TYWIN
Something had changed in Jaime.
The thought arrived unbidden, a shard of obsidian in the granite sea of his duties. Tywin Lannister sat behind his great solarwood desk in the heart of Casterly Rock, the pale afternoon light filtering through the high, arched windows, casting a faint sheen on the meticulously arranged letters and ledgers before him. Outside, the Sunset Sea churned ceaselessly against the base of the mountain, an ancient rhythm that usually soothed him. For the past two months, however, ever since the deafening silence from that birthing chamber, the sea sounded only like a sigh of endless grief.
Two months. Sixty days since Joanna had gone, taking all the warmth from this fortress and from within him, leaving him with a repulsive dwarf of a son and a gaping hole where his heart had been. Tywin had filled that hole with the only material he trusted: duty. He worked harder than ever, governing the Westerlands with cold efficiency, responding to the King's letters from King's Landing, and ensuring the machinery of Lannister power continued to turn without a single falter. Duty was his fortress, his only defense against the sorrow that threatened to swallow him as the sea swallowed careless ships.
And yet, the thought kept returning, nagging at him like a rat gnawing at a tapestry. Something had changed in Jaime.
It was not a change an outsider would notice. To the household knights or the servants, Jaime was still the Young Lion, the golden twin, the heir to Casterly Rock. His hair still shone like newly minted gold, his eyes were still as green as a summer sea. But Tywin was his father. He had observed his son since the day of his birth, noting every strength and flaw with the precision of a jeweler examining a gemstone. And the gemstone he saw now had a different cut.
Before, Jaime had been a contained storm. Energy radiated from him, a restless spirit that could only be calmed through physical exertion. Sadness or anger—and boys often felt both—had always been channeled into the practice yard. He would swing a wooden sword at a straw dummy for hours, his cheeks flushed with effort, sweat plastering his golden hair, until exhaustion finally quelled the turmoil within him. That was his way. Strong, direct, predictable.
Now, the boy was quiet. Too quiet.
Tywin had seen it that morning. He had been walking down the hall, his mind occupied with a border dispute between House Westerling and House Jast, when he saw his son emerging from the library. Not bolting out as if escaping a prison, as was his custom, but walking with a measured, thoughtful pace beside Maester Creylen. There was no wooden sword at his hip. Instead, he had a leather-bound book tucked under his arm. They were speaking in low voices, and Jaime was nodding, his expression serious.
Jaime had never liked to read. Tywin knew this for a certainty. The letters seemed to dance on the page for him, a source of endless frustration that would have him throwing a book across the room. It had been Joanna who had the patience for it. She would sit with him for hours, tracing the lines of text with her slender finger, her soft voice coaxing the words to stay still.
More disturbing was the look in the boy's eyes. In the weeks after Joanna's death, Tywin had steeled himself for a child's tears and tantrums. He had received neither. There was the initial grief, of course, a glassy-eyed confusion he shared with Cersei. But it had passed quickly. Mourning, even for a child, had its limits. What replaced it, however, was not a return to his usual boyish exuberance.
When Tywin looked into his son's eyes now, he did not see lingering sorrow. Nor did he see the innocence of a seven-year-old boy. What he saw was a deep and unsettling calm, a stillness that seemed far too old for such a young face. And beneath that calm, there was a thin veneer of melancholy, not the sharp grief of recent loss, but an older, more weary sadness, as if the boy had seen the world and found it wanting. It was a look he might have expected to see in his brother, Kevan, after a long and difficult campaign, not in his own young heir.
Tywin shook his head, trying to banish the unproductive thoughts. Speculation was a waste of time. Facts were the currency of the realm. And the fact was, he had supper to attend with his children. He rose, straightening the black velvet tunic embroidered with gold thread at the collar and cuffs. Even in mourning, a Lannister must project strength. Especially in mourning.
They did not eat in the Great Hall, whose vaulted ceilings and vast tapestries felt too empty, too full of the echoes of Joanna's laughter. Instead, they gathered in the Lord's private dining solar, a smaller room with dark wood paneling and a great hearth where a fire crackled merrily, a falsehood of warmth in the chill that had seeped into the very stones of the castle.
There were only the four of them. Tywin at the head of the table, silent and imposing as a judge about to pass sentence. To his right sat Cersei, and beside her, Jaime. Across from them, to Tywin's left, sat Kevan, his loyal brother, his quiet shadow, his presence a steady and unwavering support. Servants moved without a sound, placing platters of baked trout, buttered peas, and warm bread. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the clink of silver on porcelain.
It was Tywin who broke it. He could not abide a purposeless silence. "Maester Creylen says your lessons go well, Cersei," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was not a question, but a statement of fact he expected to be confirmed.
Cersei, who had been stabbing at her trout as if it were a personal enemy, looked up. Her eyes, so like Jaime's, flashed with defiance. "Septa Lauren says my cross-stitch is the finest she has ever seen," she said, her tone a fraction too loud. "She says I have the hands of a queen."
Tywin gave a short nod. Ambition. Good. That was a Lannister trait. "And you, Jaime? Is Ser Benedict working you hard in the yard?"
Jaime placed his fork neatly beside his plate before answering. The movement was controlled, nothing like the fidgeting he usually displayed at the table. "Yes, Father. We practiced the basic stances and a few parries this morning. Ser Benedict says my wrist is growing stronger." He paused, then added, "But I spent most of the afternoon in the library."
Cersei snorted softly, a sound thick with childish contempt. "The library," she repeated, as if the word tasted foul. "You smell of old parchment."
Jaime ignored her. He kept his eyes on Tywin, his gaze steady and serious. "I was reading Archmaester Ludwell's History of the Conquest. And Maester Creylen showed me the maps of the Westerlands and Essos."
This time, Cersei could not contain herself. She twisted in her seat to face her twin fully, her long golden hair spilling over her shoulder. "Maps? You hate maps! You said they were just boring lines on cowhide and you'd rather fight someone with a real arakh!" Her accusation hung in the air, a reminder of their old world, a secret world of shared games and vows.
Tywin raised an eyebrow slightly. He remembered those complaints well.
Jaime turned to his sister, and for a moment, Tywin saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes—not anger, but something closer to pity. It was the look an adult gives a naive child, and to see it directed from one seven-year-old to another was deeply strange.
"I changed my mind," Jaime said calmly. "It is a proper thing for an heir to do. To know the lands he will one day protect. To understand the trade routes that keep us strong." He shifted his gaze back to Tywin, and the intensity in his green eyes silenced his father for a moment. "I have also been reading some of your ledgers, Father. About the tax tariffs in Lannisport and the yields from each of the mines. It is fascinating how gold is turned into power."
A complete silence fell over the table. Kevan had paused mid-lift of his goblet, his normally placid eyes wide with surprise. Cersei was staring at Jaime as if he had grown a second head.
Tywin felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. It was surprise, certainly, but beneath it was a cold, powerful wave of satisfaction. Tax tariffs. Trade routes. How gold is turned into power. These were not the words of a boy. These were the thoughts of a lord. They were echoes of his own lessons, of the philosophy he had built upon the foundations of his father's ruin. To hear them spoken so plainly from his heir's lips… it was almost perfect.
Too perfect.
"You never cared for those things before," Cersei hissed, her voice trembling with betrayal. "You only cared about being a Knight."
"I still mean to be a great knight," Jaime replied patiently, as if explaining something obvious. "But a knight protects his Lord's people and lands. How can I do that if I do not understand what I am protecting? Being Lord of Casterly Rock is more than having the best sword."
Tywin set down his goblet. The sound of silver on wood was loud in the quiet room. He looked at his son, truly studying him now. The boy sat straight, not slumped. His hands were still in his lap. He spoke with an eloquence and logic he had never before displayed. It was as if a small man had taken his son's seat.
"You speak wisely, Jaime," Tywin said, and the words of praise, so rarely given, felt foreign on his tongue. "Continue your studies with the Maester. Knowledge is a weapon, same as a sword. Often, it is the sharper of the two."
He saw a small glint in Jaime's eyes, but it was not the joy of a praised child. It was the quiet satisfaction of a man whose plan had succeeded. Across the table, Cersei's eyes narrowed, her lips thinning into a white line. She did not see a wise brother. She saw a stranger.
Later that night, long after the fire in his hearth had dwindled to embers, Tywin was still awake. The dinner conversation replayed in his mind.
The change was real. It was undeniable. But what was its cause?
He considered the possibilities with cold logic. Could this be a mere coping mechanism? A boy's way of dealing with unbearable grief by emulating the man he saw as a pillar of strength—his father? By immersing himself in duty and responsibility, he was building his own fortress against sorrow. It was a plausible explanation. It was an appealing one. It suggested a resilience, a strength of character he had not suspected his son possessed.
Grief, he thought, was a crucible. It could break a man, render him weak and pitiful like his own father, Tytos, who had wept at every petty slight. Or, it could burn away the dross, all the childish frailties, leaving harder, stronger steel behind. Was it possible that Joanna's death, the cruelest blow fate had ever dealt him, had inadvertently forged his son into the very heir he had always desired? A boy who understood that legacy was more important than happiness, that power was more lasting than love?
It was a monstrous and tempting thought. It gave a kind of cruel meaning to his loss. As if Joanna, in her final sacrifice, had given him not just a dwarfish monster, but a perfect heir as well.
And yet, the doubt remained, a cold undercurrent. The melancholy in the boy's eyes. The sudden eloquence. The abrupt interest in economics. It did not feel like growth; it felt like a replacement. As if his son's soul had been plucked out and another—older, wiser, and infinitely sadder—had been put in its place.
Tywin rose and went to the window, staring out at the inky blackness over the sea. Casterly Rock stood defiant against the night, a monument to pride and permanence. He had sacrificed everything for it, for the Lannister name. He demanded perfection from his children because legacy demanded it.
And now, it seemed, he was getting it from Jaime.
He would accept it. Whatever the source of this change, the results were undeniably positive. He would encourage it. He would nurture this new, inquisitive mind, give him access to the ledgers and reports. He would shape this new boy into a perfect reflection of himself.
He made the decision with his characteristic finality. He would ignore the feeling of unease, the sense that something was fundamentally wrong. He would ignore Cersei's suspicious glares and Kevan's astonishment. He would focus on the outcome.
Tywin Lannister had lost his wife, the only softness in his life. But in the process, it seemed he had gained a son worthy of the name. It was a cruel exchange, a bargain made in some hell.
And as he stood there, staring into the darkness, Tywin found that he could live with it.