The vibration from the hard clash of wood traveled up the practice sword, into his wrist, and exploded into a dull ache in his shoulder. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and sweat plastered his golden hair to his forehead in dark clumps. In his previous life, as Steven Evans, the only combat he had ever known was a fight over the television remote or a heated debate in a school staff meeting. He was a man of chalk dust and textbooks, not steel and bruises.
And yet, this body… this body was different.
Thud. Slide. Parry.
The movements flowed from him with a grace he did not possess. When Ser Benedict Broom, the Master-at-Arms, came in with a high swing, Jaime's arm was already rising of its own accord, deflecting the blow at a perfect angle. When the knight attempted a low thrust, Jaime's feet were already moving, pivoting out of range while his own sword dropped to block. It was a strange, terrifying dance. His mind, Steven's mind, was several steps behind, a stunned spectator inside his own skull, while the seven-year-old body of Jaime Lannister moved with instinct and muscle memory forged since he could walk.
"Enough!" Ser Benedict's gruff voice broke the rhythm of the fight. The knight lowered his sword, his broad chest heaving. He was a hard-faced man with arms as thick as Jaime's thighs, but there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes. "The Seven have blessed you, lad. I've never seen the like. You move like a shadowcat."
Jaime bent over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his ragged breath. Every inch of him ached, a symphony of protest from muscles pushed beyond their limits. "Thank you, Ser," he gasped, the gratitude genuine. This man, unlike his father, wasn't testing his intellect or judging his worth. He was simply teaching him how to stay alive.
"Don't thank me. Thank your blood," the knight grumbled, but there was a note of pride in his voice. "Now, be off with you. Get some water and rest. Tomorrow we start on the more complex stances."
Jaime nodded, returning the wooden sword to the rack. He walked out of the dusty practice yard, the afternoon sun warm on his sticky skin. The exhaustion felt good, in a strange way. It was a pure, physical fatigue, a welcome distraction from the relentless mental gymnastics that were his new destiny. Here, in the practice yard, he didn't have to think. He just had to move. He could let the ghost of the original Jaime take over, let the boy's instincts guide him.
But the moment he stepped out of the yard and back into the cool stone corridors, the silence returned, and so did Steven.
"Jaime."
The voice was as cold as ice and as sharp as a shard of glass. He froze, every tired muscle in his body tensing. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. There was only one person in the world who could say his name like it was both a possession and an accusation.
He turned slowly. Cersei was standing there, a few paces behind him, her arms crossed over her chest. The light from a high, arched window caught her golden hair, making it seem like a halo around her beautiful, angry face. Her eyes, a mirror of his own, were narrowed into dangerous green slits.
"Cersei," he said, and his voice sounded more nervous than he would have liked. "What is it?"
A soft, contemptuous snort escaped her lips. "I should be asking you, what is it? What is wrong with you?" She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "You're strange. For two months, since… since then, you've been a stranger."
Jaime felt a powerful urge to retreat. For the past two months, he had consciously avoided his twin sister. It was a cowardly act, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Being near her felt… wrong. Deeply wrong. He had watched the television show, yes, but that had been years ago in his old life, a passing entertainment. He'd preferred lighthearted comedies after a long day of teaching. He'd never been a die-hard fan, so many of the details were hazy. But the one thing he remembered with sickening clarity was the nature of the Lannister twins' relationship.
And then, there were the memories. Fragments that weren't his, bubbling up at unexpected moments. A game of hide-and-seek in the dark tunnels beneath the castle. Small hands exploring where they shouldn't. A shared secret that had felt thrilling and forbidden to the children, but felt repulsive and monstrous to the man inside the boy's body. Gods, they were children. The thought made him shudder, a mixture of horror and a guilt that was not his own. So he had avoided her, immersing himself in lessons with Maester Creylen and drills with Ser Benedict, using duty and exhaustion as a shield.
Now, that shield had been shattered.
"I'm not strange," he said weakly.
"You're a liar!" Cersei hissed, her eyes flashing. "You don't seek me out. You don't talk to me. You spend your time with that dusty old maester or swinging sticks in the yard. You didn't even sit beside me at supper last night! You left me alone!" The pain in that last word was so real, so childishly raw, that it pierced his heart.
"Is it because of the Imp?" she asked, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Has that little monster poisoned your mind against me? Because if he has, I'll—"
"Enough!" The word was out of Jaime's mouth before he could stop it, louder than he'd intended. A pair of guards down the corridor glanced in their direction.
The fury on Cersei's face instantly morphed to shock, then back to a smoldering rage. Before she could scream, Jaime grabbed her arm. The touch sent a strange jolt through him, a mix of familiarity from Jaime's memory and revulsion from Steven's soul. "Not here," he snarled. He pulled her, half-dragging her, into a nearby alcove hidden behind a thick tapestry.
Once they were inside the dim, quiet space, he let go of her arm as if he'd touched a hot coal.
"This has nothing to do with Tyrion," he said, his voice calmer now, but firm.
"Then what?" Cersei demanded, rubbing her arm where he had held it.
Jaime took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He couldn't tell her the truth. How could he possibly explain that he was a stranger inside her twin brother's body? He had to find another truth, one she could accept.
"Everything has changed, Cersei," he said quietly. "Mother… Mother is gone." Saying the words felt strange, like reciting a line from a play. "Father is different. Everything is colder now. I… I have to grow up. We both do."
"I don't want to grow up if it means becoming like you!" she shot back. "And don't you dare speak of that monster as if he's anything to us. He killed her. He made everything cold."
"Don't say that," Jaime said, and this time, there was real force in his voice, a strength that came from Steven's conviction. "You must not say that. It isn't true."
"Not true?" Cersei laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "He murdered our mother and he lives!"
"He didn't murder her! He's a baby, Cersei. Babies don't murder anyone. Mother died bringing him into the world. It's a sad, terrible thing, but it's no one's fault." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And you have to stop calling him that. He is our brother. He is our blood. He is… he is all we have left of Mother."
It was a gamble, tying Tyrion to the sacred memory of their mother. He saw something flicker in Cersei's eyes, a confusion, a pain, but it was quickly swallowed by her hatred.
"He is not what's left," she hissed. "He is the price we paid. I hate him. I will always hate him."
Jaime sighed, a profound weariness settling over him, heavier than the fatigue from his sword practice. Arguing with his father was difficult; it was a game of chess. Arguing with Cersei was like trying to reason with a hurricane. Her emotions were so powerful, so absolute, that they left no room for logic.
He had to try another way. The same way he had approached his father. He had to speak the language a Lannister understood. The language of pride and power.
"Fine," he said, his tone shifting, becoming colder, more analytical. "Hate him if you must. Hate him in your chambers. Hate him in your heart. But you must stop showing it to everyone."
Cersei frowned, her arms crossing again. "You can't tell me what to say. And the dwarf deserves it."
"This isn't about what he deserves," Jaime said patiently. "This is about us. This is about House Lannister. Think, Cersei. Every time you call him 'Imp' in front of the servants, they hear. Every time you push him or refuse to sit near him, the knights and the guests see. What do they think?"
"They think I'm right!"
"No," Jaime said, shaking his head. "Some might pity him. Others might think you are cruel. But the other lords, the guests from other Houses who come here… they will see something else. They will see a crack in our House. They will see that Lord Tywin's children hate one another. They will see that the golden heir of Casterly Rock has a malformed brother, a little monster that his own sister is disgusted by."
He saw the line between her brows deepen. He knew he was getting through.
"Do you want them whispering behind our backs? Do you want the Ladies telling their daughters that the beautiful Lannister twins have a stain on their family? That they are not as perfect as they seem?" He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tyrion is a Lannister. He bears our name. Every insult you throw at him, bounces off and hits us, too. His flaw… becomes our flaw if we show it to the world. It becomes a weapon our enemies can use against us."
Cersei snorted, but it lacked its earlier conviction. "Let them try."
"Oh, they won't dare say it to Father's face," Jaime agreed. "But they will whisper it in their own courts. They will laugh at us. They will say, 'Look at the mighty lions, they cannot even keep their own house in order.' Your hatred for Tyrion, Cersei… you are turning it from a family matter into a public weakness. You are handing our enemies an arrow and showing them where the gap in our shield is."
He saw it now. The doubt. It was just a flicker in her green eyes, a brief battle between her burning hatred and her ice-cold pride. Pride was the strongest muscle in any Lannister, and he had just pressed on it, hard.
"So what would you have me do?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Pretend I like him?"
"I am not asking you to like him," Jaime said softly, sensing an opening. "I am asking you to be smart. Ignore him. Treat him like a piece of furniture, if you must. Show the world that a Lannister is not affected by something as trivial as… physical appearance. Show them that our strength is so great we do not even notice his flaws. That is how we win, Cersei. Not by screaming, but by showing cold indifference. It is what Father would do."
Invoking their father was the final blow. He was the standard they both, in their different ways, strove to meet.
Cersei said nothing for a long time. She just stared at the stone floor, her golden hair hiding her expression. The alcove felt quiet and suffocating. Jaime could hear his own heart beating in his ears.
Finally, she looked up. The anger was still in her eyes, but now beneath it was something else, a cold glint of calculation. "You've been doing a lot of thinking lately, brother," she said, her tone flat.
"Someone has to," Jaime replied.
She gave him one last, long, appraising look, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time in two months. Then, without another word, she turned and stepped out of the alcove, the tapestry swinging back into place behind her, leaving Jaime alone in the gloom.
He leaned against the cool stone wall, letting out his breath in a shaky sigh. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. Confronting Cersei, fighting his own revulsion, trying to plant a seed of logic in a ferocious field of emotion. He didn't know if it would work. It probably wouldn't. But he had to try.
…
He stepped out from behind the tapestry, back into the main corridor. The torches on the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows like ancient ghosts. He began to walk, with no clear destination in mind. His feet seemed to have a will of their own, carrying him down familiar hallways, past the portraits of Lannister ancestors who stared down with cold, judgmental, painted eyes. He passed the doors to the high halls, and the passage to the kitchens, from which the faint sounds of clattering pots and shouting cooks could be heard.
He wasn't thinking about where he was going. His mind was still filled with Cersei's flushed, angry face, the battle between hatred and pride in her eyes. He had planted a seed, an idea of how Lannister pride could be stronger than a child's hate. But seeds took time to grow, and the soil of Cersei's heart was rocky and unwelcoming. He could only hope.
Without realizing it, his feet had carried him to a quieter, more private wing of the castle. The air here was warmer, the floors covered with thick tapestries to muffle the sound of footfalls. These were the family quarters, where the public grandeur of Casterly Rock softened slightly into something resembling a home. And here, at the end of the corridor, was the door that had been his subconscious destination.
The nursery door.
He stopped before it. It was slightly ajar, allowing a soft sliver of light from within to spill onto the darker stone floor. The low, monotonous sound of humming came from inside, a lullaby sung in a low key by a wet nurse. For the past two months, since he had woken in this strange world, he had found himself drawn to this door. Usually at night, when the rest of the castle was asleep and he couldn't quiet his own mind. He would stand outside, listening to the sound of a baby's steady breathing, and feel a strange sort of peace. It was the only place in this vast, cold fortress that didn't feel weighed down by history or ambition.
Tonight was different. After his conversation with Cersei, he felt the need to see him. To remind himself why he was fighting this seemingly impossible battle.
He pushed the door gently. It swung open silently on its well-oiled hinges. The room was warm and cozy, heated by a low-burning fire in the hearth. A stout woman in a simple wool dress sat in a rocking chair near the fire, humming her tune as she mended a tear in a small shirt. She was one of several nurses assigned to the babe. She looked up as Jaime entered, her eyes widening in surprise and a little fear to see the heir of Casterly Rock standing in her doorway.
Jaime put a single finger to his lips, a gesture for silence. The woman nodded quickly, her eyes dropping, and returned her focus to her sewing, though her fingers seemed to tremble slightly now. Jaime ignored her. His attention was on the carved wooden crib that sat in the center of the room.
He approached with slow steps, his soft leather boots making no sound on the rug. He peered over the edge of the crib.
There, swaddled in soft wool blankets, Tyrion was asleep.
Even in the gentle firelight, the differences were obvious. His head seemed too large for his small body, his brow prominent. His legs, bundled in the blankets, looked shorter and more crooked than they should be. His hands, fisted near his face, were plump and stubby, his fingers short. This was not the perfect, golden babe that was expected of House Lannister. This was something else, something broken, by the standards of this world.
But beneath all that, he was just a baby. His small face scrunched up in his sleep, as if he were dreaming of something confusing. His lips twitched, making a small bubble of drool. His tiny chest rose and fell with the steady, peaceful rhythm of his breathing.
Jaime felt a tightness in his own chest. He reached out a hand, hesitated for a second, then gently laid the tip of his finger on the baby's cheek.
The skin was warm. Impossibly soft and warm, full of fragile life.
The touch was like a lightning strike into a past that wasn't his, yet felt more real than the stone beneath his feet. Suddenly, he wasn't in Casterly Rock. He was in a bright, modern living room, the smell of freshly baked cookies in the air. He was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. His nephew, Michael. He could feel the solid weight of him in his arms, smell that distinct, sweet baby smell, a mixture of milk and powder. He remembered how Michael's tiny fingers had gripped his own with surprising strength, how the baby's blue eyes had looked up at him with absolute, unquestioning trust. Michael didn't care if Steven had had a bad day at work, or if he was feeling lonely. He just knew that this was a warm hand, this was a soothing voice, this was safety.
A sharp, painful wave of longing stabbed Steven so deeply he almost gasped. He missed his world. He missed the simple things: a cup of coffee in the morning, the laughter of his students, the sound of traffic outside his apartment window. He missed a life where his biggest problems were test scores and school budgets, not dynastic hatred and the threat of war.
He pulled his hand back from Tyrion's cheek, but the warmth lingered on his fingertips. He looked down at his sleeping brother, and a different wave of sadness washed over him. A sadness for this child.
He could understand, on the most basic, childish level, why Cersei hated Tyrion. To a seven-year-old, the world was a simple place of direct cause and effect. Their mother went into the birthing chamber to have this baby, and she never came out. In the mind of a grieving, confused child, it was easy to draw a straight line between Tyrion's arrival and their mother's departure. It was a flawed, cruel logic, but it was a child's logic. Perhaps, with time and guidance, Cersei could be made to see beyond it.
What he couldn't understand, what truly horrified him, was how that hatred could persist and harden into something so cold and permanent in an adult. In the future Cersei he remembered from the show. And even worse, in his father.
Tywin Lannister was a man of pragmatism to his very core. He was a cold strategist who viewed the world as a giant cyvasse board. Emotion was a weakness to be exploited in others and eliminated in oneself. And yet, in the case of Tyrion, all his logic and pragmatism seemed to evaporate.
How could a man like Tywin not see the simple truth? That this baby was helpless. That he had no malice. That he did not "murder" anyone. The difficult birth was a medical tragedy, a stroke of terrible luck, not an act of aggression. Could not the most logical of minds grasp that?
Steven looked at Tyrion's sleeping face, and the answer began to form in his mind, cold and terrible. The adult Tywin and Cersei didn't hate Tyrion for what he did. They hated him for what he was .
To them, Tyrion was a symbol. He was the physical embodiment of imperfection. In a family that built its entire identity on an image of golden perfection—of beauty, wealth, and strength—Tyrion was a stain that could not be washed away. He was a walking, breathing reminder that even the lions of Casterly Rock were not immune to the cruel whims of fate.
And for Tywin, it must have been even worse. Tyrion wasn't just a blemish on his legacy; he was the eternal reminder of his greatest loss. Every time Tywin looked at his dwarf son, he didn't see a child. He saw the price he had paid for Joanna's death. He saw the one time in his life when he had been truly powerless, when all his gold and all his armies could not save the woman he loved. Tywin's hatred for Tyrion wasn't the hatred for a murderer. It was the hatred for a mirror that reflected his own failure and grief.
They had turned an innocent baby into a vessel for all their pain, their anger, and their disappointment. They had condemned him before he could commit his first sin.
He leaned over the crib, so close he could feel the warmth of Tyrion's breath on his cheek. The room was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the near-silent scrape of the nurse's needle. The entire cold, ambitious world of Casterly Rock felt a universe away. Here, in this soft circle of light, there were just the two of them. Two souls, stranded in the wrong place.
He whispered the words, so quietly that not even the nurse could hear. They were meant more for himself than for the sleeping baby.
"I'm here," he breathed into the tiny ear. "Don't be afraid."
It was a simple whisper, the words of comfort any brother might offer.
But in the silence of his own heart, it felt like something far greater. It felt like an oath. A promise. A promise from Jaime to Tyrion Lannister. A promise that for as long as he drew breath in this body, this child would never be alone. He would be his shield, his voice, and if it came to it, his sword.
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