OBERYN
The morning air in the Westerlands had a sharp chill to it. Here, in the vast training yard of Casterly Rock, it felt clean and refreshing, carrying the faint scent of salt from the unseen sea and the damp smell of the castle's ancient stones. For Oberyn, it was a pleasant diversion.
The blunted tip of his practice spear danced through the air, a threatening blur of wood. Before him, a small figure in gold and red moved with unnatural speed.
Jaime Lannister.
The boy dodged, his wooden sword rising in a perfect defensive stance. His skill was undeniable. The sword moved with speed and precision, not like a toy in a child's hand, but as if it were a natural extension of his arm. His movements were economical, every step with purpose, every parry calculated. Oberyn had seen grown knights with years of training who lacked this innate grace.
This was their fifth day at Casterly Rock, and for the third time, he found himself in this yard in the morning, engaged in a strange war game with a seven-year-old. The first session had been a formality proposed by the Master-at-Arms. The second and third were at Jaime's own request, a request delivered with formal politeness but with a spark of eagerness in his eyes that Oberyn could not refuse.
And if he was honest, he was enjoying it.
Of course, it was no challenge. With the advantages of age, height, and years of experience, Oberyn could evade the boy's every attack as easily as breathing. He moved around Jaime, his spear a fluid barrier, occasionally jabbing quickly only to pull back before it landed, forcing the boy to react. The child might be a prodigy, but he still needed more reach, more strength, and more time. Time would grant him all of that.
"You're too stiff in the shoulders," Oberyn said lightly, leaping back as Jaime's sword cut through the air where he had been a moment before. "You think like a Westerosi knight. Strong slashes, straight thrusts. A sword can dance. Let it dance."
Jaime didn't answer, too focused on catching his breath. His face was flushed with exertion, but his green eyes never wavered, constantly watching, searching for an opening.
Oberyn grinned. He decided it was time to end this game. He let Jaime advance, baiting him with a slow movement of his spear. The boy took the bait, lunging forward with a quick, direct thrust aimed at the chest.
It was a good move. Fast and committed. Against a slower opponent, it might have worked.
But Oberyn was not slow.
At the last possible second, he pivoted, letting the tip of the wooden sword pass harmlessly by his side. Jaime's momentum carried him a fraction too far forward. And there was the opening.
Oberyn struck with the butt of his spear, a short, sharp jab to the small wooden shield strapped to Jaime's arm. The boy blocked it, but his whole body shuddered slightly from the impact of the much stronger blow. It was the jolt he needed. Jaime's balance wavered for an instant.
Then Oberyn made his move.
He saw the wide-open gap on the boy's right side. With a deft flick of his wrist, he spun the spear, its blunted tip whipping around in a fast, inescapable arc. He aimed not with the strength to injure, but with the precision to end it.
Thwack!
The sound of wood hitting flesh and soft bone was sickening. The spear connected with Jaime's ribs, just below his raised arm. Oberyn could see the pain flash across the boy's cherubic face, his eyes widening in shock and his breath rushing out in a hiss. He stumbled sideways, landing hard in the dust of the practice yard, his sword falling from his grasp.
Oberyn lowered his spear, expecting tears or perhaps an outburst of frustrated anger. He got neither.
Jaime gasped for a few moments, curled in on himself. Then, slowly, he rolled onto his back. He stared up at the pale blue sky of the Westerlands, and then he did the last thing Oberyn expected.
He laughed.
It wasn't a small chuckle, but a real, unrestrained boy's laugh, echoing in the quiet yard. He threw a hand up towards the sky as if trying to catch a cloud.
"Alright, alright," he said between his still-panting breaths. "I yield."
Oberyn couldn't help but smile. This child was full of surprises. He walked over and offered his hand. "Up you get."
Jaime took his hand, and Oberyn helped him to his feet. He was light, as a lean boy should be, and he swayed a little as he stood, one hand pressed to his side.
"You have skill, Prince Oberyn," Jaime said, a tired smile on his dirty face. There was no trace of resentment in his voice, only sincere admiration and the joy of a good fight. "I have been analyzing you for a while now, but it seems my skills are not yet enough to compensate."
Analyzing me. Oberyn almost laughed again. A seven-year-old talking about analyzing his fighting style as if it were a mathematics problem. "Take it easy," he said, clapping the boy gently on the shoulder. "Wait a while and you will be taller. You will be stronger. By then, your skills will have improved, and you will be a real threat."
"I will ask for your advice along the way," Jaime nodded, the smile still there, bright and genuine. "May I send a raven later to ask a few things?"
"Of course, who would forbid it?" Oberyn replied as they walked to the edge of the practice yard and sat on a cool stone bench.
And with that last sentence, Oberyn understood.
This wasn't just about sparring. It had never been just about sparring. The boy didn't need his advice on how to hold a sword; Casterly Rock was full of knights and masters-at-arms who could teach him that. The request to send a raven, the request for "advice"—it was an overture. A boy's way of forging a connection without appearing to be politicking.
The child didn't just want to learn how to fight from him. He wanted to befriend him. Or, more accurately, he wanted to build a bridge between Casterly Rock and Sunspear, a personal line of communication separate from the formal negotiations between their mothers and Lord Tywin.
And honestly, there was no harm in that at all. Quite the opposite. This was a good thing. Having a personal relationship with the future Lord of Casterly Rock… that was a very valuable asset. It was a back door into the Lannister fortress, a channel of communication that could prove very useful in the years to come.
Oberyn grinned, this time to himself. "Send as many ravens as you like," he said. "But I warn you, my replies may take a long time to arrive. I do not like to stay in one place for too long."
"That doesn't matter," Jaime said, his eyes shining. "It just means I'll have more to hear about the places you visit."
"By the way," Oberyn said, his tone as light as possible, as if it were a thought that had just occurred to him. "You keep talking about your brother, Tyrion, but I have yet to meet him. I hear he is quite amusing, may I see him?"
It was a calculated jab, delivered with a smile. He used the word "amusing," a deliberately neutral and innocent word, to see how the boy would react. He had heard the rumors, of course. Who hadn't? The Imp of Casterly Rock. The monster whose birth had killed the beautiful Lady Joanna. He wanted to see if Lannister pride would make the boy show even a flicker of shame. He expected an awkward silence, a change of subject.
Instead, he got something far more interesting.
Jaime's eye twitched. It was an infinitesimal movement, almost imperceptible, a brief tremor in the muscle below his left eye. A momentary crack in his armor of composure. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, swallowed by a soft laugh that sounded like the chime of a small bell.
"Tyrion is indeed amusing," Jaime said, and there was not a trace of hesitation in his voice. There was only warmth, a genuine affection that took Oberyn slightly aback. "His cheeks are so plump they make you want to touch them constantly. His eyes, his eyes are large and beautiful, so full of mirth and life."
Oberyn stared at the boy. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie with the same certainty that he knew the sun rose in the sky. Every whisper he had heard, every averted gaze from the servants when the youngest Lannister's name was mentioned, screamed against this beautiful description. This was not a lie to deceive. This was something else. This was a shield, a declaration. This boy was not just accepting his deformed brother; he was actively creating a beautiful counter-narrative to protect him.
And that, Oberyn realized, was far more fascinating than any gruesome truth.
"So, may I see him?" Oberyn pressed, his grin widening. He wanted to see how far this boy would defend his fortress. "Honestly, your description alone has made me even more curious!"
Without a flicker of hesitation, Jaime nodded. "Of course, why not? Just be sure not to be noisy, Tyrion is usually asleep at this time."
"My lips will be sealed," Oberyn promised, placing a hand over his heart.
They returned their practice weapons to the racks, the dust of the yard still clinging to their clothes. Jaime led the way, stepping out of the bright sunlight and back into the dim labyrinth of stone corridors. This journey felt different from their previous tours. Before, Jaime had shown them places of power and beauty—galleries filled with treasure, balconies with breathtaking views. Now, they walked down corridors that were more private, more hushed. The guards they passed seemed to stiffen slightly as they saw their destination, their gazes flicking from Jaime to Oberyn with a tightly controlled curiosity. Clearly, the wing housing the Imp was not a place guests often visited.
They arrived at an unremarkable wooden door, the same as any other in the corridor. Jaime stopped and turned to Oberyn, placing a finger to his lips with a comically conspiratorial expression. It was such a childish gesture that it momentarily contrasted with the maturity he had shown earlier, reminding Oberyn again just how young his host truly was.
The door opened silently, and they stepped inside. The room was warm and quiet, lit only by the soft light from a window and a small, crackling fire in the hearth. A nurse sitting in the corner of the room looked up at them, but Jaime just gave her a brief, reassuring nod before walking towards a large crib in the center of the room.
Oberyn followed, his heart pounding with a strange anticipation. He felt like an explorer about to discover a new land. They stood side-by-side, two young men from two ends of Westeros, looking down into the crib.
And there he was.
The rumors, it turned out, were not entirely wrong. They were just unimaginative.
The baby in the crib was… disproportionate. His head was too large for his thin neck, pressing into the pillow beneath it. His forehead bulged, and his small face seemed squashed beneath its weight. His legs were short and crooked, and his arms seemed too stubby for his small body. Even in sleep, there was an undeniable aura of incongruity about him. This was not a baby anyone would describe as "beautiful." This was a baby that would make people whisper, that would make septas pray harder.
This was the cold, undeniable truth. And it did not match Jaime's poetic description of plump cheeks and cheerful eyes in the slightest.
Oberyn glanced at Jaime. The boy showed no sign of discomfort or shame. He was looking down at his brother with an expression that could only be described as pure affection, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Oberyn knew this was a test. He had to say something. The wrong words here would shatter the bridge they had just built. He could have remained silent, or he could have been brutally honest.
"He is… adorable," Oberyn said, keeping his voice neutral, letting the slight pause hang in the air.
Jaime didn't blink. He didn't acknowledge the irony in Oberyn's words. It was as if he truly believed this baby was the most adorable creature in the world, and Oberyn's words were merely an affirmation of a clear fact.
"I know," he said with a grin, his eyes never leaving his brother. "One day I was holding him, and he laughed so hard, it was as if I was the only person who could make him do that."
Oberyn listened, fascinated. He could imagine it. Not the baby's laugh, but the sight of Jaime holding him, his own small face lit up with genuine joy. And seeing the look in Jaime's eyes now, Oberyn thought, perhaps it was true. Perhaps to Jaime, this baby's laugh really did sound like the sweetest music in the world.
"Then he gripped my fingers so tightly," Jaime continued, his voice dropping to a wonder-filled whisper. "Like he didn't want me to leave. I wonder how a baby can have such strength?"
"Perhaps he knows who protects him," Oberyn said softly, and the words came out on their own, without calculation.
Jaime finally turned to look at him, and in those green eyes, Oberyn saw something new. He saw gratitude. He saw an acknowledgment that Oberyn understood, at least in part, what was happening here.
"Everyone… they only see what's different about him," Jaime said, his voice barely audible. "They don't take the time to see him. To really see him."
"Difference makes people uncomfortable," Oberyn said.
Jaime just nodded.
They stood in comfortable silence for a few more moments, just watching the baby's steady breathing. Oberyn realized this was the most honest moment he had experienced since arriving at Casterly Rock.
"Your father," Oberyn asked carefully, "does he visit him often?"
Jaime's expression tightened for a fraction of a second. "Father is very busy," he said, a diplomatic answer that said everything.
"And your sister?"
"Cersei… is grieving in her own way," Jaime replied, once again protecting his family even as he admitted their faults.
It was then that Oberyn understood it completely. This boy, Jaime Lannister, was an anomaly. He was raised in the proudest, most ruthless house in Westeros, taught to value strength and perfection above all else. And yet, somehow, he had developed a capacity for unconditional love that would make a High Septon weep. He did not just tolerate his brother's weakness; he celebrated it, building a beautiful fantasy world around him to shield him from the cold reality.
This was not a weakness. Oberyn realized that with a sudden clarity. In a world full of men like Tywin Lannister, who would sacrifice anything for legacy, this kind of blind, protective loyalty was not a weakness. It was a different kind of strength entirely. It was a strength that could not be bought with gold or won with a sword. It was a strength that could make a man do unexpected things, noble things, and terrible things, all in the name of love.
Oberyn had come to this room expecting to see a monster. Instead, he had found a knight. Not a knight in shining armor, but a true knight, protecting the weak from the strong, even when the strong were his own family.
They left the room as quietly as they had entered, leaving Tyrion to his peaceful sleep. As they walked back down the corridor, back into the world of politics and posturing, Oberyn saw his companion in a completely new light.
He was no longer just a clever heir or a suitable match for Elia. He was an unknown factor. A wild card. A boy with a dangerously loyal heart. And in the great game they were all playing, a card like that was the most valuable of all.
And perhaps, the most fragile.
…
Two days later, Oberyn and his retinue returned to Sunspear; there would be no betrothal, and they returned home in peace.
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