GERION
Casterly Rock, 275 AC
Gerion Lannister had always believed that a castle needed laughter. Without it, it was just a cold pile of stones, no matter how much gold lined its walls. He did his part to fill the halls of Casterly Rock with cheer, walking through them with a smile on his face that was like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. He winked at a young serving girl, who blushed and nearly dropped a basket of laundry, and exchanged a rough jest with a guard, whose hoarse laughter echoed for a moment in the high corridor.
He stopped before a set of well-carved oak doors and, without knocking, entered. The room was his sister Genna's private solar, a comfortable sitting room filled with plush furniture and embroidered cushions. And there she was, sitting by a window overlooking the Sunset Sea, her head bent over an embroidery frame, her needle moving with a steady pace.
"Embroidering again? Is that all you do these days?" Gerion grinned, his voice filling the previously quiet room.
"Better than wandering about and charming ladies with foolish jokes," Genna retorted without looking up, her voice as sharp as her needle, but lacking any real venom. It was the tone an older sister used with her incorrigible younger brother.
Gerion grunted, his expression mock-offended. "Hey! As a man, it is a duty. We can't let the ladies grow dull from a lack of attention, or I'll lose my charm."
"Funny joke, your charm is just a gold coin," Genna replied, finally setting down her work and looking at him. Her eyes, like all the Lannisters', were intelligent and sharp, with the slight weariness of an older sister who had heard all her brother's jests before.
"That's one of our family's advantages," Gerion said with a laugh, collapsing onto the settee opposite his sister's. It was soft and comfortable. "And my charm is more than just gold, I'll have you know. There's also my hair."
Genna snorted, a sound remarkably similar to Tywin's. Gerion continued. "Where is Cleos? He said he wanted to see the ships in the harbor this afternoon." Cleos Frey, Genna's eldest son, was an awkward lad of eight namedays, who had his mother's eyes but his father's weasel-like nose.
"He has probably gone without you," Genna said. "He has been a bit restless lately. Though he doesn't show it much."
"Hah," Gerion sank deeper into the sofa, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Speaking of ships, I sometimes dream of an adventure across the continent. Where we would find many people with various personalities, foods of all kinds, and of course, stunning lands. Have you ever thought of that, sister?"
Genna looked at him, her expression softening for a moment. "Those thoughts are tempting, Gerion. When I was a girl, I dreamed of sailing to Braavos. But since I've had two children, all I want now is to make sure they don't die from choking on a chicken bone." Her body, which had begun to plump with motherhood, shifted on the sofa to get comfortable again.
"Pffftt, they're stronger than you think," Gerion countered. But he understood. Genna had always been the more practical one, even when they were children. She had her purpose. Outwardly she was a mother and the wife of an unimportant Frey, but here, at Casterly Rock, she was a sharp advisor and a keen observer. She had her place.
Gerion, on the other hand, often felt like a ship without a rudder. Tywin ruled the Seven Kingdoms at the King's side, drowning in tasks that were surely boring. Kevan was his loyal shadow, managing the Westerlands with humorless efficiency. Even Tygett, with all his moodiness, was a respected warrior. And Gerion? He was the last son, the fun uncle. It wasn't a bad legacy, but sometimes it felt… empty. To be honest, he was a little envious of Tywin's purpose, even if it meant spending his days arguing about grain taxes.
His thoughts turned to the greatest source of his amusement and confusion lately: his nephew, Jaime.
"You know who has a purpose these days?" Gerion said, leaning forward. "Jaime."
Genna raised an eyebrow. "The boy has always had a purpose. He will be the Lord of Casterly Rock."
"No, it's more than that," Gerion said. "I know about all his lessons with Maester Creylen and his training with Ser Benedict. But there's something else. Something strange. Lately, he's been spending most of his time with the blacksmiths and the carpenters."
This caught Genna's attention. She set down her embroidery frame completely. "The blacksmiths? I thought he already had the finest practice sword money could buy."
"Oh, he still has them forging swords," Gerion said. "But also other odd things. I visited him in the workshop yesterday. He's having them make little metal blocks, dozens, even hundreds of them. Each one the size of my thumb, and on the end is a single carved letter."
Genna frowned. "Letters? What for? Printing?"
"That's what I asked him!" Gerion exclaimed. "And he just smiled, that little secret smile of his, and said, 'It's still a process, Uncle. I don't know if it will work or not.'"
Gerion shook his head in amusement. "And that's not all. He's also having the carpenters build… a thing. A huge wooden frame, as tall as a man, with this and that in strange places. And on top of it is a giant piece of wood, thicker than my arm. He's also having them make shallow wooden trays and some sort of rectangular frame that can be opened and closed."
"It sounds like expensive nonsense," Genna said, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.
"Perhaps," Gerion agreed. "But the way he directs it… he's not like a boy playing. He speaks to the head blacksmith and the master carpenter as if he were their Lord, giving precise instructions, checking their work, making them redo it if it's not to his liking. A nine-year-old boy, Genna! Telling a man who has worked with wood for forty years how to cut a dovetail joint."
"And they listen to him?"
"Of course they listen to him," Gerion said. "He's Jaime Lannister. And he pays them well from his own pocket money, I hear."
"That is Tywin's son, no doubt," Genna murmured.
"Then there was his other request," Gerion added, almost forgetting. "Two weeks ago, he came to me and asked if I could help him get some cloth. Not silk or velvet. Linen cloth. A great deal of it. 'The best quality, Uncle,' he said, 'but it doesn't need to be dyed.' As if that were the most common thing in the world for a boy to ask for."
"Linen?" Now Genna was truly confused. "For sails? Shirts?"
"Perhaps!" Gerion threw up his hands in cheerful surrender. "I got it for him, of course. What uncle wouldn't spoil his favorite nephew? But I have no idea what it's all for. Metal blocks, a giant wooden frame, piles of linen cloth… Either he's building the strangest siege weapon in history, or he's completely mad."
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the mystery of their nephew. Gerion was amused. Since Joanna's death, the boy had changed, becoming more serious and mature beyond his years. But this was something new. This was a strange, detailed obsession that seemed to have no clear purpose.
"Perhaps we should be more concerned about him," Genna said quietly, a protective older sister's tone in her voice.
"Concerned?" Gerion laughed. "Genna, the boy is happier than I've ever seen him. His eyes sparkle when he talks about his 'project.' Let him be. It's better than him moping in his room. Whatever he's building, it's given him a fire. And frankly, I can't wait to see what it is."
He rose from the sofa, stretching like a contented cat. "Alright, I'm off to find Cleos here and there. And if he has indeed gone to the port, perhaps I can find some entertainment in one of the better taverns."
…
Eight-year-old Cleos Frey proved to be as slippery as a buttered eel. Gerion had checked all the usual haunts: the stables, where the boy loved to stare at the great warhorses with quiet admiration; above the training yard, where he would sometimes watch his cousin Jaime move like a golden flame; and even the kitchens, in the hopes that the scent of pork pie might have lured him in. But the boy was nowhere to be found.
Gerion wasn't overly concerned. Within Casterly Rock, a boy was safer than a dragon in its lair. Most likely, Cleos had found a quiet corner to daydream, or perhaps he had indeed snuck down to the port without his uncle. The boy was quiet, but there was a restless spirit in him.
The fruitless search had led him out of the castle gates and down the grand, winding road to Lannisport. Here, the air changed. The majestic coolness of the Rock was replaced by a humid warmth and the bustling pulse of life. The air was filled with a hundred different scents: the sharp tang of fishnets drying in the sun, the sweet aroma of exotic fruits being unloaded from Tyroshi ships, and beneath it all, the unavoidable smell of thousands of humans and animals living in close quarters.
This was Gerion's element. While Tywin looked down on the city from above as an asset and Kevan saw it as a responsibility to be managed, Gerion saw it as a stage. A stage filled with characters, comedies, and small tragedies. He loved it.
He didn't find Cleos at the main docks, so he let his feet carry him to the place he always ended up when he was seeking either entertainment or escape. A tavern.
It wasn't the most lavish tavern in Lannisport. Far from it. It was a crowded, smoky, and perpetually loud establishment tucked into a wind-sheltered alley near the fish market. Its clientele were not wealthy merchant captains or knights off duty. They were dockworkers with thick arms, sailors with weather-beaten faces from a dozen different lands, and small-time merchants who had been haggling all day. It was a real place, with dirt under its fingernails and truth at the bottom of its cups.
The moment he pushed open the heavy wooden door, a wave of noise and warmth hit him. Loud laughter, a fierce argument in a language he didn't recognize, and the off-key singing of a song about a girl from the Summer Isles, all blended into a single, deafening hubbub. The smell of sweat, spilled ale, and smoked fish was so thick you could almost chew on it. It was the smell of life without pretense.
Gerion grinned, feeling right at home. He made his way through the crowd, clapping a man he knew on the back and ignoring a glare from a sailor. He reached the wet, scarred wooden counter.
Behind it stood Robb, the tavern keeper. He was a man who looked as though he were built from the barrels he served: round, sturdy, and with a thick mustache that could hide a mouse.
"Give me the usual," Gerion said over the din.
Robb's small eyes lit up when he saw him. "Coming right up, My Lord!" the man replied, his rough, loud voice cutting through the noise. He took a pewter tankard from a hook, blew into it to clear out some imaginary dust, and filled it to the brim from a cask.
The drink was placed before him with a satisfying thud. Gerion tossed a few copper coins onto the counter, more than enough to pay, and took a deep swallow. The ale was cold, bitter, and perfect.
He leaned his elbows on the counter, surveying the crowd. In a far corner, a particularly animated group of men were gathered around a table, their voices louder than the rest. They were gesturing wildly, slamming their cups on the table, and arguing with a passion usually reserved for brawls or politics.
"What's with them?" Gerion asked, nodding toward the group. "Isn't this tavern loud enough without their addition?"
Robb followed his gaze, picking up a wooden mug and starting to wipe it with a dubious-looking cloth. "Ah, them," he said with a snort. "They're discussing a ship, My Lord. Serwyn, that perfume merchant, plans to build one. This time he's not making a trading ship, but one to cross the continent. He wants to experience 'adventure,' he says."
Gerion raised an eyebrow. Serwyn. He knew the man, at least by reputation. A man who had built a small fortune from importing strange scents from across the sea. A man who owned one of the fanciest houses in Lannisport. A man whose hands were soft and whose clothes always smelled of flowers.
"Is he tired of being rich?" Gerion took a sip of his drink, amusement dancing inside him.
Robb laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh from his belly. "Seems so, that's what people think. After years of smelling like women, he seems to have decided to go back to being a tough man. That is, to have the smell of an adventurer. Haha!"
Gerion laughed along. The image of the soft Serwyn, with his neatly trimmed beard, trying to be a rugged adventurer was indeed ridiculous. He'd probably faint if a sail ripped or if he had to eat hardtack for a week. "What about his wife? Will she be joining him? I doubt Lady Serwyn would be pleased to trade her silk sheets for a hammock."
Robb's laughter faded. He set down the mug he was polishing and looked at Gerion, his expression growing more serious. "As far as I know, his wife passed a few years ago, My Lord. A fever, I heard. Now he's only close with his children, and they're grown and have their own businesses. The perfume shop is run by his eldest son now." Robb shrugged. "Perhaps that's why he decided on it. He's lonely, and wants to see the world."
Those words hit Gerion with unexpected force.
Lonely and wants to see the world.
Suddenly, the noise of the tavern seemed to fade. The laughter, the arguments, the singing, it all receded to a distant, meaningless hum. All he could hear was the echo of Robb's last sentence in his head.
He stared into his tankard, seeing his distorted reflection in the dark surface of the ale. The face of a smiling man, a man always ready with a joke. But behind the smile, in the eyes of that reflection, he saw something else. Something he recognized in Robb's words.
Loneliness.
It was a strange word to apply to himself. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. He was surrounded by family, servants, knights. He was never truly alone. And yet… he often felt alone. Alone in the middle of a crowd. He was the younger brother, the cheerful uncle. His role was defined for him. He was the entertainment, a pleasant diversion from the seriousness of Tywin and Kevan. But no one truly depended on him. No one truly needed him. Genna had her children. Tywin had his kingdom. Kevan had Tywin. And Gerion? He had his jokes.
And the desire to see the world… by the Seven, how he felt it. It was a constant hunger inside him, a yearning for something more than the familiar golden corridors of Casterly Rock. He had spoken of it to Genna, but he had said it lightly, as if it were a boy's dream. But it wasn't. It was a real, aching desire. A desire to see the Titan of Braavos with his own eyes, to hear the songs of the red priests in Volantis, to feel the heat of the Dornish sun on his skin. A desire to be more than just Gerion Lannister, the younger brother. A desire to be Gerion, the adventurer.
And now, here, in this smelly tavern, he was hearing that a lowly perfume merchant was about to do the very thing he only dreamed of.
Serwyn was no longer ridiculous. Suddenly, he was an object of envy. A man who, after fulfilling all his duties, building his business, raising his children, had finally decided to do something for himself. He was not trapped by a name or a legacy. He was just a lonely man who wanted to see what was beyond the horizon. And he was going to build a ship and do it. It was that simple.
Gerion drained the rest of his ale in one long gulp, the bitter taste unable to mask the sudden bitterness in his own heart. He set the tankard back on the counter with a soft thud.
A profound silence had filled his head, a vacuum where only his own thoughts swirled. What was holding him back? Gold? Status? The Lannister name? All the things that were supposed to be his strength suddenly felt like the bars of the most beautiful cage in the world. He was a well-fed lion, with a gleaming coat and a full belly, but he was still in a cage, while a humble perfume merchant was building his own wings.
He felt Robb's gaze on him, the curious look of a tavern keeper who had seen a thousand stories begin and end over his counter. But Gerion couldn't find any words to say. His jests and his smiles had abandoned him, lost somewhere out on a sea he had never seen.
He just stared into his empty tankard, as if he could find the answer at the bottom. But all he saw was the reflection of a man who suddenly felt very, very small.