CHAPTER V
Of Prancing Lions and Scuttling CrabsJason Lannister was not a man easily surprised. But surprised he was.
Not the gentle kind, either. Not the kind that makes you blink and chuckle and move on. No, this hit in the chest. He laughed, softly, as if to keep his old heart from stalling.
He looked at the boy lord again.
No, not boy lord. Not anymore.
Lord Caspian, then.
He studied the Valyrian across the table, seated with Prince Jaehaerys as if he'd always belonged there. Comfortable. Composed. Pouring wine that was too fine, far too fine for a Celtigar. And yet-
The crab once scuttled in salt and shame,
Till he forged himself a brighter name.
Not in steel, nor fire's flame…
But born of diamonds, with gods to blame.
Ahh. Poetry.
Jason took a long sip, letting the bitterness settle behind his teeth.
A glance to the king himself, Aegon, crown and all...revealed him still turning that accursed sword over in his hands like a child given his first real gift. Not a dragon. Not even a lion. A catwho'd found something shiny.. and it was shiny. Rainbows and sparkles.
That sword Frostbane had ruined all composure.
Jason's reverie fractured at the low rumble of the stag across the table.
Ormund Baratheon was fuming. Why so mad? Jason might have asked, but he wasn't an idiot. Baratheon rage was infamous, and this one...the Storm Lord was more bull than stag. Red-faced, nostrils flared, pawing the table like it might charge back.
Gods, Jason thought, I need to stop thinking in animals. Comes with drinking too much Arbor gold. Not enough to dull him, though. He still saw what this meant.
Aegon had the sword. The boy had the prince. The council had been caught with its breeches halfway down. And all of it...all of it, had been orchestrated by a forgotten Valyrian lord with bogs instead of banners.
The Celtigars were rich now.
Understatement of the century.
Jason had wealth. He was a Lannister damn it. Once fourth son, second now. The Rock flowed with it. But even he felt the tremor watching Frostbane gleam across the council table. That thing...whatever it was...was not just precious. It was legendary.
And it had been handed over like a gift.
Gods, if he'd had a sword like that when he was Caspian's age-no, he wouldn't have given it away. He would have held it gripped tight in his hands until death. He would not let go, not after Tommen's folly that left the lions bereft of their sword while even the ironborn strutted with valyian steel on their hips.
Jason didn't believe in magic. Never had. Happy it had faded away like the damned lizards, but when young Caspian had asked the crown prince, urged him to strike the wooden table, and the diamond blade had cleaved through it like cake-
Well. Jaehaerys had looked giddy.
They all had leaned in to look.
He'd even bought two of those Celtigar crossbows, stamped with playing crabs. Not the common ones, of course. No, these cost him a pretty penny. Penny, if you would call a thousand gold dragons… pennies. These were jeweled ones, with prancing lions. Proper gifts.
One for Tytos. One for Tywin. Elegant things. Quick to draw, smooth on the release.
Tytos had used his on a hunting trip which he had taken up again with fervor, where a lion... an actual lion, thought extinct ambushed his jolly brother.
The horse had spooked. Tytos fell. And for once in his life, Tytos had moved fast.
He'd loosed a bolt mid-fall...caught the lion in the throat, right through the snarl.
Clean. Lethal.
One of his proudest stories. Even Tywin had agreed. A rare thing.
And now Caspian offered more. Glass. Crossbows. Healing houses for the sick and bleeding. Miracles in flasks. Hospitals...not for lords, but for peasants.
Well merchants and peasants but the point stands.
The maesters hated it.
Jason smirked as he watched the Grand Maester's sour expression curdle like old milk. The man had sulked ever since Aegon scolded him in front of the whole council...called him out for "misplacing" ravens.
Misplacing. Hah.
Everyone knew the Celtigar raven had come. But the message had vanished. Hidden. Probably on Darklyn's urging. That jealous little lord had watched trade through Duskendale dry to a trickle...and now Claw Isle threatened to choke the rest.
Politics, Jason thought, sipping again. Always a game of bleeding slowly.
And Caspian?
Caspian was winning it.
The sea crab had built something. Quietly, cleverly. Jason remembered the stories of The Sea Snake, how he'd once rivalled even the Rock's wealth through the Stepstones and seas beyond. The Celtigar boy had something of that in him. Something more, maybe.
Lann the Clever would've liked him,Jason thought. Tricks and timing. Quiet power, not shouted.
Jason had always admired Lann,the trickster that the bards preferred. Jason himself might've styled as a fox if the Florents hadn't so thoroughly ruined the imagery.
Those big-eared bastards, he thought sourly. Always preening, always citing their royal blood, always sniffing like hounds but thinking themselves clever. They'd turned the fox into a joke.
And Jason Lannister was not a joke.
Still, he supposed, if he couldn't be a fox...he was the lion who outsmarts them all anyway.
Old grudges die hard, especially with a memory as sharp as his.
He glanced toward the table again. Caspian was speaking now, smiling lightly as he described a skirmish at sea...Myrish slavers disguised, trying to intercept shipments bound for Braavos. He laughed as he told it. Said the crossbows had "sung."
Jason knew which ones. His.
And gods help him...he was impressed.
The boy had made himself indispensable.
Jason drained his cup. Thought of Joanna.
Yes. He would speak to her.
Yes. He must.
Joanna was tired. Not of her friend...no, she loved Rhaella dearly but of the sighing, the daydreaming, the talk of her lovely knight.
Bonifer Hasty.
He was good enough to look at. Broad-shouldered, clean-featured. But barely a noble, and only a tourney knight at that. A minor house. A borrowed title. He'd been named Rhaella's champion once, and that was fine… champion was harmless enough.
But a lover?
Joanna had thanked the gods, The girl was innocent enough. A proper scandal like that, she feared would've ruined what little health the Crown Prince recovered.
Sweet Rhaella. Naive Rhaella. A princess locked in a tale of her own making.
They would never marry, no matter what she believed. And Joanna, her friend, but more importantly, her lady-in-waiting, had no choice but to nod, to listen, to agree.
Across the garden, Aerys and Steffon were wrestling on the grass, their tunics half-loosed, laughter rising into the summer air. Myriah sat cross-legged beneath a lemon tree, clapping and cheering, egging the cousins on with that Dornish lilt that made even taunts sound musical.
Tywin was alone on the divan, long legs stretched, a book in hand. Still, still as a statue.
The Seven's Virtue.
Joanna smiled to herself.
"Tywin?" she called out lightly. "Never knew piety would suit you so well."
He didn't look up.
"Tywin."
No answer.
She sighed, muttered "Fine," and crept toward him in silence. With a swift tug, she pulled at his leg.
"What- Jo... I mean, Lady Joanna, this is beneath-"
"Oh, hush, cousin," she smirked. "Or shall I call you my lord too?"
His green eyes met hers over the edge of the book, sharp, unreadable.
Her heart skipped.
"Fine," he said, the faintest touch of breath behind the word. "Joanna."
And that might've been something until Aerys broke the moment with a howl, pinned beneath Steffon's knees. For Steffon was two years his younger, yet he towered above all of them.
"Stop with it, you lovebirds!" he laughed, breathless. "Tywin, help me! Your prince commands you!"
Tywin exhaled… put-upon, but smiling despite himself.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said, rising and setting the book aside. He joined the fray, slower than the others, but not unwilling.
Joanna watched them tangle in the grass, princes and heirs and lions-to-be, all limbs and laughter.
A shadow loomed.
She turned. A septa stood behind her, lips pursed in disapproval.
Joanna sighed as well. But not with a smile.
Here we go again.
"My lady- such behavior, such familiarity..."
"Oh, hush you," Myriah drawled, stepping in, red wine in hand. Not Arbor Gold but Dornish red, dark and heady. The septa's face flushed instantly.
"But princess," the woman began, scandal sharpening her tone.
But Myriah ignored her. She looped an arm around Joanna's and tugged her off toward the cushions, where Rhaella lay beneath the silk canopy, reading and sighing like a page from one of her stories.
"Oh, Romeo," Rhaella murmured, drawing the little book to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
"Who now?" Myriah asked, eyebrow arched over her goblet.
"Oh, Romeo…" Rhaella whispered again, eyes closed.
Joanna answered before the princess could spiral further. "It's a book. Romeo and Juliet. Two doomed lovers."
"That explains it."
"What does?" Rhaella peeked up at them, suspicious.
"All these sighs. These blushes. These devotions."
"Myriah!" Rhaella's voice leapt an octave as her freckles bloomed across her cheeks.
"Just a jape, my princess." Myriah offered a dramatic bow, sloshing wine.
"Fine. You're forgiven, Princess." Rhaella sniffed. Then they all laughed.
But as the laughter ebbed, Joanna glanced down at the slim little book.
"Truly, though… where are all these books coming from?"
"They were a gift," Rhaella said softly.
"A gift?" Myriah echoed. "And you weren't going to mention this?"
"Did you receive any?"
"Would I be asking if I had?"
Rhaella giggled into her fingers. "No. But yes, they were a gift."
"From who?" Joanna asked, reaching for the back of the book. And there, at the bottom of the spine, small and stamped in gold...
A crab. Curled in a circle.
"Lord Caspian," she said.
"Hush," Rhaella hissed, glancing around.
"Yes," Joanna said again, lips quirking.
"Rhaella, you minx."
"Myriah!"
"What? I only said what we're all thinking."
Rhaella sputtered, cheeks burning. "It's not...it wasn't- he didn't give them to me, not in person. His men brought them. Not just to me, but to mum, to gran, to half the women at court, I think."
"Hmm," Myriah mused. "And I heard he gifted one to Lord Tywin as well."
"That explains that," Joanna muttered. "So that's what he was reading."
Myriah's smile faltered a touch, only briefly. "Well. I suppose he's thorough."
"I'm still offended," she added after a beat. "I received no such book. Not that I care for them."
"Oh, poor Doran," Joanna teased.
"Joanna!"
"Fine, fine."
Myriah sipped her wine. "Still. The young lord's easy on the eyes. And he gave the king a sword made of stars."
"Diamonds," Joanna corrected.
"Whatever. The way it glinted, it might as well have been magic."
"And now he's got half the court reading romance," Myriah added. "Interesting, isn't it?"
"But imagine, if he had given this book to your gran, the queen…"
They laughed while Rhaella made gagging noise, but were cut short by the arrival of a red cloak, boots clicking smartly on the stone.
"Lady Joanna."
"Yes?"
"Your lord father summons you."
"Oh."
Myriah gave her a look. "Go, then. But come back quickly. We still have bets going."
She gestured to the boys still wrestling in the grass...Aerys flailing as Steffon sat on him, laughing, while Tywin lurked at the edge like a reluctant soldier.
Joanna rose, smoothed her skirts, and followed the guard.
Behind her, the girls were already whispering again
"Father."
"Daughter."
"Oh, damn you...come here."
Jason opened his arms and Joanna fell into them laughing, a high, girlish sound that didn't suit her court-worn grace but suited him just fine. She always laughed like that around him. Didn't matter how old she grew, she would always be his little girl.
He kissed the top of her head before easing her back, his eyes squinting at her as if he were measuring something only he could see.
"You've grown prettier again. I don't approve."
Joanna rolled her eyes. "I was called in for this?"
He waved that away. "I've been watching you. And more importantly, I've been watching him."
"Who?"
"Don't play coy. You know exactly who. The young lord with the sword of stars."
"Diamonds," she muttered.
"Yes, yes. Lord Caspian." Jason raised a brow. "The court's whispering already. A second Sea Snake, they're calling him. And mark me, he's just getting started."
Joanna tilted her head, wary. "And?"
"And," Jason said, dragging the word, "I want you to befriend him."
"...Befriend?"
"Yes."
She gave him a look. Then another. Then narrowed her eyes. "You want me to seduce him."
"What? Gods, no!" Jason blurted, nearly spilling his wine. "Joanna. Why would you even think that?"
She folded her arms, leaning against the balustrade. "Because Uncle Tytos married little Genna off to that sniveling Frey whelp even before she flowered. And I haveflowered. And Caspian, while he's nothing like a Frey, it hurts that you would-"
"No. Joanna. Listen to me." He took her gently by the shoulders. "This isn't about that."
"Is it about me and Tywin?" she asked quietly, not meeting his eyes.
Jason exhaled through his nose. Her head lowered, resting against his chest, sulking in the safety of his embrace.
"Jo... you know I'd never force you to marry someone you didn't want, right?"
She didn't answer, not at first. Then...softly her green eyes lifted to meet his.
"What have you done?"
"Nothing," he promised. "And nothing I plan to. Not yet." He sighed. "But Tytos... Gods help us, I don't know what that man's doing. He's busy chasing skirts like a green boy of that mistress of his while his realm shifts beneath their boots."
Joanna looked away.
Jason continued, voice lower now. "I hear whispers of Tywin being matched to the Reyne girl. Or one of the Tarbecks. Roger seemed receptive. Of course he did...the rat bastard."
Joanna raised a brow. A news to her. Hurt pooling in her eyes.
"It makes sense. The Reynes are the strongest of our vassals."
"And still no match for the Rock," Jason snapped. "Yes, yes, I know. But they're tied to the Tarbecks by marriage. That gives them teeth. But ahh that match is unlikely- Ellyn's still a woman scorned. I'm not saying anything...but you listen to me."
Joanna's attention sharpened.
"You will not speak of this. Not to anyone. Understand?"
She nodded. Wordless.
Jason exhaled. "The Reynes are trouble. And now I hear whispers. They're courting other houses while sitting on our gold. Not the Marbrands...they are not that stupid-but others. Silent and quietly.
"But that's treas-"
"-They think House Lannister has gone soft after your grandfather's death. With Tywald gone. Tion gone. Tytos was never made to rule. A third son, too kind, too meek."
She swallowed, her throat dry.
Jason leaned closer, voice tighter. "If the crown were to intervene again...like it did in the past with the bandits, it would humiliate us. We'd look weak. We can't."
Joanna whispered, "What does this have to do with Lord Caspian?"
Jason looked her square in the face.
"Word is... Tarbeck plans to send him a betrothal offer, his daughter's hand. Ellyn's scheme, no doubt. Think about what that means."
She did. But- "He is in the east… with his own problems. The Crownlanders and Lord Baratheon… not to mention the Essosi- how could he interfere with the matters of the rock? Much less break the king's peace, he would be stretched too thin."
Jason was proud that she at least understood that at her age. But swallowing his guilt, he replied the same-
"He is not going to wage war with his own blade. He does not need to. Raise the taxes and tolls on anything Lannister. Sink ships secretly, gods know he had the experience. He already has the king's favor. So much coin that he can gift a sword like of Frostbane. Not to mention his relations with the Braavosi and together, choking the three sisters' grip over the Narrow Sea. Hell, his crossbows- and I don't want to go into the rumors of wielding thunder."
"But he wouldn't…" she started, trailing off. "He has no claim."
"He doesn't need to plant banners on the Rock, Jo," Jason said, low and urging. "He only needs to let Ellyn wrap her schemes around him. His coin, fleet, and… by marriage, an open path to the Westerlands."
"He doesn't need a claim," Jason said. "Ellyn… she failed with Tywald. She failed with Tytos. But with an alliance with Caspian? What would happen if the crown was to be involved again? To keep the peace in the Westerlands- some lions who can't even protect their own?"
What if the Crown decides- Maybe the Reynes should be the Lord Paramounts, Warden of the West.. instead.
She thought of the books, the healing houses, the sword of stars in Aegon's lap. She thought of how half the ladies had been gifted volumes and how half the lords had smiled as they read them. Support of the faith and smallfolk alike- she shook her head.
And when she looked up again, her eyes spoke.
She understood.
Tywin nursed the bruise under his doublet, fingers brushing the tender skin just beneath the linen. He was lucky, in truth... way luckier than Aerys, who now scowled petulantly as Princess Myriah pressed a cold cloth to his eye.
She cooed over him like a mother hen, and Aerys only scowled harder for it.
Across from them, Steffon giggled... He did! With the wide-eyed guilt of a boy caught stealing cakes. He always laughed like that, half-shame, half pride, blue eyes still too full of childhood to match the size of arms.
"Stop laughing," Aerys groaned. A growl, though it ended as more of a whine.
"Oh, it's going to bruise," Myriah teased, dabbing at him gently.
"Fuck..."
"Language, my prince," she cut in with a smile.
"What are you, my mother?"
Myriah only shook her head. Rhaella hovered near the edge of the pavilion, uncertain whether to be concerned or join the laughter. She did neither, as usual.
Tywin's own bruise throbbed faintly. Steffon was no joke anymore. A few months away in the Stormlands and he'd come back taller, broader, harder in the shoulders and in the laugh.
Towered over the two with a smirk for a smile. He was big and he knew it. And they paid for it. Durran's blood showed true in him now.
The constant bouts of sparring...no, wrestling had likely started over that. Aerys hadn't liked being overtaken. And he certainly hadn't liked losing. Not that Tywin ever won either. Not against that cursed axe.
Steffon fought with the weight and glee of Lord Lyonel, his grandsire...the Laughing Storm. And true to the name, he laughed still, chewing on a honeyed fig, crumbs around his mouth like a boy at a name day feast.
"So, Rhaella?" Myriah drawled suddenly.
Rhaella blinked. "Yes?"
"Pay up."
Rhaella flushed. "Myriah..."
Aerys looked up, confused. "What?"
Tywin already knew.
"They placed a wager, my prince," he said, smoothing the fold of his sleeve. "On us."
"A wager?" Aerys repeated, sitting up straighter. "Truly?"
Myriah grinned wickedly. "And I won." She blew Steffon a kiss. The septa watching from across the garden went stiff as a rod.
Steffon reddened, but not like before and scratched the back of his head. "T'was no trouble, Princess."
"Hmm," Aerys said, studying him. "You bet on Steffon."
He turned to his sister. "Did Joanna bet too? Sister...did you?"
Rhaella opened her mouth. Closed it.
"Well…" she tried.
"Answer your brother, princess," Myriah grinned, leaning into her while the princess was-
"She bet on Tywin," Myriah finished for her, shaking her head.
"Oh," Aerys said.
There was a beat.
"Oh."
The air had not changed but the laughter drained, replaced by something quiet and cold. Even Myriah didn't speak.
Tywin said nothing.
"You bet on a lion before your own brother?" Aerys asked.
His voice wasn't raised. That made it worse.
Rhaella said nothing. Her hands twisted in her skirts.
Myriah looked away.
"It doesn't matter," Aerys muttered, gaze lowering. "It's not like he won."
"Steffon did," he added. "Didn't he?"
But Steffon was too busy with his cakes to notice.
Tywin watched him, chewing blissfully through another slice, all strength and sweetness.
"Dragon's fire flows in him yet with stag's strength. A true Baratheon he is… A proper one!"
Unlike Tywin, that went without saying. He had braced for it. No dragon in him, not a hint, which Aerys reminded him often. He looked at Steffon.
A scion of two great houses, and none of it made him arrogant.
Unlike a certain someone.
And he would never rule the throne, would he? Maybe that's what made him free.
Power was a boon and a curse. And Tywin saw the curse. With his father. With Aerys.
The prince stood then, brushing off crumbs, and smiled that brittle smile again.
"Well," he said, "Ser Barristan's waiting. I've lessons."
He turned. "You all enjoy your games. Children at play."
He paused. "And Tywin...bring me my shoes?"
Tywin rose without a word and fetched them. Placed them gently at his prince's feet.
Aerys took them with exaggerated grace.
"Thank you, Tywin. See? A true servant of the realm."
A pat on the shoulder. Aerys turned and left, his shoes against the grass and a goblet of wine.. Myriah's, in hand.
Myriah and Rhaella watched Tywin's jaw clench ad unclench. He took a few breaths. Silent. It would not do to lose his composure here. He looked up, he was smiling.
The three of them watched as Steffon reached for another cake, unaware-
Humming to himself.
After the prince had ruined his morning, Tywin found himself retreating to his rooms. He sat on his desk with his posture straight, the candles flickering as he scribbled on a paper with red ink, the shade just right. The book was open in his hands, and he continued his reading from where he had left.
Someone might have seen Tywin Lannister reading The Seven's Virtue and thought him a pious man.
They would be wrong.
He believed in the gods, yes. Enough to bow at a septon's blessing, to sit through sermon and ritual without complaint. Enough to keep up appearances.
But true faith? Reverence?
No. Tywin Lannister believed in order. In discipline. In legacy. Not miracles.
And yet, he kept reading.
Not the gaudy, jewel-stamped copy gifted to him, befitting his status as heir to Casterly Rock. That one he had set aside untouched. This copy he had purchased himself long ago, through a Braavosi intermediary. Plain binding. No embellishments. The words were what interested him.
The language.
There was something about the way it was written...simple, unadorned, yet insidious. Cloaked in talk of the Seven's mercy, the Father's justice, the Mother's love. Piety dressed in clarity. And all of it, laced through with values Tywin understood, anyone would. Discipline, sacrifice. Justice.
He was now on the chapter named "Of Strength of Will and The Warrior above all."
He read a line about the virtues of restraint and found his jaw tighten.
Father.
The Lord of Casterly Rock, too often drunk, too often laughing, too often buried beneath the skirts of that lowborn whore. The one who wore his mother's jewels now. Who sat in his mother's chair. As if she were Lady of the Rock.
Tywin closed the book, slowly. Two deep breaths in. One long exhale.
He had long since trained himself not to act in anger. That had been his lesson, paid in silence and clenched fists. A lion does not bare its teeth for sport.
He reopened the book. Read on.
The passages spoke of divine purpose. Of mortals serving the will of the Seven to better the realm. On the surface, innocuous. Noble even. But Tywin saw beneath the surface.
The Seven-Pointed Star glinted in nearly every header but funny enough always, always, there was a crab. Sometimes literal. Sometimes metaphorical. The symbolism was threaded so tightly that it took effort to notice.
No one would think there was anything wrong. And there was nothing wrong really, with what? A crab on a shore scuttling under a seven-pointed star?
And the opening page…Lord Caspian, kneeling before the Warrior's statue, a sword laid across his palms like an offering. A lord, draped in duty and humility. Devout. Loyal. Blessed.
It was not subtle. Not for Tywin.
Then came the tales. The stories one might tell children late at night.
Accounts of evils in the East, stories of temptation, slavery, godlessness… clearly designed to rile up the emotions of the good people of Westeros. But Tywin could not help but hear it echo the actions of Crackclaw Point.
Passages about how Lord Caspian had risked his life to defend his people, driven not by ambition, not coin but divine duty.
His medicines, his healing houses, his reforms like the King's. All framed as the faithful's answer to sin.
He was not alone, of course. The book paid its dues to the septons, the Most Devout, to the Seven. But always, quietly, subtly, it all trailed back to Caspian as if stood at the center.
The text insisted otherwise, but the pattern was unmistakable. Every anecdote circled back in way that reminded you of him. Not written, but your mind's eye would have him at your forefront. Noble. Gentle. Kind?
Blessed by the gods surely.
Tywin shook his head.
He read further, stories of the Andals fighting the evils of Essos, making one great stand before bringing light to Westeros, guiding the misguided men already here to a better way.
Modified retellings. Glossed-over truths. Not direct enough to offend the Old Gods or the Rhoynar, not explicit enough to provoke the Targaryens, for they were too part of the great evil in the east once.
Dragonlords.
Not Valyrians but Dragonlords. Not directly stated, but the tales painted your mind as such.
Funny enough, the Celtigars never once rode a dragon… did they?
It was brilliant.
Masterful, really.
Tywin found himself nodding. Not in agreement with the message, but with the execution.
It made you believe...not by command, but by suggestion. Every tale whispered Lord Caspian's deeds, drawing lines between him and the divine without ever declaring it outright. A lesser man would have fallen for it.
Most had.
At court, the Crab's name drew cheers as much as the Sept of Baelor. Septons quoted him more than scripture. Smallfolk spoke of him like a living saint.
Tywin Lannister did not revere men, but he recognized power when he saw it.
And what Caspian Celtigar had was power.
Not his coin, or crossbows, or ships.
Narrative