Tycen Lannister

The corridors of Casterly Rock stretched long and cool beneath my toddling feet, their sandstone walls rising high above me like the cliffs outside.

It was 264 AC, two years since I'd gasped into this world, and my legs—still wobbly, still short—carried me unsteadily across the crimson rugs.

The sea's roar was softer here, muffled by layers of stone, but I felt its pulse in the air, a restless hum that never left.

My green eyes darted around, sharper now, drinking in the flickering torchlight and the golden lions stitched into every banner, their snarls frozen in thread.

I was two, or near enough, and the nursery's confines had loosened.

Myrla trailed behind me, her sharp nose wrinkling as she muttered about the draft, her gray skirts swishing with each brisk step.

"Stay close, young lord," she said, her voice rough and clipped, the kind of tone she used for duty, not fondness.

I didn't answer, my small hand brushing the wall for balance as I ventured deeper into the keep.

The stone was smooth under my fingers, worn by centuries of Lannister hands, and I wondered how many had walked here before me—how many would after.

Joanna had brought me here this morning, her golden hair tied back with a crimson ribbon, her belly flat again since the twins' birth last year.

Cersei and Jaime—my siblings now—slept in the nursery, their cries echoing through the stone when the wet nurses weren't quick enough.

She'd smiled as she set me down, her lavender scent brushing my face.

"Explore a little, Tycen," she'd said, her voice warm. "This is your home."

Her words stuck with me, soft and heavy, tugging at something I didn't want to feel.

Home.

A fortress I'd seen crumble in another life, forty-one years from now, when dragons and dead men tore the world apart.

My chest tightened, that old flutter creeping in.

The nightwalkers—White Walkers, I corrected myself—lurked in my thoughts, their icy shadows a distant threat beyond the Wall.

Twenty-five years until the rebellion I remembered, forty-one until the main chaos of 298 AC kicked in.

I knew the timeline, could count it like a heartbeat, but it didn't stop the unease.

If I stayed quiet, kept my hands still, it'd all play out—Robert's hammer, Daenerys's fire, the Wall's collapse.

I wouldn't have to do a thing.

Yet the thought of those frozen eyes, that creeping frost, made my toddler heart skip, and I stumbled, catching myself against the wall.

Myrla's hand darted out, steadying me with a grunt.

"Careful now, young lord," she said, her grip firm and quick before she let go.

I glanced up at her, her thin face sharp in the torchlight, and kept silent.

My tongue could shape a few words now—"Mama," "no," "sea"—but I held them back most of the time.

Talking felt like stepping into the story, and I wasn't ready for that.

Not yet.

The corridor opened into a wider hall, its ceiling arched with thick beams that cast long shadows.

A window loomed ahead, tall and narrow, its glass rippling with the faint green of the sea beyond.

I shuffled toward it, my bare feet patting the stone, and pressed my hands against the sill.

The cliffs dropped sharply below, jagged and gray, the waves crashing white against them.

The horizon was a smear of mist, endless and unknowable, and I stared, my breath fogging the glass.

This was mine, Joanna had said—the Rock, the sea, the name.

But I knew what waited out there, beyond the years.

A shadow moved behind me, heavy and deliberate, and I turned.

Tywin stood at the hall's far end, his dark tunic stark against the crimson banners, his gold clasp glinting like a cold star.

He wasn't looking at me—his eyes were on a steward, his voice low and clipped as he gave some order I couldn't hear.

But his presence pressed down, a weight that filled the space, and I froze, my small frame shrinking against the window.

I'd seen him before, felt that chill, but up close, even at this distance, he was more real—more inevitable—than I'd pictured.

Myrla stepped closer, her tone flat.

"Best not linger, young lord. Your father's busy."

She tugged at my arm, brisk and practical, and I let her guide me back toward the corridor.

My eyes stayed on Tywin, though, tracing the line of his shoulders, the way the servants scurried at his shadow.

This was the man who'd shape the game—the rebellion in twenty-five years, the Lannister rise and fall.

I knew his moves, his end, and it made my stomach twist, a mix of awe and dread I couldn't shake.

Back in the quieter halls, Joanna found us.

She knelt as I toddled toward her, her gown pooling crimson around her, and scooped me up.

"There you are," she said, her smile bright but tired, lines faint around her eyes.

"Did you see the sea, my little lion?"

I nodded, my head resting against her shoulder, her warmth seeping into me.

She carried me to a bench along the wall, its wood dark and polished, and sat, holding me close.

The lavender scent wrapped around me again, and for a moment, I let myself sink into it, the nightwalkers and timelines fading to a dull hum.

She hummed softly, her fingers brushing my dark hair, and I listened to the keep's sounds—the distant clatter of plates, a guard's muffled laugh, the sea's endless sigh.

"You're growing fast, Tycen," she murmured.

"Soon you'll run these halls, not just toddle them."

Her voice pulled me deeper into this life, this family, despite what I knew.

Forty-one years until the dragons woke, twenty-five until the Baratheon hammer fell.

Time enough to watch, to wait.

Myrla hovered nearby, adjusting her shawl with a grunt, keeping her distance.

Joanna kept humming, and I stared at the flickering torch on the wall, my thoughts drifting.

The twins were back there wailing, Tywin was somewhere plotting, and the sea kept grumbling outside.

Plenty to think about, but for now, I'd just sit here with her, letting the day roll on.