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Eddard Stark
The raven arrived at dawn, when the castle was just beginning to stir. Maester Luwin found Lord Eddard Stark in the Great Hall, breaking his fast with Lady Catelyn and their children.
"A message from King's Landing, my lord," Luwin said, holding out the small scroll. The broken seal bore the impression of a crowned stag—the royal sigil.
Ned took the scroll with a nod of thanks, his expression grave as always. As he read, his brow furrowed deeper with each line.
"What is it, Ned?" Catelyn asked, her hand pausing as she helped little Bran with his porridge.
"Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and declared independence from the Seven Kingdoms," Ned said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet hall. "They've burned the Lannister fleet at Lannisport. King Robert calls his banners."
Catelyn's eyes widened. "War?"
"Aye," Ned confirmed, rolling the scroll and tucking it into his belt. "The Ironborn have gone too far this time. They've apparently taken Lord Tywin's heir as well."
"Lord Tywin has an heir besides Ser Jaime?" Catelyn asked, surprised.
"A legitimized natural son, apparently. I've heard rumors, but never met the boy." Ned turned to Maester Luwin. "Send ravens to all our bannermen. The North will answer the king's call."
"At once, my lord," Luwin said with a bow, departing swiftly.
Robb, who had been listening intently, looked up from his bowl. "Father, what's war like?"
The innocence of the question made Ned's expression soften slightly. "It's nothing a boy of six should worry about, Robb."
"Will you be gone long?" Robb's voice was small, and Ned saw the worry in his son's Tully-blue eyes.
"Only as long as necessary," Ned promised, reaching across to ruffle his son's auburn hair. "And I'll tell you all about it when I return."
"Can I come with you?" Robb asked eagerly. "I could be your squire! I'm good with horses already, and I've been practicing with my wooden sword every day."
"You're the Stark in Winterfell while I'm away," Ned said firmly. "That's an important job too."
Robb's face fell. "But there's no one to play with here. Sansa only wants to play with her dolls, and Arya's too little."
"Jory will continue your training," Catelyn assured him. "And your uncle Benjen's son is nearly your age."
"Cousin Torrhen is a baby," Robb protested. "He's four, and he cries when I play too rough."
Ned exchanged a look with Catelyn. They had discussed fostering a boy of Robb's age at Winterfell, but hadn't yet found a suitable match.
"Perhaps when I return, we'll find you a companion," Ned promised. "For now, I need you to be brave and help your mother."
Later that morning, Ned found himself in the godswood, kneeling before the heart tree, its carved face weeping red sap that seemed particularly vivid against the white bark. This was where he came to think, to pray, to be alone with the old gods and his thoughts.
But he wasn't alone for long.
"I thought I'd find you here," came Lyanna's voice from behind him.
Ned turned to see his sister approaching, dressed in riding leathers with her dark hair pulled back in a simple braid. At two-and-twenty, Lyanna Stark was still unmarried, still wild and beautiful and fierce as the North itself.
"You've heard the news," Ned said. It wasn't a question.
Lyanna nodded, coming to stand beside him. "The whole castle's talking about it. The Ironborn are raiding again."
"It's more than raiding this time. Balon Greyjoy has declared himself king." Ned rose, brushing pine needles from his knees. "Robert calls the banners."
"And you'll go," Lyanna said, her eyes on the heart tree.
"I must. I'm Warden of the North."
"Then I'm coming with you," she said simply.
Ned sighed. They'd had this conversation many times before—whenever trouble brewed beyond Winterfell's walls. "Lyanna..."
"Don't 'Lyanna' me, Ned," she cut him off. "I'm as good with a sword as half your men, and better on horseback than most."
"It's not about your skill," Ned began.
"Then what is it about?" she challenged. "That I'm a woman? We've moved past that, haven't we? Or have you forgotten who the Knight of the Laughing Tree was?"
Ned hadn't forgotten. How could he? The mysterious knight at the Tourney at Harrenhal who had defended the honor of Howland Reed against three squires. The knight King Aerys had become obsessed with unmasking, convinced it was an enemy.
The knight who had been his sister, all of sixteen.
"I remember," Ned said quietly. "I also remember where that led us."
Lyanna's face hardened. "Don't blame me for Aerys's madness. He would have found another excuse if not that one."
"I don't blame you," Ned said quickly. "I never did. But Father and Brandon..."
"Died because of Aerys, not because of me," Lyanna said firmly. "And Robert won his throne, and I'm still here, and I will not spend the rest of my life hiding in Winterfell because of what happened."
Ned studied his sister. She was so like their father sometimes—stubborn and proud and utterly immovable once she'd made up her mind.
"Catelyn will have my head," he said finally.
A smile broke across Lyanna's face. "She'll understand. She always does."
"Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you'd married Robert?" Ned asked suddenly.
The smile faded from Lyanna's face. "Sometimes. But it wouldn't have worked, Ned. You know that as well as I do. He wanted something I couldn't give him."
"Besides," Lyanna continued more lightly, "can you imagine me as queen? I'd have scandalized the entire court within a fortnight."
That drew a rare chuckle from Ned. "Aye, that you would have."
They walked back to the castle together, discussing the preparations needed for the journey south. As they entered the courtyard, they found Catelyn supervising as servants loaded supplies onto wagons.
"You've been busy," Ned observed, impressed by his wife's efficiency.
"We'll need to move quickly if we're to meet the king's forces," Catelyn said. Her eyes shifted to Lyanna, and her expression grew knowing. "Both of you, I presume?"
"If you don't mind," Lyanna said, with deference.
Catelyn sighed. "I've had your things prepared as well. Your riding leathers, your sword, your armor."
Lyanna's face lit up with surprise. "You knew I'd want to go?"
"I know you, goodsister," Catelyn said simply. "Just as I know my husband wouldn't refuse you." She turned her gaze to Ned. "Just bring her back safely. Bring yourself back safely too."
"I will," Ned promised, taking her hand.
A small figure darted between them. Robb, wooden sword in hand. "Father! Uncle Benjen says I can ride with him to the Wolfswood today while you prepare. He says we might even see wolves!"
"Did he now?" Ned raised an eyebrow at his younger brother, who was approaching with a sheepish grin.
"Thought the lad could use some adventure," Benjen said. "Since he's complaining he has no friends to play with."
"I don't have friends," Robb affirmed solemnly. "Just sisters." He made a face at the thought.
Ned knelt before his son. "One day, you'll be glad of your sisters, Robb. Family is the most important thing we have."
"More important than honor?" Robb asked, surprising them all with his insight.
Ned hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Though a man should strive to keep both."
Robb seemed to consider this, then nodded. "When will you be back?"
"As soon as we defeat the Ironborn," Ned said.
"And when you return," Catelyn added, "perhaps we'll discuss fostering a boy your age here at Winterfell. Would you like that?"
Robb's eyes widened. "A friend? To stay here with us?"
"If your father agrees," Catelyn said, looking to Ned.
"We'll find someone suitable," Ned agreed.
"Someone who likes swords and horses and climbing," Robb said excitedly. "And who isn't afraid to play rough like cousin Torrhen."
Ned laughed. "We'll see what we can do."
As Robb ran off with Benjen, Catelyn turned to Ned and Lyanna. "The men will be ready to march in three days. Will that be enough time?"
"It will," Ned confirmed. "The Northern forces will gather at Moat Cailin before continuing south."
"And the Ironborn will rue the day they chose to rebel," Lyanna added, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. "The North remembers."
"Aye," Ned agreed, his gray eyes hardening as he looked south. "And winter is coming for House Greyjoy."
Tyrion Lannister
Tyrion stood at the window of his father's solar, watching as men and supplies filled the courtyard below. The preparations for war moved with the mechanical precision that characterized everything his father touched. Banners snapped in the wind, horses stamped and whinnied, and the constant metallic clatter of armor and weapons filled the air.
His fingers found the wooden dragon in his belt, absently tracing its carved scales as he had done a hundred times since taking it from Adrian's room. The wood was smooth from Adrian's small hands handling it, a secret treasure kept hidden from their father's disapproving gaze.
"If you've come to change my mind, you're wasting your time," Lord Tywin said without looking up from the correspondence spread across his massive oak desk. "And mine."
Tyrion turned, waddling to the chair across from his father. He didn't sit—not yet. Standing gave him a rare few moments where he didn't feel quite so small.
"I should be with the army," Tyrion said. "Adrian is my brother."
"Half-brother," Tywin corrected, still not looking up. "And you're no soldier, Tyrion. You'd be another mouth to feed, another burden to bear."
"I wouldn't be the only non-soldier marching to war," Tyrion countered. "Aunt Genna's eldest is joining. If Cleos Frey can go, surely I can as well."
That drew Tywin's attention. His cold green eyes lifted from his papers, fixing on Tyrion with the familiar blend of irritation and disappointment.
"Cleos is tall enough to wield a sword without tripping over it," Tywin said. "What exactly do you imagine you'll contribute to this campaign? Wit? The Ironborn won't surrender because you make them laugh, this is why Gerion is staying here."
Tyrion swallowed the familiar sting of his father's contempt. "I know Adrian better than anyone in that army. Better than you, I'd wager."
"Better than me?" Tywin's voice was dangerously soft. "The boy is my son."
"And when was the last time you spent an afternoon with him? Read with him? Answered his endless questions about everything under the sun?" Tyrion felt reckless heat rising in his chest. "I'm the one who knows what he thinks, what he fears, what gives him courage."
"And how precisely will that help recover him from Ironborn captivity?"
"I must be there," Tyrion insisted. "I promised I'd keep him safe."
Tywin's expression didn't change, but something hardened in his eyes. "You won't be saving anyone, Tyrion. You'll be fortunate to save yourself if you insist on this foolishness."
Tyrion's hand tightened around the wooden dragon. "People die in war, Father. Isn't that what you want? A convenient way to be rid of me at last?"
Tywin's gaze sharpened to a blade's edge.
"If I wanted you dead, you would be dead," he said simply. "I need you here, not risking your life needlessly."
"Need me?" Tyrion laughed bitterly. "You've never needed me for anything."
"Perhaps I'm half-convinced that Adrian is already dead," Tywin said coldly. "Perhaps I don't wish to run out of sons entirely."
The admission stunned Tyrion into momentary silence. His father had never acknowledged, even obliquely, that he considered Tyrion his son at all.
"Adrian is alive," Tyrion said firmly. "He's too stubborn to die. Too much like you."
Something that might have been approval flickered across Tywin's face. "Yes. He will not be broken easily."
A sharp knock interrupted them. "Lord Tywin," called a voice from the other side of the heavy oak door. "Urgent news."
"Enter," Tywin commanded.
A Lannister guard stepped into the solar, his crimson cloak dusty from the road. "My lord, Sandor Clegane has been found. He's alive."
Tyrion's heart leapt. If Sandor lived, perhaps there was hope for Adrian as well.
"Bring him to me," Tywin ordered. "Immediately."
The guard bowed and withdrew. Tyrion's mind raced. Sandor had been assigned to protect Adrian. If he lived while Adrian remained captive...
The door opened again a minute later, and Sandor Clegane ducked to enter the room. He looked half a corpse—pale beneath his burns, with fresh wounds adding to his collection of scars. His massive frame seemed diminished somehow, hollowed out by failure and pain.
Tyrion felt a surge of fury. This man had been trusted with Adrian's safety, and he had failed. While his little brother suffered at the hands of the Ironborn, the Hound had somehow managed to save his own worthless hide.
"Clegane," Tywin said, his voice as cold as winter. "Explain yourself."
Sandor met Tywin's gaze without flinching, one of the few men who could. "We were ambushed in the hills above Lannisport. A large force—twenty, maybe thirty men—led by Euron Greyjoy himself. They knew exactly where we'd be. The attack was planned, coordinated. They weren't after gold or glory." He paused. "They were after the boy specifically."
"And yet you stand here while my son remains their captive," Tywin observed.
"I took an axe to the side defending him," Sandor growled. "Killed three of them before I fell. Rolled down the hillside and into the sea. By the time I washed up and could stand again, they were gone, and the boy with them."
"How convenient for you," Tyrion said bitterly.
Sandor's burned face twisted as he looked down at Tyrion. "If I wanted to abandon him, I'd have run when the attack began. I wouldn't have gotten this." He pulled up his tunic to reveal a savage wound along his ribs, hastily stitched but still angry and red. "Or this." He turned his head to show a fresh gash that ran from ear to collar.
"Why are you here now?" Tywin asked. "Why not crawl away to lick your wounds in peace?"
"I'm here to help get Lord Adrian back," Sandor said simply. "I would have gone after them myself, but I'm not fool enough to think I could take on the Iron Fleet alone. I need men. Ships."
"And why should I trust you with my son's safety a second time?" Tywin's voice could have frozen the summer sea.
"Because I failed him once," Sandor replied. "And a dog learns from its mistakes."
Tyrion watched his father's face carefully. Tywin Lannister was not a man who believed in second chances. He was not a man who forgave failure. And yet, Tyrion saw calculation in those green eyes.
"You may join us," Tywin said finally. "You will serve as a common soldier, not a guard. Your life now belongs to Adrian. If he dies, you die with him."
"Understood," Sandor said without hesitation.
"And if you fail me again," Tywin continued, "the scar your brother gave you will seem like an actual accident compared to what I will do to you."
Sandor's mouth twisted. "Fair terms, my lord."
"See to your wounds," Tywin ordered. "We march in two days."
When Sandor had gone, Tyrion looked at his father. "You're too generous. I'd have had his head."
"A head can't fight," Tywin said practically. "And Clegane is worth ten ordinary men in battle. Besides, his loyalty is to Adrian, not to me. That may prove useful."
"You still won't let me go," Tyrion observed.
"No," Tywin confirmed. "You'll remain at Casterly Rock as acting Lord in my absence."
The words took a moment to register. Acting Lord of Casterly Rock? Tyrion stared at his father, certain he'd misheard.
"You jest," he said finally.
"I never jest," Tywin said. "Despite your many failings, you have a mind for figures and a certain low cunning that may serve well enough while I'm away. Kevan goes with me, as does Tygett. Someone with Lannister blood must hold the Rock."
Tyrion couldn't keep the astonishment from his face. "You're trusting me with Casterly Rock?"
"I'm entrusting you with its administration, not its ownership," Tywin clarified coldly. "Don't mistake necessity for favor."
"Of course not," Tyrion murmured. "That would be unprecedented."
He finally sat in the chair across from his father, mind reeling. Acting Lord of Casterly Rock. It was more than he'd ever been given, more trust than his father had ever shown him.
And all it had cost was Adrian's freedom.
Tyrion's fingers found the wooden dragon again. He would keep it safe until Adrian returned. He would keep Casterly Rock safe, too, proving to his father that a dwarf could be as effective as any other Lannister. And when Adrian came home, Tyrion would be waiting with a castle in good order and a dragon returned to its rightful owner.
"I'll make you proud, Father," Tyrion said quietly.
Tywin Lannister didn't say anything.
Jaime Lannister
The Lannister camp sprawled across the hills near Castle Darry like a sea of crimson and gold. Jaime had ridden hard for days, changing horses at every opportunity, determined to reach his father's forces before they moved on to Seaguard. His white cloak was gray with dust, his golden armor dulled by the road, but he'd made it.
As he rode through the camp, men stopped to stare. The Kingslayer, in his white cloak and golden armor, was an unusual sight so far from the king's side. Whispers followed him like shadows.
"Ser Jaime," a guard at his father's tent greeted him, bowing slightly. "Lord Tywin expected you tomorrow."
"I rode through the night," Jaime dismounted, stretching his stiff muscles. "Is he alone?"
"With Lord Kevan, Ser."
Jaime nodded and pushed aside the tent flap without waiting for an announcement. Inside, his father and uncle were bent over a map-covered table, wooden markers representing armies scattered across the Riverlands and coastline.
"Father," Jaime said simply.
Tywin Lannister straightened, his green-gold eyes taking in his eldest son's disheveled appearance. Something that might have been satisfaction flickered across his face, but was quickly replaced by a blank face.
"Jaime," he acknowledged. "I see you've decided to remember your family obligations."
"I came as soon as I could," Jaime replied, choosing to ignore the barb. "The King granted my request to join our forces rather than his."
Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Did he? How reasonable of Robert."
"He's eager to smash Ironborn skulls," Jaime said with a shrug. "He doesn't much care who rides with him, so long as the job gets done."
Kevan Lannister stepped forward, clasping Jaime's arm in greeting. "It's good to see you, nephew. We can use every sword we can get."
"Where is the royal army?" Tywin asked, returning his attention to the map.
"At Harrenhal when I left them," Jaime reported. "Moving slower than we are. Robert insists on hunting every morning, and feasting every night."
"Some things never change," Tywin murmured. He placed a marker on the map, adjusting the position slightly. "House Lannister has been dealt a severe blow. Our fleet destroyed, our trade disrupted, and my heir taken."
"Adrian," Jaime said, the name still strange on his tongue. He thought of Cersei's tear-streaked face, her desperate pleas. The questions that had haunted him during his journey burned on his tongue. Who is this boy really? Why does Cersei care so much? Is he truly your son, Father, or is he something else entirely?
But he remembered his sister's warning. Don't tell Father I reacted this way. Never mention this to Father.
"Who else has joined our cause?" Jaime asked instead.
"The entire Westerlands has answered our call," Tywin replied. "Kevan commands one wing of our forces, Tygett another. Your cousin Cleos is here as well."
"Cleos Frey?" Jaime couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. Genna's eldest was no warrior. "I wouldn't have expected him to march to war."
"He seems eager to prove himself," Kevan said diplomatically. What went unsaid was that Cleos needed to prove himself a Lannister despite his Frey name.
"And what's our strategy?" Jaime moved closer to the map, studying the positions of the wooden lions and krakens.
"We march for Seaguard," Tywin said. "The Ironborn are focusing their attacks there, but Lord Mallister is holding strong. The Redwyne fleet has joined with House Farman, as well as smaller contingents from House Westerling and House Banefort."
"Stannis Baratheon sails with the Royal Fleet," Jaime added. "They've already departed King's Landing and should reach the Iron Islands within three months, if the winds favor them."
"We cannot wait that long," Tywin said, his finger tracing the coastline on the map. "Every day Adrian remains their captive is another day of insult to House Lannister."
"We have more allies coming," Jaime said. "House Arryn has called its banners and marches for Seaguard. The North rides as well."
"Ned Stark?" Tywin's expression sharpened with interest.
Jaime nodded. "Robert counts him as his closest friend. He'll answer the call without hesitation."
"And the Reach?"
"Sending food and soldiers, though Mace Tyrell himself seems content to feast at Highgarden while others fight."
"Predictable," Tywin said with faint contempt. He studied the map for a moment longer, then straightened. "With these forces combined, we'll crush this rebellion within two months. Balon Greyjoy will learn what happens when you challenge the lion."
Jaime watched his father's face carefully. After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "What is he like? Adrian?"
Tywin looked up sharply. "Why do you care?"
"I've never met him," Jaime said. "If I'm to help rescue my... half-brother, I'd like to know something about him. All I know is that he has golden hair, like a true Lannister." He emphasized the words slightly, watching for any reaction.
Tywin's face remained impassive. "Adrian is perceptive. Sharp-minded. He reads voraciously and has already shown considerable talent with a sword. Unlike some, he knows how to discuss matters beyond knights and legends."
The jab wasn't subtle, but Jaime let it pass. His father had never approved of his obsession with knighthood and heroic tales as a boy.
"You make him sound like the perfect heir," Jaime observed, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from his voice.
"He has potential," Tywin allowed. "With proper guidance."
"Does he favor you?" Jaime pressed. "In temperament, I mean."
"In some ways. In others, he reminds me of... other members of our family."
Jaime's heart quickened. "Such as?"
"He has Kevan's thoroughness," Tywin said after a pause. "And perhaps some of your sister's quick temper, though better controlled."
Cersei's temper. Another piece of the puzzle, though Jaime wasn't sure what picture it formed. A boy with silver-gold hair and his sister's temperament.
"Where is Tyrion?" Jaime asked, changing the subject before his questions became too obvious. "I expected to find him here."
"Your brother remains at Casterly Rock," Tywin said. "He wanted to join us, but I saw no point in bringing him along."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "You passed up an opportunity to place Tyrion in danger? That's unlike you, Father."
Tywin's expression hardened. "I need someone of Lannister blood to hold Casterly Rock in my absence. With you in the Kingsguard and Adrian captive, Tyrion was the only choice."
This was unexpected. Jaime had never heard his father entrust Tyrion with any responsibility of significance. "He must have been surprised."
"He was," Tywin acknowledged. "Get some rest. We march at dawn. Your uncle will show you to your tent."
It was a dismissal, and Jaime recognized it as such. He bowed slightly. "Father. Uncle."
As he followed Kevan through the camp, Jaime resolved to learn more about this mysterious boy who had suddenly become so central to the fate of House Lannister. One way or another, he would discover the truth about Adrian, about Cersei's tears, and about the secrets his father was keeping from his own children.
The camp quieted as evening fell, the bustling activity of soldiers preparing for war giving way to the more relaxed atmosphere of men sharing meals, stories, and wine around flickering fires. Jaime had changed from his White Cloak and golden armor into more subdued attire. A simple crimson tunic with the Lannister lion embroidered subtly on the sleeve, and now moved among the soldiers, a wineskin in hand.
He wasn't recognized immediately without his distinctive Kingsguard armor, which suited his purpose. Jaime wanted to hear honest talk, not the careful words men offered to a Lannister of Casterly Rock, let alone the Kingslayer.
He approached a fire where several men-at-arms sat passing a flagon between them. Their tunics bore the badges of various Westerland houses, a boar for Crakehall, a burning tree for Marbrand, the Lannister lion.
"Room for one more?" Jaime asked, holding up his wineskin.
The men looked up, squinting in the firelight. Recognition dawned slowly on their faces.
"Ser Jaime," said one, starting to rise.
Jaime waved him back down. "No ceremony tonight. Just a tired man looking for company and conversation."
The soldiers exchanged glances but shifted to make room for him. Jaime settled on a log beside a grizzled sergeant whose scarred face suggested years of experience.
"Darrin, my lord," the sergeant introduced himself. "Served your lord father for twenty years."
"Then you've earned this," Jaime said, passing him the wineskin. "Arbor gold, liberated from my uncle Kevan's personal supply."
That drew appreciative chuckles from the men. Darrin took a long pull and handed it back with a nod of thanks.
"What brings the Kingslayer to our humble fire?" asked a younger soldier, instantly regretting his boldness when Darrin cuffed him on the ear.
"Mind your mouth, Pate. That's Ser Jaime to you."
"No harm done," Jaime said easily. "I've been called worse, usually to my face." He looked around the circle. "I rode ahead of the royal army to join our forces. Thought I should get to know the men I'll be fighting alongside."
"And hear what we know of the Ironborn?" suggested a wiry archer.
"That too," Jaime admitted. "The king's war council has maps and reports, but men who've faced them in battle know more than any parchment can tell."
This appeal to their experience worked as Jaime had hoped. The soldiers began sharing stories of past skirmishes with Ironborn raiders along the coast. Jaime listened attentively, occasionally asking a question or offering a comment to keep the conversation flowing.
When the talk turned to the current campaign, Jaime saw his opportunity.
"I hear they've taken Adrian."
The atmosphere around the fire changed immediately. Faces hardened, and several men spat into the flames.
"Aye," Darrin growled. "Young Lord Adrian. Not even seven namedays, and in the hands of those sea rats."
"You know him?" Jaime asked, his interest genuine.
"Served in his personal guard rotation last year," Darrin said with evident pride. "Smart lad. Asks more questions than a septon at confession."
"Too clever by half," agreed a stocky swordsman. "But brave too. Saw him stand his ground when my lord Tywin's stallion broke loose in the yard. Everyone else scattered, but the little lord just watched it, cool as you please, then stepped aside at the last moment."
"He's got a way with animals," added another. "Horses, dogs, even that mean old tomcat in the kitchens lets him scratch its ears."
Jaime nodded thoughtfully. That sounded nothing like Cersei. "What does he look like? I've never met my... half-brother."
The men exchanged glances, and Jaime sensed a slight hesitation.
"Handsome lad," Darrin said finally. "Has the Lannister look, more or less."
"More or less?" Jaime pressed.
Pate, the young soldier who'd called him Kingslayer, spoke up. "His hair's different, m'lord. Not gold like yours or Lord Tywin's. Lighter, almost silver in certain light. But his eyes are Lannister green, sure enough."
"My father must be proud of such a son," Jaime remarked, watching their reactions.
Another pause, briefer this time.
"Lord Tywin is... Lord Tywin," Darrin said diplomatically. "Doesn't show much either way. But the boy works hard to earn his approval. Studies his letters and numbers, trains in the yard even when his hands are blistered raw."
"Sounds like a worthy heir to Casterly Rock," Jaime observed.
"Better than most highborn brats," said the archer bluntly. "Doesn't put on airs. Always has a word for common folk."
"Remember when he visited the infirmary after that fire in the barracks?" Pate chimed in. "Brought books to the men who were burned, read to 'em himself for hours."
"That wasn't in his lessons, I'd wager," the stocky swordsman added. "The lad's got a good heart."
"Unlike his father," someone muttered, too low for identification.
Jaime pretended not to hear, though the comment confirmed what he'd suspected. Adrian was well-liked by the common soldiers in a way Tywin had never been. He passed the wineskin around again, encouraging more stories.
"They say he's musical too," offered a previously silent soldier at the edge of the circle. "Plays the harp like—" He stopped abruptly, looking uncomfortable.
"Like?" Jaime prompted.
The man shrugged. "Just plays well, is all. For a boy his age."
But Jaime had caught what he had wanted to say. Like Rhaegar. The thought struck him with the force of a warhammer. Rhaegar Targaryen had been renowned for his skill with the harp, moving listeners to tears with his melancholy songs.
"What about his mother?" Jaime asked, trying to sound merely curious. "My father never speaks of her."
The silence that followed was answer enough. Finally, Darrin cleared his throat.
"Not our place to speculate on such matters, my lord. Lord Tywin says she was a woman from Lys, gone back across the Narrow Sea."
"Very convenient," Jaime mused.
"Begging your pardon, Ser Jaime, but there's things even Lannisters don't discuss," Darrin said firmly. "The boy's mother is one of 'em."
Jaime raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough. I'm just trying to understand the brother I have never met."
"Well, whoever his mother was," said the archer, "she gave Lord Tywin a fine son. And we mean to get him back."
Murmurs of agreement rose around the fire. Jaime was struck by the genuine determination in their voices. These men weren't just following Tywin's orders to rescue his heir; they genuinely cared about the boy's fate.
"Tell me," Jaime said, lowering his voice slightly, "is there any talk in camp about... who might have betrayed our movements to the Ironborn? The attack seems too well-coordinated to be chance."
The soldiers exchanged dark looks.
"Some say there was a spy in Lannisport," Darrin admitted. "Someone who knew exactly when and where Lord Adrian would be traveling."
"Lord Tywin has been questioning suspects," added the stocky swordsman. "Harshly."
"I don't envy them," Jaime said grimly. "My father is not known for his mercy to traitors."
"Nor should he be," Darrin said firmly. "Not when a child's life is at stake."
Jaime nodded, rising to his feet. "I've kept you from your rest long enough. Thank you for sharing your wine and your stories."
As he turned to leave, Pate called after him, "Ser Jaime? We're glad you're with us. For the young lord's sake."
Jaime acknowledged this with a nod, then walked away, his mind churning with all he'd learned.
Adrian Lannister. A boy of not quite seven, with silver-gold hair and Lannister green eyes. Musical like Rhaegar, quick-tempered like Cersei. Beloved by common soldiers, striving desperately for Tywin's approval.
And a mother from Lys that no one ever spoke of.
Can he be...no...no...I am just going mad...being able to sing does not make you related to Rhaegar...Cersei would never be foolish enough to do something so reckless.
Night had fallen fully over the Lannister camp. The sounds of thousands of men preparing for war had quieted to the low murmur of guards changing shifts, the occasional burst of laughter from distant fires, and the constant background noise of the river flowing nearby.
Jaime found himself in his uncle Kevan's tent, where a small gathering of Lannister family members had assembled for a private council, or what had started as one before devolving into reminiscing and drinking. A map of the Riverlands lay forgotten on a table, wooden markers askew where someone had bumped them.
"I still say we should bypass Seaguard entirely," Tygett Lannister argued, his voice louder than it might have been had he not already emptied several cups of wine. "Take ships from Maidenpool and strike directly at Pyke."
"With what navy?" Kevan countered patiently. "The Iron Fleet controls the seas between here and the islands."
"Bah!" Tygett waved dismissively. "The Redwynes have twice the ships the Ironborn do."
"Spread across half the realm," Jaime pointed out. He sat in a corner, nursing his own cup more slowly than his uncle. "And the Arbor is weeks of sailing from here."
Tygett scowled. Of all Jaime's uncles, Tygett had always been the most hot-tempered, and also the one who had treated Jaime most like a normal nephew rather than the golden heir.
"We're overcomplicated," Tygett insisted. "For all we know, the boy's already escaped. Probably swimming back from the Iron Islands as we speak."
Kevan sighed. "Adrian is six years old, Tyg."
"Six years old and Tywin's son," Tygett countered. "Probably organized a mutiny among the Ironborn by now. Offering them Lannister gold to bring him home."
Despite himself, Jaime smiled at the image. "Is he really so resourceful? I've never met the boy."
Tygett's eyes gleamed with something like pride. "Sharp as a Valyrian blade, that one. Learns everything the first time you show him. Good instincts too."
"How exactly did father come to have a natural son?" Jaime asked, seizing the opportunity. "It seems... unlike him."
"Not our place to question," Kevan said carefully. "Tywin had his reasons."
"But you must have wondered," Jaime pressed. "The great Tywin Lannister, so concerned with family legacy, suddenly producing a bastard and legitimizing him as heir. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
Tygett snorted. "Everything Tywin does has a purpose. When Aerys took you for his Kingsguard, Tywin lost his heir. Tyrion... well." He shrugged, not needing to elaborate on their father's feelings about his youngest son. "Adrian solved a problem."
"But where did he come from?" Jaime asked. "All I've heard is some tale about a woman from Lys."
"You sound like you're interrogating a prisoner, Jaime," Kevan observed mildly. "What does it matter? The boy is Tywin's son, legitimized by royal decree. That's all any of us need to know."
"I'm merely curious about my own brother," Jaime said, adopting a more casual tone. "Half-brother," he amended, catching himself.
"If you want to know about Adrian, ask about Adrian," Tygett said bluntly. "Not about how he came to be born."
Jaime conceded with a nod, changing tack. "Fair enough. What is he like then? Does he favor father in temperament?"
That brought a genuine laugh from Tygett. "Gods, no. Tywin was always serious, I don't remember him ever smiling. Never saw him play, not once." He leaned forward, warming to the subject. "Adrian can be solemn when it suits him, puts on what the servants call his 'little lord face', but he laughs easily enough when he thinks no one important is watching."
"He loves stories," Kevan added, seeming relieved at the change of subject. "Especially the old tales of dragons and magic. Drives Tywin to distraction."
"Dragons?" Jaime repeated, his pulse quickening slightly.
"All boys love dragons," Tygett dismissed with a wave. "I did. You did too, if I recall."
"Not enough to defy father over it," Jaime pointed out.
Tygett grinned. "That's where you're wrong. The boy's clever about it. Has Tyrion smuggle him books on Targaryen history, then memorizes enough boring facts about the Lannister mines to satisfy Tywin."
"He must be quite a lot like father in other ways," Jaime suggested. "To make father think so highly of him."
Tygett, now well into his cups, snorted with suppressed laughter. "Oh, he tries to be. Stands like Tywin, talks like Tywin when he remembers. But then he'll make some expression, or gesture a certain way..." He glanced toward the tent entrance as if checking who might be listening, then lowered his voice. "Between us, sometimes I swear I'm seeing Cersei when she was little. The way he tilts his head when he's skeptical, or that look of disdain when the servants displease him. Pure Cersei."
The wine cup nearly slipped from Jaime's suddenly numb fingers. He recovered quickly, but his mind was reeling. "Is that so?" he managed, keeping his voice neutral with effort.
"It's uncanny sometimes," Tygett continued, oblivious to Jaime's reaction. "Remember how Cersei would purse her lips when she was trying not to smile? Adrian does the exact same thing."
"Coincidence," Kevan said, shooting Tygett a warning look that his brother missed entirely.
"Maybe," Tygett shrugged. "Or maybe it's just that all Lannisters have certain... mannerisms." He yawned broadly. "Gods, I'm tired. And drunk. Not a good combination before battle."
"We should all get some rest," Kevan agreed, standing. "Dawn comes early, and with it, the march to Seaguard."
Jaime rose as well, his mind churning with implications. "Thank you for the wine, Uncle. And the conversation."
As he ducked out of the tent into the cool night air, Jaime felt as though the ground beneath his feet had shifted. Tygett's casual observation had confirmed what he'd begun to suspect: there was far more to Adrian Lannister than a simple tale of Tywin's indiscretion with a woman from Lys.
A boy with silver-gold hair who resembled Cersei, who loved dragons and played the harp. Born shortly after Robert's Rebellion, when Rhaegar Targaryen was newly dead and Cersei would soon marry Robert.
And Cersei—proud, cold Cersei—reduced to hysterical tears at the news of his capture.
Jaime walked slowly through the sleeping camp, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as his mind pieced together a truth that seemed both impossible and, now that he saw it, obvious.
If Adrian was indeed Cersei's son—and Rhaegar's—then he wasn't just the heir to Casterly Rock. He was the heir to a dynasty thought destroyed, a claim to the Iron Throne itself hidden beneath a Lannister name.
And if Robert Baratheon ever discovered this truth...
Jaime shuddered, remembering the broken bodies of Queen Elia and Aegon presented before the Iron Throne. The smashed skull of the infant prince.
But despite all of this, Jaime was not sure yet, but one thing he knew, once he looked at the boy, he would know the truth.
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