"Most wouldn't," Lord Harlaw replied without offense. "The ironborn reputation for valuing arms over arts is not entirely undeserved. But House Harlaw has always understood that knowledge is another form of power—perhaps the most enduring kind."

Young Rodrik had been watching me nervously, clearly hoping for my reaction. "It's remarkable," I told him sincerely. "How long has your family been building this collection?"

"Generations," he answered, his reserve melting slightly in the face of genuine interest. "Though it was mostly haphazard until my grandfather's time. He was the one who began actively seeking out rare volumes, establishing connections with booksellers in Oldtown and across the Narrow Sea."

"And Rodrik has continued that tradition with even greater enthusiasm," his father added with that same hint of pride. "His nameday and reward requests are always the same—more books."

"A wise investment," I noted, running my fingers along the spines of several historical volumes. "Knowledge outlasts gold, survives storms that would sink treasure ships."

"Exactly!" Rodrik agreed eagerly, then caught himself, embarrassed by his outburst. "I mean... that's what I believe as well, Your Grace."

"Please, call me Aerys," I offered, seeing a potential friendship that could benefit both our houses in years to come. "At least while we're discussing books rather than formal matters of state."

The boy looked to his father, who gave a slight nod of permission. "Thank you... Aerys," he managed, the informal address clearly feeling strange on his tongue. "Would you like to see some of our rarest volumes? We have several that I believe even the Red Keep's library might not possess."

"I'd like nothing better," I assured him.

As Lord Harlaw led Tywin and Steffon to their chambers to refresh themselves after the journey, I remained in the library with Rodrik. Once the adults departed, he visibly relaxed, the careful formality giving way to genuine enthusiasm as he began showing me the library's treasures.

"This is the only complete copy of 'Ironborn Tides: The History of the Grey King and His Descendants' outside of the Citadel," he explained, carefully opening a weathered tome bound in what appeared to be sealskin. "Most copies were destroyed during Aegon's Conquest—the maesters claim accidentally, but many ironborn believe it was deliberate, to erase our true history."

"And what do you believe?" I asked, curious about his perspective.

He considered the question seriously. "I think... both sides exaggerate. The maesters likely didn't target these texts specifically, but neither did they make great efforts to preserve histories that contradicted their preferred narratives." He glanced up at me. "Is that too critical of the Citadel to say aloud?"

I laughed. "Not at all. The pursuit of knowledge should always include questioning established authorities. The maesters are men, not gods—capable of both error and bias."

This seemed to please him immensely. "That's what I always say! Father agrees, though he warns me to be diplomatic about it when maesters visit."

"Wise advice," I acknowledged. "Truth is important, but so is strategy in how one presents it."

"Like Lord Quellon's reforms," Rodrik observed shrewdly. "He doesn't say the Old Way is wrong, merely that new approaches might be more... effective."

"Exactly. And what do you think of his reforms?" I asked, watching his reaction carefully.

Rodrik glanced toward the door, ensuring we were truly alone. "I think they're our only hope for survival," he said quietly. "The Old Way worked when the mainlanders were divided, when dragons didn't exist. But trying to maintain it now? It's like... like insisting on raiding despite knowing a kraken waits in the harbor. Pride before practicality."

"An apt metaphor," I smiled. "And rare wisdom for someone our age."

He shrugged, though he looked pleased at the compliment. "Books help. Reading about other cultures, other times... you start to see patterns. The ironborn aren't special in facing changing circumstances—every society throughout history has had to adapt or decline."

"You sound like a maester already," I observed.

"I've considered it," he admitted. "But father needs an heir, and I have responsibilities here. Still, I correspond with several maesters at the Citadel. They send me books and copies of interesting scrolls when they can."

We spent the next hour exploring the library, with Rodrik proving an exceptional guide. His knowledge wasn't merely impressive for an eleven-year-old—it would have been remarkable for a seasoned scholar twice his age. He understood not just the contents of the books but their contexts, the relationships between different texts, the biases of their authors.

As we examined a particularly rare volume on Valyrian architecture, I asked him about his nickname. "They call you 'the Reader,' I understand?"

His cheeks colored slightly. "Some do. It started as an insult—ironborn boys are supposed to prefer axes to books. But I've decided to embrace it. Better to be known for knowledge than ignorance."

"A wise perspective," I agreed. "And I notice you mentioned you've broken a few noses when challenged? So clearly you haven't entirely abandoned martial pursuits."

This brought a genuine grin to his face. "Father insisted I learn to fight properly. Said a lord who can't defend his own library doesn't deserve to have one. And..." he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "it's satisfying, sometimes, to surprise those who think 'reader' means 'weakling.'"

I laughed. "I understand completely. My friends Tywin and Steffon often underestimated me in the training yard when we were younger. The look on their faces when I finally bested them was worth all the previous defeats."

Our conversation flowed easily after that, ranging from histories to governance to more personal matters. I learned that Rodrik had a younger sister, Alannys, currently being fostered with House Blacktyde. He spoke of her with obvious affection, describing her as "fierce as any ironborn warrior, but with a good head on her shoulders too."

By the time Steffon came to find us, announcing dinner would be served soon, I'd developed a genuine liking for young Rodrik Harlaw. Here was the perfect partner for Quellon's reform efforts—someone who understood both ironborn traditions and mainland realities, who could help bridge the gap between the old ways and the new.

"We should continue this tomorrow," I suggested as we prepared to join the others. "I'd like to hear more about these Essosi navigation techniques you mentioned."

"I'd like that very much," Rodrik replied, clearly delighted at finding someone who shared his intellectual curiosity. "And perhaps... would you tell me about the Red Keep's library? I've always wondered how it compares to the Citadel's."

"Gladly," I promised. "And when I return to King's Landing, I'll send you copies of some volumes I think you'd find interesting. We have several Valyrian texts that might complement your collection here."

His eyes widened at that offer. "That would be... I would be forever grateful, Your Grace. Aerys, I mean."

"Consider it the beginning of a scholarly exchange," I told him with a smile. "Knowledge, after all, only grows when shared."

The feast that evening was considerably less boisterous than those at Pyke had been. The Harlaws, it seemed, preferred thoughtful conversation to drinking songs and exaggerated tales of conquest. Lord Harlaw demonstrated the same sharp intelligence as his son, though focused more on practical governance than academic knowledge. Lady Gwynesse proved to be an engaging conversationalist, with wit as sharp as her brother Quellon's and none of his diplomatic restraint.

"You've made quite an impression on my son," she observed as the main course was served. "He's usually more reserved with visitors. Too many have mocked his interests in the past."

"Those who mock the pursuit of knowledge only advertise their own ignorance," I replied. "Your son's scholarship is impressive by any standard, let alone for someone our age."

She studied me thoughtfully. "You're not what I expected from a Targaryen prince. Less... haughty."

"Mother," Rodrik hissed, mortified, but I laughed.

"I'll take that as a compliment, my lady. And perhaps as evidence that you shouldn't believe everything you hear about mainlanders, just as we shouldn't believe every tale about the ironborn."

Her eyes crinkled with amusement. "Well said, Your Grace. Perhaps there's hope for improved understanding between our peoples after all."

Lord Quellon, who had been engaged in conversation with Tywin about trade routes, turned at this. "That's precisely what we need—more of the next generation looking forward rather than backward. The Iron Islands cannot survive on salt and iron alone, not anymore."

"But we maintain our strength," Lord Harlaw added firmly. "Our independence of spirit. Adaptation isn't submission, merely evolution."

"Exactly," I agreed. "The ironborn reputation for resilience is well-earned. Applied to new challenges rather than old grievances, it could transform the Islands entirely."

The conversation continued in this productive vein throughout the meal. Even Steffon, who had been the most skeptical about our extended stay in the Iron Islands, found himself engaged in a spirited discussion with several Harlaw captains about shipbuilding techniques and navigation.

Later, as the evening drew to a close, Lord Harlaw invited me to his solar to sample a rare Essosi spirit and continue our conversation more privately. Ser Duncan, ever vigilant, accompanied me but remained outside the door after inspecting the chamber thoroughly.

"You've made a friend for life in my son," Lord Harlaw noted as he poured two small measures of an amber liquid into crystal glasses—a luxury I hadn't expected to find in the Iron Islands. "He's already planning which books to show you tomorrow."

"He's an exceptional young man," I replied honestly. "With a mind that could benefit the entire realm, not just the Iron Islands."

"My thoughts exactly," Harlaw nodded, handing me a glass. "Which is why I've encouraged his studies; despite the mockery it sometimes brings. The old ironborn ways are dying, Prince Aerys, whether my countrymen wish to admit it or not. Those who cannot adapt will drown—not in the sea, but in the changing tides of history."

"Lord Quellon seems to understand this," I observed, sipping the spirit cautiously. It was surprisingly smooth, with complex notes of spice and honey beneath the expected burn.

"Quellon sees further than most," Harlaw agreed. "But he faces considerable resistance. There are many who view his reforms as weakness, as abandoning our heritage. They don't understand that he's trying to save our people, not destroy them."

"Change is always difficult," I acknowledged. "Especially for proud people with long traditions."

"Indeed." He studied me over the rim of his glass. "May I speak frankly, Your Grace?"

"Please do."

"Your visit, despite its... unexpected conclusion, may have done more for our cause than years of Quellon's careful maneuvering. An ironborn killed by a Targaryen prince—in self-defense, yes, but killed nonetheless—and yet instead of calling for retribution, you continue your visit to another ironborn house. You treat my son, a boy many ironborn mock as too 'green,' with respect and genuine interest. You speak of cooperation and mutual benefit rather than submission."

"These are simply truths as I see them," I said carefully. "Not calculated gestures."

"Which is precisely why they carry such weight," he countered. "Authenticity is rare in politics, Your Grace. When found, it tends to make a deeper impression than any carefully crafted speech."

I considered his words. "What would help Lord Quellon's reforms take root? Beyond this visit, I mean. Once I return to King's Landing, what support could the crown provide that would genuinely make a difference?"

Lord Harlaw's expression turned thoughtful. "Trade agreements would help—preferential access to certain markets, as I believe you've already discussed with Quellon. But beyond the economic, perhaps the most powerful support would be investment in education. Maesters, yes, but also craftsmen, engineers, architects—mainlanders willing to teach their skills here in the Islands. Show our people that there are paths to prosperity beyond the traditional reaving."

"That could be arranged," I nodded. "The crown has connections with guilds throughout the kingdoms. And the Citadel might be persuaded to establish a more permanent presence here."

"Exactly." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm breaking through his usual reserve. "The older generation may be set in their ways, but the younger ironborn—what could they become with the right knowledge, the right opportunities? Not pale imitations of mainlanders, but a unique blend of ironborn strength and mainland sophistication?"

I thought of Rodrik, with his remarkable intellect combined with that practical ironborn resilience. "A formidable combination."

"Indeed." He raised his glass in a small toast. "To new alliances, Your Grace. And to the future they might build."

"To the future," I agreed, returning the gesture.

---

We spent the next two days at Ten Towers, and they proved among the most intellectually stimulating of our entire journey. Rodrik and I explored the library in depth, discussing everything from ancient history to modern governance. I found his perspective refreshing—he combined scholarly knowledge with practical ironborn sensibilities, questioning everything but respecting tradition where it deserved respect.

On our final evening, as we prepared to depart for the Westerlands the following morning, Rodrik presented me with a gift—a slender volume bound in blue leather, its pages filled with detailed maps of the Sunset Sea, including navigational notes and observations not found in any mainland charts.

"From my personal collection," he explained, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "I've made my own annotations in the margins—thoughts on how some of these routes might be improved with modern knowledge."

"This is extraordinary," I told him, genuinely touched by the gesture. "I'll treasure it—and make sure copies of these improved routes are made available to the royal fleet."

"And I'll eagerly await the Valyrian texts you mentioned," he replied with a smile. "The beginning of our scholarly exchange."

As our ship departed the next morning—a Harlaw vessel this time, as Quellon had returned to Pyke after ensuring our safe arrival—I stood at the rail watching Ten Towers recede into the distance. The Iron Islands had surprised me in many ways, challenging my preconceptions while confirming others. Quellon and the Harlaws represented what the ironborn could become—proud and strong as ever, but adaptable, forward-thinking, integrated into the wider realm without sacrificing their unique identity.

Whether that potential would be realized remained to be seen. The forces of tradition ran deep, and change would not come easily. But in young Rodrik, I'd found an unexpected ally—someone who might help shape a different future for the Iron Islands than the one I remembered from that other life.

"You're looking thoughtful," Tywin observed, joining me at the rail. "Reconsidering your opinion of the ironborn?"

"Recognizing their diversity," I corrected. "Just as the mainland kingdoms aren't monolithic, neither are the Iron Islands. There's potential here, Tywin. Real potential for something better than endless cycles of raiding and retaliation."

He considered this, watching the islands disappear into the morning mist. "Perhaps," he conceded after a moment. "Though it will take more than a few forward-thinking lords to change centuries of ingrained behavior."

"Most significant changes begin with a few forward-thinking individuals," I pointed out. "That's how progress always starts—with those who can envision something different, something better."

"True enough." A rare smile touched his lips. "And speaking of progress, we should be sighting the Westerlands by tomorrow morning. Lannisport first, then Casterly Rock."

I studied my friend carefully, noting the mix of anticipation and apprehension in his bearing. For all his composure, Tywin was still a thirteen-year-old boy who hadn't seen his family in months—a family facing significant challenges in his absence.

"Looking forward to going home?" I asked.

"Home is... complicated," he admitted after a moment. "But yes, I'm eager to see Mother and my siblings. Especially Genna, now that her future is more secure."

"Thanks to you," I reminded him. "Your willingness to seek help rather than suffering in silence."

He nodded, acknowledging the point without false modesty. "And thanks to you for providing that help. House Lannister won't forget, Aerys."

"That's what friends do," I replied simply.

As our ship set course for Lannisport, I found myself reflecting on these unexpected connections forged during our journey—with Quellon Greyjoy, with young Rodrik Harlaw, even with the Essosi former thrall whose intervention had inadvertently led to my second kill. Each relationship, each encounter, represented a small shift in the pattern of events, a deviation from the timeline I remembered. Whether these changes would be enough to prevent the greater calamities I knew might be coming remained to be seen.

But for now, I would focus on the next step in our journey—the Westerlands, House Lannister's domain, and Tywin's complicated homecoming. Another opportunity to strengthen friendships, to understand the realm I would someday rule, to build connections that might help shape a better future for all Seven Kingdoms.

---

The Lannister fleet was a magnificent sight—dozens of vessels with crimson sails emblazoned with golden lions, arranged in perfect formation as they patrolled the approaches to Lannisport. Even from a distance, their disciplined movements and uniform appearance spoke of wealth and order that set the Westerlands apart from most regions of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Impressive," Steffon acknowledged as we stood at the rail of our ship, watching the Lannister galleys maneuver with practiced precision. "Do they always maintain such a presence?"

"Always," Tywin confirmed, pride evident in his voice despite his neutral expression. "House Lannister learned hard lessons from the ironborn over the centuries. Our western shores are never left undefended."

There was irony in arriving at Lannisport directly from the Iron Islands—crossing from the domain of the Lannisters' historical enemies to their ancestral homeland. The contrast could hardly have been more striking. Where the Iron Islands had been harsh and minimal, the Westerlands exuded prosperity from every gilded inch.

Lannisport itself came into view as we rounded the final headland—a sprawling city of white stone and red-tiled roofs, second in size only to King's Landing and Oldtown. Hundreds of ships filled its massive harbor, from fishing vessels to massive trading galleys from across the Narrow Sea. The famous twin lighthouses, the Lions of the Sea, stood sentinel at the harbor's entrance, each topped with massive gold-leaf statues that caught the morning sun with blinding brilliance.

The sight stirred memories of my fifth nameday celebration six years ago, when the Lannisters had visited King's Landing. I remembered how Lord Tytos had bounded into the Red Keep with his booming voice and endless enthusiasm, embarrassing young Tywin at every turn. Lady Jeyne had been the picture of quiet dignity, a calming presence beside her exuberant husband. And Tywin himself—so serious even then, standing protectively beside his little sister Genna, watching his father's antics with carefully concealed mortification.

That visit had marked the beginning of our friendship, cemented by stolen lemon cakes and secret explorations. So much had changed since that time—Tywin had spent years as my companion in King's Landing, Genna's betrothal to Emmon Frey had been broken in favor of a match with my cousin Aemon, and now Lady Jeyne had endured the difficult birth of another son. Yet I suspected some things remained the same—particularly Lord Tytos's exuberant nature and Tywin's quiet dignity.

As our vessel approached, I couldn't help drawing mental comparisons with the England I remembered from my first life. The Westerlands had always reminded me of a medieval England—an island of wealth and power within the continent, separated by geography and culture from its neighbors. And the Lannisters themselves, with their golden hair and calculated ambition, had always evoked the Lancasters of the Wars of the Roses.

Which made the North, with its harsh conditions and enduring values, a perfect parallel to Scotland. The Starks as the Yorks, honor-bound and tradition-focused, natural counterpoints to Lannister pragmatism and ambition. In that other timeline, these two great houses had become mortal enemies, their conflict tearing the realm apart as surely as the Wars of the Roses had fractured England. And the Westerlands and the North as bitter foes as England and Scotland had always been before James VI and I inherited both crowns, at last unifying the island of Britain.

Not this time, I resolved silently. The enduring friendship between Tywin and myself already represented a significant deviation from that path. And with the North's respect earned during our visit to Winterfell, I had hope that the ancient distrust between wolf and lion might be bridged in this new future we were building.

"There," Tywin interrupted my thoughts, pointing toward the docks. "That's the official welcoming party."

Following his gesture, I saw a large gathering assembled on the main pier—a sea of crimson and gold, with banners bearing the Lannister lion fluttering in the breeze. At the center stood a corpulent figure I assumed must be Lord Tytos, noticeably heavier than when I had last seen him, judging by Tywin's slight frown. Beside him was a slender woman supporting herself with a cane—Lady Jeyne, still recovering from Gerion's difficult birth.

"Your mother looks well," I observed carefully, noting the concern in Tywin's eyes. "Better than you feared, perhaps?"

"She's on her feet," he acknowledged, though his frown didn't entirely disappear. "That's something. But she should be resting, not standing at the docks for a ceremonial welcome."

"For her eldest son's return," I reminded him gently. "Some things outweigh medical advice, Tywin. A mother's love being chief among them."

He didn't respond, but his expression softened slightly as he continued studying the assembled Lannisters. I could see younger children that must be his siblings—a serious-looking boy my age who could only be Kevan, a girl who had to be Genna, now freed from her dreaded Frey betrothal, and smaller figures that would be Tygett and tiny Gerion, whom Tywin had never met.

"They've all grown," he murmured, almost to himself. "Tygett especially."

The ship docked with practiced efficiency, the gangplank extended with due ceremony. As the ranking noble present, I should have disembarked first, but I deliberately held back, placing a hand on Tywin's shoulder.

"Your homecoming," I told him quietly. "Protocol can wait."

Gratitude flickered in his eyes—one of those rare moments when Tywin Lannister's carefully maintained composure revealed the boy beneath the premature adult. He hesitated only a moment before striding down the gangplank, his back straight and head high despite the emotion I knew he must be feeling.

"TYWIN!" Lord Tytos's booming voice carried across the water as he rushed forward with surprising speed for his size, engulfing his eldest son in an enthusiastic embrace that clearly mortified Tywin even as he returned it with stiff politeness. "My boy! Look at you—the very image of a lord already! The king's cupbearer! Making your old father proud!"

"Father," Tywin acknowledged, extricating himself from the embrace with as much dignity as possible. "You're looking... well."

This was a diplomatic stretch, to put it mildly. Lord Tytos had clearly put on significant weight during his son's absence—a physical manifestation of his response to stress and worry over Lady Jeyne's condition. His doublet strained at the seams, and his face had grown rounder, with a second chin beginning to form beneath his beard.

If Tytos noticed the hesitation, he showed no sign of it. "Come, come! Your mother's been counting the days until your return! And your brothers and sister too! Even little Gerion seems to know his eldest brother is coming home—been fussier than usual, the wet nurse says!"

Lady Jeyne approached more slowly, leaning on her cane but standing straight despite her obvious weakness. Her face, still beautiful though drawn with recent illness, lit up at the sight of her eldest son.

"Mother," Tywin said softly, his careful control slipping just slightly as he took her free hand. "You should be resting, not—"

"Hush," she interrupted with gentle authority. "I'm exactly where I need to be. Let me look at you." She studied him with a mother's searching gaze. "You've grown taller. And there's a new seriousness in your eyes." She touched his cheek lightly. "The capital has changed you."

"For the better, I hope," he replied.

"For the different," she corrected with a small smile. "Better or worse remains to be seen. Though your letters suggest you're finding your place there."

Their quiet reunion was interrupted by Genna, who had been maintaining a lady's decorum but finally lost patience. She rushed forward, throwing her arms around her brother's waist.

"They're not making me marry that horrible Frey boy!" she declared triumphantly. "And it's all because of you and Prince Aerys! Mother said you both arranged everything!"

Tywin awkwardly patted her head, clearly uncomfortable with such public displays of affection but unwilling to rebuff his sister. "It was the right match for you," he said simply. "Prince Aemon will make a worthy husband."

Kevan approached next, offering a formal bow that Tywin returned with equal gravity, though I caught the slight quirk of his lips that suggested amusement at his brother's serious demeanor. They were remarkably similar, these two—both prematurely adult, both determined to uphold family dignity where their father could not.

"The castle has been quieter without you," Kevan said by way of greeting. "Though perhaps not as organized."

"I expect full reports on everything I've missed," Tywin replied, the exchange serving as their version of a more emotional reunion.

Young Tygett was less restrained, practically bouncing with excitement. "Did you bring your sword? Have you fought any battles? Is the Red Keep really built with dragons' breath?"

"Yes, no, and no," Tywin answered each question in turn, though with more patience than he typically showed for such enthusiastic interrogation. "And you've grown at least three inches since I left."

"Four!" Tygett corrected proudly. "And I can hit the target nine times out of ten with my bow now! Kevan's been teaching me."

The final introduction was to baby Gerion, held by his wet nurse. Tywin regarded his youngest brother with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty, clearly unsure how to interact with an infant.

"He has mother's eye shape," he observed finally. "And father's chin."

"And his appetite," Lady Jeyne added with fond exasperation. "He'll be as robust as Tygett soon enough."

Throughout this family reunion, I had remained aboard ship with Steffon and Ser Duncan, allowing Tywin this private moment despite the public setting. Only when the initial greetings were complete did I finally descend the gangplank, prompting a flurry of activity as the Lannisters suddenly remembered protocol.

"Your Grace!" Lord Tytos exclaimed, executing a bow that strained his overstuffed doublet dangerously. "Forgive our informality! The excitement of seeing my son after so long—"

"Requires no forgiveness, Lord Tytos," I interrupted smoothly. "Family should always come first. I'm honored to witness such a warm homecoming."

Lady Jeyne managed a graceful curtsy despite her cane. "Prince Aerys, you honor the Westerlands with your presence. Casterly Rock opens its doors to you and your companions with gratitude for your friendship to our house."

"The gratitude is mine, my lady," I replied sincerely. "For raising such a son as Tywin, whose friendship has enriched my life immeasurably."

This brought genuine smiles to both parents' faces, though Tywin himself looked mildly embarrassed by the praise.

"The journey from the Iron Islands was smooth, I hope?" Lady Jeyne inquired as we began walking toward the waiting carriages that would take us up to Casterly Rock.

"Quite smooth," I confirmed. "Though I suspect Lord Quellon selected his most reliable captain specifically to ensure a favorable impression of ironborn seamanship."

Lord Tytos laughed too loudly at this mild jest. "Ha! Those ironmen and their ships! Always trying to prove something! Though I must say, Prince Aerys, we were all quite surprised to hear you'd gone there at all. The Iron Islands! Not exactly a common destination for royal progresses!"

"Sometimes the uncommon destinations yield the most valuable insights," I replied diplomatically. "And Lord Quellon is making interesting changes that deserve the crown's attention."

Tywin shot me a grateful look for steering the conversation away from his father's boisterous commentary. As we approached the carriages, I noticed Steffon hanging back slightly, his eyes wide as he took in the bustling port city.

"The Rock is even more impressive than the city," Tywin told him quietly, seeing his interest. "You'll be able to see it as we approach."

The steep, winding road from Lannisport to Casterly Rock provided spectacular views of both the city and the Sunset Sea. Our carriage—gilded, of course, with crimson velvet cushions and miniature golden lions adorning every conceivable surface—navigated the switchbacks with practiced ease, the well-trained horses barely seeming to notice the incline.

Lord Tytos filled the journey with a steady stream of chatter, moving from topic to topic with dizzying speed. He detailed the preparations made for our visit, the special wines imported from the Arbor, the new tapestries commissioned for the guest chambers, and his plans for hunts, feasts, and tournaments during our stay. Through it all, Lady Jeyne sat with quiet dignity, occasionally placing a gentle hand on her husband's arm when his enthusiasm threatened to overwhelm the confined space of the carriage.

I caught Tywin watching his parents with a complicated expression—concern for his mother's health, embarrassment at his father's effusiveness, but also a certain protectiveness toward them both. For all his frustration with Lord Tytos's management of their house, the bond of family remained unbroken.

"And we've prepared the finest chambers in the eastern tower," Lord Tytos was saying as Casterly Rock finally came into full view. "The sunrise over the Westerlands from there is simply magnificent! I told the servants to ensure fresh flowers twice daily—roses from our glass gardens, imported from Highgarden originally, though ours bloom year-round thanks to—"

"I'm sure Prince Aerys appreciates your thoughtfulness, my love," Lady Jeyne interjected gently. "Though perhaps we should allow him to simply enjoy the sight of the Rock first. The sunset today should be particularly beautiful."

And indeed it was. Casterly Rock rose before us, impossibly massive—a mountain carved into a fortress, or perhaps a fortress that had somehow grown into a mountain. The setting sun bathed the western face in golden light, making the hundreds of windows glitter like jewels. Waterfalls cascaded down the northern side where an underground river emerged from the rock face, while banners bearing the Lannister lion fluttered from countless towers and battlements.

"Impressive," Steffon breathed, forgetting protocol in his awe. "It makes Storm's End look like a child's sandcastle."

"The work of the gods and centuries of Lannisters," Tywin said, unable to keep a hint of pride from his voice. "Though Storm's End has its own grandeur."

The Rock's main entrance was a marvel of engineering—massive bronze gates set into the very mountainside, flanked by two stone lions so large they dwarfed even the tallest knights of Lord Tytos's household guard. As our carriage passed beneath them, I couldn't help but feel the weight of history pressing down—thousands of years of Lannister power and wealth, concentrated in this single impregnable fortress.

The central courtyard within was nearly the size of the Red Keep's entire outer ward, with stables, barracks, and lesser halls arranged in perfect symmetry around a vast central fountain. Water spouted from the mouths of nine golden lions, each representing one of the legendary Lannister kings of old. Servants lined the pathways in perfectly pressed crimson livery, while household knights stood at attention, their armor gleaming in the last rays of sunlight.

"Welcome to Casterly Rock, Your Grace," Lord Tytos declared proudly as we disembarked. "The ancestral seat of House Lannister for thousands of years!"

"Thank you, Lord Tytos," I replied, genuinely impressed despite having expected grandeur. "The stories do not do it justice."

As the formal greetings began, with various household officials being presented one by one, I noticed Tywin's attention drift past the assembled courtiers. Following his gaze, I saw another group making their way across the courtyard—a man perhaps in his mid-twenties, with the unmistakable Lannister coloring but a leaner build than Lord Tytos, accompanied by a woman at least a decade his senior and several children of various ages.

"My good-brother approaches," Lady Jeyne murmured to her husband, who broke off his detailed explanation of the fountain's history to turn toward the newcomers.

"Jason!" Lord Tytos called out jovially. "Just in time! Come meet our royal guest!"

Ser Jason Lannister strode forward, his bearing more martial than his brother's despite being significantly younger. At twenty-six, he had the confident swagger of a knight in his prime, though there was a sharpness to his green eyes that suggested he possessed a quicker wit than Lord Tytos. Beside him walked his lady wife, Marla Prester, a dignified woman of about forty-one, whose bearing spoke of quiet strength despite the strain visible around her eyes.

"Prince Aerys," Ser Jason bowed formally. "Casterly Rock is honored by your presence."

"The honor is mine, Ser Jason," I replied, inclining my head slightly. "I understand congratulations are in order for your recent victory in the tourney at Lannisport."

This courtesy, gleaned from conversations during our journey to the Westerlands, earned me a pleased smile. "Your Grace is well-informed. Though it was a small affair compared to the tourneys of King's Landing."

As the adults exchanged pleasantries, I noticed Tywin's attention had fixed on one of the children who had accompanied Ser Jason—a girl of about ten, with the classic Lannister golden hair and the most striking green eyes I'd ever seen. She stood with perfect composure, her back straight and chin slightly lifted, emanating a natural dignity that set her apart from the other children.

Joanna Lannister. I recognized her immediately, though I'd never met her in this timeline. In that other life, she had been Tywin's greatest love and greatest loss—the woman whose death in childbirth had hollowed him out, leaving the cold, ruthless figure that history remembered. Her children, Jaime and Cersei, would never exist in this timeline as they had been, but perhaps Joanna herself might find a happier fate.

And judging by Tywin's expression—that subtle widening of the eyes, the slight parting of lips quickly controlled—their connection might still form in this new future. He was utterly transfixed, though anyone who didn't know him well would have missed the signs entirely.

"Lady Joanna," I greeted her directly, breaking protocol slightly but knowing it would give Tywin a moment to compose himself. "A pleasure to meet you."

She curtsied perfectly, neither too shallow to be improper nor too deep to seem artificial. "The honor is mine, Prince Aerys. Welcome to the Westerlands."

Her voice was melodious yet confident—a girl who had been raised to know her worth without flaunting it. As she straightened, her eyes briefly met Tywin's before both looked away with careful casualness that fooled no one who was paying attention.

"My son Damon," Ser Jason continued the introductions, placing a hand on the shoulder of a boy about my age. "And my younger son Stafford, who has recently begun his training as a page."

An eight-year-old boy with a round face and a slightly vacant expression bowed nervously. "Your Grace," he managed, though his voice cracked mid-title.

"And this," Ser Jason added with notable warmth, "is my daughter Lynora."

A girl of about twelve stepped forward, her golden hair several shades darker than the typical Lannister blonde, her features lovely but distinctly different from Joanna's classic beauty. Her curtsy was graceful enough, but her eyes—a warm hazel rather than Lannister green—watched me with careful assessment.

"Lynora Hill," Lady Marla clarified with a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. "My husband's natural daughter."

The slight emphasis on "natural" and the flash of discomfort that crossed Ser Jason's face told a story without words. Lady Marla had accepted her husband's bastard into their household, but the arrangement was not without tension.

"Lady Lynora," I greeted her with the same courteous nod I'd given Joanna, deliberately using the courtesy title despite her birth status. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

Surprise flickered across her face at being addressed as "Lady" rather than simply by her name as would be customary for a natural daughter. Bastards might be acknowledged in Westeros, but they were rarely accorded the same courtesies as trueborn children, particularly in formal settings.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied carefully, her voice carrying just a hint of the Westerlands' accent. "You honor me."

I noticed how Ser Jason's posture relaxed slightly at my respectful treatment of his natural daughter, while Lady Marla's smile remained fixed in place. Across from me, Tywin was watching the interaction with his usual inscrutable expression, though I thought I detected a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

Lord Tytos, oblivious to these subtle currents, boomed, "Well then! Now that everyone's been properly introduced, shall we proceed to the feast? The kitchens have been preparing since dawn, and I won't have all that effort go to waste!"

"Perhaps our guests would like to refresh themselves first, my love," Lady Jeyne suggested gently. "The journey from Lannisport can be tiring, especially after days at sea."

"Oh! Of course, of course!" Lord Tytos nodded enthusiastically. "Where are my manners? Servants will show you to your chambers at once. We've arranged everything for your comfort—the finest linens, fresh fruit, Arbor gold chilled just the way the crown prince likes it!"

As servants stepped forward to guide us, I caught Tywin's eye. He had regained his composure, but I could see the turmoil beneath his careful mask. His gaze kept drifting toward Joanna, though he was clearly trying to prevent it.

"Lady Joanna," I said casually as we prepared to follow the servants, "I understand you have a particular interest in the Rock's architecture. Perhaps you could show us some of its more notable features during our stay? Tywin has spoken highly of the western balconies and their sunset views."

Tywin shot me a look that mingled gratitude with alarm. I'd never mentioned any such conversation, of course, but the slight flush that rose to Joanna's cheeks suggested she welcomed the fabricated interest.

"I would be honored, Your Grace," she replied, her eyes briefly meeting Tywin's again before quickly lowering. "The Rock has many wonders worth seeing."

"Excellent!" Lord Tytos clapped his hands, completely missing the undercurrents. "Joanna is indeed quite knowledgeable about such things. Always wandering the old corridors with her nose in some ancient text about the castle's construction. A proper little scholar, our niece!"

"I look forward to learning from her expertise," I said sincerely. "And from seeing more of your magnificent home, Lord Tytos."

As we followed the servants toward our designated chambers, I fell in step beside Tywin, who was maintaining his composure admirably despite the turbulence I knew he must be feeling.

"Your cousin seems quite accomplished," I observed quietly when we were out of earshot of the others.

"Joanna has always been intelligent," he replied with careful neutrality, though I caught the slight softening around his eyes. "Even as a child, she showed more curiosity than most."

"I noticed," I said, keeping my tone casual. "She reminds me somewhat of you, actually. That same quiet perception."

He didn't respond immediately, but I saw his shoulders relax slightly as we continued through the vast corridors of Casterly Rock. Finally, in a voice so low I barely caught it, he said, "Thank you."

No elaboration was needed. We both knew what he was thanking me for—the small kindness of creating an opportunity for him to interact with Joanna without having to initiate it himself. For someone as proud as Tywin, such things were difficult, and displays of interest nearly impossible.

"What are friends for?" I replied simply.

The chambers prepared for us were, as promised, spectacular. Mine occupied an entire floor of the eastern tower, with vast windows offering views of both the Westerlands to the east and Lannisport to the south. The furnishings were ornate without being ostentatious—heavy oak pieces inlaid with gold, crimson silk hangings embroidered with the Lannister lion, and a bed large enough to accommodate half a dozen people comfortably.

A steaming bath had already been drawn in an adjoining chamber, scented with oils that smelled of citrus and some spice I couldn't identify. Servants had unpacked my belongings with remarkable efficiency, arranging everything according to what they presumed would be my preference.

I took advantage of the bath, washing away the salt and grime of our sea journey while reflecting on what I'd observed. The Westerlands seemed stable enough, despite Lord Tytos's less-than-stellar leadership. Lady Jeyne clearly provided the practical balance to her husband's exuberance, managing to do damage control despite her weakened state.

And then there was Ser Jason and his complicated family situation. His obvious affection for his natural daughter had caught my attention—Lynora seemed well-cared for despite the awkwardness of her position, neither hidden away nor flaunted inappropriately. It was an unusual arrangement in Westeros, where bastards were typically either fostered elsewhere or kept at a distance from the legitimate family.

As I dressed for the feast, I considered how I might use this observation. Ser Jason clearly cared for his daughter, regardless of her birth status. If I could leverage that affection—perhaps suggest legitimization as part of the marriage alliance between Genna and Aemon—it might create another loyal ally within House Lannister.

A knock at my chamber door interrupted these thoughts. "Enter," I called, adjusting the final clasp on my formal doublet.

Steffon bounded in, his usual energy barely contained despite the long journey. "Have you seen the view from the western tower?" he asked without preamble. "You can see all the way to where the sun touches the water! And Tywin says there are caves beneath the Rock that go down so far no one knows where they end!"

"I haven't had the chance yet," I smiled at his enthusiasm. "Though I'm looking forward to exploring during our stay."

"The feast is about to begin," he continued, practically bouncing on his toes. "And there's to be music and tumblers afterward. Lord Tytos says they've brought performers all the way from Lannisport just for tonight!"

"We'd best not keep our hosts waiting, then," I replied, giving my appearance one final check in the polished silver mirror.

As we made our way toward the great hall, I found myself marveling again at the sheer scale of Casterly Rock. The corridors were wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, the ceilings soaring to heights that would have been impressive even in a sept or throne room. Everywhere was evidence of Lannister wealth—gold inlaid in the floors, precious stones set into the walls, tapestries woven with actual gold thread depicting famous moments from House Lannister's history.

"The builders were showing off," Steffon observed with characteristic directness as we passed a solid gold statue of Lann the Clever. "It's like they were afraid someone might forget they're rich."

I laughed at his assessment. "The Lannisters have never been known for subtlety when it comes to displaying their wealth."

"It's not just wealth," came Tywin's voice from behind us. He had approached so quietly neither of us had noticed. "It's history. Every piece you see has a story, a purpose beyond mere decoration."

He nodded toward the statue of Lann the Clever. "That was commissioned by King Loreon I after he unified the Westerlands under Lannister rule. The gold came from the first mine he opened—a statement that the Rock's wealth would grow under Lannister stewardship."

"See?" Steffon grinned at me. "Not showing off. History."

"Perhaps a bit of both," I suggested diplomatically, noting how Tywin had changed into formal attire that, while not nearly as elaborate as his father's would undoubtedly be, showcased the Lannister colors with tasteful restraint.

The great hall of Casterly Rock lived up to its name. Carved directly into the mountain's heart, it was supported by massive stone pillars shaped like roaring lions, their eyes set with rubies that caught the light from hundreds of golden candelabras. The vaulted ceiling soared at least a hundred feet above the floor, creating acoustics that amplified even whispers into audible murmurs. At the far end, behind the high table, a waterfall cascaded down the rock face, pooling into a series of graduated basins before disappearing beneath the floor—a display of engineering prowess as much as natural beauty.

Lord Tytos awaited us at the high table, resplendent in crimson velvet so heavily embroidered with gold thread that it must have weighed an additional stone. Lady Jeyne sat beside him, her simpler gown of deep gold somehow more elegant in its restraint. Their children flanked them, with spaces clearly reserved for us among the family.

"Prince Aerys!" Lord Tytos's voice boomed across the vast space. "Come, come! Your place is here beside me!"

As we took our places—me beside Lord Tytos, Steffon next to Kevan, and Ser Duncan standing vigilant behind my chair—I noted the careful political arrangement of the other tables. The most powerful Westerlands houses occupied the closest positions to the high table, with lesser lords arranged according to their importance. Ser Jason and his family had their own smaller high table to the right, slightly lower than the main dais but still clearly demarcating their status as members of the ruling house.

I couldn't help but notice that Tywin had been placed directly across from Joanna, while I sat between Lord Tytos and Lady Jeyne. This seating arrangement had undoubtedly been Lady Jeyne's doing—subtle yet deliberate in ways Lord Tytos would never have considered.

"Let the feast begin!" Lord Tytos declared, raising a goblet that appeared to be solid gold. "To Prince Aerys and our honored guests!"

Servants immediately began bringing out the first courses—delicacies from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. The wealth of House Lannister was on full display, from imported Dornish peppers to honeyed duck from the Reach, even rare spices from the Summer Islands. Wine flowed freely, with different varietals paired specifically for each course.

As the feast progressed, I observed the family dynamics with interest. Lord Tytos consumed food and drink with the same enthusiastic excess he brought to everything, devouring entire platters of honeyed ribs and washing them down with goblet after goblet of rich Arbor gold. Lady Jeyne ate sparingly, occasionally placing a gentle hand on her husband's arm when his consumption became particularly notable.

Tywin watched his father with barely concealed embarrassment, though he maintained perfect courtesy throughout. I noticed how his gaze would drift toward Joanna when he thought no one was watching, and how her own eyes would find his with similar frequency. They barely spoke directly to each other, yet an entire conversation seemed to be happening in those brief glances.

Toward the end of the main courses, as servants began clearing plates for the dessert presentation, I overheard a snippet of conversation from the neighboring high table. Ser Jason was speaking quietly to Lynora, his natural daughter, who looked troubled by whatever they were discussing.

"—perfectly proper for you to attend," I heard him saying. "You are my daughter, regardless of—"

"Jason," Lady Marla interjected with a tight smile. "Perhaps this discussion could wait for a more private moment?"

The girl's expression shuttered, her earlier animation fading into careful neutrality. It was a look I recognized well from Tywin—the mask that hid pain behind proper decorum.

"Another cup of wine, Prince Aerys?" Lord Tytos offered, oblivious to the tension at his brother's table. "This vintage is particularly fine—pressed from grapes grown on the southern slopes of our own lands. The soil there has a particular quality that—"

"Thank you, Lord Tytos," I interrupted gently, allowing a servant to refill my barely touched goblet. "I was just admiring the remarkable engineering of your great hall. The waterfall is particularly impressive."

This successfully diverted him into a lengthy explanation of the Rock's water systems, complete with exaggerated hand gestures that threatened the stability of his own wine cup. Lady Jeyne caught my eye briefly, a flash of gratitude in her tired gaze.

As dessert was served—elaborate constructions of spun sugar designed to resemble the Lannister lion, filled with exotic fruits and sweet creams—Lord Tytos finally directed his attention to serious matters.

"I understand you visited the Iron Islands before coming here," he said, his voice slightly lowered though still carrying farther than he likely intended. "Quellon Greyjoy is making quite the stir with his talk of reforms and trade."

"Indeed," I replied, surprised by this sudden shift to substantive conversation. "Lord Quellon sees advantages in strengthening ties with the mainland that go beyond the traditional ironborn approaches."

"Never trust an ironman's talk of peace," Lord Tytos declared, thumping his fist on the table hard enough to make the goblets jump. "My own grandfather trusted their promises once—lost half our western fleet to a surprise raid the very next year! No, no, the only language they understand is strength!"

I noticed Tywin's slight grimace at his father's oversimplification. "Lord Quellon is different from his predecessors," I said carefully. "He recognizes that the old ways have diminishing returns in a united Westeros. His reforms represent a genuine attempt to find a new path forward for his people."

"Hmmph," Lord Tytos snorted. "Next you'll tell me the Dornish have given up their spicy food and the Northmen have abandoned their grim faces! Some things don't change, Prince Aerys, no matter how many pretty words dress them up."

"Some things do change, my love," Lady Jeyne interjected softly. "When given proper incentive and support." She turned to me with a more measured expression. "The crown's interest in Lord Quellon's reforms is commendable, Your Grace. Though I understand Lord Tytos's skepticism—the history between our houses and the ironborn is long and bloody."

"Which is precisely why new approaches deserve consideration," I replied. "The cycle of raiding and retaliation benefits neither side in the long term."

"Well said, Your Grace," came Ser Jason's voice from nearby. He had approached the high table during our discussion, his expression thoughtful. "Though I hope you'll forgive my brother's caution. When you've had to rebuild coastal villages as many times as we have, skepticism becomes second nature."

"A reasonable perspective," I acknowledged. "Though I wonder if the continued isolation of the Iron Islands merely reinforces their worst tendencies. Engagement might prove more effective than containment in the long run."

Ser Jason studied me with new interest. "A bold theory. One might almost call it Aegon's notion—bringing former enemies into the fold rather than simply subduing them."

I smiled slightly at the reference to my grandfather's inclusive approach to governance. "The lessons of history are there for those willing to learn from them."

"Indeed they are," Ser Jason agreed. He gestured toward the performers who had begun to assemble at the hall's far end. "But perhaps politics should wait for another day. My brother has arranged quite the entertainment for tonight—musicians from Lannisport, tumblers from the Free Cities, even a troupe of shadow puppeteers from Yi Ti."

"Shadowbinders?" Steffon perked up from his conversation with Kevan. "Real magic from the East?"

"Not real shadowbinders," Tywin corrected with practiced patience. "Just skilled performers with paper puppets and clever lighting."

"Still fascinating," I said diplomatically, seeing Lord Tytos's eager expression. "I'm looking forward to all the entertainment."

The feast continued late into the night, with Lord Tytos growing progressively more animated as the wine flowed. By the time the shadow puppeteers performed their elaborate tale of Lann the Clever tricking the Casterlys out of their ancestral home, he was weaving slightly in his seat, his booming laugh echoing off the high ceiling at every jest.

I observed Lady Jeyne's growing fatigue with concern. Despite her dignified bearing, the strain of the long evening was evident in the tightness around her eyes and the pallor beneath her careful composure.

"You're most kind to endure such a lengthy welcome," I said quietly when Lord Tytos's attention was momentarily captured by a particularly spectacular tumbling display. "Perhaps you might wish to retire? I'm certain no one would think it improper, given your recent confinement."

Gratitude flickered in her tired eyes. "You're as perceptive as my son described, Your Grace. Though I would not want to appear inhospitable—"

"On the contrary," I assured her. "I would consider it a personal kindness if you would rest. Our visit will be long enough for many conversations, and your health is of paramount importance."

She studied me for a moment, then inclined her head slightly. "Thank you, Prince Aerys. I believe I will retire after the next performance." She glanced toward Lord Tytos, who was now enthusiastically describing something to Ser Duncan, complete with expansive hand gestures that threatened to upend his wine cup. "Though my husband may wish to continue the celebrations somewhat longer."

"I'm certain Ser Jason can ensure his brother's eventual safe return to his chambers," I suggested with a slight smile.

This earned a soft laugh. "Indeed. Jason has considerable practice in that particular duty."

When the Yi Tish shadow play concluded, Lady Jeyne made her graceful exit, leaving Lord Tytos to continue regaling anyone within earshot about the magnificence of the performance and how he'd specially commissioned it months ago. Tywin watched his mother leave with barely concealed concern, though he maintained his proper place at the high table.

As the night progressed and the entertainment grew more boisterous, I noticed Ser Jason approaching the high table again. He bowed respectfully before addressing me.

"Your Grace, if you would permit, I wonder if we might speak privately for a moment? There's a matter I'd like to discuss regarding your upcoming visit to the mines."

It was a transparent excuse, but I nodded agreeably, making my excuses to Lord Tytos, who was by now deep in his cups and regaling Steffon with increasingly exaggerated tales of Lannister glory.

Ser Jason led me to a small antechamber off the main hall, where the sounds of the feast were muffled but still audible. The room was elegantly appointed with tapestries depicting the Westerlands' landscape, and a small hearth provided both warmth and soft lighting that glinted off the golden thread woven through the hangings.

"I appreciate your taking time away from the festivities, Your Grace," Ser Jason began once we were alone, his manner more measured than his brother's effusive style. "I wanted to thank you personally for your kindness toward my daughter Lynora earlier. Not many highborn visitors would extend such courtesy to a natural child."

"Bastards can't help the circumstances of their birth," I replied, thinking of Jon Snow, Bloodraven, and others from that other life who had done great things despite the stigma of their illegitimacy. "And I've found that for every Daemon Blackfyre or Bittersteel, there's an Orys Baratheon or Bloodraven—loyal, capable, and worthy of respect regardless of how they came into the world."

Surprise flickered across Ser Jason's face at my response. "A remarkably progressive view for one so young, if you'll forgive my saying so."

"My grandfather has always taught that a person should be judged by their character and actions, not the circumstances of their birth," I said, which was true enough. "I've seen nothing in Lady Lynora's conduct that warrants anything less than full courtesy."

"Lady Lynora," Ser Jason repeated, a warm smile softening his features. "You use the title deliberately, don't you?"

"Is she not the daughter of a knight, and niece to the Lord of Casterly Rock?" I asked with deliberate innocence. "The courtesy seems appropriate."

He studied me with new interest. "Most would disagree, particularly in formal settings. Though I'm grateful for your perspective." He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. "My daughter has few prospects despite her education and accomplishments. Lady Marla has been... tolerant of her presence, but Lynora's future remains uncertain. I had hoped perhaps to secure her a position at court someday, but even that path is fraught with challenges for one of her birth."

The opening was perfect. "Perhaps something might be arranged," I suggested. "As part of the marriage alliance between your niece Genna and my cousin Aemon, for instance."

Jason's eyes widened slightly. "You would consider including provisions for Lynora in such negotiations?"

"Why not?" I asked reasonably. "Royal marriages often include arrangements for lesser family members. And given the crown's investment in this particular match—replacing a less advantageous betrothal, as you know—it seems only fair that the benefits extend beyond just the immediate parties."

"What exactly are you suggesting, Your Grace?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the hope building in his eyes.

"Legitimization, perhaps," I said casually, as if discussing the weather rather than something that would transform his daughter's entire future. "My grandfather has the authority, and with the proper context—such as a royal marriage into House Lannister—it would raise fewer eyebrows than an isolated legitimization might."

Jason's composure slipped for just a moment, naked gratitude flashing across his face before he controlled his expression. "That would be... extraordinarily generous, Your Grace. More than I had dared hope for."

"Consider it an investment in future goodwill," I replied with a slight smile. "The crown values loyal supporters, Ser Jason. Especially those with martial skills and good judgment—attributes that seem increasingly rare in combination."

He caught my subtle reference to Lord Tytos's limitations immediately, his eyes sharpening with understanding. "Indeed. And such supporters would, of course, remain steadfastly loyal to the crown's interests."

"I would expect nothing less," I agreed. "Though I should mention that these are merely preliminary thoughts. Any formal arrangements would require further discussion, both with my grandfather and with Lord Tytos."

"Of course," he nodded. "Though I suspect my brother would have no objections, particularly if presented as enhancing House Lannister's position in royal considerations."

"Exactly so," I confirmed. "We should return to the feast before our absence is noted, but I'm glad we had this opportunity to speak privately."

"As am I, Your Grace," Jason replied with genuine warmth. "More than you can know."

As we made our way back to the great hall, I caught sight of Tywin watching us with barely concealed curiosity. No doubt he was wondering what business I could have with his uncle that warranted a private conversation. I gave him a reassuring nod, which he acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head before returning his attention to Joanna, who was speaking quietly from her place beside him.

The feast continued for several more hours, though I noticed Lady Joanna excused herself not long after our return, with Tywin's eyes following her exit with careful subtlety. Lord Tytos grew progressively more inebriated, his voice rising and his gestures becoming more expansive with each cup of wine. By the time the musicians played their final song, he was leaning heavily on the table, his face flushed and his speech slurring.

"Your Grace," Ser Jason approached discreetly, "perhaps you might wish to retire? The hour grows late, and I suspect tomorrow will bring many activities."

"A wise suggestion," I agreed, noting how Ser Duncan had moved protectively closer as Lord Tytos's behavior became more erratic. "Though I wonder if I might have a brief word with Lord Tytos before I retire? There are some matters regarding our schedule that might be best addressed now."

Understanding flickered in Jason's eyes. "Of course. I can arrange a private moment in his solar, if that would be suitable?"

"Perfect," I nodded.

With remarkable efficiency, Jason managed to extract his brother from the dwindling festivities, guiding him toward his solar with subtle pressure that Lord Tytos, in his inebriated state, barely seemed to notice. I followed at a discreet distance, with Ser Duncan trailing behind.

Lord Tytos's solar was as ostentatious as the man himself—walls covered in expensive tapestries, furniture inlaid with gold and precious stones, and a massive desk carved from a single piece of ancient weirwood, its surface polished to a high shine. Books and papers were scattered haphazardly across every surface, with half-empty wine cups nestled amongst important-looking documents.

"Prince Aerys!" Lord Tytos boomed as we entered, seemingly reinvigorated by the change of setting. "Come in, come in! More wine? I have a special vintage saved just for occasions such as this—imported from Lys, sweeter than a maiden's kiss but with a kick like a mule!" He laughed uproariously at his own jest, already reaching for a crystal decanter, truly, with his wife still alive, albeit weakened at the moment, he well deserved the epithet of the Laughing Lion.

"Perhaps water might be more appropriate, given the hour," I suggested gently. "We both have duties to attend to tomorrow."

"Water? Bah!" Lord Tytos waved dismissively, though he did abandon the decanter. "But you mentioned matters to discuss? Something about the schedule? I've arranged everything, you know—hunts in the western forests, tours of the mines, feasts with all the notable houses of the Westerlands. The Reynes and Tarbecks are particularly eager to host you at their seats."

"Yes, I wanted to discuss those visits," I began, taking the seat he offered across from his massive desk. "But first, may I speak frankly, Lord Tytos?"

He blinked, momentarily thrown by my direct approach. "Of course, of course! We're practically family now, what with my Genna to marry your cousin! No need for courtly niceties between us!"

I nodded, then deliberately shifted my demeanor. My expression grew more serious, my posture straightening, my voice taking on a firmer edge. The change was subtle but unmistakable—from friendly young prince to future king in the space of a heartbeat.

"I've observed much during my short time in the Westerlands," I began, noting how Lord Tytos unconsciously sat up straighter in response to my tone. "The prosperity of Lannisport, the magnificence of Casterly Rock, the obvious wealth and resources at House Lannister's disposal. Yet I've also heard... concerns... expressed by those loyal to your house."

Lord Tytos's florid face paled slightly. "Concerns? What concerns? House Lannister stands stronger than ever! Our mines produce more gold than all other houses combined! Our fleet is—"

"Your loans go unpaid," I interrupted quietly but firmly. "Your bannermen take your gold with smiles and return your generosity with disrespect behind your back. The smallfolk whisper that the lion has lost its teeth, while houses like Reyne and Tarbeck grow bolder with each concession."

He gaped at me, wine-addled mind struggling to process this sudden, direct criticism. "That's—that's not—who has been saying such things?"

"It doesn't matter who said it," I replied. "What matters is whether it's true. Tell me, Lord Tytos, when was the last time a loan was repaid in full? When was the last time Lord Tarbeck or Lord Reyne addressed you without that subtle edge of mockery in their tone?"

His face flushed again, but with embarrassment rather than wine. "They wouldn't dare mock the Lord of Casterly Rock to his face," he protested, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Wouldn't they?" I asked softly. "Or have they simply grown so accustomed to your... generosity... that they no longer feel the need to hide their contempt?"

Lord Tytos slumped slightly in his chair, the bluster draining from him. In that moment, he looked older, the weight of his failures settling visibly on his shoulders. "You sound like Tywin," he muttered. "Always so serious, always worried about respect and appearances."

"Tywin understands something fundamental about power," I said, my voice gentling slightly but remaining firm. "Before your people can love you, they must first respect you. Fear is not necessary—your son is wrong about that—but respect is essential. Without it, love becomes contempt, and generosity is seen as weakness."

"I only wanted to be a good lord," he said, his voice uncharacteristically small. "To be liked by my bannermen, to be generous to those in need..."

"And those are noble goals," I assured him. "The realm needs men like you, Lord Tytos—good men, kind men, when cruelty is far too common. But kindness without strength is not kindness at all—it's surrender. And those who take advantage of that surrender do not become better for it; they become worse."

He was silent for a long moment, staring down at his hands. "What would you have me do? I'm not like Tywin. I cannot be... harsh."

"You don't need to be harsh," I told him. "You need to be firm. Stop lending to those who haven't repaid their existing debts. Send Ser Jason with a company of men to areas with high banditry, to show that the lions of Casterly Rock still have teeth and claws to defend their people."

"Jason?" He looked up, considering. "He is a skilled knight, and the smallfolk respect him..."

"Exactly," I nodded. "Use the strengths of those around you. Lady Jeyne has a shrewd mind for household management—let her help you bring order to Casterly Rock's finances. Tywin may be young, but his letters from King's Landing show wisdom beyond his years—heed his counsel, even when it seems harsh. And speaking of your brother further, to show that the heir to the Rock is committed to the ideals of chivalry and honor, make Ser Jason take Tywin in as a squire, he's a well-respected knight, it will do good that the realm sees that Tywin is learning under such a man." And more than that, since Tywin will continue to live in Kings landing that would mean that Jason and his family would move in as well, and Jason proving his loyalty to my grandfather would make him even more open to the idea of legitimizing his natural daughter. And the potential move would bring Tywin and Joanna closer together.

"It would bring the family further together" He brightened up at the idea of his son learning from his brother what he could not learn from him" And the loans?" he asked hesitantly. "Some of my bannermen would not take kindly to sudden demands for repayment."

"Don't demand immediate repayment of old loans," I advised, knowing that would be pushing too far for his nature. "Simply stop issuing new ones to those who have not shown good faith in repaying what they already owe. Let it be known that House Lannister's generosity now comes with expectations of reciprocity."

Lord Tytos nodded slowly, some of the fog clearing from his eyes as he considered my words. "That seems... reasonable. Not too harsh, but still firm."

"The Iron Bank of Braavos is the richest financial institution in the known world," I pointed out. "Do you know why?"

"They always collect their debts," he answered automatically. "Everyone knows that."

"Precisely. Not through cruelty or excessive force, but through absolute consistency. Their word, once given, is inviolable—both their promises and their demands. That is why they command respect across two continents."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "And respect leads to power."

"More lasting power than fear ever could," I confirmed. "Fear lasts only as long as the threat remains visible. Respect endures even in absence."

He was silent again, digesting this. Then, with visible effort, he straightened in his chair. "I will consider your words carefully, Prince Aerys. Perhaps... perhaps there is wisdom in finding a middle path between my approach and Tywin's."

"I believe there is," I agreed. "And I believe House Lannister will be stronger for it."

"You're very wise for your age," he observed, studying me with new eyes. "Your grandfather and father must be both proud."

"I'm still learning," I demurred. "But I've had good teachers, and I've tried to pay attention to the lessons history offers." I rose from my chair. "It's late, and we've both had a long day. Perhaps we should continue this conversation when we're both fresher?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he agreed, rising somewhat unsteadily. "Thank you, Prince Aerys. For... for your frankness. It's not often people speak so directly to the Lord of Casterly Rock."

"Perhaps that's been part of the problem," I suggested gently. "Good night, Lord Tytos. Rest well."

As Ser Duncan and I made our way back to my chambers, the old knight remained silent until we were well out of earshot of any potential listeners.

"That was well handled, Your Grace," he commented finally. "Though perhaps a risk, speaking so directly to your host."

"Sometimes the greatest courtesy is honest counsel," I replied. "And I meant what I said—the realm needs good men like Tytos Lannister. But it needs them to be effective, not merely well-intentioned."

This was part of the better future I was trying so hard to forge: A Westeros where good men like Tytos would be safe, where generosity and kindness would be the norm rather than cruelty and viciousness. Because as canon clearly showed by the time the books and show started that Westeros was anything but a place for good men, as Ned Stark, Jon Arryn, Robb Stark and specially Jon Snow learned the hard way.

Ser Duncan studied me with those keen eyes that had witnessed so much history firsthand. "You remind me of your grandfather more each day. He too believes in finding the right balance between strength and compassion."

"The highest compliment you could offer," I smiled slightly. "Though I still have much to learn before I could claim such a comparison."

"Perhaps less than you think," the old knight murmured, but said no more as we reached my chambers.

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of activities—tours of Casterly Rock's vast interior, visits to Lannisport's bustling markets and shipyards, formal audiences with lesser lords of the Westerlands who had traveled to pay their respects. Throughout it all, I observed subtle changes in Lord Tytos's demeanor. He remained jovial and generous in spirit, but there was a new thoughtfulness to his interactions, particularly with bannermen known to have outstanding loans.

Lady Jeyne noticed the change immediately, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. "Whatever you said to my husband seems to have had an effect," she observed quietly during a garden reception on our third day. "He actually asked to review the account books this morning."

"Sometimes an outside perspective can be helpful," I replied diplomatically. "Lord Tytos has many admirable qualities. He merely needed a reminder to bring them into better balance."

She studied me with the same penetrating gaze I'd often seen in Tywin. "My son chose his friendship well, it seems."

"I consider myself the fortunate one in that regard," I told her sincerely. "Tywin's loyalty and counsel have been invaluable."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "And your... arrangement of companionship between him and my niece Joanna has not gone unnoticed. Another example of your thoughtful intervention?"

I maintained an expression of polite innocence. "Lady Joanna's knowledge of the Rock's architecture is impressive. It seemed only natural that she should share that expertise with visitors interested in such matters."

"Indeed," Lady Jeyne's eyes twinkled momentarily before her composure returned. "Though I suspect architecture was not the primary subject of their discussions in the western gallery yesterday afternoon."

I couldn't help but smile at that. Tywin had indeed spent nearly two hours with Joanna the previous day, ostensibly discussing the historic carvings in the western gallery, though Steffon had reported seeing them standing suspiciously close together by one of the ocean-facing windows when he'd gone looking for us.

"Tywin deserves happiness," I said simply. "And Lady Joanna seems to bring out sides of him rarely seen otherwise."

"They have known each other since childhood," Lady Jeyne acknowledged. "And always shared a certain... understanding. I would not be displeased to see that understanding deepen as they mature."

It was as close to an explicit approval as I was likely to get from Tywin's reserved mother. "I believe many would share that sentiment," I replied.

On our fifth day at Casterly Rock, preparations began for our departure to visit other houses of the Westerlands. The Reynes of Castamere were particularly insistent on hosting us, their ravens arriving daily with updated details of the elaborate welcome they had planned.

"The red lions growl louder than ever," Lord Tytos observed with uncharacteristic sharpness when another Reyne messenger arrived. "One might almost think they were the Lords of the West, not merely our bannermen."

"Perhaps it's time they were reminded of the distinction," Lady Jeyne suggested quietly.

Lord Tytos nodded thoughtfully, another small sign of the changes our visit had inspired. "Perhaps indeed."

---

The morning of our departure dawned clear and bright, with a brisk wind blowing in from the Sunset Sea. Our horses were being prepared in the main courtyard, along with an honor guard of Lannister men who would escort us as far as Castamere.

I found Tywin standing slightly apart from the bustle, his gaze fixed on the distant figure of Joanna, who was speaking with Lady Jeyne near the main entrance to the Rock.

"You should speak with her before we leave," I suggested, joining him by the stone balustrade that overlooked the courtyard. "You might not have another chance for some time."

"I've said all that needs saying," he replied, though his eyes never left her. "For now."

"Have you?" I asked mildly. "She seems to be waiting for something... or someone."

He shot me a look that might have intimidated anyone who didn't know him well. "Your interference is unnecessary."

"Consider it friendly advice rather than interference," I countered. "Steffon and I will ensure you have a moment of privacy."

Before he could object further, Steffon bounded up to us, his perpetual energy undiminished by our days of activity. "Are you ready? Lord Tytos says the road to Castamere has excellent hunting! We might see boars or even mountain lions!"

"We'll be ready shortly," I told him, catching his eye and tilting my head subtly toward Joanna. "But I believe Tywin has some final matters to address before we depart."

Steffon, bless him, caught on immediately despite his usual boisterousness. "Oh! Yes, important matters. Very important. We should check the horses, Aerys. Make sure they're properly saddled for the journey."

"An excellent suggestion," I agreed solemnly, fighting to keep my face straight at Tywin's expression of mingled exasperation and gratitude. "We'll meet you by the main gate in, say, fifteen minutes?"

"That should be sufficient," Tywin said stiffly, though I caught the slight flush creeping up his neck.

As Steffon and I made our strategic retreat, I glanced back to see Tywin making his way toward Joanna with measured steps that couldn't quite disguise his eagerness. Lady Jeyne, ever perceptive, smoothly excused herself as he approached, leaving the young pair in relative privacy by the stone archway.

"They're perfect for each other," Steffon observed as we crossed the courtyard toward the stables. "Both so serious and proper on the outside, but you can tell there's more underneath."

"Indeed," I agreed, surprised by his perceptiveness. Steffon's boundless energy sometimes made it easy to overlook his emotional intelligence. "Though I suspect it will be some years before anything formal develops."

"Obviously," he rolled his eyes. "We're all still children. But it's nice, isn't it? Knowing who you belong with, even when you're young."

There was something wistful in his tone that caught my attention. In the original timeline, Steffon had married Cassana Estermont, a match that by all accounts had been loving and true. I wondered if some part of him already sensed that future connection, or if his romantic heart simply yearned for similar certainty.

When Tywin finally joined us at the main gate, his composure was firmly back in place, though I noticed a certain lightness in his movements that hadn't been there before. As our party began to move out, I caught a glimpse of Joanna watching from the archway, her fingers lightly touching her cheek in a gesture that told its own story.

"Did you have a productive conversation?" I asked innocently as we rode through the Lion's Mouth, the massive main gate of Casterly Rock.

"Entirely adequate," Tywin replied, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"She kissed you, didn't she?" Steffon blurted out, his powers of observation overriding his tact. "On the cheek, I bet!"

The flush that instantly spread across Tywin's face was answer enough. "That is not—it was merely a formal farewell—"

"On the cheek!" Steffon crowed triumphantly. "I knew it! Tywin and Joanna, sitting in a tree—"

"If you finish that rhyme, I will personally ensure you never sit comfortably on a horse again," Tywin threatened, though with less heat than his words suggested.

"You're blushing," I pointed out helpfully. "I don't think I've ever seen you blush before. It's quite humanizing."

"I am not blushing," he insisted with as much dignity as one could muster while turning progressively redder. "It's merely the exertion of riding uphill."

"We're going downhill," Steffon countered, barely containing his glee.

"Both of you are children," Tywin muttered, spurring his horse slightly ahead of us.

"Says the boy with a kissing mark still on his cheek," Steffon called after him, then dissolved into laughter.

I couldn't help joining in, the simple joy of teasing a friend about his first romance momentarily overshadowing the weight of future knowledge and responsibilities. In that moment, we were just three boys in the middle of a journey, with all the promise and possibility that entailed.

The road from Casterly Rock to Castamere wound through some of the most beautiful terrain in the Westerlands—rolling hills covered in golden grass, stands of ancient oaks, and occasional glimpses of the glittering Sunset Sea to the west. Our party made good time, with the Lannister guards maintaining a brisk pace while still remaining vigilant for potential threats.

We had been riding for several hours when Ser Duncan, who had been scouting slightly ahead, returned with a concerned expression.

"Your Grace," he addressed me quietly, bringing his massive destrier alongside my mount. "There's something unusual up ahead. Tracks crossing the road—multiple large animals, larger than wolves."

"Mountain lions?" Ser Jason suggested from nearby, overhearing the exchange. "They've been growing bolder recently. One pride attacked a shepherd's flock near Oxcross just last month."

"These tracks are fresh," Ser Duncan replied. "And numerous. I counted at least five distinct sets."

"A pride, then," Ser Jason's hand moved to his sword hilt. "We should proceed with caution. Lions rarely attack armed men, but a hungry pride might make an exception."

We continued more slowly, the guards forming a tighter formation around our small group. Steffon's earlier excitement about potential wildlife sightings had sobered into watchful alertness, while Tywin rode with the composed vigilance that seemed second nature to him.

The attack, when it came, was swift and terrifying. A flash of tawny fur erupted from the tall grass to our left, followed immediately by answering movements from the right. The horses neighed in panic as the scent of predator filled the air, several rearing or bolting despite their riders' attempts to control them.

"Form up!" Ser Jason shouted, drawing his sword. "Protect the prince!"

The Lannister guards responded with practiced efficiency, creating a defensive circle around me despite their frightened mounts. Ser Duncan's massive blade was already in his hand, the Valyrian steel catching the sunlight as he positioned himself between me and the largest of the lions—a scarred male with a mane so dark it was nearly black.

What followed was chaos—horses neighing, men shouting, the terrifying roars of the great cats as they darted in and out of the tall grass. A female lion leapt at one of the guardsmen, taking both horse and rider down in a tangle of limbs and steel. Another guard thrust his spear into the flank of a younger male, earning a deafening roar of pain and fury.

I found myself unhorsed, though I couldn't remember falling or dismounting. Tywin was beside me, his sword drawn, his face pale but determined as we backed toward a large oak tree. Steffon joined us moments later, a gash on his arm but his eyes bright with the strange exhilaration that sometimes comes with mortal danger.

"Stay behind me," Tywin ordered, positioning himself protectively. "The tree at our backs limits their angles of attack."

A lioness had noticed our separation from the main group. She circled around the periphery of the fighting, her amber eyes fixed on what she clearly perceived as easier prey—three boys slightly apart from the men with steel.

"She's going to charge," Steffon whispered, raising his own sword. "From the right, I think."

"Together," I said, drawing the dragon-tooth dagger that had saved my life once before. "When she commits to the attack, we move as one."

The lioness tensed, her powerful hindquarters bunching beneath her as she prepared to spring. We braced ourselves, weapons ready, each silently promising not to leave the others undefended.

But the attack never came. Instead, Ser Duncan's massive form interposed itself between us and the predator, his greatsword flashing in a deadly arc that caught the lioness mid-leap. She fell with a terrible scream, thrashing briefly before lying still.

"Stay together!" the old knight commanded, already turning to face another threat as the pride's male leader approached, hackles raised and teeth bared in fury.

What saved us all, in the end, was fire. One of the quicker-thinking guards had managed to light a torch from his saddlebag's emergency supplies, thrusting the flame toward the remaining lions while others did the same with branches hastily set alight. The great cats retreated from the fire, melting back into the tall grass with frustrated growls and one final, defiant roar from the massive male.

The skirmish had lasted perhaps five minutes, though it felt like hours. When the final count was taken, we had lost two horses and one guardsman, with several others nursing various wounds from claws or falls. Ser Jason himself had a long scratch down his left arm where a lion's claws had caught him, though the injury looked worse than it was.

"We should move quickly," he advised, binding his arm with a strip torn from his own cloak. "They may regroup and return, especially with wounded among us attracting their attention."

As the survivors reorganized, sharing horses where necessary, Tywin suddenly frowned. "Do you hear that?" he asked, head tilted slightly.

I listened, at first hearing nothing beyond the normal sounds of men and horses. Then it came again—a high, thin sound, somewhere between a mewl and a squeak.

"Over there," Steffon pointed toward the body of the lioness Ser Duncan had slain. "I think it's coming from near her."

Tywin approached cautiously, sword still in hand despite the apparent absence of living threats. He circled the fallen predator, then stopped suddenly, staring down at something in the tall grass.

"What is it?" I called, moving to join him despite Ser Duncan's protective hand on my shoulder.

"A cub," Tywin replied, his voice oddly soft. "Very young. It must have been following its mother."

When I reached his side, I saw it—a tiny lion cub, barely larger than a house cat, with soft tawny fur still marked with the faint spots of infancy. It cowered in the grass, alternating between pitiful mewls and attempts at growls that emerged as squeaks.

"It won't survive alone," Ser Jason observed, joining us with a grim expression. "Too young to hunt, too small to defend itself."

"We should put it out of its misery," one of the guards suggested practically. "Quick and clean."

"No." Tywin's voice was quiet but firm. He sheathed his sword and crouched down, studying the frightened cub with an intensity I recognized from more human negotiations. "I'll take it."

"My lord?" Ser Jason looked startled. "A wild lion is not a pet—"

"Not a pet," Tywin agreed, still watching the cub. "But a symbol. The lion of Lannister should be more than just a banner." With slow, careful movements, he removed his riding cloak and approached the cub, which hissed and backed away.

"Tywin," I cautioned, "even a cub can be dangerous."

He ignored me, continuing his careful approach until he was within arm's reach of the frightened creature. For a tense moment, I thought the cub might either flee or attack, but instead, exhaustion and fear seemed to overcome it. It cowered, trembling, as Tywin gently wrapped his cloak around its small body, securing it in a bundle that restricted its movements without hurting it.

"There," he said, lifting the makeshift bundle. The cub's face peeked out, a mixture of fear and confusion in its amber eyes. "It's a male. Young enough to be hand-raised, I think."

"Fitting," I observed, watching this unexpected development with interest. "The Starks had their direwolves, Targaryens had their dragons—why shouldn't Lannisters have their lions?"

Tywin glanced at me sharply, searching for mockery, but finding none, he nodded. "Exactly. More than a pet—a living symbol of our house."

"What will you call him?" Steffon asked, peering curiously at the bundled cub, which had settled somewhat in Tywin's secure grip.

Tywin considered for a moment, studying the cub's amber eyes. "Lann," he said finally. "For courage and cunning both."

Steffon and I exchanged knowing glances but, wisdom prevailing for once, said nothing of the obvious connection to another Lann the Clever.

"We should move on," Ser Duncan reminded us, ever practical. "The rest of the pride may return, and we have wounded to tend."

With the cub secured in Tywin's saddlebag, modified to allow air but prevent escape, we resumed our journey toward Castamere. The mood was subdued after the attack, a reminder of the ever-present dangers that lurked even in the seemingly civilized Westerlands.

As we rode, I found myself reflecting on the remarkable scene I had just witnessed. Tywin Lannister, the boy who would grow to be the coldest, most calculating lord in the Seven Kingdoms, cradling a lion cub with surprising tenderness. Perhaps this Tywin, growing up with different influences and experiences, might develop into someone less hardened than the man I remembered from that other life—still formidable, still shrewd, but with the capacity for compassion that his counterpart had buried beneath layers of ruthless pragmatism.

---

The lion cub occasionally made its presence known with small mewls from Tywin's saddlebag, each sound drawing a protective glance from its self-appointed guardian. Ser Jason had initially objected to the adoption but eventually conceded that if anyone could successfully raise a lion, it would be his determined nephew.

"You realize," I said quietly to Tywin as we rode side by side, "that raising a lion will be no small undertaking. They grow rather large, as we've just been reminded."

"I'm aware," he replied, one hand unconsciously resting on the saddlebag where the cub dozed. "The Rock has space enough, and resources. There are records in our library of previous Lannisters who kept lions—never cubs raised from such a young age, but still, precedent exists."

"And when you return to King's Landing?" I prompted. "Lions aren't particularly suited to the Red Keep."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face before his usual confidence reasserted itself. "He will remain at the Rock under proper care until he's grown. I'll visit when possible. And eventually, when I'm old enough to have my own household..." He trailed off, but the implication was clear. Tywin was already planning for his future return to the Westerlands, when he would assume his rightful place as Lord of Casterly Rock.

"A living symbol of House Lannister," I mused. "It's rather poetic, really."

"It's practical," he corrected, though without his usual sharpness. "A reminder to our bannermen of what we represent."

"Can't it be both?" I suggested. "Practical and poetic?"

He considered this for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps." His expression softened as another small mewl emerged from the saddlebag. "Though he'll need to grow considerably before he inspires the appropriate respect."

"Oh, I don't know," I smiled, watching as he adjusted the bundle to make the cub more comfortable. "I find him quite effective already."

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"He's already accomplished something I thought impossible," I explained, watching his confused expression. "He's brought out your gentle side."

Tywin's face immediately hardened, as if to disprove my point. "I'm merely ensuring a valuable asset is properly maintained."

"Of course," I agreed, fighting back a smile. "Very practical."

We rode in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic hoofbeats providing a soothing backdrop to my thoughts. Almost unconsciously, I began to hum a slow, melancholic tune that had been stuck in my head since we'd set out for Castamere.

It took me several verses to realize what I was doing. The haunting melody of "The Rains of Castamere" had slipped out without conscious thought—a song that didn't yet exist in this timeline, as the events it commemorated hadn't occurred. Would never occur, at least not to such a brutal extent, if I had anything to say about it.

"That's an unusual melody," Tywin commented, breaking me from my reverie. "I don't believe I've heard it before."

I stopped humming immediately, cursing my carelessness. "Just something I made up," I lied smoothly. "The rhythm of the horses inspired it."

"It sounded... ominous," he observed. "Almost like a funeral dirge."

"Did it?" I forced a light laugh. "I suppose my musical talents are limited. Perhaps we should compose a more cheerful tune for our journey."

"Please don't," Steffon groaned from behind us. "The last time you tried to sing, Aerys, the Kingsguard thought a cat was being murdered in the royal chambers."

This successfully diverted the conversation, much to my relief. The irony wasn't lost on me—humming a song about the destruction of House Reyne while traveling to visit them, in the company of the very man who would orchestrate their downfall in that other timeline. A downfall that might yet be avoided, though my impressions of the Red Lion from afar didn't fill me with optimism.

The journey to Castamere took nearly a week, the road winding through increasingly hilly terrain as we approached the northwestern edge of the Westerlands. The region was rich in silver and gold mines, the source of the Reynes' considerable wealth and, according to Tywin's discreet commentary, their outsized ambitions.

"Their mines are second only to Casterly Rock's in productivity," he explained as we crested a ridge offering our first view of Castamere in the distance. "Though recent reports suggest they may have exaggerated their output to impress potential trade partners."

"That would be consistent with their character," Ser Jason remarked dryly from nearby. "The Red Lion has never let truth interfere with a good boast."

Castamere itself was an impressive sight, though in a different way from Casterly Rock's overwhelming grandeur. Where the Lannister seat was a mountain transformed into a fortress, Castamere was a castle built above a vast network of mines and underground halls. The visible portion—towers of deep red stone rising from a forested hillside—represented only a fraction of House Reyne's true seat of power. The majority lay beneath the surface, a labyrinthine complex of tunnels, halls, and chambers carved from the living rock, following the veins of precious metals that had enriched the family for generations.

"Most of Castamere is underground," Tywin explained, his voice carrying the detached tone I'd come to recognize as his way of disguising personal feelings behind factual information. "The visible castle is primarily for show—to impress visitors who never see the true extent of their holdings below."

"A metaphor for House Reyne itself, perhaps," Ser Jason suggested with a hint of bitterness. "Showy on the surface, dark and twisting beneath."

As we approached the main gates, I could see a welcoming party assembled in the courtyard beyond—a sea of crimson and silver, the Reyne colors displayed with an ostentation that rivaled even Lord Tytos's love of pageantry. Banners bearing the red lion rampant fluttered from every tower and battlement, while guardsmen in polished armor lined the approach like ornamental statues.

"Rather overdone, isn't it?" Steffon whispered, unconsciously echoing my thoughts. "It's like they're trying too hard."

"They always are," Tywin replied quietly, his expression neutral but his eyes coldly assessing as we rode through the gates.

At the center of the assembled household stood a tall, powerfully built man of around thirty-seven, with fiery red hair and beard streaked with silver at the temples. His green eyes, sharp as emeralds, missed nothing as they tracked our approach, lingering significantly on the Lannister contingent before settling on me with an expression of careful deference that didn't quite reach those calculating eyes.

Beside him stood a slightly younger man, similar enough in appearance to be clearly his brother, though leaner in build and with a certain smooth grace that contrasted with the older man's martial bearing. Where the first man exuded raw power, this one suggested subtle cunning—a rapier to his brother's battleaxe.

"The Red Lion himself," Ser Jason murmured as we dismounted. "Lord Roger Reyne. And beside him, his brother Ser Reynard. Two of the most dangerous men in the Westerlands."

"Welcome to Castamere, Prince Aerys!" Lord Roger boomed, his voice carrying the practiced projection of a battlefield commander. He executed a bow that was exactly deep enough to be proper for a prince, not a fraction lower. "House Reyne is honored by your presence."

"Lord Roger," I acknowledged with a polite nod. "Thank you for your hospitality. Castamere's reputation for grandeur is well-deserved."

This seemed to please him immensely. "You've seen nothing yet, Your Grace. The true wonders of Castamere lie below—halls and chambers that would put mainland castles to shame. We've prepared a feast worthy of a prince, with entertainment brought from as far as Volantis for your pleasure."

"My brother's modesty prevents him from doing our home justice," Ser Reynard added smoothly, his voice warmer and more ingratiating than Roger's commanding tone. "Castamere's subterranean halls are renowned throughout the Westerlands. We look forward to showing you their splendor personally."

As the formal introductions continued, I found myself studying the Reyne brothers with careful attention. The way they held themselves, the calculated deference in their manner when addressing me contrasted with the barely concealed condescension when acknowledging Tywin or Steffon—even Ser Duncan received less respect than his white cloak warranted. Here was ambition barely constrained by courtesy, power hungry for greater recognition.

Looking at them, I couldn't help but think of the Weasley family from the Harry Potter series I'd loved in my previous life—the flaming red hair and large family creating a superficial similarity. But where the Weasleys had been warm, genuine, and fundamentally good despite their flaws, the Reynes exuded calculation and barely concealed arrogance. These were no lovable underdogs but predators waiting for the right moment to strike.

"And this," Lord Roger continued, gesturing toward a young woman who stepped forward from the assembled family members, "is my daughter, Lady Ellyn."

Lady Ellyn Reyne was undeniably beautiful—tall and graceful, with the same striking red hair as her father and uncle, though hers fell in carefully arranged curls down her back. Her green eyes assessed me with unconcealed interest, her curtsy executed with practiced perfection to display both respect and, I couldn't help noticing, her figure to best advantage.

"Prince Aerys," she greeted me, her voice musical and carefully modulated. "Castamere has awaited your arrival with great anticipation. I hope you'll allow me to serve as your guide during your stay."

The intent behind this arrangement was transparent—Roger Reyne presenting his daughter as a potential royal match, complete with the "accidental" opportunity for extended private interaction. I caught Tywin's barely perceptible stiffening beside me, his disapproval visible only to those who knew him well.

"Lady Ellyn," I acknowledged with appropriate courtesy. "That would be most kind, though I wouldn't wish to impose on your time."

"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace," she replied, her smile practiced yet effective. "I know every corner of Castamere, even chambers my father and uncle have forgotten exist."

"My daughter has made something of a study of our family seat," Lord Roger explained with obvious pride. "She'll show you wonders few outsiders have ever seen."

I maintained my diplomatic smile while catching Steffon's eye over Lady Ellyn's shoulder. He read my expression perfectly, fighting back a grin as I subtly mouthed "kill me please" when the Reynes were looking elsewhere.

"But where are my manners?" Lord Roger exclaimed. "You must be weary from your journey. Allow us to show you to your chambers—we've prepared the Crimson Suite in the eastern tower for Your Grace, with adjoining rooms for your companions."

As we followed the Reynes into the castle proper, I noticed how Ser Reynard maneuvered himself to walk alongside Tywin, his manner falsely casual.

"Young Lord Lannister," he began, his tone managing to make the title sound almost condescending despite its surface respect. "How good to see you again. It's been—what, three years since you graced Castamere with your presence? Before your... fostering in King's Landing."

"Four years," Tywin corrected coolly. "During my father's last progress through the Westerlands."

"Ah yes," Reynard nodded with exaggerated recollection. "When your lord father was so generous with his wine and gold. We still speak of Lord Tytos's visit—such liberality is rarely seen, even among the great houses."

The implied criticism of Lord Tytos's excessive generosity was unmistakable, as was the subtle reminder of the Lannisters' status as debtors to House Reyne. Tywin's face remained impassive, though I caught the slight tightening around his eyes that signaled controlled anger.

"My father's generosity is well-known," Tywin replied neutrally. "As is House Reyne's... appreciation of it."

Ser Reynard's smile thinned slightly at this veiled reference to unpaid loans, but he recovered quickly. "Family helping family—as it should be between houses with such... close bonds."

Meanwhile, Lord Roger had fallen into step beside me, with Lady Ellyn on my other side. "I understand you visited the Iron Islands before coming to the Westerlands," he remarked, skillfully dismissing Steffon to walk with some lesser Reyne cousins. "A curious choice for a royal progress."

"The Iron Islands are part of the Seven Kingdoms," I replied simply. "Understanding all regions under the crown's protection is important for effective governance."

"Noble sentiments," he nodded, though his tone suggested he found such considerations quaint. "Though I imagine you found little of interest on those barren rocks compared to the sophistication of the Westerlands."

"Each region has its unique character and strengths," I responded diplomatically. "Lord Quellon is implementing interesting reforms that deserve the crown's attention and support."

"Reforms?" Lord Roger laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Dressing up raiders in fine clothes doesn't change their nature, Your Grace. The ironborn have been pillaging our shores since before the Andals arrived. No amount of 'reform' will change what runs in their blood."

"You sound like a man with personal experience of ironborn raids," I observed, deliberately steering the conversation toward his own perspective rather than continuing a political discussion where his views clearly diverged from mine.

This approach worked beautifully—Roger Reyne was nothing if not eager to speak of his own martial prowess. "Three times I've led forces against ironborn raiders," he declared proudly. "The last time, we caught them loading plunder from a coastal village near Feastfires. Not a single longship escaped—we burned them all, with their crews still aboard."

The savage satisfaction in his voice was unsettling. Here was a man who genuinely enjoyed inflicting death, who found pleasure in the suffering of his enemies. I'd met such men in my previous life—thankfully primarily through news reports rather than personal encounters—and recognized the signs.

"An impressive defense of your lands," I acknowledged neutrally. "Though I imagine such conflicts might be avoided entirely with proper coastal defenses and diplomatic arrangements."

"Diplomacy?" He practically spat the word. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but steel speaks more clearly to ironborn than words ever could. They respect strength and nothing else."

"A common misconception," I replied mildly. "Even the most martial cultures respond to proper incentives when presented correctly. After all, why raid when trading offers greater profits with less risk?"

"You have an unusual perspective for one so young," Lady Ellyn interjected smoothly, clearly sensing her father's growing irritation with my contradictions. "So... thoughtful. Most princes would concern themselves more with hunting and tournaments than with matters of governance."

"Balance in all things, my lady," I answered with a smile that revealed nothing of my inner thoughts. "Hunting and tournaments have their place, as do more scholarly pursuits."

"You must tell me more about your interests," she pressed, her green eyes bright with what appeared to be genuine curiosity, though I suspected it was merely well-practiced courtly technique. "Perhaps during our tour of the underground halls tomorrow? There's a chamber with the most remarkable crystal formations—like frozen stars captured in stone. Few visitors ever see it."

"That sounds fascinating," I replied politely. "Though I wouldn't wish to monopolize your time."

"I can think of no better use for it," she said, her voice dropping slightly into a register clearly meant to be alluring. "Guiding a prince through Castamere's wonders would be my privilege."

Lord Roger watched this exchange with poorly concealed satisfaction. His plan was transparent—use his daughter's beauty and charm to create a connection that might lead to a royal marriage, elevating House Reyne above even the Lannisters in regional importance. It was a common enough strategy for ambitious lords with eligible daughters, though rarely executed with such obvious intent.

The Crimson Suite proved to be as ostentatious as its name suggested—a series of interconnected chambers decorated in overwhelming shades of red and gold, with the Reyne lion prominently displayed on every conceivable surface. The furnishings were lavish to the point of absurdity, with gold leaf applied so liberally it seemed in danger of flaking off from its own weight.

"Your comfort is our highest priority, Your Grace," Lord Roger declared, throwing open the doors to the main chamber with theatrical flourish. "These apartments were last used by King Aegon himself during his progress through the Westerlands some fifteen years ago. We've redecorated since then, of course, to reflect more modern tastes."

"Most... impressive," I managed, taking in the gaudy display. Even Steffon, usually enthusiastic about grand accommodations, looked slightly overwhelmed by the excessive ornamentation.

"The feast begins at sunset," Lord Roger continued, oblivious to our reactions. "My daughter will escort you to the great hall when the time comes. Until then, please consider Castamere your home."

With that, the Reynes withdrew, leaving us to settle into our accommodations. The moment the door closed behind them, Steffon collapsed dramatically onto a nearby divan.

"Gods, they're exhausting," he groaned. "Did you see how they practically ignored me until they realized I was a Baratheon? Then suddenly I'm 'Lord Steffon, heir to the Stormlands, son of Princess Rhaelle' instead of 'the prince's chubby friend.'"

"They're ambitious," Tywin said coldly, his gaze sweeping the overly decorated chamber with poorly concealed distaste. "And overreaching. All this—" he gestured to the ornate furnishings "—is meant to impress, to suggest wealth and power equal to Casterly Rock. But it's superficial, like gold leaf over common wood."

"The daughter seems particularly eager to make an impression," Ser Duncan observed dryly from his position by the door, where he had remained throughout the exchange. "Though perhaps 'impression' is too mild a word for her intentions."

I laughed, grateful for the old knight's unexpected humor. "Lady Ellyn is certainly... determined. Though I suspect her interest has less to do with my personal qualities and more with the crown I'll eventually wear."

"You handled it well," Tywin noted, his tone suggesting mild approval. "Polite without encouragement."

"Though tomorrow's private tour might prove challenging to navigate," Steffon pointed out with a mischievous grin. "Especially if she shows you those 'remarkable crystal formations' she mentioned so breathlessly."

"I think I'll suddenly develop an overwhelming interest in the mining operations instead," I replied dryly. "Nothing discourages romantic overtures like detailed questions about ore extraction techniques."

This earned a rare chuckle from Tywin. "An effective strategy. The Reynes are proud of their mines, even as production has decreased in recent years. Lord Roger will happily spend hours explaining their operations, leaving little opportunity for his daughter's maneuvering."

"You seem remarkably well-informed about their mining operations," I observed. "Not a typical interest for most boys our age."

"Knowledge is its own form of power," Tywin replied simply. "Especially knowledge others might prefer you didn't possess."

Our conversation was interrupted by a discreet knock at the door. Ser Duncan answered it, revealing a Reyne servant with refreshments and the information that baths had been prepared in the adjoining chambers. With the practical matters of settling in to attend to, our discussion of House Reyne was temporarily set aside.

The feast that evening proved every bit as excessive as the accommodations. The underground great hall of Castamere was a vast chamber carved from the living rock, with soaring columns left in place to support the ceiling hundreds of feet above. Massive chandeliers of silver and crystal hung from ornate chains, while the walls were decorated with tapestries depicting Reyne victories in battle and tournament. The head table stood on a raised dais of red marble, positioned before an underground waterfall that cascaded into a pool filled with golden fish—an ostentatious display of control over nature itself.

Lady Ellyn had indeed come to escort me to the feast, arriving at my chamber door in a gown of deep crimson that complemented her fiery hair and fair skin. Throughout the long walk to the great hall, she maintained a steady stream of commentary about Castamere's history and architectural marvels, occasionally touching my arm to emphasize a particular point or steer me toward some feature she wished to highlight.

"My ancestors began carving these halls from the mountain over a thousand years ago," she explained as we descended a grand staircase illuminated by torches in silver sconces. "Each generation has expanded them, following the veins of silver and gold deeper into the earth. Some say the lowest levels reach all the way to Casterly Rock itself, though of course that's just legend."

"Impressive engineering," I commented, genuinely intrigued despite my wariness of her intentions. "The ventilation system must be quite sophisticated to maintain breathable air at such depths."

If she was disappointed by my focus on practical matters rather than the romantic potential of underground passages, she hid it well. "Indeed! The ancient Reynes designed a network of air shafts and natural chimneys that create constant circulation. Even in the deepest halls, the air remains fresh. I'd be happy to show you the mechanism tomorrow—it's quite ingenious."

"I'd like that," I replied honestly. Whatever my feelings about House Reyne's ambitions, their architectural achievements were genuinely impressive.

The feast itself was as lavish as one might expect from a house determined to outshine their liege lords. Course after course of elaborate dishes emerged from the kitchens, each more ornate than the last. Singers and musicians performed between servings, while acrobats from Volantis demonstrated increasingly dangerous feats above the guests' heads, suspended from the high ceiling on silver chains.

I had been seated between Lord Roger and Lady Ellyn, with Tywin and Steffon placed farther down the high table among lesser Reyne cousins—a deliberate slight that didn't go unnoticed by anyone. Ser Duncan stood behind my chair as always, his white cloak and impressive stature drawing covert glances from the assembled guests.

Throughout the meal, Lord Roger alternated between boasting of Castamere's grandeur and subtly disparaging House Lannister's current leadership. Each anecdote was carefully structured to emphasize either his own martial prowess or Lord Tytos's shortcomings, always with just enough plausible deniability to avoid outright disrespect.

"You must find King's Landing quite stimulating compared to Casterly Rock," he remarked during the fish course, his voice pitched to carry just far enough down the table for Tywin to overhear. "The capital rewards men of vision and action, while provincial courts often become mired in... tradition."

"Each region has its strengths," I replied diplomatically. "The Westerlands' stability and prosperity have contributed greatly to the realm's overall wellbeing for generations."

"Stability can become stagnation without proper leadership," he countered, raising his goblet in a gesture that might have been taken for a toast by casual observers. "A strong hand is needed to maintain true order."

"And you consider yourself that strong hand, I imagine," I observed mildly, though with a hint of steel beneath.

His eyes widened slightly at my directness, then narrowed with new assessment. "I serve the Westerlands in my capacity as a loyal bannerman to House Lannister," he replied carefully. "Though I would be remiss if I didn't contribute my particular strengths to the region's governance where needed."

"How fortunate for House Lannister to have such devoted bannermen," I said, allowing just enough irony to color my tone that his self-satisfied expression faltered momentarily.

Lady Ellyn smoothly intervened, redirecting the conversation toward less politically charged topics. "I understand you have an interest in history, Your Grace. Castamere's library contains some rare volumes on the Age of Heroes that might interest you. Perhaps we could examine them together tomorrow?"

"That would be interesting," I acknowledged. "Though I admit to particular curiosity about your mining operations. The engineering required for such extensive underground development must be fascinating."

"Mining operations?" She couldn't quite hide her disappointment at this prosaic interest. "Well, yes, I suppose they are impressive in their way. Father could certainly arrange a tour, though I had hoped to show you some of Castamere's more... uniquely beautiful features."

"Beauty and functionality need not be separate qualities," I replied. "The ingenuity required to create such extensive underground works is its own form of artistry."

Throughout this exchange, I was acutely aware of Tywin further down the table, maintaining perfect courtesy with his immediate neighbors while undoubtedly cataloging every slight and condescension for future reference. Steffon seemed to be having a better time, his natural charm and easygoing nature allowing him to find common ground even with the proud Reynes around him.

As the evening progressed and the wine flowed more freely, Lord Roger's careful restraint began to slip. His comments about House Lannister grew more pointed, his self-aggrandizement more obvious. By the time the dessert course arrived—elaborate confections shaped like lions that servants ceremoniously set aflame before serving—he was expounding boldly on how certain houses in the Westerlands had grown complacent with their position.

"Blood and name mean nothing without the strength to back them," he declared, loud enough to draw attention from neighboring tables. "A lion that won't use its claws might as well be a house cat."

Ser Reynard, perhaps sensing his brother was overstepping, attempted to smooth over the increasingly awkward atmosphere. "What my brother means, Your Grace, is that all great houses must remain vigilant against threats. House Reyne has always prided itself on martial readiness."

"Indeed," I agreed pleasantly. "Though in my observation, those who speak most loudly of their strength often do so to compensate for other insecurities."

A hush fell over the nearby tables as this barely veiled rebuke registered. Lord Roger's face darkened, while Lady Ellyn looked momentarily alarmed before composing her features into a careful smile.

"Your Grace has a way with words," she said quickly. "Perhaps we might enjoy some music? Father has engaged singers from the Reach who know the latest court ballads."

Before Lord Roger could respond, she signaled to the musicians, who immediately began playing a lively tune that required no vocal accompaniment. The tension eased slightly as conversations resumed around us, though Lord Roger's expression remained thunderous.

I caught Tywin watching the exchange with cold satisfaction, clearly approving of my willingness to check the Red Lion's arrogance, even as Ser Duncan shifted slightly closer to my chair—a subtle reminder of his protective presence should Roger's temper flare further.

Lady Ellyn, determined to salvage the situation, turned the conversation toward my own interests and experiences in King's Landing. As the evening wore on, she grew increasingly attentive, her questions becoming more personal and her manner more overtly flirtatious.

"And what qualities do you most admire in a queen, Your Grace?" she asked during a brief lull in the music, her voice pitched to sound casual though the question was anything but. "Surely you must have given thought to your future bride."

The directness of the question took me momentarily by surprise. While court ladies often engaged in subtle flirtation with royal prospects, such blatant fishing for marital preferences was unusually bold, even by Reyne standards.

"A queen requires many qualities," I replied diplomatically. "Intelligence, compassion, diplomatic skill—the ability to see beyond immediate advantages to long-term consequences."

"All qualities House Reyne values highly," she said with a practiced smile. "Of course, a strong alliance between great houses benefits all involved. The joining of dragon and lion would create unparalleled strength."

Lord Roger, who had been listening intently to this exchange, leaned forward with poorly concealed eagerness. "House Reyne would certainly bring significant assets to such a union—wealth, martial prowess, the loyalty of many Western houses."

The implication was unmistakable. Despite Ellyn's attempt at subtlety, the Reynes were essentially offering her as a potential queen—a brazen overreach that demonstrated either stunning confidence or remarkable miscalculation of both royal marriage practices and my own interests.

"I must apologize," I said, feeling cornered and searching for a diplomatic escape. "But such matters are not mine alone to decide. And in truth, arrangements for my future marriage have already been discussed within the royal family."

This wasn't entirely untrue—my parents had certainly discussed my future marriage options, though no formal arrangements had been finalized. But the statement served its purpose as both Lady Ellyn and Lord Roger leaned forward with undisguised interest.

"Indeed?" Lord Roger prompted. "May one ask which house has been so honored with consideration?"

Put on the spot and struggling to find a plausible answer that would definitively end this uncomfortable line of questioning, I blurted out the first response that came to mind—one that I immediately regretted.

"It's not widely known," I said, lowering my voice as if sharing a confidence, "but discussions have centered on a traditional match. Princess Rhaella and I are expected to follow our parents' example."

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt a wave of discomfort. Despite being a Targaryen now, with all the dynastic marriage traditions that entailed, the idea of referring to Rey—to Rhaella—as my future bride felt profoundly wrong. In my previous life, Regan had been the girl I loved with all my hearth, the one I'd pushed out of that car's path in my final moments. Now this new Rey was my sister by blood, and while I'd always known we might eventually face the expectation of marriage as Targaryens as our canon counterparts did, I'd avoided thinking about it directly, always assuming I'd find some way to change that path before it became inevitable, before the Ghost of high heart sealed it with the prophecy that the Prince that was Promised (AKA Jon Snow) would be born from mine and Rey's line.

The shock on Lady Ellyn's face quickly transformed into carefully composed disappointment. "How... traditional," she managed, her voice deliberately neutral. "Though perhaps in these changing times, the crown might consider the advantages of fresh alliances. The Targaryen line has certainly benefited from outmarriage in the past, like how King Aegon married your Grandmother Queen Betha"

Lord Roger's reaction was less controlled. His face flushed nearly as red as his hair, his knuckles whitening around his goblet. "A sister match?" he said, not quite keeping the disdain from his voice. "While an honored Targaryen tradition, surely the realm might be better served by introducing new strengths to the royal line. House Reyne's bloodline is ancient and proud—our contributions would be significant."

"The royal family values tradition," I replied with deliberate emphasis. "And personal compatibility is considered as important as political advantage."

"Yet House Lannister seems worthy of royal consideration," Lord Roger countered, his voice hardening. "Lady Genna betrothed to Prince Aemon—a boy whose father abdicated his claim for a commoner." He practically spat the word. "Are the Reynes not good enough for the precious dragon blood, while Lannisters marry into a half-bastard line?"

The insult to my uncle Duncan and cousin Aemon was both deliberate and vicious. The great hall had fallen silent, all pretense of private conversation abandoned as the assembled guests watched this increasingly tense exchange. From the corner of my eye, I could see Tywin half-risen from his seat, his expression murderous, while Ser Duncan's hand had moved to his sword hilt.

"You mistake the situation, Lord Reyne," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the silent hall. The friendly young prince was gone, replaced by the second in line to the Iron Throne addressing an overreaching bannerman. "Prince Aemon is a trueborn prince of the dragon's blood, grandson of King Aegon Fifth of His Name. His father made a choice based on love that many consider the height of romantic nobility. To suggest otherwise is to insult not just House Targaryen, but the very ideals of honor and devotion the best knights aspire to."

Lord Roger seemed taken aback by my sudden transformation, but recovered quickly. "No insult was intended, Your Grace. Merely an observation that different houses receive different consideration from the crown."

"Indeed they do," I agreed, my voice deceptively pleasant. "Consideration based on loyalty, service, and demonstrated commitment to the realm's wellbeing. House Lannister has served as Wardens of the West since Aegon's Conquest, their record unblemished by rebellion or overreaching ambition. While House Reyne's contributions are certainly noted, they are, by definition, made in service to their liege lords—the very Lannisters you seem so eager to diminish."

The rebuke was clear, and this time Lord Roger could not pretend to misunderstand. His face darkened further, a dangerous glint entering his green eyes. For a moment, I thought he might actually respond with open hostility—a move that would have disastrous consequences given Ser Duncan's protective presence and the numerous witnesses.

It was Ser Reynard who saved the situation, smoothly rising to his feet with goblet raised. "A toast," he declared loudly, commanding attention through sheer force of personality. "To Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella—may their future union bring continued strength and prosperity to the realm, as Targaryen marriages have done since Aegon the Conqueror!"

The assembled guests raised their cups automatically, social training overriding the tension of the moment. Even Lord Roger managed to lift his goblet, though his expression remained stormy.

"And to King Aegon," Ser Reynard continued, "whose wisdom in arranging beneficial matches for all branches of his family demonstrates his concern for the realm's future stability."

This cleverly phrased toast allowed the Reynes to save face while acknowledging the royal prerogative in marriage arrangements. I had to admire Ser Reynard's quick thinking, even as I maintained my neutral expression and raised my own cup in response.

"To King Aegon," the hall echoed, the collective relief at this diplomatic resolution palpable in the renewed buzz of conversation that followed.

Lady Ellyn, recovered from her initial disappointment, leaned closer to speak privately. "I hope our forward questions didn't cause offense, Your Grace," she said, her voice pitched to sound genuinely contrite. "We in the Westerlands sometimes forget court sensibilities."

"No offense taken," I lied smoothly. "Though I trust the matter is now considered closed."

"Of course," she agreed quickly. "Though should circumstances ever change..." She left the suggestion hanging, her meaning clear: House Reyne's offer remained open should the Targaryen marriage plans falter.

For the remainder of the feast, conversation remained carefully neutral, with Lord Roger noticeably subdued following the public check to his ambitions. When I finally excused myself, citing fatigue from the journey, the relief was mutual and obvious.

Tywin and Steffon joined me as I made my way back to our chambers, flanked by Ser Duncan whose imposing presence discouraged anyone who might have considered following us for further conversation.

"That was masterfully handled," Tywin said quietly once we were safely out of earshot. "Few would dare speak so directly to the Red Lion in his own hall."

"He needed checking," I replied simply. "His disrespect toward your family—and mine—crossed the line from ambitious to insulting."

"The man's arrogance is astounding," Steffon added, shaking his head. "Though I nearly choked on my wine when you announced your betrothal to Rhaella. I didn't realize that had been decided."

"It hasn't," I admitted, grimacing slightly. "It was the first thing that came to mind to discourage Lady Ellyn's increasingly unsubtle hints. I'll need to clarify that misunderstanding before it spreads too widely."

"A betrothal to Princess Rhaella would follow tradition," Tywin observed neutrally. "Though I understand your hesitation to discuss it publicly before formal arrangements are made."

We reached the Crimson Suite in contemplative silence, each processing the evening's events in our own way. As Ser Duncan checked the chambers for any potential threats—a precaution that seemed more necessary than usual given the tension with our hosts—I found myself at the window, gazing out at the moonlit mountains surrounding Castamere.

The moment the door closed behind Ser Duncan, the full weight of what I'd done crashed down upon me.

"Seven bloody hells!" I hissed, pacing the room in agitation. "What was I thinking? Why in all the gods' names did I say that?"

Steffon and Tywin exchanged confused looks, clearly taken aback by my sudden outburst.

"It was a reasonable response to an uncomfortable situation," Tywin said carefully. "Traditional Targaryen marriages are expected—"

"But it wasn't true!" I interrupted, running both hands through my hair in frustration. "There have been no discussions, no arrangements! I just... I just said the first thing that would make her stop looking at me like I was some prize stallion at auction!"

"I'm sure it can be corrected—" Steffon began soothingly.

"No, it can't," I cut him off, my mind racing through the implications. "You don't understand. This wasn't some minor lord's feast where rumors might stay contained. The Reynes will spread this everywhere—they'll make sure of it."

I continued pacing, the enormity of my mistake becoming clearer with each step. "By tomorrow, ravens will be flying to every major house in the Westerlands. By next week, it will reach King's Landing. My parents, my grandparents—they'll all hear that I publicly declared my betrothal to Rhaella."

"But they'll know it wasn't official," Steffon pointed out reasonably. "Our grandfather would have arranged it formally if—"

"That's not how this works," I groaned, sinking into a chair and burying my face in my hands. "Once it's public, once people believe it's happening... the crown can't just dismiss it without looking weak and indecisive. Especially not when it aligns with tradition."

I looked up at my friends, the full horror of my impulsive words dawning on me. "I've essentially forced my family's hand. They'll have to confirm it now, or risk appearing divided and uncertain. And all because I couldn't think of a better way to discourage Lady Ellyn's advances."

Ser Duncan, who had been standing silently by the door, finally spoke. "Your Grace, if I may... Perhaps writing to your family immediately might help contain the situation. Explaining the circumstances before they hear it from others."

I stared at him, momentarily surprised by the sensible suggestion. "Yes... yes, that might help. Though the damage is already done, I fear."

"You're overreacting," Tywin said with his characteristic bluntness. "Targaryen siblings have married for generations. Your parents are siblings, the most recent of such a match among the many in your family's history. This would have been expected eventually."

I shot him a look that must have revealed more than I intended, because his expression shifted from practical to something approaching concern.

"Unless... you had hoped for a different arrangement?" he asked carefully.

How could I explain that my revulsion had nothing to do with politics or succession and everything to do with the fact that in my heart, Rhaella wasn't just my sister but also Rey—the girl I'd loved in another life, the girl I'd died saving? That despite being born a Targaryen in this world, with all the family traditions that entailed, I still carried the moral framework of my first life where sibling marriage was unthinkable?

At least I spared Baelon and Alyssa from being dragged into this mess, although given my slip up and who their namesakes were I too was all but stating that they would also be wed in the future.

"It's complicated," I said finally. "I just... I had hoped this particular decision would be left to the future, when Rhaella and I were both old enough to have some say in the matter."

Steffon, ever perceptive when it came to emotions, approached and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Write to them," he advised gently. "Explain what happened. Our family loves you—they'll understand."

I nodded, though without much hope. "I'll start the letters tonight. Though I doubt it will change anything now."

Ser Duncan cleared his throat. "I can dispatch them with our fastest riders at first light, Your Grace. They might reach King's Landing before the Reynes' messengers."

I looked up at the old knight gratefully. "Thank you, Ser Duncan. That would help."

As Tywin and Steffon retired to their own chambers, I settled at the ornate writing desk, pulling out parchment, quill, and ink. The blank pages seemed to mock me, awaiting words that could somehow undo the damage my careless tongue had wrought.

I began with the letter to my grandfather—the one person whose authority might potentially override the momentum I'd set in motion.

To His Grace, King Aegon, Fifth of His Name,

Dearest Grandfather,

I write with some urgency regarding a misunderstanding that occurred this evening at Castamere. During a conversation with Lord Roger Reyne and his daughter, I found myself subjected to increasingly direct questions about my future marriage prospects. Lady Ellyn's interest was clear, as was her father's ambition to suggest a match between our houses.

Finding myself cornered and seeking to discourage these overtures diplomatically, I made the grave error of suggesting that arrangements were already being considered for a traditional match between myself and Rhaella. This was, of course, untrue—a hasty fabrication meant to end uncomfortable questioning without causing offense.

I fear, however, that my words will be taken as confirmation of actual plans, and that news of this supposed betrothal will spread quickly. I write to you immediately so that you might hear the truth from me before rumors reach court.

It was never my intention to presume upon royal prerogative in such matters, nor to create expectations regarding Rhaella's future. I can only offer my sincere apologies for this lapse in judgment and throw myself upon your wisdom to determine how best to address the situation.

Beyond this immediate concern, I must share my impressions of House Reyne. Their ambitions are barely concealed, their respect for House Lannister virtually nonexistent. Lord Roger spoke with shocking disrespect about Lord Tytos, and even more disturbingly, made derogatory remarks about Uncle Duncan and Cousin Aemon. The tensions here run deeper than I had realized, with the Reynes clearly positioning themselves as rivals rather than bannermen to their liege lords.

On a more personal note, I find myself troubled by recent events beyond political considerations. The journey has required me to take violent action twice now—first against the mountain clansman in the Vale, and more recently against an ironborn who threatened my life. Both deaths were necessary, justified by any measure of law or honor, yet I find each weighing upon me in different ways.

The first killing was desperate, chaotic—an instinctive struggle for survival that left me sick and shaken. The second was different—a single, precise action that ended a life with terrible efficiency. What disturbs me most is not that I acted, but how much easier it was the second time. I fear I am losing something of myself with each such act, becoming harder in ways that may serve a king's necessities but diminish the man behind the crown.

I know these are strange concerns to share in the midst of diplomatic complications, but I find myself seeking your wisdom not just as my king, but as the grandfather who has always guided me toward becoming not merely an effective ruler, but a good one.

With deepest respect and affection,Aerys

I sealed this letter carefully before beginning the next—a more difficult one addressed to my parents. How to explain to them that I had potentially bound their daughter to a marriage neither of us had formally consented to? That I had, in a moment of diplomatic floundering, reinforced the very dynastic traditions my grandfather had spent his reign trying to moderate?

To Crown Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Shaera,

Dear Father and Mother,

I write with a heavy heart to confess an error in judgment made during this evening's feast at Castamere. When pressured about future marriage arrangements by Lord Roger and Lady Ellyn Reyne, who were unsubtly suggesting a match with the Reyne house, I impulsively claimed that Rhaella and I were expected to follow your example with a sibling marriage. No such arrangements have been discussed, of course—it was merely a convenient fiction to discourage their increasingly forward suggestions.

I realized too late the potential consequences of such a claim. By the time you receive this letter, rumors may already be circulating about a formal betrothal between your children. For this, I can only offer my sincere apologies and accept whatever guidance you deem appropriate in addressing the situation.

Beyond this immediate concern, my visit to the Westerlands has been illuminating in ways both expected and surprising. The Reynes' ambitions are barely disguised, their respect for House Lannister perfunctory at best. Lord Tywin bears these slights with remarkable composure for one so young, though I can see the resolve hardening in him with each new insult toward his family.

After our time at Castamere, we plan to continue to the Reach, possibly Dorne before reaching the Stormlands as our final destination and then returning to King's Landing. The journey has provided valuable insights into the realm's current state, though I find myself increasingly eager to return home and share these observations in greater detail.

Please extend my love to Baelon and Alyssa. I miss their exuberance and curiosity more than I had anticipated.

With love and regret,Aerys

The letter to Rhaella was perhaps the hardest of all. How to explain to my sister—to Rey—that I had casually announced our future marriage without so much as consulting her? That my thoughtless words might have set in stone a path neither of us had chosen?

Dearest Rhaella,

I hope this letter finds you well and that Baelon and Alyssa aren't driving the entire household to distraction in my absence. I miss your calming influence on them—and on me, if I'm being honest.

I write with news you should hear from me directly, before court gossip inevitably distorts it. During tonight's feast at Castamere, I found myself cornered by Lady Ellyn Reyne and her father, who were making increasingly obvious suggestions about potential matches between our houses. In a moment of diplomatic panic, seeking to discourage these overtures without causing offense, I claimed that arrangements were already being discussed for a traditional Targaryen match between us.

This was, of course, untrue. No such discussions have occurred to my knowledge. It was a clumsy attempt to extricate myself from an uncomfortable situation, but I fear my words may now be taken as confirmation of actual plans. For this presumption, I can only offer my most heartfelt apology.

I know we've never discussed this matter directly. The possibility of following our parents' path has always existed as an unspoken expectation, but I had hoped any such decisions would be made with careful consideration and mutual consent when we were both older. Now, I fear my careless words may have forced the issue prematurely.

Please know that whatever comes of this, I value your happiness above all else. If Grandfather and our parents decide to formalize what I've foolishly announced, I hope we can at least discuss it honestly between ourselves, as we've always discussed everything that matters.

The Westerlands are both beautiful and troubling—full of complex political currents beneath their golden surface. I look forward to sharing all I've learned when I return, though that may be some weeks yet as we continue to the Reach, possibly Dorne and finally the Stormlands before turning homeward.

With love and regret,Aerys

The final letter was for Baelon and Alyssa—the easiest to write, as I deliberately kept it light and filled with the kinds of adventures and observations that would delight children their age. They were too young to understand the political complications I'd created, and I saw no reason to burden them with adult concerns.

As I sealed the last letter, Ser Duncan returned to collect them for the morning riders.

"Done, Your Grace?" he asked, his weathered face showing understanding without judgment.

"As done as they can be," I sighed, handing over the carefully folded and sealed parchments. "Though words seem inadequate for the mess I've created."

The old knight accepted the letters, tucking them securely into his tunic. "In my experience, Your Grace, family forgives much when the intention wasn't malicious. And kings have navigated far worse political tangles than a premature betrothal announcement."

"Let's hope my grandfather agrees with that assessment," I replied, managing a weak smile. "Thank you, Ser Duncan. For everything."

After he departed, I found sleep elusive despite my exhaustion. I kept replaying the moment at the feast, mentally testing a dozen different responses I could have given instead of the one that had escaped my lips. Eventually, I drifted into uneasy dreams filled with red-haired lions and drowning halls.

---

The next several days at Castamere passed in a blur of formal tours, elaborate meals, and carefully choreographed entertainments. Lord Roger maintained outward courtesy despite the rebuke I'd delivered at the feast, though there was a new coldness in his eyes whenever he thought I wasn't looking. Lady Ellyn had recalibrated her approach, treating me with formal respect rather than flirtatious overtures, though I occasionally caught her watching me with calculating assessment, as if determining whether my claimed betrothal might still be disrupted.

Tywin bore the subtle slights against House Lannister with impressive composure, though I noticed how carefully he observed and memorized each transgression, filing them away for future reference. His lion cub—dubbed Lann despite Steffon's relentless teasing about the name's origin—had become a surprising source of comfort, the tiny creature adapting quickly to human handling under Tywin's patient care.

"He's growing stronger," he observed on our fourth night at Castamere, as the cub took milk from a cloth soaked in goat's milk. "Another week and he might be ready for small pieces of meat."

"You've become quite attached," I noted, watching the gentleness with which he handled the small predator.

"He's a responsibility I've accepted," he replied with characteristic precision. "His development will reflect the quality of my care."

"And has nothing to do with how he purrs when you stroke between his ears?" Steffon teased, reaching out to demonstrate and earning a playful swat from the cub's paw.

"That's merely a sign of proper bonding," Tywin insisted, though the slight softening around his eyes betrayed him.

It was during these quiet moments, away from our hosts' performative grandeur, that I found myself reflecting on how our friendship had developed during this journey. The pressures and challenges we'd faced had revealed depths in both Tywin and Steffon that might have remained hidden in the relative safety of King's Landing.

A week after the feast, as we were preparing for our imminent departure to the Reach, a small flock of ravens arrived from King's Landing—responses to my desperate letters. My hands actually trembled as I broke the royal seal on the first one, my grandfather's personal signet pressed into the crimson wax.

To Prince Aerys Targaryen, Second in line to the Iron Throne,

My dear grandson,

Your letter arrived just hours before the first whispers of your supposed betrothal reached court through merchant vessels from Lannisport. I commend your foresight in writing immediately—it allowed us to prepare a measured response rather than being caught entirely off-guard.

Regarding the situation itself: what's done is done. While I understand the circumstances that prompted your statement, we must now deal with its consequences. After consultation with your parents, we have decided that the simplest course is to neither confirm nor deny the betrothal officially. When pressed, we will simply state that traditional Targaryen marriages remain a consideration for the future, but that no formal arrangements have been finalized for either you or Rhaella at this time.

This approach gives us flexibility while preventing you from appearing to have spoken falsely in public—a perception we cannot afford for the future king. It also avoids embarrassing House Reyne beyond what diplomatic relations can bear, though from your description of their behavior, a certain chastening might not be entirely unwarranted.

As to your more personal concerns about the necessity of violence during your journey: This weighs heavy on my heart, not because you acted wrongly, but because I had hoped to shield you from such burdens for at least a few more years. That you question the ease of taking life speaks well of your character. It is when killing becomes truly easy that one should worry about the state of one's soul.

I have taken lives in battle and in judgment, and each has left its mark, though in different ways. What you describe—the progression from chaotic desperation to calm efficiency—is natural. It does not signify a loss of humanity but rather the growth of capability. The true test lies not in whether the act becomes physically easier, but in whether the weight of the decision remains heavy. From your words, I believe it does.

A king must sometimes order deaths, whether through war or justice. What separates a just ruler from a tyrant is not the ability to wield that power, but the weight with which one carries it. Continue to question, continue to feel the burden—but do not doubt your right to defend yourself or others when necessary.

As for House Reyne's ambitions: your observations confirm reports we've received from other sources. Tread carefully during your remaining time in the Westerlands. While I doubt Lord Roger would dare move against you directly, pride and ambition can lead men to foolish actions. Ser Duncan's presence should be sufficient deterrent, but maintain vigilance nonetheless.

Your grandmother Betha is furious about the betrothal news but also resigned to it. She understands the weight of tradition, even as she had hoped for a different path.

We anticipate your return with eagerness, though I understand your desire to complete the planned journey through the Reach, Dorne and the Stormlands. The knowledge you're gathering will serve you well in the years to come.

With pride and affection, Grandfather

I let out a long, slow breath as I finished reading. The response was better than I'd feared, though the non-committal approach to the betrothal issue meant the possibility remained very much alive. Still, it was not the immediate confirmation I had dreaded, and it gave some hope that the matter might eventually be addressed differently.

I opened the next letter, recognizing my father's elegant handwriting on the seal.

Our Dearest Aerys,

Your mother and I were most surprised by your letter, though perhaps not for the reasons you might expect. While we understand your concern about speaking of a betrothal without official arrangements, we must confess that we are actually quite pleased by this development.

As you know, your mother and I defied convention to marry for love, despite other matches being arranged for us. That you would choose to follow our example by embracing a traditional Targaryen union with your sister brings us unexpected but great joy. There is a certain poetic symmetry to it—we fought tradition to marry each other, while you embrace tradition to do the same.

We have always believed that marriages work best when built on mutual understanding and affection. You and Rhaella have been inseparable since childhood, sharing bonds that go beyond mere siblinghood. Perhaps this is the path that was always meant for you both.

Your grandfather has wisely chosen to maintain public ambiguity for now, which gives everyone time to adjust to the idea. But know that should you and Rhaella truly wish for this match when the time comes, you will have our full blessing and support.

Your mother especially wants you to know that while our marriage required significant sacrifice and defiance, yours would carry the full weight of family tradition and royal approval—a much easier road than the one we traveled.

We are proud of how you are conducting yourself on this journey. The reports we receive speak of a young prince who listens more than he speaks, who observes carefully before judging, and who treats all with appropriate dignity. These are the qualities that will make you a fine king someday.

Travel safely, and know that whatever you decide about your future with Rhaella, we will support your happiness above all else.

With deepest love,Father and Mother

The letter from my parents was measured yet unexpectedly enthusiastic about the potential match, which only increased my discomfort. They had interpreted my panic-induced fabrication as a genuine desire to marry Rhaella, following their example of marrying for love, albeit in a more traditional way. The irony was not lost on me.

Rhaella's letter was last, and I opened it with particular apprehension.

Dearest Aerys,

Your letter arrived yesterday, and I must confess it caused quite a stir—though perhaps not in the way you feared. Mother actually laughed when I told her how you'd been cornered by the ambitious Lady Ellyn, saying something about "history repeating itself" that she wouldn't elaborate on further.

As for the substance of your concern: I understand why you said what you did. Diplomatic corners can require unexpected escapes, and I don't blame you for grasping at the most convenient one available. I might have done the same in your position.

Grandfather has been reassuringly vague when anyone at court mentions the matter, neither confirming nor denying anything, which has only fueled more speculation. Lady Olenna Redwyne (visiting with her new husband, Lord Luthor) has been particularly interested in the gossip, watching me with those shrewd eyes of hers whenever we're in the same room. I think she's disappointed to lose me as a potential goodsister, though she'd never admit it.

As for us—we've never really discussed what the future might hold, have we? I suppose we've both known since we were old enough to understand our family's history that this was always a possibility. Whether it becomes reality or not seems a discussion best held in person, when you return from your travels.

Until then, please stop worrying about me. I'm not some delicate flower whose future has been irrevocably determined by a single statement made under duress. Whatever happens, we will face it together, as we always have.

Baelon and Alyssa were thrilled with your letter and the stories of your adventures. Baelon has taken to carrying a wooden "dragon tooth" dagger, insisting it's just like yours, while Alyssa has somehow convinced one of the stable cats to be her "direwolf." They miss you terribly, as do I.

Be safe in your continued travels. The Reach should be more comfortable than the Iron Islands at least, though I hear Dornish hospitality can be rather... intense for northern visitors. Although the Stormlands would be quite safe with Aunt Rhaelle and Uncle Ormund waiting for you.

All my love, Rey

The signature—her childhood nickname rather than her formal name—brought an unexpected lump to my throat. It felt like forgiveness, or at least understanding, and the knot of anxiety that had been growing in my chest since that fateful feast loosened slightly.

I shared the relevant portions of the letters with Tywin and Steffon as we finalized preparations for our departure the next morning. The Reach would be our next destination, with House Hightower in Oldtown our first major stop.

"A diplomatic response," Tywin observed after hearing my grandfather's approach to the betrothal rumors. "Neither confirming nor denying leaves all options open while preventing any loss of face."

"And Lady Ellyn gets to nurse her wounded pride in private," Steffon added with a grin. "Though I suspect Lord Roger is less easily consoled."

"He'll find another ambitious match to pursue," I replied, folding the letters carefully. "Though perhaps with somewhat tempered expectations."

"The Reach should prove less politically fraught," Tywin noted. "House Tyrell lacks the Reynes' predatory ambitions, and the Hightowers value their connection to the Citadel too much to risk royal displeasure."

"After the ironborn and the Reynes, I'll welcome some simple Reach courtesy," Steffon declared, sprawling across a divan with characteristic lack of formality. "Though I've heard the Dornish ladies are particularly beautiful. Are we certain we need to visit Dorne?"

"Diplomatic necessity," I replied solemnly, though I couldn't help smiling at Steffon's transparent interest. "The second in line to the throne can hardly visit every other kingdom while snubbing the Martells."

"Besides," Tywin added with unexpected dry humor, "after Lady Ellyn's pursuit, I thought you might appreciate a break from ambitious noblewomen."

"Lady Ellyn was after Aerys, not me," Steffon protested. "I was merely an accessory prince-in-waiting, not worthy of the grand Reyne ambitions."

"Count yourself fortunate," I advised him. "Though I suspect Lady Olenna Redwyne might have cousins she'd be happy to introduce you to in the Reach."

Steffon's eyes widened comically. "Cousins like her? Gods preserve me. I've heard stories about that woman that would curl even your Targaryen hair."

Our lighthearted banter continued as we packed our belongings, the relief of imminent departure from Castamere lightening everyone's mood. Even the lion cub seemed more energetic, pouncing on stray ribbons and packing materials with fierce concentration.

"He'll need a proper traveling basket," Tywin observed, watching the cub's antics with that carefully neutral expression that nonetheless couldn't quite hide his affection. "Something secure but with adequate ventilation."

"I'm sure the Reynes would be delighted to provide whatever the young lion requires," I replied. "Especially since his presence is a visible reminder of what happened to the pride that attacked us."

The next morning dawned clear and cool, a perfect day for travel. The Reynes assembled in the main courtyard to bid us farewell, their ceremonial display of hospitality as excessive at our departure as it had been upon our arrival.

"Prince Aerys," Lord Roger bowed formally, though the warmth never reached his eyes. "It has been an honor hosting you and your companions. I trust your visit to Castamere will be remembered fondly."

"Indeed, Lord Roger," I replied with equal formality. "House Reyne's hospitality has been most... illuminating. I shall certainly share my observations with my grandfather upon my return to King's Landing."

The slight narrowing of his eyes suggested he caught the double meaning in my words. "We live to serve the crown and our liege lords," he responded, the latter part carrying just enough emphasis to make it sound like an afterthought rather than a sincere acknowledgment.

Lady Ellyn approached next, executing a perfect curtsy. "Safe travels, Your Grace. Please convey my regards to Princess Rhaella when you return to court. She is most fortunate in her future prospects."

I managed not to wince at the pointed reference. "The princess will appreciate your good wishes, my lady. I'm certain she would have found your company as engaging as I have."

The polite fiction maintained, we mounted our horses—an escort of Reyne men would accompany us to the Reach border, where representatives from House Hightower would meet us. Tywin's lion cub was secured in a specially constructed basket attached to his saddle, the tiny creature curled contentedly on a bed of soft wool.

As we rode away from Castamere, I couldn't help glancing back at the imposing red stone fortress rising from the mountainside. In that other timeline, those halls would become a tomb, the vast underground network flooded by Tywin's command, an entire house drowned for their defiance. The man who would order that destruction now rode beside me, carefully adjusting his lion cub's basket to ensure his comfort.

Different choices, different paths. Perhaps this journey was changing more than just my own destiny.

"The Reach next," Steffon said cheerfully, drawing up alongside me as we crested a ridge that would soon hide Castamere from view. "Think they'll have better music than the Reynes? Those singers last night were dreadful—all battles and bloodshed, not a decent love song among them."

"The Reach is known for its musical traditions," I replied, grateful for the distraction from my darker thoughts. "Though I suspect you're more interested in the legendary beauty of their ladies than their singing voices."

"Can't I appreciate both?" he protested with mock indignation. "I contain multitudes, you know."

Tywin, riding on my other side, actually snorted at this—a sound so undignified and unexpected that both Steffon and I turned to stare at him in shock.

"What?" he asked, his expression reverting to its usual composed state. "Even I can recognize absurdity when I hear it."

"Tywin Lannister made a joke," Steffon whispered dramatically. "Truly, this journey has wrought miracles."

As our laughter echoed across the hills of the Westerlands, I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. The disaster of my impulsive announcement hadn't been resolved entirely, but neither had it proven as catastrophic as I'd feared. My family understood, Rhaella wasn't furious, and the future remained unwritten.

For now, that was enough.

---

Author's Note:

Hey everyone,

Man, this chapter turned out long. The Iron Islands and Westerlands have so many layers to explore, I kept finding new angles and character moments I wanted to include. Something about these morally complex regions of Westeros just draws me in as a writer.

I really enjoyed writing Quellon Greyjoy. There's something fascinating about a man swimming against the cultural tide, trying to reform an entire society from within. That moment when he opens up to Aerys about losing three sons in less than a year ended up hitting harder emotionally than I'd planned, but it felt important to show the personal toll his political choices have taken. And I couldn't resist introducing young Rodrik "The Reader" Harlaw as this wonderful contradiction to ironborn stereotypes. The seeds of the reasonable man we meet in the books had to start somewhere, right?

The improvised surfing scene came to me late in the drafting process. I wanted a moment of genuine cultural exchange and joy before diving into the darker aspects of ironborn society with the thrall incident. Sometimes the most meaningful changes begin with these small human connections across cultural divides.

Aerys getting his second kill in this chapter creates such a different experience from his first one on the High Road. The first was chaotic and traumatic, but this one was clean, efficient, almost clinical. And that's somehow more disturbing. Our SI is developing the capabilities a king needs, but watching him grow concerned about how easily it came to him this time adds that layer of humanity I think makes characters relatable.

Writing the Lannisters at Casterly Rock gave me a chance to explore so many interesting dynamics. Tywin adopting that lion cub might be one of my favorite moments. On the surface, it's this perfect symbol for House Lannister, but it also reveals this gentleness in Tywin that could develop differently in this timeline than what we saw in canon. And those early sparks between him and Joanna were delightful to write. That relationship canonically served as his one true humanizing influence, so seeing it begin to blossom here feels significant.

The Reynes of Castamere were honestly chilling to write, knowing what happens to them in the original timeline. Roger and Reynard strutting around, so confident in their power and position, completely unaware that in another world they become nothing but a cautionary song. I tried to make them genuinely three dimensional though, not just cardboard villains. They're ambitious and arrogant, yes, but they believe they're the heroes of their own story.

Then there's that accidental betrothal announcement. What gets me about this situation is the pure irony of it. Aerys was probably headed toward a completely different marriage arrangement before that panic moment at the Reyne dinner. But with one slip of the tongue, trying to escape Lady Ellyn's advances, he inadvertently forced his parents' hands. And the twist? They're actually thrilled about it. Our SI desperately trying to change the future only to accidentally lock himself into an even more traditional Targaryen path than might have otherwise happened feels like exactly the kind of cosmic joke fate likes to play.

It speaks to something I keep coming back to in this story: our most consequential decisions aren't always the grand, carefully planned ones, but often those split second choices made under pressure. Despite all his future knowledge, Aerys remains vulnerable to the same human impulses and mistakes as anyone else.

As we approach the end of the Paths of the Realm arc with only two chapters left, I'm looking forward to taking you through the Reach and Dorne next, then wrapping up with the Stormlands before returning to King's Landing. These journeys are building more than just Aerys's understanding of the realm. They're creating the relationships and insights that will fundamentally shape his approach to kingship when the time comes.

While our SI works hard to change things for the better, the reality of Westeros is that not everything can be controlled. Some of his changes will work brilliantly, others might backfire completely. And sometimes, as with this accidental betrothal, he'll find himself locked into paths he was actively trying to avoid. That's what makes trying to redirect history so messy. Even with knowledge from another timeline, fate has a way of reasserting itself in unexpected ways.

Big thanks to .4545 for his editing help. This chapter went through several revisions to balance the politics, character development, and action just right, and his feedback proved invaluable.

Next up: the Reach, with all its chivalry, political games, and yes, Steffon's much anticipated encounters with the legendary beauties of Highgarden. Then we'll head to the sun soaked intrigues of Dorne, where Aerys will face an entirely different kind of challenge to his diplomatic skills.

Until we meet again in the land of flowers and sand,

Mtle232