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Adrian Lannister
Adrian's legs still couldn't touch the floor when he sat in the big chair in Maester Creylen's study. His feet swung back and forth while he waited. The room smelled like old paper and ink and the funny herbs the Maester kept in glass jars.
Today was his first real lesson day. Not baby lessons like before, but big boy lessons. Father said so.
"Today we begin your formal education, Lord Adrian," Maester Creylen said, placing a large book on the table between them. His chain made clinky sounds when he moved. Adrian wondered how heavy it was and if the Maester's neck hurt at night.
"What's for-mal ed-u-ca-tion?" Adrian asked, pronouncing each part carefully.
"It means you're old enough now to learn what a future Lord of Casterly Rock must know," the Maester explained, smiling a little. His beard was gray and scratchy-looking, but his eyes were kind.
Adrian sat up straighter. He liked the sound of that. Father always said he would be Lord someday.
"Can I learn about dragons?" Adrian asked hopefully.
The Maester's smile twitched. "We'll focus on the Great Houses of Westeros first. Dragons come much later in your studies."
Adrian's shoulders slumped a little. Tyrion would have started with dragons.
"Now," Maester Creylen opened the large book, "let's begin with House Lannister, your own house."
The book showed a golden lion on a red background. Adrian already knew this one.
"House Lannister of Casterly Rock," he recited proudly. "Our sigil is a golden lion on a crimson field. Our words are 'Hear Me Roar.'"
"Very good," the Maester nodded. "And what else do you know about House Lannister?"
Adrian thought hard, remembering what Father and Tyrion had told him. "We were Kings of the Rock until Aegon the Conqueror came with his dragons. Loren the Last knelt and became Warden of the West instead."
"Excellent recall. Now let's continue with the other Great Houses."
For the next hour, the Maester showed Adrian pictures of wolves and falcons and stags and roses, telling him about each house as he turned the pages. Adrian tried not to fidget, even though the chair was hard and his bottom was getting sore. Father said Lannisters don't fidget.
"House Stark of Winterfell," the Maester said, pointing to a gray direwolf. "Their words are—"
"Winter is Coming," Adrian interrupted. "And they rule the North as Wardens."
Maester Creylen raised his bushy eyebrows. "Yes, that's right. Did Lord Tyrion teach you that?"
Adrian nodded proudly. "He knows all the houses. Even the small ones."
"Well, let's see what else you know." The Maester turned more pages, showing more sigils.
Adrian knew most of them already. Baratheon was a black stag. Tully was a silver trout. Arryn was a white falcon. Tyrell was a golden rose. He liked the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen best, but he didn't say so. Father didn't like when he talked about Targaryens too much.
"House Martell," the Maester said, showing a red sun pierced by a spear.
"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," Adrian said quickly. "They rule Dorne and never kneeled to the dragons."
The Maester looked surprised again. "Very impressive, Lord Adrian."
The heavy door opened with a creak. Father walked in, tall and stern in crimson and gold. Adrian sat up even straighter, his feet stopping their swinging.
"Lord Tywin," Maester Creylen bowed his head. "We were just reviewing the Great Houses."
Father's face didn't change, but his eyes moved to Adrian. "Continue."
The Maester closed the book. "Actually, I'd like to test young Lord Adrian's memory, if I may."
Father nodded once and moved to stand by the window, watching.
"Adrian," the Maester said, "can you name all the Great Houses and their sigils? Without looking at the book?"
Adrian's heart beat faster. This was a test, and Father was watching. He took a deep breath.
"House Lannister, a golden lion on crimson. House Stark, a gray direwolf on white. House Baratheon, a black stag on gold. House Arryn, a white falcon and moon on blue. House Tully, a silver trout on blue and red. House Tyrell, a golden rose on green. House Martell, a red sun pierced by a spear on orange."
He took another breath and continued.
"House Greyjoy, a golden kraken on black. House Targaryen, a red three-headed dragon on black, but they don't rule anymore because of the Rebellion."
The room was quiet. Adrian couldn't tell if he'd done well or made a mistake. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the Targaryens.
"And the words of these houses?" the Maester prompted.
Adrian repeated all the house words without stopping. When he finished, he looked at Father, hoping for a smile. Father didn't smile, but he gave a small nod, which was almost the same thing.
"Now," the Maester said, reaching into a drawer, "let me show you something you haven't seen before."
He pulled out a scroll with tiny painted shields—dozens of them, all different colors and designs.
"These are the sigils of the minor houses sworn to Casterly Rock. I'm going to let you look at them for a few minutes, then see how many you can remember."
Adrian studied the little shields with all his focus. There were so many! House Crakehall was a brindled boar. House Lefford had a golden mountain. House Marbrand had a burning tree. His eyes moved quickly from one to the next, trying to remember them all.
After just a few minutes, the Maester rolled up the scroll. "Now, tell me what you remember."
Adrian closed his eyes, seeing the little shields in his mind like they were still in front of him. One by one, he named the houses and described their sigils. He couldn't remember all of them, but he named sixteen houses before stopping.
When he opened his eyes, even Father looked surprised.
"Remarkable," the Maester murmured. "Simply remarkable."
Father stepped closer. "What else have you planned for today's lesson?"
"Numbers and letters in the afternoon, my lord," the Maester replied. "Though I suspect Lord Adrian may be beyond basic instruction there as well."
"Test him," Father commanded.
The Maester brought out a slate and chalk. He wrote a row of numbers. "Can you add these together, Lord Adrian?"
Adrian looked at the numbers: 24 + 18 + 33. Tyrion had taught him adding already. He worked it out carefully in his head.
"Seventy-five," he said after a moment.
"Correct. And if I take away 17?"
Adrian thought again. "Fifty-eight."
"And if we have 6 groups of 9?"
"Fifty-four."
The Maester exchanged a look with Father. Adrian wasn't sure what it meant, but he thought it was good.
"Can you read this?" The Maester wrote a sentence on the slate.
Adrian read it easily: "The golden lion stands above all others."
"And this?" The Maester wrote something longer and more difficult.
Adrian sounded out the harder words: "The histories of the Great Houses are filled with both honor and treachery."
"He reads at the level of a child twice his age," the Maester said to Father.
Father's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did. "Continue with his lessons as planned. I expect weekly reports on his progress."
As Father turned to leave, Adrian called out, "Father!"
Father paused at the door.
"Did I do well?" Adrian asked, his voice smaller than he wanted it to be.
Father looked at him for a long moment. "You did as a Lannister should."
Then he was gone, his red cloak swishing behind him.
Adrian's chest felt warm and tight. That was almost like saying he did perfectly.
"Well, Lord Adrian," the Maester said, looking at him with new interest, "shall we continue with your lessons? I think we can move ahead faster than I'd planned."
Adrian nodded eagerly. "Can we learn about dragons after numbers?"
"We'll see," the Maester replied, but Adrian could tell from his voice that the answer was still no.
That was all right. Tyrion would tell him about dragons later. Tyrion always did.
Tyrion Lannister
Tyrion Lannister sat ensconced in his favorite alcove of the Casterly Rock library, his twisted legs stretched out on a velvet footstool as he flipped through the pages of "The History of the Targaryen Kings." The mid-afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, bathing the room in multicolored hues.
Most fifteen-year-olds in Westeros would be swinging swords in the training yard, but Tyrion had long ago accepted that his battleground would be found among these shelves. Not that he minded. Books didn't stare at his stunted legs or grotesque waddle.
"Tyrion! Tyrion!" The rapid patter of small feet announced Adrian's arrival before the boy himself appeared, his pale gold hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed with excitement. "Maester Creylen finished my lessons early because I did all my sums right!"
Tyrion closed his book with a smile. "Did he now? And what spoils did you expect to claim for this great victory?"
"He said I could come find you," Adrian replied, clambering onto the window seat opposite Tyrion. He noticed the book in Tyrion's hands. "Is that about dragons? You promised next time you'd tell me about the biggest one."
"Ah, so my role has been reduced to dragon storyteller? And here I thought you valued my company for my sparkling wit and charming personality."
Adrian's brow furrowed in confusion. "I like your stories best. And you do all the funny voices."
Tyrion couldn't help but chuckle. Children were blessedly honest. "Very well. I promised you Balerion the Black Dread, and Balerion you shall have."
He reached across to a nearby stack and pulled out a larger tome with worn leather binding. This particular book was one of Casterly Rock's treasures—a beautifully illustrated volume detailing the Targaryen dragons with colored renderings.
"This," Tyrion said, turning to a magnificent illustration of a massive black dragon with red highlights, "is Balerion, the greatest dragon that ever lived in Westeros. His wings were so vast that entire towns would fall under his shadow when he flew overhead."
Adrian's eyes widened to an almost comical degree. "Bigger than Casterly Rock?"
"Perhaps not quite that big," Tyrion admitted, "but large enough to swallow a mammoth whole."
"What's a mammoth?"
"A creature from beyond the Wall, like a giant hairy elephant with enormous tusks."
"What's an elephant?"
Ah, the perpetual rabbit hole of a child's curiosity, Tyrion thought wryly. "Let's focus on dragons for now, shall we? I suspect that's what you really want to hear about."
Adrian nodded eagerly, scooting closer to see the illustrations. The boy's fascination with dragons bordered on obsession, reminding Tyrion of his own childhood fixation. He'd spent countless hours dreaming of dragons himself, begging Uncle Gerion for dragon tales at every opportunity. Eventually, the fixation had faded, replaced by more... practical interests.
"Balerion belonged to Aegon the Conqueror," Tyrion continued, "and later to Maegor the Cruel, and finally to Viserys I. He lived for about two hundred years."
"Two hundred?" Adrian gasped. "That's older than anyone!"
"Indeed. Dragons keep growing as long as they live, which is why Balerion was so enormous by the end."
Adrian studied the illustration intently, his small finger tracing the outline of the dragon's wings. "Why is he black? Do dragons come in different colors?"
"They do," Tyrion replied, impressed by the astute question. "Balerion was black with red markings. Vhagar was bronze with greenish highlights. Meraxes was silver with gold horns and spines."
"I like the black one best," Adrian declared. "Black is more scary."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "And why would you want your dragon to be scary?"
"So no one would fight me," Adrian answered with the straightforward logic of childhood. "Everyone would just do what I say."
Already thinking like a true Lannister, Tyrion thought. "Dragons aren't pets, you know. They're weapons—the most dangerous weapons in the world."
Adrian seemed to consider this seriously. "Do you want to see my drawing? I made a dragon yesterday."
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a folded parchment from his tunic and proudly spread it on the table between them. Tyrion leaned forward, expecting the usual childish scrawl, and found himself genuinely surprised.
The dragon Adrian had drawn was remarkably detailed for a five-year-old. The proportions were oddly accurate—long neck, powerful body, wings with the correct bone structure. Most children drew dragons like winged horses or lizards, but this looked more like the anatomical illustrations in scholarly texts.
"This is... quite good," Tyrion said honestly. "How did you know to draw the wings like this?"
Adrian shrugged. "That's how they look in my head."
Curious, Tyrion thought. Perhaps the boy had been studying the library's illustrations without his knowledge.
"Can I ask you something, Tyrion?" Adrian's voice had taken on that earnest quality that usually preceded his most difficult questions.
"You just did, but I'll grant you another." Tyrion gestured grandly, eliciting a giggle.
"How did dragons breathe fire? Not pretend fire, but real fire that burned things up?"
Tyrion paused. Most children asked if dragons were real or how big they were—practical questions. Fire-breathing mechanics was a question he might expect from a maester.
"Well," he began cautiously, "the maesters have several theories. The most common belief is that dragons had two special glands in their throats that produced liquids that, when combined, created fire."
"Like when Cook puts oil in the pan and it makes a big whoosh?"
"Similar, yes." Tyrion nodded, impressed by the analogy. "Though considerably more... lethal."
Adrian's face scrunched in concentration. "Could they control it? Like, make little fires for cooking food and big fires for fighting?"
Tyrion laughed. "I don't believe dragons were much concerned with culinary pursuits."
"But could they?" Adrian persisted.
"I suppose they must have had some control," Tyrion conceded. "Young dragons produced smaller flames than older ones, certainly."
Adrian seemed satisfied with this answer and turned back to the book, carefully examining each illustration. Tyrion watched him with a mixture of amusement and genuine affection. Unlike most at Casterly Rock, the boy saw Tyrion's knowledge as valuable rather than the useless trivia of a misshapen dwarf.
"Tyrion?" Adrian asked after a while, his voice suddenly quieter. "Are there any Targaryens still alive?"
The question caught Tyrion off guard. It veered dangerously close to recent history—and recent political strife. How to explain rebellion and exile to a five-year-old, especially one being raised by Tywin Lannister, who had played such a controversial role in those events?
"Yes," Tyrion answered carefully, "though not many."
"Do they have dragons?" Adrian's eyes were bright with hope.
"No dragons, I'm afraid. The last dragon died long before either of us was born."
The boy looked genuinely disappointed. "But the people with dragon blood, where are they?"
Tyrion sighed. There was no delicate way around this. "Prince Viserys and his infant sister Daenerys fled across the Narrow Sea after the rebellion. They live in exile now."
"What's exile?"
"It means they had to leave Westeros and can't come back."
Adrian frowned. "That's sad. Do they have a home?"
"I imagine they're hosted by wealthy merchants or nobles in the Free Cities," Tyrion said, though in truth, he knew little of their circumstances.
"Is that all of them?" Adrian asked, surprisingly perceptive.
Tyrion hesitated, then decided truth was better than fiction. "No. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen still lives in King's Landing, in the Red Keep."
"Really?" Adrian's eyes widened with interest. "Does she have silver hair like in the pictures?"
"No, she takes after her Dornish mother in looks. Dark hair, olive skin."
"But she has dragon blood?"
Tyrion nodded, watching Adrian's reaction carefully. "Half Targaryen, yes."
"Will I ever get to meet her?" Adrian asked.
"Perhaps someday," Tyrion replied, wondering at the boy's intense interest. "She's a ward of the crown now, which means King Robert is responsible for her care."
Though I doubt Father would approve of that particular friendship, Tyrion thought dryly.
"I'd like to meet her," Adrian declared with the simple certainty of childhood. "I could ask her what it's like to be a dragon."
Tyrion smiled sadly. "I don't think she knows herself, little brother. She was very young when the rebellion happened."
Adrian nodded seriously, then turned the page to reveal an illustration of dragon eggs—stone-like, covered in scales of various colors.
"These are beautiful," Adrian breathed. "Are there still eggs somewhere? Could they hatch new dragons?"
"The last known dragon egg was owned by Aegon V, and it was lost in the tragedy at Summerhall," Tyrion explained. "If others exist, their whereabouts are unknown."
"I'm going to find one someday," Adrian announced with absolute conviction.
"Are you indeed?" Tyrion smirked. "And what would Father say about that particular ambition?"
Adrian considered this seriously. "I won't tell him until after I find it."
Tyrion burst out laughing. "A wise approach to Tywin Lannister's disapproval, I must say."
He reached out and affectionately ruffled Adrian's pale gold hair, so different from the typical Lannister shade. The boy looked up at him with those striking bright green eyes—Lannister eyes, without question, though set in a face that sometimes seemed to belong to someone else entirely.
He's nothing like me, Tyrion thought with a mix of relief and something akin to melancholy. But perhaps that's for the best. The gods have already cursed one Lannister son; they might have been kinder to this one.
"One more dragon story," Adrian pleaded, "before I have to go back for my other lessons?"
Tyrion glanced out the window at the sinking sun. "Very well. One more. Have I told you about the dragon called Silverwing, who refused to fly north of the Wall?"
Adrian shook his head, already settling in for the tale, his small face alight with anticipation.
And as Tyrion began the story, he wondered—not for the first time—what it might have been like to have a childhood where someone cared enough to tell him stories, to answer his endless questions, to nurture his curiosities instead of mocking them.
Perhaps, in his own small way, he was giving Adrian what he himself had never had.
Adrian Lannister - Two Weeks Later (5 Years, 4 Months)
The training yard was noisier than any place Adrian had ever been in Casterly Rock. Metal clanged against metal. Men grunted and shouted. Wooden swords whacked against each other with loud thwacks that echoed off the stone walls.
Adrian stood very straight, like Father taught him to, even though his tummy felt funny. Today was his first real sword lesson. Father said all Lannister men must know how to fight.
'Your brother Jaime is the best swordsman in Westeros, and I expect nothing less from you,' his father had said today while they were breaking their fast.
"This is Ser Willem Broom, Master-at-Arms of Casterly Rock," Father told Adrian. "You will address him as Ser Willem, and you will obey his instructions."
Ser Willem was a giant to Adrian's eyes. His shoulders were as wide as two normal men put together, and his arms were thick like tree trunks. His face had a big scar that pulled his left eye down in a permanent frown.
"My lord," Ser Willem bowed to Father, then looked down at Adrian. "So this is the young lion. We'll make a swordsman of him yet."
Father's face didn't change—it never did—but his eyes got that hard look that meant he expected Adrian to do well. "I'll return in an hour to observe his progress."
Then Father was gone, his red cloak swishing behind him, and Adrian was alone with the giant scarred man and a yard full of sweaty, fighting men.
"Have you ever held a sword before, boy?" Ser Willem asked.
Adrian shook his head. "No, Ser."
Does he think babies get swords in their cradles? Adrian thought, but kept his face serious like Father would want.
"Hmm." Ser Willem walked over to a rack filled with wooden training swords of different sizes. He selected one that looked tiny in his huge hand but seemed enormous to Adrian.
"This one should suit for now," he said, holding it out. "Take it."
Adrian reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. It was heavier than he expected, and the grip felt rough against his soft palm.
"Hold it like this," Ser Willem adjusted Adrian's fingers, making him clasp the sword properly. "Not like you're holding a spoon, boy. Like you mean to use it."
Adrian tried to copy what Ser Willem showed him, but his hand felt all wrong and stiff. The sword wobbled in his grip.
"Stand with your feet apart," Ser Willem ordered. "Like this." He demonstrated, placing his own feet shoulder-width apart. "You need a good base or you'll fall on your arse—on your back, I mean—with the first strike."
Adrian adjusted his stance, trying to copy the master-at-arms. His new boots scraped against the dusty ground.
"Better," Ser Willem grunted. "Now, the most basic strike is from high to low, like this."
He demonstrated a downward cut with his own wooden sword, bringing it down in a straight line.
"Try it," he commanded.
Adrian lifted his sword, finding it harder to raise than he expected. His arm trembled a little as he tried to hold it up, then he brought it down in what he hoped was the same movement Ser Willem had shown.
"Pitiful," Ser Willem said, but he didn't sound angry, just matter-of-fact. "Again. And put your shoulder into it this time."
If it's so easy, why don't YOU try it with arms as small as mine, Adrian thought crossly, but said nothing. Father said complaining was for the weak.
Adrian tried again, and again, and again. His arm started to hurt, and his palm felt scratchy where the wooden hilt rubbed against it.
After what seemed like forever, Ser Willem stopped him. "That's enough of that for now. Let's work on your stance."
For the next long time, Adrian had to stand in different positions while Ser Willem pushed him to see if he would fall over. He fell over a lot.
"You need to be stronger," Ser Willem said, pulling Adrian to his feet after another fall. "You've got a good mind from what I hear, but minds don't win sword fights. Muscles do."
Adrian's face felt hot. He didn't like failing at things. In the library with Tyrion or in Maester Creylen's study, he always did well. Everyone said he was smart. But here in the training yard, being smart didn't help.
"I can be strong," Adrian insisted, gripping his sword tighter.
Ser Willem's scarred face almost smiled. "Spirit. Good. You'll need it."
They practiced more sword movements. Adrian's arms ached worse than they ever had before. Sweat made his hair stick to his forehead, and dust from the yard coated his fine clothes.
Some older boys training nearby stopped to watch. One of them, maybe ten or eleven years old, whispered something to his friend and they both laughed.
"Look at the little lord," one said, not quietly enough. "Can't even lift his sword properly."
"Bet he'd rather be reading books with the Imp," the other said.
At least I CAN read, you big stupid donkey, Adrian thought furiously. Bet you don't even know your letters.
Adrian felt his face grow even hotter. He wanted to show them he could too lift a sword. He gripped the wooden practice sword as tight as he could and tried to do the overhead strike that Ser Willem had shown him. But his tired arms betrayed him, and the sword wobbled and fell from his grasp, landing in the dirt with a sad thud.
The boys laughed louder. Adrian's eyes stung with tears he wouldn't let fall. Lannisters don't cry, Father always said.
Ser Willem turned to glare at the boys. "Back to your drills unless you want extra hours running the Rock's perimeter!"
The boys scattered quickly, but Adrian could still hear their snickers.
"Don't mind them," Ser Willem said. "They weren't any better their first day."
"I'm a Lannister," Adrian said, trying to make his voice strong like Father's. "I should be the best."
"Being a Lannister doesn't put muscle on your bones or skill in your arm," Ser Willem replied bluntly. "That comes with practice. Lots of practice."
Adrian picked up his sword from the dirt, his small jaw set with determination. "Show me again."
Ser Willem raised an eyebrow but nodded. "The strike begins from here, above your head. Then down in one move."
This time Adrian concentrated harder than he ever had before. He imagined the sword was light as a feather. He raised it above his head, took a deep breath, and brought it down with all his might.
The wooden blade whistled slightly as it cut through the air—not as loudly as when Ser Willem did it, but definitely a proper sword sound.
"Better," Ser Willem said, and this time there was a hint of approval in his gruff voice. "Again."
Adrian repeated the motion, focusing on keeping his arm steady and his grip firm. Each time he swung, his arms screamed in protest, but he didn't stop.
After several more tries, Ser Willem nodded. "That's enough for today. Tomorrow we'll continue."
Adrian lowered his sword, his arms shaking with exhaustion. "Can I practice more now?"
"No. Too much too soon will do more harm than good. Your arms need to rest."
Just then, Adrian saw Father approaching across the yard. His heart beat faster. Had Father seen him drop the sword? Had he seen him almost cry?
"How did he perform?" Father asked Ser Willem directly, not looking at Adrian.
"As expected for a first session, my lord," Ser Willem replied. "He lacks strength but not determination."
Father's eyes flicked to Adrian, taking in his dusty clothes and red face. "And what weapon do you think will suit him best as he grows?"
Ser Willem shook his head. "He's too young to tell for certain, my lord. At five, they're all finding their footing. With enough training, any weapon might become his strength."
"You must have some initial observation," Father pressed.
"Well," Ser Willem considered, watching Adrian, "he seems quick on his feet, despite his fatigue. Perhaps a style that favors speed over brute strength might suit him. But again, my lord, it will be years before we can be certain. By the time he's nine or ten, we'll have a much clearer picture of his natural aptitudes."
A baby sword, that's what he means, Adrian thought bitterly. He thinks I'm too small and weak for a real sword.
"He will train with all weapons," Father said firmly. "A Lannister must be proficient in everything."
"Of course, my lord."
Father finally addressed Adrian directly. "Did you apply yourself fully to your lesson?"
Adrian stood as tall as his tired body would allow. "Yes, Father."
"Show me what you learned."
Adrian's tired arms protested as he raised the wooden sword once more. Aware of everyone watching—Father, Ser Willem, even the older boys who had paused their own practice to observe—Adrian performed the downward strike he'd been practicing.
It wasn't perfect. His arms wobbled slightly, and the strike wasn't as powerful as it should have been. But it was better than his first attempts.
Father watched with his usual unreadable expression. "You will practice every day," he said finally. "Strength will come with time."
It wasn't praise, not exactly, but it wasn't disappointment either. Adrian felt a small glow of relief in his chest.
"Yes, Father," he agreed earnestly.
As they walked back toward the main keep, Adrian's wooden sword clutched in his aching hand, he made a silent promise to himself. He would become the best swordsman in Casterly Rock. He would make Father proud.
Even if his arms fell off trying.
Genna Lannister - Two Weeks Later
Genna Lannister adjusted her ample form on the stone bench, grateful for the cushions the servants had thoughtfully provided. At forty-three, comfort was no longer a luxury but a necessity, particularly when one carried the weight she did. The gardens of Casterly Rock bloomed around her—roses as golden as Lannister hair, crimson snapdragons standing tall as soldiers.
Her husband Emmon was mercifully absent, having ridden to Lannisport on some trivial business. That weasel-faced Frey had been foisted upon her at the age of seven, a marriage arranged by her fool of a father who couldn't see the insult in matching a daughter of House Lannister with a second son of that upjumped toll collector Walder Frey. Twenty-seven years of marriage had done nothing to improve her opinion of Emmon, though it had produced four sons who, thankfully, favored their Lannister blood in both looks and temperament.
"Aunt Genna!" Adrian's clear voice rang out as he raced down the garden path, a small wooden sword clutched in his hand.
"Careful!" she called as he nearly toppled a potted plant. "That's Myrish crystal, worth more than your wooden sword, I'd wager."
Adrian slowed immediately, composing himself with a quickness that impressed her. At five, Genna's own sons had been wild as aurochs, incapable of restraint. But then, none of them had been raised under Tywin's exacting eye.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Genna," he said, approaching with more decorum. "I was practicing sword fighting with the roses. Uncle Tygett says I need to practice every day."
"Did he now?" Genna patted the bench beside her. "And did my brother also suggest slaughtering innocent flowers?"
Adrian climbed onto the bench, his legs swinging above the ground. "No. But the red ones look like enemy soldiers in their tunics."
Seven help us, Tywin is already raising another warrior, Genna thought. Though given the boy's delicate build, she had her doubts about his martial future.
"Perhaps we could find you a more suitable opponent than my prize Highgarden roses," she suggested dryly.
Adrian tilted his head slightly to the right, his brow furrowing in thought—and Genna's breath caught. The gesture was so distinctly reminiscent of Cersei that for a moment, it was as if her niece sat before her, not this little boy.
"Like who?" Adrian asked, still holding that familiar posture. "Tyrion won't fight with me. He says his arms are for holding books, not swords."
Genna chuckled, recovering her composure. "That sounds like Tyrion. Perhaps one of the stable boys would be a better match."
"Father says I shouldn't play with servants," Adrian replied solemnly. "He says a lion doesn't frolic with sheep."
Oh, Tywin, Genna sighed inwardly. Must you make him as isolated as you've made yourself?
"Your father has many opinions," she said carefully. "But even lions need companions." She signaled to a passing servant. "Maris, would you bring us some refreshments? Something cool to drink and perhaps some of those honey cakes from the kitchen."
The servant nodded and departed. Adrian's eyes lit up at the mention of sweets.
"But it's not dinner time yet," he said, though his tone suggested hope rather than protest.
"Consider it our secret," Genna winked. "Your Aunt Genna was never one for following tedious rules about mealtimes."
Adrian smiled—a genuine, bright smile that transformed his serious little face—and gods, there was Cersei again. Not the hard, brittle woman she'd become, but the beautiful girl who had smiled like the sun before disappointment had soured her.
"Do you know who you remind me of sometimes?" Genna asked, studying him.
"Father?" Adrian suggested eagerly.
Genna nearly snorted. The boy was as unlike Tywin as a puppy was to a direwolf. "No, dear one. Your half-sister, Cersei."
"The queen?" Adrian's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Indeed. When you tilt your head just so, or when you smile..." She gestured vaguely. "It's quite remarkable."
Adrian seemed pleased by this. "Do I look like her? Serra says I'm handsome, and everyone says Queen Cersei is the most beautiful lady in the kingdoms."
"You have the Lannister eyes, certainly," Genna replied, "though your hair is a shade lighter than ours. But it's more the expressions, the little gestures."
The servant returned with a tray bearing lemon water and honey cakes. Adrian eyed the sweets hungrily but waited until Genna nodded her permission before taking one.
Adrian took a bite of his cake, a look of pure bliss spreading across his face. Genna watched him with amusement and a touch of fondness. Unlike her own sons, who had been boisterous and demanding, Adrian possessed a quiet charm that was difficult to resist.
"May I have another, please?" he asked after neatly finishing the first cake, not a crumb on his immaculate tunic. His green-gold eyes held just the right mixture of hope and restraint.
"Dinner is in less than an hour," Genna reminded him, raising an eyebrow.
Adrian tilted his head again—there was that gesture—and said with perfect seriousness, "But I'll be extra hungry by then from all my sword practice. Father says a warrior needs strength."
Genna had to stifle a laugh. "Did he now? And when did my brother become so concerned with frequent meals?"
"Well," Adrian admitted with disarming honesty, "he didn't say exactly that. But he did say I need to be strong."
"And honey cakes are your path to strength?" Genna asked, her lips twitching.
"They make me happy," Adrian replied simply. "And happy lions are strong lions."
At that, Genna did laugh, a full-bodied sound that echoed through the garden. "Very well, you silver-tongued little schemer. One more, but that's all."
As Adrian happily took another cake, Genna marveled at his ability to get what he wanted without tantrums or demands. That, too, reminded her of a young Cersei, who had learned early how to charm their father.
Later that evening, after Adrian had been escorted back to his chambers for dinner, Genna found Kevan in Tywin's solar, going over ledgers while their brother was absent.
"How was your afternoon with the boy?" Kevan asked, looking up from his work.
Genna settled into a chair with a sigh. "Enlightening. He's quite something, that one."
"Tywin seems to think so," Kevan replied neutrally.
"He reminds me of Cersei at that age," Genna said, watching her brother's reaction carefully. "All charm and calculation, even at five."
Kevan's expression remained unreadable. "He's a Lannister."
"Indeed, but he has Cersei's particular brand of persuasion. Managed to sweet-talk me into extra honey cakes before dinner." She chuckled. "He has her charm but thankfully not her temper. At least not that I've seen."
"Let's hope it stays that way," Kevan murmured. "One Cersei is more than enough for the Seven Kingdoms."
Genna nodded, but something about the boy continued to nag at her—something she couldn't quite place.
I'm just imagining things, she eventually thought.
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