Chapter 13 - Out of the Cradle and Into Untraveled Goldroad

TYWIN LANNISTER'S POV

I have looked into the eyes of kings and seen weakness masquerading as majesty. I have knelt before fools draped in banners, and stood beside madmen clutching their thrones. 

Most wear the crown, few bear its weight.

The boy that was meant to become my ward was neither weak nor a fool. When I first met Crown Prince Durrandon, I expected a polished puppet, an echo of Robert's blunt arrogance at best, or Cersei's blinding pride at worst. 

Instead, I found a child who observed and listened more than he spoke. A six-year-old in name only. There was calculation behind those violet and blue eyes, not the whimsical mischief of children, but the stillness of one who thinks… and learns.

He accepted my offer of guidance without pretense or protest, not with a kid meek nod, but a deliberate courtier's bow. Not submission, I deduced, but studied strategy. He had measured the lion and decided not to roar at it.

At least not yet.

The realm will call him promising, but I currently call him dangerous. And dangerous things, if molded properly, can serve better than obedient ones.

I turned back to my writing desk, fingers curling around the quill as I mentally readied myself to another long voyage on my way back to Casterly Rock, when the knock at my chamber's doors suddenly came, soft and deferential.

"You may enter." I announced.

The door opened with a groan and Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in, draped in his voluminous robes like a relic with lungs. He wheezed, bowed his head and approached with the slowness of a dying candle.

"Lord Tywin." He rasped. "Might I impose on your time?"

I gestured toward the seat without looking up. "It appears you already have."

He settled in, joints creaking like an old ship in a storm.

"I come to you not as a servant of the Citadel or a member of King Robert's small council..." He began. "…but as a man loyal to House Lannister."

That admittedly caught me by surprise, prompting me to look up, brow arched. "Forgive my skepticism, Grand Maester. You've bent your knee to four kings and whispered counsel to the fourth once he dethroned the third. Loyalty is not a chain you wear."

His spine straightened. Not fully, but with a strange and sudden vitality as the tremor in his voice dulled and the fog behind his eyes thinned. For the first time in years, I was forced to wonder whether the stooped Maester had been playing a longer game than anyone might've suspected.

"I served the realm." He said. "But I survived by following the only man who could truly rule it."

I watched him closely. He had never spoken like this, not to me, and given how long he has lasted playing his game, not to anyone else.

"It was I…" He said slowly. "…who told Aerys to open the gates. I who whispered that Tywin Lannister came not as conqueror, but as salvation."

I set the quill down. "And why reveal this now?"

His voice lowered, grave and deliberate. "Because your house stands at the edge of a blade." He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the faintest trace of myrrh and parchment, not rot. "Your daughter's twin children are not Robert's. Your son is their true father. The realm has been fed a lie, but lies rot and some might even make sure that it spreads into the light."

The fury that surged through me after hearing those words was cold, not a blaze, but a blade drawn in silence. I didn't rise nor blink differently at those foul accusations. "And how do you know this?"

"Because Varys knows. Because the recently appointed Master of Coin suspects and waits. Because I have seen what others refuse to look at. You've known, Lord Tywin. Perhaps not in words or thoughts, but in instinct. In the way fathers do, when they see too much of their children in places they should not be."

He waited, letting the silence breathe. I could hear the distant rumble of waves crashing beneath the Red Keep, even though they seemed hushed now.

If this truth ever reached the ears of the Faith, of Dorne, of Robert Baratheon… my line would not be questioned, it would be erased. Kingsguard vows would be broken and matrimonial ties be cut, yes, but so too would bones and throats. 

Jaime, my golden son…my heir in all but titles. And Cersei, too clever, too proud, too blind. That they would both shame themselves was one thing… but that they would shame our house, that I cannot allow.

And if I fail, what then? Leave Casterly Rock to Tyrion? To the twisted imp I tried so long to ignore out of necessity? No. If that is my only choice, then the house is already dead.

"The time will come when that truth is used to break your legacy." Pycelle finally spoke again. "Unless you act first."

I narrowed my eyes. "And what would you have me do?"

"Raise the boy you will be taking as your Ward…" He said plainly before continuing. "…not as Robert's heir, but as yours. Durrandon is the blood of lions and storms, teach him the worth of his Lannister side, and when the day of reckoning finally comes, he may hold both lines together against those seeking to break them apart."

I said nothing. My mind moved in silence, clicking through possibilities, weighing futures like iron on scales.

"And Jaime?" I asked, slowly, knowing full well that no plan would prosper while my children were allowed to secretly act as the Targaryens did.

Pycelle's answer came without hesitation. "You want him free of the White Cloak, back at your side. But Robert will not bend, not without cause. Let me give him that cause."

I gave him a long look. "You suggest convincing the King to break tradition and allow one of his most infamous Kingsguard to live his life free of his vows and without repercussions?"

"I suggest giving the people a tale they will believe for generations." The Grand Maester replied. "Let me worry about the details. But when I'm done almost all of the half a million citizens of King's Landing will be demanding it. A hero's reward, not a father's demand. King Robert isn't as weak minded as most might assume, but he still follows applause. I just require your authority as his father to convince Ser Jaime to not do anything foolish once he is freed from the white cloak. That is, unless you have already come to terms with your youngest son inheriting your forefathers' legacy."

"And what do you want, Grand Maester?" I finally asked the most important question.

He met my gaze, truly met it. For the first time in decades, I saw something in his eyes that unnerved me.

Nothing. He wanted nothing. Not gold, not titles. Only the motion of the pieces.

"I want the realm to be ruled by those who deserve it." He said, reminding me of my own mortality and failure of raising either of my children to inherit my mindset. "And I want to make sure one of its most powerful houses doesn't crumble into dust as soon as its only anchor meets its inevitable mortal end."

Pycelle rose, not in a stumble, but with eerie grace. The mask of age slid back into place as he reached the door.

"One last thought, Lord Tywin..." He said, pausing. "When you look upon Prince Durrandon again… consider it that in my eyes he is the only one that can actually surpass you."

He left after I granted him my permission and only silence remained afterwards.

I sat in stillness for a long while. The candlelight flickered across the gold lion on my ring while my quill remained untouched.

It had been one of the worst days of my life and perhaps the beginning of my last game. I had undervalued a boy I thought to be a mere precocious kid and underestimated an old man I thought a fool. 

Twice, I mistook subtlety for weakness. That error ends here.

I once stood beside a King who refused to see what was before him, as madmen often do. And now I saw how madness had crept into my own bloodline, not in fire or frenzy, but in the slow, soft decay of dignity.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

Heh. 

By the System! I still can't believe it! I actually fooled Tywin fucking Lannister into dancing in the palm of my hand!

All my girlish enthusiasm for one of Charles Dance's best roles aside, I still took a careful detour through Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers, wearing Tywin's face with my Mask of the Changeling and mimicking his attire through Disguise Self, all to ensure that both men misunderstood each other's awareness of the same matter. 

Pycelle would believe that Tywin was the one who approached him while Tywin would think Pycelle was simply confirming our recent encounter. Perfect ambiguity, weaponized.

Manipulating Pycelle in that old goat's own den was child's play compared to steering the Old Lion himself.

Fortunately, I'd come armed with weapons far more potent than magic: truth, fear and implication. The mere suggestion that his golden twins had been more than close in their youth was enough to rattle even Tywin Lannister's legendary composure. 

And the idea of Tyrion inheriting Casterly Rock? That struck deeper than any blade.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't sweat for it.

Even with maxed Charisma, Expertise in both Deception and Persuasion, as well as my Reliable Talent to eliminate the metaphorical dice from the game, Tywin remained a force of nature, a living personification of the Game of Thrones itself. 

Granted, convincing him didn't mean having him dance to my tune forever. No, he would obviously try to make me favor the Lannister name over my father's. If war couldn't be averted, he'd want the crown prince firmly in his camp.

Let him try. Having him constantly battling to win me over was way better than having things going the other way around.

For now, another face I wore, quite literally, served a different long-term plan I had concocted. Since the crown prince was to be fostered by House Lannister, it would only be natural for my younger brother, Lann, to be sent to Stannis when he came of age. 

A neat, reciprocal gesture amongst both houses that ruled from the Iron Throne's authority, if you will. But still, the last thing I wanted was to risk my sweet baby brother turning into a political hostage in case The Mannis ever learned about my half-sibling's origin before he started to see Lann as his nephew.

So I only let that development proceed after making damn sure neither Jon Arryn nor Stannis yet suspected the truth about my mother and her twin brother. Rhaenys and Alysse were under strict orders to warn me if any of their mentors even whispered about revealing the incest story in order to sow chaos. 

Besides, I still had a few aces to play once the Greyjoy Rebellion had run its course. Everything beyond that would be icing on top.

Speaking of that ill-fated rebellion….

Originally, I'd hoped the Ironborn wouldn't become a problem until after my name day tourney. But a few days ago, Pycelle's letters started arriving from the Citadel. His usual drivel, mostly, but buried in the footnotes was what I needed, confirmation that winter's grip was still weakening supply lines across the realm. 

The royal fleet remained short on men and ships even six years after the Rebellion. If we, with a royal-funded navy, weren't fully restored, I doubted the Ironborn with their barely-fertile rocks, after centuries without raiding freely whoever they wanted, were any closer.

Still, I prepared for it regardless. And while I was at it, I set a different fire to burn.

With the right whispers, both my influences as Jaskier Dandelions and the unseen patron of the Cult of the Stranger was more than enough to redirect public perception. Jaime Lannister, once the Kingslayer, had become something else entirely by the end of the Tourney dedicated to my Sixth Name Day.

Men cursed the Mad King's name anew when I made sure his sins were loudly remembered, the abuse of his queen-sister Rhaella, the blasphemous burning of Lord Rickard Stark after he demanded a trial by combat, the threats against Elia Martell and her children to keep Dorne obedient. 

Women began to forgive…no, admire…the golden knight who had slain the monster before King's Landing could be consumed in wildfire. Even children could now recite how Jaime Lannister saved their city with a silent blade, never caring for how everyone viewed him despite his heroic deed.

The shift was so sudden, so sweeping, even Jaime seemed stunned by it. Almost like magic, gone were the scornful looks and the muttered epithet Kingslayer. In their place, cheers and whispers of nicknames like "the Savior of King's Landing" filled the air of both houses and streets alike.

My father, King Robert, had expected tourney gossip to linger at least for the next few months. Instead, he found the city rallying for justice, for Jaime. And from what I observed, even Ser Barristan had the humility to approach my uncle in full view of the court and offer him a personal heartfelt apology.

"I judged you too harshly instead of seeking the truth." Ser Barristan said for all in court to hear, his sword bared not in threat but in humility. "Please, forgive an old knight for his blindness."

Poor mother, all her careful manipulation of Uncle Jaime, all her whispered promises and veiled seductions, drowned beneath the roar of a city finally honoring him. 

"I never thought I'd hear them cheer for me." I heard uncle Jaime muttering beside me at the departing feast, staring into his goblet as if it might offer answers.

And Tywin? He'd fulfilled his part of the bargain. The truth was laid bare between them two, he knew about the incest and now Jaime knew of his father awareness. 

Jaime had to choose. He could rage against it. Refuse his dismissal from the Kingsguard. Proclaim his love for Cersei and the truth of their children before fighting King Robert for it. But doing so would doom them all, even if he managed to slay another King.

If my uncle truly loved them as he was quickly to claim, he'd do what Tywin expected, retreat to Casterly Rock, marry and produce legitimate heirs. Shield his sister and their bastard children behind facts and silence.

To my immense relief, that's precisely what he chose.

"No man should be forced to choose between two sacred vows. In the light of recent revelations, the crown and the people of King's Landing will always be in your debt." My father said, more gruff than cruel, while towering everyone at court from his seat at the Iron Throne. "Take off the white cloak, Ser Jaime Lannister. Go home. Serve the realm, not as a symbol of knighthood, but as a responsible ruler." He paused. Then, quieter, almost reluctant. "Let it be known, you saved this city. Just… don't make me say it again."

And with that, my uncle's departure from the Kingsguard wasn't a fall from grace, it was a triumph. The inverse of Barristan's dismissal in both the books and the show. A knight leaving service not in shame, but proud to have served the realm when it truly mattered, and with promises of continuing his service as the future ward of the west.

And still, despite that astounding success, my game wasn't done.

Though Barristan remained in white, a crown prince leaving the capital still warranted a Kingsguard escort. Even with Sandor as my Sworn Shield, the optics mattered.

"Ser Sandor…" Barristan said, his eyes hard but respectful. "I won't pretend I admire your reputation. But if you truly mean to shield the prince from harm…" He offered a gauntleted hand, callused with years of duty. "Then I'll stand beside you against any threat. For his sake."

Sandor certainly had heard of Barristan's reputation, and had witnessed their validity back in their joust, hence why he actually shook the lord commander's hand back instead of merely staring at him while stating that he was no knight with one of his usual grunts.

Meanwhile with the Alchemist's Guild, well, their reputation had taken a hit, to say the least. But at least we didn't get a repeat of the Dragonpit riots. No mobs, no torches. But their desperation to survive now as the outcasts of King's Landing would only make them more willing to deal with my Cult of the Stranger.

As for Chataya…she watched the brothel, yes…but also kept track of every woman who'd lain with Robert. Every belly that might swell with a royal bastard. And kept a tight watch for children with black hair and blue eyes.

"The king certainly sows more than grain." Chataya said smoothly to my disguised persona, pouring wine without spilling a drop. "There's one, Gendry, they call him. A black-haired boy with a blonde, sickly mother." A sly smile touched her Summer Islander lips. "I'll do what I can to learn about the others… while they're still small enough to protect."

Meanwhile, Alysse began slowly but surely managing the tavern's finances through Littlefinger, learning from him what she could, all while pretending to be the perfect protégée.

And Rhaenys?

"They chant that bard's name now, you know?" Rhaenys said, leaning close, her voice half-mocking, half in awe. "Jaskier the Generous. The Stranger's Voice. They've turned him into a prophet of sorts." She glanced toward the slums through the window. "The Alchemists' Guild seems to think the cult's their only friend left in the capital. And now some of the faithful are talking about sending envoys to cities like Lannisport and Gulltown. To spread the word."

She played her role to perfection. Helping spread the Cult among the dregs of Flea Bottom while pretending to Varys that she was trying to infiltrate it. She whispered where I needed her to while claiming that she sought influence. In truth, she already had it.

But I had bigger plans for both girls' futures.

In time, Rhaenys would help Alysse eliminate the political obstacles in her way. In return, Alysse would help Rhaenys raise a guild of thieves and spies to rival the Spider's web and in time perhaps even the Faceless Men. They might even help me with keeping an eye on the High Sparrow, while he was still little more than a disgruntled septon that despises how much the Faith of the Seven had fallen in the capital.

Neither of them had my magic, but they had an extension of my System. And that was more than enough, enough to shape them into weapons and players, enough to track their growth and to keep us connected.

"Will you write?" Alysse asked me. 

"I'll send more than letters." I assured her with a friendly wink.

She touched the carved obsidian piece I'd given her. Her lips tightened and eyes shimmered. "Then don't make me wait long."

"I won't, my lady." I replied back as she rushed me for a hug, warm and sudden.

I'd left behind contingency plans, of course, emergency protocols. The Sending Stone I gave Alysse would bridge any distance, but more than anything, I'd tried to enjoy every moment I had left with them in the past few days.

Because now…now came the part where I'd say goodbye to those I lived with since my birth and begin my journey with those I would take with me.

————————————————————————

Red Keep, late afternoon.

I didn't cry when I said goodbye to Lann and Joanna. But man… I was close.

Little Joanna gripped my leg like a bear cub refusing to let go of its tree, as she kept whispering. "Don't go, don't go." Almost as if she said it enough times, the world would bend to her will. 

Lann wouldn't even speak. He just held my hand like it was life itself, his tears soaking the cuff of my sleeve. I tried to smile through it, told them to be brave, to keep their chins up, to keep practicing their writing so we could keep in touch with one another by exchanging ravens.

Then came Pycelle, old and wheezing, his robe scented with ink and dried herbs. He laid a hand on my shoulder and gave me the first thing I could ever remember him offering me that felt like real warmth. 

A white raven feather, belonging to a species usually kept at the Citadel and used only to announce the change of seasons.

My very first mentor didn't say much. He didn't need to, but I could almost hear him saying. "The world changes, whether men are ready or not. Learn to recognize the moment."

My mother kissed me on the cheek like she was afraid she'd never have the right again. My father patted me on the back hard enough to make me stumble and suddenly called me, despite my many oddities, "A damned fine lad". 

I think those last moments might've been genuine love, or perhaps just the closest my parents ever came of faking it well.

And then came Jeyne. My Jeyne, the one who changed my linens and rocked me to sleep when I couldn't yet stand, the one who whispered stories of Knights and Septons when no one else had the time to spare for little old me. 

She pressed her palm to my cheek, soft and warm and didn't speak a word, just turned and walked away after I managed to say "thank you".

Finally, once the Throne room's doors closed behind me, it felt like a book slamming shut. Still, I didn't look back.

The corridor was long and echoing, full of golden light. Stained glass turned the walls into oceans of red and green and gold. 

Sandor walked beside me, still unnerving me with how tiny his six feet and eight inches of height made me feel, and with Barristan just behind. I could hear the weight of their armor with every step, and reasoned that they both stayed back so I wouldn't feel the weight of their eyes.

We were nearly to the courtyard when I heard it. Steel ringing against steel. But not in rage. It was clean and rhythmic. Accompanied by… laughter?

As we turned a corner and came upon the balcony, that's when I saw him. He wasn't armored, but instead wore flowing red silks with a sash tied around his waist and a slender blade like silver fire in his hand. 

[??? // LV: 12]

The young man moved like he wasn't made of muscle and bone but water. Smooth, rippling and untouchable. 

Four guards in training gear surrounded him, or tried to. Two were already disarmed, one was wheezing, and the last was circling with the desperate focus of someone out of his depth.

The man I soon realized must've been Braavosi, turned, leaned, flicked his blade and with a ting, the last guard's sword spun from his hand and clattered across the stones.

The courtyard burst into applause.

Highborn ladies were watching from the stairs. Squires whispered to each other. Even some goldcloaks who should've been on patrol leaned in with wonder. The man below gave a dramatic bow, flourished his blade, then flicked sweat from his brow with a theatrical grin.

And above it all, Jaime stood leaning against the railing, golden curly hair catching the sun, no longer in his usual white Kingsguard cloak but face darker than a thundercloud despite the lack of strange looks people used to give him.

I climbed the stairs to meet him, every step feeling heavier than the last.

"You arranged this?" I asked.

He didn't look at me at first. Just stared down at the Braavosi like he couldn't decide whether to be amused or furious.

"Remember that request of yours?" He said finally. "A teacher who didn't just speak in oaths and songs? Someone who fights to win?" 

His eyes met mine for half a second.

"I agreed with your request back then." Jaime muttered. "But I wasn't expecting… this."

Then he walked away. No confident smirk, or a playful wink. Just the fading echo of boots and a man too heavy with shame to pretend otherwise.

I should've felt triumphant that I managed to have him come along. This effectively killed multiple birds with one stone. Mainly for as much as I loved my half-siblings, two of them were trouble enough for me to manage in the future.

But instead of celebrating, I just watched my uncle's back and wondered if I'd stolen something he wasn't ready to give up yet. Like, what were the consequences and butterfly effect of pulling this bandage off now rather than later?

I guess it's a bit too late to go back, so I will just have to prepare for whatever might happen.

Anyway, not much after, the Braavosi water dancer finally spotted me. His eyes lit up like he'd been waiting for this moment. The man then practically glided up the steps, not hurried, not proud, just certain. His silks rustled like they had thoughts of their own. 

When he reached the top, he bowed low with all the flair of a performer in a Braavosi opera, one leg out, one arm behind his back.

"Prince of Stags and Lions…" He said, and his voice caught me off-guard. Smooth, musical, with an accent that pulled me halfway back to a life I'd forgotten. It sounded almost Italian. "I have come to make your feet quieter, your hands faster and your heart sharper than a Braavosi blade."

"Forgive me, my prince…" Sandor folded his arms, unimpressed. "…but dancing belongs in ballrooms, not battlefields."

The Braavosi straightened, eyes gleaming. "Then perhaps your battlefields are too messy and loud, ser. In Braavos, we make music with steel."

I bit down a smile before Sandor could scowl at me once he got over the fact that someone just mistook him for a knight.

"An honor to meet you…" I said before asking. "…enlighten me, what's your name?"

He bowed again. "Tarro Razelo. Once the youngest swordmaster in the School of the Blue Lantern. Twice invited to teach in the Sealord's own court. And once promised I would become First Sword of Braavos."

"And what happened?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"I got bored." Tarro Razelo said dismissively, trying his best to hide some still fresh resentment in his mind.

[INSIGHT CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

Yeah, Syrio Forrel must've certainly left some bad blood from his little stunt with calling out a regular cat by what it really was. But I'm not willing to push it just yet.

"Teach me, Tarro Razelo. I will be at your hands." Was my response once our introduction to one another was concluded.

So in the end, the training yard got cleared before sunset just as my grandfather was still busy making sure his retinue would be ready to leave the capital. 

I stayed behind just for a moment, letting the sun soak into my face while closing my eyes and waiting for the echoes to die down.

Once I opened my eyes again, I now saw Barristan as a bastion of discipline. Sandor, a hound hungry for vengeance. And Tarro? He was like a trained assassin wrapped in silk and bravado.

I would learn from all three. 

Because striking from the shadows had its charm, and my debut as Jaskier Dandelions has made me appreciate all my progress up to this point, but still I had to be more than a prince who could fight his way through a tournament. 

I needed to become an adventurer capable of clearing the darkest and most dangerous Instant Dungeons still ahead of me.

For now, the Rock was waiting and so were my next few challenges.

————————————————————————

The creaking of the Lion Gate's iron portcullis reached us before we ever laid eyes on it, echoing faintly through the morning mist. 

It was an old sound, one I'd heard a hundred times from the Red Keep's windows in the city's unusual quieter days. But now, drawn close by the wheels of my own carriage, it felt different. It felt… final.

Ahead, the Gold Road unfurled like a promise and a threat. Behind, the Red Keep began to vanish behind the curve of Aegon's hill, its crimson banners flickering like dying embers. 

Horses snorted restlessly in the cold air while cloaks fluttered. My retinue stood like carved gold and crimson knights, guards, servants and both the heralds of House Baratheon and Lannister alike. 

From a distance, we might have looked like something proud, whole and unbroken. But we weren't.

I shifted in my seat, feeling the slight rumble of the wheels beneath me, the pull of departure in my chest. It wasn't grief I felt, not quite, nor relief. But a sensation I couldn't name, the taste of something ending before it could rot, like fruit plucked just before the bruise.

This is the last time I'll publicly ride out of this city as just a boy pretending to be a prince.

The thought came unbidden, as thoughts like that always do, sharp, unwanted but honest. I'd worn my masks well, played the heir, played the courtier, the silent listener, the clever student. But most of it would stop mattering once I crossed those gates.

Now, the game would definitely shift… and so would I.

I glanced toward the towering balconies that lined the western walls of the city. Most were empty, but one wasn't.

High above, nearly lost in shadow, a flash of red fluttered in the wind. Thin and delicate… a ribbon. Tied to a bannister that overlooked the gate. A place I had once shown her while we explored the city walls.

I didn't need to see her face to know it was Rhaenys. She'd chosen a token only I would notice. A parting whisper wrapped in silk.

She'd said nothing about my leave last night. No tears or speeches. But this… this was her farewell.

And somewhere in that endless fortress of secrets and spies, I imagined Alysse watching too. Veiled behind some heavy curtain. I knew she would also miss me, but hopefully she was already charting her course in a world I was no longer constantly part of.

I could feel their eyes and those of many others. Not to sound overly dramatic, despite them not being here within my sight, they were undoubtedly here, always were and always will.

Varys and Littlefinger. The ones who traded in whispers and coin. I saw no sign of them on the walls, but absence meant nothing. They had their ways, their own eyes and ears.

They were watching not me, not the boy prince who liked to pretend to be a grown up, but what I might one day become. The thought had the weight of prophecy, or perhaps just paranoia.

A flutter of motion caught my eye near the base of the hill, among the crowd that had gathered this early to watch the Crown Prince ride off the capital city. A cluster of figures stood too still, too quiet for my Perception skill to not single them out, robed in black and grey. One bore a crude mark, a circle with a slash, barely visible beneath his cowl. 

The Stranger's faithful. The ones who prayed not for life or glory, but for endings. Or perhaps just for my judgment without them knowing it yet.

They made no move, spoke no word loud enough for me to hear. But after being behind their creation, I saw them even amongst the largest crowds.

'Go now my followers.' I thought to myself with a satisfied grin. 'Go and spread the word about my will.'

Now, turning back to the road, the sun had not yet risen fully, but light was beginning to break through the mist, touching the horizon with pale gold. 

The gate finally stopped groaning, now left wide open, and we began to move. The hooves of the lead horses left the city's cobblestones and no struck dirt. The caravan followed, one banner after another crossing the line. 

When my own carriage rolled beneath the Lion Gate, I didn't look back. Not at the Keep, not at the ribbon or at the shadows hiding in plain sight. 

I kept my eyes on the road ahead, ready for whatever the game system and this second life of mine brings me next.

————————————————————————

By the first nightfall on the Goldroad, the Lannister camp rose with military precision.

No songs, no fires beyond what necessity allowed. Just the muted clatter of armor, the rustle of banners in the dark, and the ever-present rhythm of discipline. 

Even the tents looked like they'd been placed by compass, a command post more than a traveling household. Gold and crimson, sharp and orderly. No warmth in the heraldry, only power.

This was not my father's court on the march, drunken and boisterous, half-charming in its chaos. This was my grandfather's machine, all sharp corners and silent judgment. Even here, a day of journey from out of King's Landing, his legacy marched before him.

Guards stood straighter when he passed closer, lesser lords ceased their murmuring and servants didn't dare meet his eyes. And when he summoned me, he didn't do it with fanfare.

A single Lannister knight approached my tent before speaking to me with utmost respect. "Apologies, my prince, but Lord Tywin summons you."

Not 'invites', but 'summons'? Still, I was somewhat glad that people acknowledged me as someone important despite my age, and so I followed without hesitation.

Lord Tywin's pavilion was modest, for a lion. Still grander than most, but stripped of vanity. A single brazier burned low in the center as the air smelled of parchment, steel and something faintly acidic. Ink or ambition, perhaps both.

"You summoned me, grandfather?" I said while politely announcing my arrival.

Tywin didn't look up immediately, as I've come to expect from him. He finished writing first, deliberate, practiced, before sealing the parchment with wax and pressing his ring into it.

Only then did his pale green eyes meet my mismatched set.

"Indeed. I wish to continue our previous conversation about you becoming my ward from now on…" He said flatly. "Do you remember what that truly means?"

I said nothing at first, letting the silence hang. He wasn't trying to provoke me, he was setting the stage.

"It means that, if I prove myself worthy, you will teach me how to become a proper King." I replied, calm and measured.

Tywin nodded once. "Yes. You will become King one day, with my teachings or not. But what kind of king do you think you'll be?"

I didn't answer right away, but waited instead.

He continued, tone never rising. "A good king, I imagine. You've got the right temperament for it. But what makes a good king? What is a good king's single most important quality?"

My grandfather waited, not for curiosity's sake, but to better assess how I played the game. So I answered the way he wanted me to, like a child in need of guidance that only he could provide. "Holiness?"

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCEEDED!] 

I knew what answer he wanted. This wasn't about my opinion, it was about letting him walk me toward his. So I played the humble student and let him lead.

Tywin gave me a slight nod. "Baelor the Blessed was holy… and pious. He built the Great Sept. He also named a six-year-old boy High Septon because he thought the boy could work miracles. He ended up fasting himself into an early grave, because food was of this world, and this world was sinful."

"Justice then" I offered, already expecting my grandfather's answer.

"Yeah, a good king must be just. Viserys the First was just. Beloved by smallfolk and lords alike. But till his deathbed he failed to see the two factions being formed due to his decision to have his elder daughter as heir. Was that truly just of him, to abandon his subjects to an evil he was too gullible to recognize?"

[HISTORY CHECK SUCCEEDED!] 

Of course, I knew he was talking about the Green and Black councils, the seeds of the Dance of the Dragons. But Tywin wasn't just testing whether I could see the surface of history, but the cracks beneath.

"What about strength?" I said, still playing his game.

"Yes…strength…" Tywin almost smiled. "Your father, King Robert, is strong. He won his war and crushed a dynasty. And now drinks and whores himself almost as if he is seeking an early grave." He stepped closer, voice quiet but heavy. "So… We have a king who starved for the gods. One who trusted too easily. And one who mistakes victory for rule. What did they all lack?"

"Wisdom." I said as if I had finally realized something.

"Yes!" Tywin said almost triumphantly to the direction he has led me. 

"Wisdom is what makes a good king."

"Yes…" He moved past me, as if pacing through a lecture. "But what is wisdom?"

My grandfather posed his classic riddle, two houses, one rich in land and crops, the other with a navy that could one day challenge the throne. "How do you know which alliance is wise and which isn't?"

I didn't answer, despite it being a question with multiple interpretations, I knew the right answer for Tywin would be what he deemed as such.

"Do you have experience with treasuries or shipyards? With soldiers and granaries?"

"No." I replied honestly, for those were skills I certainly could benefit from learning.

"No. Of course, not. A wise king knows what he knows and what he doesn't. Most of the Targaryen kings did not, that is why their dragons are dead and they had to endure multiple conflicts within themselves. You—" He stopped in front of me. "—have a chance to be something else. If you listen."

There was a silence, cold and weighty, between us until I answered.

"A wise king listens to his counselors." I said what Tywin must've been thinking to say next, before adding my own thoughts to it. "But a wiser king should aspire to learn everything he can from his counselors, in case he outlives them."

He looked at me. Not surprised nor impressed, just measuring.

"You're not your father…" He said and let the weight of it linger.

"No." I replied in a thankful tone. "And you're not my mother, who I fear, despite my love for her, is not as smart as she thinks she is."

Tywin stared down at me for a while. The flicker of a reaction ghosted across his face, not anger, not insult, just a moment of pause. The kind that meant a boundary had been acknowledged. Not crossed or challenged, just named.

We stood in silence for a breath. Then he turned away, pouring himself a cup of water before offering another one to me.

"That will be all for now." He said, already hinting that this was the first of many lessons he will be giving me. "We march at dawn. I recommend you to have some rest until then."

Dismissed efficiently, as always. But right as I stepped outside, the cold air sharper now against my face, I knew something had shifted.

Tywin was slowly but surely stopping to see me as just a child that would be a piece in his game. Hopefully it won't be long before I'm acknowledged as a worthy player and successor to his legacy.

[QUEST ALERT!]

[LEGACY OF THE LION!]

[CONDITION: EARN TYWIN LANNISTER'S FULL POLITICAL MENTORSHIP]

[1. FINISH 30 LESSONS WITH YOUR GRANDFATHER (1/30)]

[2. IMPRESS THE OLD LION TEN TIMES (0/10)]

[REWARD: TYWIN LANNISTER WILL HEED YOUR WORDS OF EITHER ADVICE OR REQUEST]

[DO YOU ACCEPT?]

[YES/NO]

Duh, of course. After all, am I not in the business of becoming emperor of the world?

[QUEST ACCEPTED!]

And with that out of the way,that same night, after the lesson with my grandfather and the long journey, I slipped into my tent, careful to make sure no one was watching me. 

My hand went into my Inventory and brought out the small dragonbone piece I had carved in secret thanks to my Artificer feature, still proud of the nice black lion sigil I etched deep into its surface. It was a Sending Stone, a gift meant to keep me in touch with Alysse Arryn, my friend and confidante at the Red Keep.

I held it tight, activating it with a thought before whispering in my mind. 'Everything is fine so far. The Goldroad is as expected. Grandfather watches, dwarf uncle is nice and I am having fun. No danger as of yet.'

Almost immediately, I felt the faint hum of acknowledgment. Even across leagues, through the march of time and the separation of our stations, I knew she had received my message. I could picture her expression, slightly exasperated, slightly proud and always sharp.

Soon after, the Stone of Sending warmed in my hand. 

A reply formed in my mind, Alysse's voice clear despite the miles between us. "Don… we miss you already. Rhaenys worries too, though she'd never admit it. Be careful. Learn well, but do not let them harden your heart."

I let out a quiet laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. Even across leagues, they were here with me in some small, invisible way. 

Knowing them well, I could practically picture Alysse's smile and imagine Rhaenys' cute pout of embarrassment at her words, both keenly aware of the world around them, and yet I trusted them enough to sleep well, leaving them navigating it alone.

The magical piece of Dragonbone still rested warm in my palm, a tether to home, to loyalty and to friendship that no army or march could sever. For a fleeting moment, I even let myself feel something approaching comfort, before the Goldroad and Tywin's lessons reclaimed their weight, reminding me that such luxuries would have to wait.

So I stored the stone carefully, not in my Inventory this time. Because from now on, they would be the ones reaching for me, and I need it out for the magic to work properly.

————————————————————————

TYRION LANNISTER'S POV

As much as I enjoyed my brother-in-law's taste in tournaments and festivities, I'm starting to question my original willingness to face the journey between Casterly Rock and King's Landing twice in less than a month.

For sure, having my brother join us on our way back with the crowds now cheering him as their hero was a novelty that still draws a couple of chuckles from me whenever I think about it. 

Especially some of the more far-fetched tall tales, which claim that even after Jaime struck the Mad King down, the old man began to turn into an actual dragon, were it not for my brother's heroic feat of leaping into its maw and slaying the scaly beast from within.

Not only that, for my father's interest in the Baratheon prince was certainly expected, but it still rubs me the wrong way how suddenly he seems a bit desperate to mold my nephew into his own image.

But that was neither here nor there for now…I still had a long road ahead before I could find my way into Lannisport's best brothel.

Until then, the fire crackled between me and my brother, casting Jaime's face in red-orange strokes. 

His golden armor gleamed dully in the firelight, clean but empty, like a shell left behind by something once proud and, if I'm being honest, arrogant.

"You're quiet tonight." I said, letting my words drift lazily across the fire. "Stoic and sullen. The image of Lannister masculinity, if you ask Father."

"I didn't ask." Jaime said. He was staring into the flames like they owed him something.

"No, you rarely do." I swirled the wine. "Still brooding about the white cloak?"

He didn't answer, which was enough of an answer for me, so I simply leaned back and let the fire warm my boots. 

"It's strange, you know?" I said. "Watching you play the good uncle. You're attentive, protective, painfully quiet. I'd almost mistake you for a man in debt…or with something to hide."

His gaze flicked to me, just for a heartbeat, then back to the fire.

"Father's orders…" He muttered. "I'm not to tell him."

"Ah." I said, lips curling around the word. "So we may at least speak of 'him', don't we? The black cub. Our sweet young prince. The one with hair and eyes that display his Baratheon and Targaryen lineages fighting for control. Unlike our dear sister's golden twins."

Jaime tensed, just slightly. He hated when I danced near the truth. And I, well, I liked to dance with my words.

"He doesn't know." Jaime said, quieter. "And should remain like that until it no longer matters. Preferably… never."

"Father's decree, I understand. What I don't get is what's so scandalous that not even I can be told about?" I replied back.

"It's not about pageantry." He snapped, talking nonsense almost like I had woken him up from a drunken stupor. "It's about…a choice, one that has consequences."

I nearly chuckled, but decided against it once I got a better read of the room. "Anything to do with our sister's sour mood as we left the capital?"

Jaime flinched. 

'Interesting.' I mused to myself.

"Father doesn't want a scandal." He said, now starting to repeat himself. "It would ruin everything he's trying to build."

"And what about you, dear brother? What are you trying to build?" I asked, half-tired of going in circles in this conversation. "Finally come back to inherit our family's ancestral castle?"

Jaime didn't answer. He rarely seems to do it when the question cuts too close.

"You know…" I said, voice softening. "About our dear sister..."

Jaime's eyes sharpened, and I could tell that I had just touched a wound, and a freshly stitched one at that.

"I won't betray her." He said.

"No one said you would. But you might lose her anyway." I tossed the rest of my drink into the fire. It flared up for a moment, angry and fleeting. "Secrets rot from the inside. Father certainly knows about that, being the architect of so many."

The silence after that was heavy, not uncomfortable, not exactly. Just… full.

I drew in a breath, slower now. "Do you remember my wife?"

Jaime looked up, his face closed like a door. "I remember."

I nodded. "Good. Because I do too. I remember her laugh, her kindness and her illusion. I also remember the way Father was behind it and stripped it all away to teach me a lesson about women, about love, about what I'm allowed to have." The bitterness rose in my throat. "And you were there." I added. "Watching. Saying nothing. Just like now."

"I-I…don't know what to tell you." Jaime said, barely above a whisper.

"Yes, after the damage was already done, I hated you for being part of it, regardless of your true intentions, but eventually I forgave you." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and looked him straight in the eye. "Where I'm trying to go with this sad story of mine, is that you saw me at my worst…and I still got over it, most of me did anyway. I might not know exactly why you are grieving despite how the people of King's Landing began cheering you up as their hero, but know that whatever it is…I'm here for you."

He didn't blink nor speak for a long while, but I saw it. That flash of shame. The guilt he wore like a second skin, hidden so often beneath the Kingsguard whites he no longer bore.

"I envy him, you know. Our little boy prince." I said at last. "I envy him for not knowing what kind of family he truly comes from. At least…our side of the family, that is."

Jaime looked back at the fire, taking long enough for me to get the message. So I rose to my feet, steady despite the wine.

"I'll leave you to your brooding, then." I said, turning toward the shadows and seeking my own tent. 

The fire crackled behind me as I walked away, and Jaime said nothing. But I knew he would think about it.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

On my next day on the road, an interesting development occurred during one of our brief pauses.

[SER BARRISTAN, EX-LORD COMMANDER OF THE KINGSGUARD // BATTLE MASTER // LV: 16]

[SANDOR CLEGANE, SWORDSHIELD OF THE CROWN PRINCE // CHAMPION // LV: 13]

[TARRO RAZELO, MASTER WATER DANCER // SWASHBUCKLER // LV: 16]

No crowd of spectators this time. Just me and Barristan watching both Sandor and Tarro face one another in a far corner of our camp.

They didn't waste time. Sandor grunted, sized Tarro up in a blink of an eye, and they began. It wasn't a duel, but a test. 

Sandor came in hard, his longsword sweeping down with enough weight to crush even some well armored opponents. 

Tarro pivoted aside, his feet barely whispering on the packed dirt, and the blade only caught air. Another strike, faster, low and cruel, but the Bravossi fighter bent like a reed, steel flashing as he batted the blow aside with the lightest touch.

He didn't plant his feet, not once. He flowed around Sandor's swings like he'd already seen them coming. Every parry was a question answered, every spin an insult redirected effortlessly.

Sandor pressed forward with brute force, testing his opponent's balance. A pommel bash came next, Tarro slid under it, rapped Sandor's vambrace with the flat of his blade, and retreated a step back with a grin.

"Too heavy." Tarro teased, circling. "Your movements scream your intentions much earlier than your blow."

"Not as loud as you." Sandor shot back, swinging again.

Tarro didn't attack, not really. He survived elegantly and effortlessly, like he was having fun. The rhythm was water against stone, inevitable force against uncatchable flow.

Then Sandor clipped him, just once, across the shoulder. Not enough to wound, but enough to prove that sheer strength and ferocity could eventually break through grace.

No, that wasn't right. Sandor wasn't just a mere brute with talent for violence, he and his brother were a very special kind of monster my Grandfather had personally cultivated and properly armed right from their early age.

Still, with that previous close call, Tarro stopped, smiled and dipped his head.

"For a brute, you learn quickly…" He said, lowering his guard while signaling the duel was over. "Most men swing at wind and shadows. You anticipated one."

"Hmpf! Running away doesn't win wars." Sandor lowered his sword. Gruff words, but grudging respect edged his tone.

"Ah…" Tarro turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder. "…but surviving them is a necessary step to do so."

No handshake, nor nods, or even words. But I could feel it in the air, the beginning of something. Not friendship, not even close. But as cliché as it might sound, a healthy rivalry.

I glanced at Barristan. The old knight hadn't moved, but his silence spoke louder than words. 

His eyes followed Tarro until the Braavosi vanished from sight, then flicked to Sandor, weighing him. For a heartbeat, I felt like Ser Barristan was weighing me too, as though this little test had been mine as much as theirs.

And that was when I finally got a proper visit from another family member I'd been meaning to get along with for quite a while now.

"Look at you, already taller than me by your sixth name day!" My good uncle Tyrion said with a bit of annoyance, half-jokingly. "At this pace you are going to be bigger than the Hound, though hopefully much better looking."

Speaking of him, Sandor stared down at Tyrion once he approached our positions, but refrained from any sort of reply.

"This one doesn't like me." Tyrion chuckled proudly before greeting Barristan, who was now silently standing next to me, and turning to look at me.

"Must be because you've just insulted him without reason, uncle." I told him rather seriously while doing my best to not sound rude. "Please, apologize."

He blinked, clearly not expecting me to bring up the matter. "An apology? For what?"

I folded my arms and kept my posture. "As my Sworn Shield, any insult to me is an insult to him, and vice-versa."

There was a flicker in Tyrion's eyes, curiosity more than challenge, while also obviously testing whether I'd back down from my previous statement.

[PERSUSION CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

"Oh, then I do agree that apologies are in order." Tyrion quickly replied, bowing slightly toward Sandor. "I'm sorry, Clegane. As you can see, I speak as an authority on the matter of comeliness, or lack of it."

Even though Sandor only shrugged at my uncle's attempt at friendly words, I noticed he still appreciated the gesture nonetheless, from both of us.

Clegane was a simple young man to read once you understood his backstory and saw past his scars, towering height and snarling hound helmet.

"A worthy ruler must always take into consideration everyone serving under him." Barristan suddenly pointed out another one of his occasional words of wisdom for me, seemingly praising me for my recent action. "After all, every man counts."

"My my, dear nephew, that's quite the menagerie of capable swords you've got following you. My brother, Ser Barristan, the Hound, and even one of the famous Braavossi water dancers? Are we going to war or something?" Tyrion asked me with a smile.

"Not exactly, uncle." I replied with an amused smile, not forgetting the looming Greyjoy rebellion right on the horizon. "Since I found no books that could be of help, I decided to get acquainted with leading men by starting small but favoring their quality."

"Good thinking!" Tyrion admitted. "Not that I'm complaining. Seven above only knows what we might come across on a journey like this. On our way to the capital, we ran into a band or two of outlaws, foolish enough to try their luck against my father's retinue."

The mention brought to mind Pycelle's letters with the Citadel, endlessly fretting that ever since my father's rebellion, and with the weather remaining erratic by their standards, the countryside had become increasingly rife with crime.

My plans to take care of that couldn't come to fruition faster.

Still, just as I noticed one of the few cats that I managed to bring along, it passed between Tyrion's short legs and jumped into my shoulder. My uncle saw fit to take the opportunity and pick out of his pocket a small deck of cards that still had my old and simplistic drawings.

"So, shall we play after we set camp for tonight? I've been eager to test this card game you created and sent to me. For all of its simplicity, the possibilities are… astounding."

"Definitely." I nodded, slightly embarrassed at how I used to draw knights and dragons before I became proficient with Painter's Supplies, and brought up my own deck.

As if on cue just as we were about to move with our day, one of the camp servants passed near us with a tray of wineskins. His clothes were a little too well kept, his step a little too cautious. 

[INVESTIGATION CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

I'd noticed a few of them lately, strangers among our own, whispering prayers in corners when they thought no one watched, but always ready to make themselves appear as your regular religious commoner praying to the Seven.

Followers of the cult I created without anyone suspecting, mingling quietly with the host of Tywin's retinue, all eager to reach Lannisport and thrive there.

————————————————————————

Later that day in my tent, with Barristan keeping watch of the outside night alongside Sandor, Tyrion shuffled the cards with clumsy precision, his short fingers working harder than most to keep them from spilling across the table. 

He frowned, then chuckled, clearly amused by his own awkwardness.

"Gods, nephew, you've been busy." He said as he spread the deck. His sharp eyes lingered on the illustrations, no longer childish scrawls but clean, deliberate strokes. 

The dragon's wings curled with fire, the knight's armor gleamed with etched detail, the High Septon's crown of seven stars seemed to shimmer in the lamplight.

"I expected stick figures." Tyrion admitted, picking up the Aegon card. "Instead I find myself holding history in miniature. You might put some of the Citadel's illustrators to shame one day."

"I had time." I felt heat rise to my cheeks at being praised by such a relevant character of the books, but managed a shrug. "Also, expensive tools and supplies."

"Time and better material…" Tyrion echoed, shaking his head as though the phrase itself amused him. "Most artists back at Lannisport would squander both. You are doing much better than them just by not following their example, nephew."

He fanned his cards, brow furrowed as he considered them. Then his gaze drifted briefly, distracted, toward the far horizon. 

"Speaking of Lannisport…" I started, confident that my uncle would quickly understand where I was leading to.

"Well, Lannisport never sleeps, you know. Even when the docks go quiet at night, the smell of the mint lingers, and the Rock itself hums in the distance. Shipwrights hammering hulls that will carry coin halfway across the world, merchants shouting over the smell of fish… one can barely step into the streets without being swept into the tide of it all."

I slid a knight onto the board, binding it with a septon. 

"Steel alone isn't enough." I explained once I noticed Tyrion's genuine curiosity. "Men fight for reasons. Faith, loyalty, oaths. That's what holds them together."

Tyrion's eyes glittered as he clumsily placed a sellsword opposite my cards. 

"Practical and ruthless." I acknowledged.

"Definitely Lannister material, as you might one day learn." Tyrion remarked with a half joking half somber expression. "Now as I was saying, for the Rock itself, endless corridors, chambers that swallow the sun… a mountain carved like a lion, I'm sure you will hear constantly. With grand halls, golden fountains of cold stone, and yet, my family has been calling it home for centuries."

"Doesn't sound all that bad." I said, glancing up from my cards.

"Not always." Tyrion admitted. "But I suppose any place worth ruling requires… some endurance." He smirked, then shook his head at the absurdity of discussing his home through the lens of a six-year-old's card game. "And yet here I am, arguing strategy over painted scraps of paper, while the Rock sleeps unaware of my struggle."

I placed my next card on the table before reminding him. "It's meant to be a game of minds."

"Ah. Dangerous territory." My uncle said, mirroring me as he dropped another sellsword with exaggerated flourish. "You'll learn, sooner or later, most men misuse theirs after their third cup of wine. Sometimes sooner."

The opening moves were simple. I laid my foundations, he countered eagerly, but with enough wit to prove he wasn't merely humor­ing me. His eyes darted constantly from his hand to mine, calculating and adapting as he memorized the rules and learned when they could be subverted.

"So this knight of yours..." Tyrion said, tapping the card with a fingertip. "…why does he bend to the Faith Militant? Shouldn't steel triumph over prayer?"

"Not exactly." I replied. "Without belief to fight for, even steel can falter. Men are more than swords. If they weren't, my father's rebellion wouldn't have ended much differently than it did."

Tyrion leaned back, studying me with open curiosity. "Six years old, and already lecturing your uncle on why soldiers march. What did my sweet sister order to put in your porridge back at the Red Keep?"

"Wisdom." I deadpanned. 

Tyrion laughed, the sound rolling like distant thunder across the camp. Sandor snorted in amusement from outside, though he said nothing.

The game stretched on, each turn layering feints and counters. My dwarf of an uncle delighted in every surprise, especially when I revealed the Usurper to topple his carefully built line.

"Oh, that's vile." He groaned, though his eyes twinkled. "You've built betrayal into the rules. My kind of game."

"That's the point." I said simply. "It's not about who has the strongest pieces. It's about how you use them."

He stared at me for a long moment, then raised his cup. "Seven Hells, you're going to terrify the realm one day. And I'll drink to that."

I drew another card and slid it into play, the Septon reinforcing my knight again. 

Tyrion studied it, nodding slowly. "Faith, loyalty… clever. Clever for someone so young."

I chuckled, sliding a sellsword into position to bolster my forces. "Thanks again for the praise, uncle."

The game pace became tighter, Tyrion's moves improving as he learned my tricks after every defeat. He began laying feints, testing my attention, though he never quite outpaced me. 

His laughter filled the space between turns… dry, sharp, but never cruel. For the first time since Alysse, I felt as though someone saw the game for what it truly was.

When my final card, Storm's End, secured my victory for the sixth time that night, Tyrion leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. 

"To my brilliant nephew, whose games shame even the great mastermind that is his most astute uncle. May you never mistake stone for glory, or forget how sharp a child can be."

I grinned. "Don't worry, uncle. I won't."

He chuckled again, a sound which I interpreted as equal parts pride and wonder. 

"No, I don't think you will. And I must admit… the artistry alone is enough to make this game worth every sleepless night you've spent drawing these cards. History and strategy, mixed with skill and imagination, I never thought a six-year-old could do it. Honestly, I doubt I could do it even now after seeing it accomplished."

"Enough with the praise, uncle. I'm just glad you like them." I said, stacking the deck with care. "I wanted them to look… right."

"They do." Tyrion said softly, eyes flicking to the candlelight reflecting off the detailed armor and wings. "Better than right. They breathe life to a monotonous day of travel."

I looked up from the deck, curiosity bubbling. "Do you think… it's ready to be played by soldiers and lords alike?"

Tyrion smiled, leaning closer to inspect a few of the cards again. 

"For the most part, yes. Clever, clear, and surprisingly balanced. But…" He tapped the edge of the Storm's End card. "You might want to simplify a few interactions, like the coin and faith mechanics, just so someone less practiced can follow without needing a lecture or a guide. It still works astoundingly great for well-educated players, though."

"Got it." I replied, already making mental notes.

"And the artwork, as fine as it is, could make it an expensive piece of collection to produce in the thousands. Maybe smaller, simpler depictions when it's meant for a crowd. You can still have a few hundred being sought out as rare and special."

I nodded thoughtfully, storing the stacked deck with care. 

"So… mostly nitpicking." Tyrion said with a grin. "But I believe that's exactly the kind of attention that will make this game spread beyond your family and friends."

"Thanks, uncle Tyrion." I replied with genuine appreciation.

"Any time, kid." He replied before noticing it was already time for him to go back to his tent. "As much as I appreciate the intellectual exercise, my body and mind require a good night's rest so as to face tomorrow's day of travel."

And with that, we both said our goodbyes for the night and finished our first game night. Before sleep took me away, I received my first message from Alysse.

It was no emergency, like I had originally instructed her, just her eagerness to talk to me again, even if through a couple dozen words or so. 

Can't blame her though, I just gave a teenage girl the equivalent of a magical and mysterious cellphone, albeit with only one contact to call for a very brief time each day.

And since she waited until the end of the day, I couldn't exactly get angry at her for not letting today's use go to waste. So I indulged her by telling a very summarized version of my day and finished by wishing her a good night.

————————————————————————

The next morning, the Goldroad stretched before us like a ribbon of dust and stone, disappearing into the horizon where the sun glinted off the helms of merchants' guards and the polished backs of oxen.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't just getting lessons from Barristan for a couple of minutes in the Red Keep's yard. Back then, the old knight had taught me how to mount without stumbling, how not to bounce like a sack of grain and how to keep my heels pressed down. 

Those lessons had been short, tidy and safe, but constant enough to eventually sink in. Though the sight of me back then to everyone but me must've been that of a boy playing at knights.

This was different though, long hours of uneven roads, muscles burning in places I hadn't known existed even after surviving years in the darkest corners of my Instant Dungeon. Now I sat astride my own small horse, reins in hand, legs aching from the day before, jaw clenched as I refused to squirm or groan. 

[ANIMAL HANDLING CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

A prince didn't fidget, neither did he go back on his word when he had requested the right to ride his own horse. Not before Baratheon and Lannister soldiers, and definitely not before Tywin fucking Lannister.

"Keep your seat." Came the voice I had been focused on the most, cutting through the morning haze like a blade. His great horse moved as if it bore no weight at all, its golden coat glistening even under the dust. "The Goldroad is predictable in its hazards but unforgiving for those careless enough to wander."

Those were the words he said out loud, but I knew there were some others he expected me to deduce. His tone, his posture and the deliberate cadence of his voice told me to observe. The wagons, the merchants, the patrols, everything moved with reason and intent.

Easier said than done when my thighs screamed and my back felt on fire. Still, I forced my senses outward, past the ache, past the instinct to fidget. 

[INVESTIGATION CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

"Yes, grandfather." I drew a breath, taking in the scene as he expected. "The wagons are evenly weighted. The oxen look healthy. The merchants…" I paused, noticing their furtive glances at our retinue. "…they've already adjusted their pace to ours. They would rather not be overtaken."

[INSIGHT CHECK FAILED!]

Tywin's eyes flicked down at me, quick, sharp and unfortunately unreadable to me.

"Most boys your age would see only oxen and carts." He said flatly in his, not quite praise, not quite dismissal, tone. "You will learn that men adjust their pace for many reasons like fear, pride or anticipation. You would do well to never mistake one for another."

I inclined my head, accepting the lesson without argument. "Yes, grandfather."

On my right, as Tywin sped up ahead of me to give more orders to his men, uncle Tyrion nudged his own horse closer, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "A rare occasion. My lord father did not call you a fool outright. Mark the date, dear nephew."

I smothered a grin at his quip, though it still wasn't enough to ease the soreness on my muscles.

Ahead of us, Jaime rode silent. His eyes fixed on the horizon, jaw tight. 

He hadn't spoken much since leaving the capital. Once all Jaime Lannister could claim to be were titles of Kingslayer and Kingsguard, now actually heir to Casterly Rock again. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, but he never drew it. Tywin's gaze slid to him now and then, cool as steel, but no words were exchanged.

As much as I wanted to be a fly on the wall during their fateful reckoning, I felt the awkwardness of it all was enough to convince me against lingering more than necessary.

At any event, I was brought out of my thoughts by my Sword Shield presence. Sandor rode farther back, his massive frame matching the imposing figure of his own horse, which funnily enough I remember being named as Stranger. 

Clegane still didn't open up enough to make me believe he saw me as a friend, though occasionally whenever I showed some sign of consideration and respect for him, he grunted. Not disapproval or mockery. Just a sound, low and rough, like a smith's hammer striking true.

I made sure to meet his eye when giving orders, never snapping or mocking. I wanted him as my shield and trusted companion, not just my hound.

And Barristan, always near, always watchful. 

He didn't coddle me either, didn't rush to correct me when I shifted too stiffly in the saddle, but I caught him watching with measuring stares. Probably just making sure that I endured without risking my health, but occasionally I was left wondering if he wasn't looking for glimpses of Rhaegar whenever he looked at me.

The Ex-Lord Commander had given up the position of leading the men guarding my father to follow me, and I refused to give him cause to regret it.

By midday, as we finally left behind the early portion of the goldroad that came out of the crownlands and now made way into the portion that crossed the Reach's borders, the road became a long stretch of farmland, wheat and hay rippling under the breeze. 

We stopped at a shallow river to water the horses, with cool spray constantly hissing over rocks.

Tarro dismounted first, his wiry frame straightening as he stretched. His dark eyes found mine with the same precision his blade always carried.

"You have been doing a fine job keeping your balance while on top of your steed. But today, my Prince, you will learn your first proper lesson in the Water Dance." He said, tone brooking no refusal. "Steel is an extension of the body, but balance, timing and footwork are the true weapons. Without them, a sword is nothing but dead weight. Or worse, a gift to your enemy."

I slid from my saddle, legs stiff, nearly stumbling as the ground met me. My legs wobbled, but I forced them steady.

[ACROBATIC CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

Tarro's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, a silence more cutting than words.

[INSIGHT CHECK FAILED!]

'Damn it! Now I really want to know what he was thinking.' I told myself while failing to find any signs on the man before me.

Regardless, Tarro eventually led me to a clear patch by the riverbank, showing me the stance: knees bent, weight low, shoulders loose. His bravossi blade…thin, elegant, rapier-like… whispering through the air in fluid arcs, each strike more like a dance than a blow.

"Again." He said, voice low and relentless. "The feet, always the feet. Every strike begins there before ending with the wrist."

I mirrored him, clumsy at first, fighting the stiffness in my legs. My swing wobbled, the arc uneven, which instantly reminded me of how much I have come to rely on my True Strike cantrip.

"Too stiff." Tarro snapped, flicking his blade to tap my elbow. "You must fight and defeat yourself before you earn the opportunity to fight your foe."

I adjusted, loosening my grip, letting the blade's weight guide instead of dragging against it. My next motion cut cleaner, steadier. 

"Better." Tarro admitted, though his gaze remained hard. "You learn quickly, but do not mistake progress for mastery. The water never stops moving. Neither must you."

I repeated, again and again, until sweat began slicking on my back and my arms were left trembling. When the sun dipped low, I was still at it, movements no longer unaccustomed, though far from perfect.

[CONSTITUION SAVE FAILED!]

'Seven Hells!' I mentally cursed. 'And there goes my window for rest.'

When our temporary camp rose that evening, Tywin rode the line. His gaze eventually landed on me, on my dirt-streaked tunic and wooden practice blade.

"You show discipline." He said at last, quiet enough only I could hear. "But discipline without understanding is hollow. Why do you pivot your foot so deliberately?"

I straightened in my saddle, ignoring the soreness biting into my legs while recalling having noticed the old lion watching my training with Tarro for quite a while from a distance. "So my body guides the sword, grandfather. My arms are still weak. If I rely on strength, my timing falters. If I let my movement lead, I've found that the blade follows naturally."

His gaze lingered for a long moment. No warmth or indulgence followed it, but at the very least a faint nod of acknowledgment, rare as water in Dorne.

[QUEST PROGRESS!]

[IMPRESS THE OLD LION TEN TIMES (1/10)]

'Really?! Only now?! Okay…okay… breath…at least it's better than nothing.' I allowed myself a small smile, though I hid it quickly.

Still, those were just some small and brief moments in our journey, but the road still stretched on almost endlessly. 

Later, dust clung to cloaks as the evening sky bled purple and gold. This time a more serious camp sprang up in the hollow of a copse, men pitching tents, feeding horses, sparking fires.

Tyrion lowered himself onto a fallen log beside me, rummaging in his saddlebag. 

"Care for a rematch?" He asked, voice conspiratorial while tipping a pouch, showing me the same rough set of cards I'd given him through one of our many letters in the past.

"I thought you'd be tired from the road." I teased, though my body screamed at me to just lie flat on the ground and remain still as long as I could.

"Tired in body, perhaps. But my mind?" His mismatched eyes glinted. "Always eager to be sharpened."

Soon, we played long into the firelit evening, his wit and quips sharp as ever. 

Sandor lingered close, silent but watchful, while Barristan finally allowed himself a faint smile at my stubborn focus. 

Sadly uncle Jaime wasn't yet ready to join us, still, I hope Tywin is handling the matter of his and Cersei's relationship with more tact than he did back in the TV Show. Otherwise, I will have to wear his face again through my Mask of the Changeling and do it myself.

Regardless, when I won another hand, Tyrion raised a brow and muttered. "You know, my dear nephew, playing so well only makes the times you let me win that much more obvious."

"Apologies for trying to be a good nephew to you, uncle." I told him while sneaking out of my Inventory without anyone noticing one of the quick meals I've prepared back in my Instant Dungeon at the Red Keep.

And so, after another day of traveling and quickly catching up with Alysse about her day through my Sending Stone, I finally allowed myself to feel the ache in my muscles. It was sharp, biting. But it was nothing that a long night of rest wouldn't fully recover.

————————————————————————

A couple of mornings later, we eventually woke up only to find the Goldroad shrouded in early mist, the sun struggling to pierce the silver haze. 

I drew my cloak tighter across my small shoulders as wagons creaked into motion, their outlines ghostly in the dim light. The air smelled of wet earth and horse sweat, a world half-hidden, half-revealed.

It honestly was almost as if the field of view of a video game was dialed down to the bare minimum, with the map still loading right before my eyes.

Tyrion rode beside me, eyes glinting with some private joke, while Tywin and the rest of the retinue pressed ahead, banners trailing like pale shadows in the fog.

"Observe the morning." My grandfather said without turning his head. His voice carried easily, low and cutting. "Mist hides more than road and riders. It hides intentions. Think less of arrows or traps, and more of men. An uncertain world breeds rumor, whispers and plots. A clever lord thrives in that fog, while fools stumble blind."

I straightened in the saddle, eager. "Then power belongs to those who see through the mist?"

"No." Tywin's gaze slid toward me, hard as brass. "Power belongs to those who decide what others will see. To those who can shape the loyalties of men before the mist ever rises. Gold, blood, marriage, fear… these are the pillars of rule."

I frowned. "And honor? Surely a lord who breaks oaths too easily loses all sense of credibility."

"Honor…" He said, the word like ash on his tongue. "…is useful when it wins men to your cause. Dangerous when it blinds you to theirs. Never mistake it for a pillar, for it is nothing but a tool. One to be wielded or discarded as needed."

I tried again. "Then the swords matter less than the promises behind them."

"Not less." Tywin corrected. "But the swords you see are nothing without the oaths behind them. And oaths are bought, traded and discarded like coins. That is the heart of rule, not swords, not banners. Perception. A man convinced of your strength will kneel to you without a blade raised. A man convinced of your mercy will forgive what he should not."

[INSIGHT CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

I drew a slow breath. "Then the true war is for men's belief, not their blades."

Tywin's eyes pinned me in place. The weight in his gaze told me I hadn't just repeated his words back at him. I'd struck close to the marrow of what he meant and he knew it.

He then added, quieter. "Since you seem capable of grasping concepts most children twice your age would still fumble with, I will speak plainly. Remember this, and remember it well: a house does not fall in battle. It falls when no one cares to fight for it. It is the game every king, every lord, and every pretender plays."

His words stayed with me as the column pressed on.

Later, when the column halted for a rest, Tarro claimed me without ceremony. No pleasantries or easing into it, he wanted results. Across uneven ground, I ran until my lungs burned, leapt from stone to root without falter, rolled cleanly on landing.

"A Water Dancer must move as though the ground itself bends to him." He said, helping me regain my balance right as I was about to stumble. "Feet light, back straight. You are not a jester, but the enemy must never see hesitation in your step."

"I understand." I managed between breaths, straightening my spine, forcing my steps to look deliberate even when they wobbled. "If they see hesitation, they'll strike where I falter. Better they laugh at a flourish than find the gap in my guard."

A flicker of approval crossed his face before he drove me harder. 

Vaults over low covers, handstands until my arms shook, pivots that left me dizzy. Every failure was punished with more repetition until success came by instinct rather than thought.

In one of the rare times I faltered, I caught glimpses of Tywin from a distance, jaw set like granite. I knew he thought that such antics smacked of foolishness, unbecoming of a future king. 

Thankfully that's why I made sure to successfully pull my Pycelle stunt with my Mask of the Changeling back when I did. Positioning Tywin's into being the one to have more to gain by keeping me happy, not the other way around.

In any case, Tarro's voice cut through my thoughts. "Better to seem as a skilled fool for a moment than fall like a clumsy one forever."

"Then I'll master both." I shot back, wiping sweat from my brow. "Enough skill that my enemies call me a dancer, and enough substance behind it that they don't live long after."

The Braavosi's lips curved, the closest thing to a smile I had earned from him all day.

Meanwhile, Tyrion lingered nearby with a mug of watered wine, watching keenly in every correction Tarro barked. He asked questions, not about balance or leaps, but about rhythm, timing, the way a movement tricked the eye into expecting something else. 

Tarro humored him with half-answers, but I could tell my uncle stored away every scrap of insight. He would never openly vault a wall himself for all to see, especially since the time his father openly prohibited him, but he saw the value in the lesson.

Now that I think about it, Tyrion must definitely be passing on a version of the "cool uncle and young nephew" tradition he'd had back with Gerion Lannister.

Speaking of him, I hope he hasn't yet left to sail to Old Valyria in hopes of recovering his house's long lost Valyrian Steel sword, Brightroar. I could definitely use another competent noble that might help me with some of my plans.

Regardless, I also spent part of the morning and whenever I could with Barristan, helping him strap on his armor, checking the edge of his sword, and polishing his shield. 

The old knight didn't fuss, but his eyes lingered, approving my diligence. 

"Back when we first started my training, I could barely lift this shield." I said with a small grin, running the cloth across its face until it gleamed. "Now I can carry it steady enough to polish without wobbling. That must count for something. Right, ser?"

Barristan's mouth twitched, clearly trying his best to avoid a proud smile. "Growth is measured less by height than by habit. Keep this diligence from such an early age, and one day not far you will surpass me in all aspects, my Prince."

I dipped my head, the answer both a rebuke and a gift. 

A squire's duties were tedious, especially for a prince of six years, but necessary. And when Barristan saw me not just as Cersei's son or as Robert's heir, but instead as a one of a kind lad learning his trade, I felt something close to pride.

In similar fashion, Sandor frequently joined small hunting parties of soldiers, felling game and foraging so the men wouldn't starve on the road. On one or two occasions he even allowed me to watch from a distance, teaching me silently which tracks and signs to read, which movements would betray an animal's hiding spot.

"Smaller than men's footsteps, but heavier than birds'." I murmured after a while, crouching over a set of prints. "The hare passed here not long ago… but if we follow too close, it'll hear us before we see it."

Sandor grunted, half-surprised, half-amused. "Not bad, my…prince. For once you're not talking like a lordling reading from a book."

I smirked, brushing dirt from my hands.

If only he knew what I've gone through back in the Instant Dungeon. Nevertheless, I still tagged along, not because I felt there was much for me to learn other than how hunting in an actual forest was, but because I needed the time to have my natural charisma working on making our relationship the closest of being friends.

As for uncle Jaime, who was still sullen, he rode now closer than usual, no longer hiding in the shadows or scowling off alone. He didn't speak, but I caught him testing his sword against a practice target later, his movements stiff but deliberate. 

I suspected he was slowly making his mind up about returning to action and making the best use of this never once conceived opportunity.

By midday, Tyrion had finally begun to subtly teaching my card game to the retinue, starting with Sandor and Barristan. I watched as he explained mechanics in his soft, teasing voice, careful not to let Tywin see too much. 

The dwarf's hands gestured constantly, his words laced with humor and strategy. Sandor's scowl gradually softened into a grim smile, while Barristan's unusual competitive streak flared visibly.

When the lesson paused for a brief rest, I slipped away under the guise of a young cook, my Mask of the Changeling altering me into an adult servant of the camp, with the appropriate clothes thanks to my Disguise Self spell.

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCEEDED!]

No one gave me more than a passing glance, and I moved among the cook's tents with the ease of someone who belonged there.

And so I set to work, testing recipes I recalled from another life, measuring herbs and grains by instinct rather than scale, improvising with what the medieval ingredients allowed me. 

A handful of rosemary here, a dash of honey there, or a twist of dried onions, all mostly simple changes, but the flavors danced differently than any ordinary camp meal. I even managed a basic stew with a richer texture, teaching a young servant to stir just so, to coax more from the meager vegetables.

"Try not to overcook the meat." I whispered in my borrowed voice to a boy nervously tending the cauldron. "It's patient work, not a sprint." 

The boy nodded, wide-eyed, while I added a pinch of spices and tasted the broth carefully, savoring how subtly it improved with each adjustment.

Even in disguise, I couldn't help but grin at the irony. 

Here I was, a prince, cooking over a fire with wooden spoons and iron pots, and yet I felt a peculiar satisfaction in creating something small and excellent for others to enjoy. 

If only I hadn't left the last of my Soda bottles with Rhaneys, I can only imagine the mayhem it would bring to have it be tasted by some of those soldiers and nobles traveling with me.

By the time I returned to my six years old form, which honestly was already a couple of years a bit outdated thanks to the time dilation of my first Instant Dungeon that I went through, the scent of simmering stew and baked bread followed me back to the tents, drawing a few curious glances from the men who'd been hungry for hours.

As evening dawned on us all, the fog had burned away, replaced by a copper glow spilling across the hills. We camped this time on a rise, the retinue settling into routine. 

As it became a habit, Tywin summoned me to walk with him while the men pitched tents. His voice dropped again to that private register meant only for me, while studying me in silence after every response and educated guess I gave during his lessons.

Tyrion, meanwhile, had once again begun setting up impromptu card games, though this time with some of the servants that knew better than just to dismiss him as a mere dwarf, always careful to keep me in the shadows of credit. 

I smiled quietly, enjoying the satisfaction of seeing my creation continuing to flourish.

————————————————————————

By the time our retinue had been on the road a week, the journey had truly turned out to be taxing. The sun seemed to bore down more relentlessly, as dust clung to cloak and skin, and the wagons slowed across the rolling hills.

Though that very same afternoon brought us our first skirmish to break up the monotony of it all. A small band of highwaymen tried to ambush a merchant cart along a narrow stretch of road. 

Grandfather Tywin, ever alert, had anticipated the risk and placed his guards accordingly. Arrows flew, steel clashed, and within moments the bandits fled into the scrub, broken and disoriented by the precision of the defense.

I stayed mounted, watching every movement, the hesitation of men unused to real combat, the quick response of the wagon guards, and the terrifying ease with which Barristan and Sandor cut their numbers down.

By nightfall, we camped beside a creek.

Tarro wasted no time, running me through Water Dance drills under lantern light, sword arcs smooth and deliberate. The steps had grown more complex now, forcing me to balance on uneven ground, to anticipate the horse's constant motion, to see beyond the strike in front of me.

"Remember…" He said as I parried a slowed thrust. "Your center is your guide. Never let the blade dictate your motion. The sword is a messenger, not the master."

I countered, forcing him a step back. He smirked. "Better. But your eyes wander. The blade exists not just in steel, but also in the space, in the distance and in the intent."

As time began to blur together, the next days brought storms.

Clouds thickened, winds swept dust and leaves into our path, and our retinue tightened its formation to weather it. Meanwhile, Tarro shifted his lessons in kind.

"Adapt…" He snapped, batting aside my hasty thrust. "Balance may fail. Footing may shift. Yet the flow must continue. Steel, mind and body must move as one."

Somewhere between not tumbling from my horse and trying to impress every mentor I had, notifications began pouring in like they had been held as hostage until I hit my cardio quota for the year.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ASSASSIN (RANK B)]

[CONGRATULATIONS: YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A NEW FEAT: SPEEDY]

*You are exceptionally speedy and agile. You gain the following benefits:

Ability Score Increase: Your Dexterity score increases by 1.

Speed Increase: Your Speed increases by 10 feet. Dash Over Difficult Terrain: When you take the Dash action on your turn, Difficult Terrain doesn't cost you extra movement for the rest of that turn. Agile Movement: Opportunity Attacks have Disadvantage against you. When you make a melee attack against a creature, you don't provoke opportunity attacks from that creature for the rest of the turn, whether you hit or not.]

'Oh great. I've officially been promoted to greased lightning.' I thought while stretching my legs before jogging a half-hearted sprint around camp. 'Okay… perhaps not there yet, so maybe more like oiled leather. But still an upgrade.'

That same night, slipping past the watchmen was almost laughably easy, thanks to my ability to literally make myself look like anyone, and took a detour through the nearby woods. My feet barely touched the earth as I moved through the dense terrain, gliding instead of slowing down to watch my step.

That's when it really hit me, my footing wasn't just quicker, but smoother and quieter. I was skipping through the underbrush like I'd finally cracked the secret to Tarro's ridiculous footwork.

But before I could properly enjoy my new forest ninja status, the System struck again.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: CHAMPION (RANK C)]

[CONGRATULATIONS: YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A NEW FEAT: CHEF]

'Wait, what?!'

*Time and effort spent mastering the culinary arts has paid off. You gain the following benefits:

Ability Score Increase: Your Wisdom score increases by 1.

Cook's Utensils: You gain proficiency with Cook's Utensils if you don't already have it. 

Replenishing Meal: As part of a Short Rest, you can cook special food if you have ingredients and Cook's Utensils on hand. You can prepare enough of this food for a number of creatures equal to 4 plus your Proficiency Bonus. At the end of the Short Rest, any creature who eats the food regains an extra 1d8 Health Points. 

Bolstering Treats: With 1 hour of work or when you finish a Long Rest, you can cook a number of treats equal to your Proficiency Bonus if you have ingredients and Cook's Utensils on hand. These special treats last 8 hours after being made. A creature can use a Bonus Action to eat one of those treats to gain a number of Temporary Hit Points equal to your Proficiency Bonus.

'So not only am I a little faster and harder to pin down, but now also deadly and… a five-star chef?' I thought while blinking at the notifications, already coming up with salivating ideas for my next recipes, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching. 

I cleared my throat, put on my best grumpy Scottish accent while magically wearing the appropriate face and growled. "My gran can do better! And she's dead! And…this lamb is so undercooked, it's following Mary to school!"

Back on the road, Tarro taught me whenever he found the chance, like brief sparring bouts beside the wagons, as quick reminders to test my footwork. Each night ended the same: aching muscles, no reprieve, and the faint sense that the game, the blade, the leaps were beginning to thread together into a single tapestry.

It was more than just travel.

Each sparring round, each hand of cards with Tyrion, each subtle lesson in observation, each measured glance from Tywin… all of it was progress, quiet proof that I could walk among giants without being crushed.

By the following evening, long shadows stretched over the Goldroad's horizon. The westerlands drew close, of that there was no doubt, and soon the banners of Deep Den would greet us, marking the halfway point of our journey to Casterly Rock.

But before my well deserved sleep, as the fire crackled and guards still argued over cards, I found myself flanked by two very different lions.

Tyrion leaned in, cup in hand, eyes bright with curiosity. Jaime settled down nearby, less cocky than his old self, still testing what joy might be salvaged in this new life.

"Tell us a tale…" Tyrion urged. "Something fit for the road. Not history, mind you, but a story. One with teeth."

"If I recall…" Jaime mused, his golden head inclined, "…you were quite the storyteller for your siblings. I've heard enough songs and sermons. Let's have something new."

I hesitated only a heartbeat, then let the firelight catch my smile. Dragon Age? Witcher? Either would do. Both, perhaps. Our road was long, and the night had just begun.

And so I began, giving my best Performance check in quite a while, all the while trying to either filter most of the content or just dial it down a little because I knew for sure that both my uncles would have questions about how a little crown prince came up with such mature concepts.

————————————————————————

(12/10/2021)

(24/04/2022)

(01/01/2025)

(01/01/2026)

*Hope this chapter is of your liking. 

Anything you wish to ask, feel free to do so.

Check out my auxiliary chapter if you still haven't.

Thanks as always for your attention and please be safe.

Any problems with my writing, just point them out and I will correct them as soon as possible.