Tywin Lannister
Tywin Lannister stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him, watching as Maester Creylen conducted his examination. Through the porthole, Castle Blacktyde burned against the grey afternoon sky, columns of black smoke rising like funeral pyres. Which, Tywin supposed, they were. House Drumm was extinct. Their line ended. Their castle was reduced to ash and memory.
All because they had dared to lay hands on what belonged to him.
The cabin itself was well-appointed, captain's quarters commandeered for this purpose. A wide cot bolted to the floor. A desk secured against the ship's roll. Shelves lined with medical supplies: jars of salves, rolls of linen bandages, bottles of wine for cleaning wounds, a case of surgical instruments that gleamed dully in the lamplight.
And in the center of it all, sitting on the edge of the cot with his bare feet dangling several inches above the floor, was Adrian.
The boy had been cleaned. Someone, likely one of the ship's attendants under Kevan's direction, had scrubbed away the worst of the blood and filth. His hair, that distinctive silver-gold that marked him as something other than purely Lannister, was still damp and hung in limp strands around his face. He wore a simple linen shirt, several sizes too large, that hung off his narrow shoulders like a shroud.
He looked painfully small.
Tywin had seen the boy so many times, of course. He had held him as an infant, had watched him grow through his early years at Casterly Rock. But seeing him now, thin, bruised, hollow-eyed, Tywin was struck by how fragile children were. How easily they broke.
And yet, this one had not broken.
"Does this hurt?" Maester Creylen asked, pressing gently against Adrian's ribs through the thin fabric.
"Yes, my lord," Adrian said. His voice was flat. He stared at a point on the wall just past the Maester's shoulder.
"And here?"
"No, my lord."
"What about when you breathe deeply? Try for me."
Adrian inhaled. His small chest expanded, then hitched. He exhaled shakily.
"It hurts there," he said.
"I see." Creylen made a notation on a scrap of parchment balanced on his knee. He was an older man, his maester's chain heavy across his chest. He had served House Lannister for twenty years and knew better than to waste Lord Tywin's time with unnecessary commentary.
He moved to examine the boy's face, tilting Adrian's chin up with one finger.
A massive bruise bloomed across Adrian's left cheekbone, purple-black at the center, fading to sickly yellow-green at the edges. The skin was swollen, distorting the line of his face.
"Open your mouth, young lord."
Adrian obeyed. Creylen peered inside, checking teeth and gums.
"No loose teeth. That's fortunate. The jaw is not broken." He released Adrian's face and moved lower. "May I examine your neck?"
"Yes, my lord."
The Maester's fingers probed gently at Adrian's throat. Tywin could see the ligature marks even from across the cabin, dark bruises in the unmistakable shape of fingers, wrapped around that thin neck.
Someone had tried to strangle his heir.
"Swallow for me," Creylen instructed.
Adrian swallowed. He winced.
"Does it hurt to speak?"
"A little, my lord."
"It will heal. The windpipe is intact." Another notation. "You're a very lucky young man."
Adrian said nothing to that. His green eyes, Cersei's eyes, remained distant, unfocused. He looked like a boy who had been scraped hollow and was simply waiting to be filled with something, anything, to give him shape again.
Tywin remembered seeing those eyes before, the night his smile died, and Cersei's eyes had lost their smile, their light, yet, Tywin felt approval.
The approval came easily. The boy was not weeping, not demanding comfort, not asking for his mother or crying for home. He sat still, answered questions, and endured the examination with the stoic compliance of a seasoned soldier. That was good. That was Lannister discipline.
The concern was more complicated.
Tywin had seen this look before. In men after battle. In prisoners after interrogation. It was the look of someone who had gone somewhere dark and had not entirely returned.
"Now, your hand," Creylen said gently. "May I?"
Adrian extended his left arm. The hand was wrapped in thick bandages, the linen already spotted with small blooms of red where the wound beneath continued to seep.
Creylen began to unwrap the bandages carefully. Layer after layer of blood-stained linen fell away.
When the wound was finally exposed, even Tywin's eyes widened a little.
The cut ran across Adrian's palm from the base of his thumb to the heel of his hand. It was deep—bone-deep, in fact. The edges of the wound gaped slightly despite the stitches that marched across the pale flesh in neat, black lines. The surrounding skin was angry red, swollen with inflammation.
"How did this happen?" Creylen asked, though his tone suggested he was asking to write it down, not because he didn't know.
"I held a sword," Adrian said tonelessly. "By the blade."
"Valyrian steel," Tywin added from his position by the door. "Red Rain."
Creylen shook his head a little, as if he had just heard madness. "Ah. That would explain the precision of the cut." He examined the wound more closely, turning Adrian's hand this way and that. "Straight through to the bone. The steel severed muscle, tendon, and nerve."
He looked up at Adrian. "You must have been holding it very tightly."
"I had to," Adrian said. "It was the only way I could lift it."
The Maester's eyes showed pity in that moment. He returned his attention to the wound, probing the edges with feather-light touches. Adrian flinched but did not pull away.
"Can you move your fingers?"
Adrian tried. His thumb twitched. His index finger curled slightly. The others barely moved at all.
"Good," Creylen said, though his tone was more reassuring than accurate. "That's good. Feeling?"
"It hurts," Adrian said.
"That's actually a positive sign. Pain means the nerves are alive." He began to re-wrap the hand with fresh bandages, his movements deft and sure. "I'll change the dressing twice daily. We'll watch for infection. If the wound festers, we may need to consider more aggressive treatment."
"Will he regain full use of the hand?" Tywin asked.
Creylen hesitated. He tied off the bandage and straightened, meeting Tywin's gaze.
"That remains to be seen, my lord. The injury is severe. He's young, which works in his favor—children heal better than adults. But the damage to the tendons and nerves..." He shook his head. "It will require time and care."
"How much time?"
"I cannot say with certainty."
"Estimate."
Creylen's jaw tightened. "Six months to a year before we know the full extent of recovery. Perhaps longer."
Tywin's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Continue the examination."
"Of course, my lord." The Maester turned back to Adrian. "I need to check your chest more thoroughly. May I remove your shirt?"
"Yes, my lord."
The Maester grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the shirt in the middle, not wanting Adrian to move his hands in order to undress.
Tywin had seen the bruising before, when they'd first brought the boy aboard, but seeing it again in the lamplight made the extent of the damage clearer.
Adrian's torso was a canvas of violence. Purple-black bruises covered his ribs on both sides. A massive contusion spread across his sternum, roughly rectangular, the size and shape of a crossbow stock. Smaller bruises dotted his shoulders, his back, his sides. Finger-shaped marks on his upper arms. A boot print on his hip.
The boy looked like he'd been thrown down a flight of stairs.
Or fought for his life.
"Breathe deeply again," Creylen instructed. "Slowly."
Adrian inhaled. His face went tight with pain.
"Does it hurt when I press here?" The Maester's fingers moved across the bruised sternum.
"Yes, my lord."
"Here?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And here, along the ribs?"
"Yes, my lord."
Creylen continued his examination in silence, pressing, prodding, listening to Adrian's breathing with his ear against the boy's back. Finally, he stepped back, and two helpers helped Adrian remove the shirt without him moving much, and then brought a new shirt, this one fitting him more, but still bigger than him. They helped him to wear it without Adrian moving much.
"Well?" Tywin asked.
"Significant bruising to the chest and ribs. At least two cracked ribs on the left side, possibly three. The sternum is badly bruised but not broken, another stroke of fortune." He made more notations. "I see signs of malnutrition and dehydration as well. He's lost weight. How long was he held captive?"
"Three weeks," Tywin said. "Perhaps longer."
"That would account for it." Creylen set aside his parchment and regarded Adrian with something approaching gentleness. "You've been through quite an ordeal, young lord. But you're safe now. Your body will heal."
Adrian said nothing.
"Is there anything else you need to tell me?" Creylen asked. "Any other injuries? Any pain I should know about?"
"No, my lord."
"Very well." The Maester turned to Tywin. "With your permission, my lord, I'd like to give him something for the pain. Milk of the poppy, perhaps, or—"
"No," Adrian said.
Both men looked at him.
"No?" Creylen repeated.
"I don't want it." For the first time since he was brought, Adrian's voice showed what could only be described as Fear. "It makes you sleep. I don't... I don't want to sleep."
There was a brief silence.
"Nightmares?" Creylen asked gently.
Adrian didn't answer.
"I can give you something milder," the Maester offered. "Something that won't make you sleep, just dull the worst of—"
"I'm fine," Adrian interrupted. Then, as if remembering his training: "Thank you, my lord. But I'm fine."
Creylen glanced at Tywin, a question in his eyes.
"Leave it," Tywin said. "If the boy says he's fine, he's fine."
"As you say, my lord." The Maester gathered his supplies, tucking jars and instruments back into their proper places. "I'll prepare a salve for the bruising and a poultice for the hand. He should rest as much as possible. Avoid any strenuous activity."
"Understood."
Creylen turned to Adrian one last time. "You've been very brave, young lord. You should be proud of yourself."
Adrian looked at him with those hollow green eyes.
"Thank you, my lord," he said dutifully.
Tywin could tell the boy didn't believe it. Didn't feel it. The words were just sounds, shapes his mouth made because they were expected.
"You may go to the adjoining cabin," Tywin told Adrian. "Ser Addam is waiting outside. He'll see you settled."
Adrian slid off the cot, his feet hit the floor with a soft thump, and walked toward the door. He moved stiffly, like an old man.
At the threshold, he paused and looked back at Tywin.
For a moment, their eyes met. Green on green.
Then Adrian ducked his head and slipped through the doorway, closing it quietly behind him.
Tywin waited until he heard the outer door close as well, Adrian being escorted to the next cabin, before he turned his full attention to Maester Creylen.
"Speak plainly," he said. "What is your assessment?"
Creylen set down the jar he'd been holding and faced Tywin squarely.
"The boy is badly injured, my lord, but he will live. Most of his wounds are superficial and will heal with time. The cracked ribs will mend in six to eight weeks. The bruising will fade."
"And the hand?"
The Maester's expression grew more guarded.
"The hand is... more complicated."
"Explain."
Creylen exhaled slowly. "The wound is clean, Valyrian steel cuts like nothing else. That's in our favor. The stitching is sound. But the damage runs deep. When he gripped that blade, my lord, it cut to the bone."
"Can it be repaired?"
"Time will tell. He's young. Young bodies heal in ways that would be miraculous in adults. But..." Creylen paused, choosing his words carefully. "My lord, the boy should not use his left hand for at least a year. Perhaps longer. He must use it as little as possible during his recovery. Light movements only, nothing that requires strength."
"A year," Tywin repeated. His voice was flat.
"At minimum. If he pushes too hard, too soon, he risks tearing the healing tissue. Causing permanent damage. He could lose significant function, grip strength. In the worst case, the hand could become nearly useless. A crippled claw."
Tywin's face remained impassive, but his mind was already thinking through this.
A year without the use of his left hand. A year of Adrian being unable to train properly with a sword, unable to practice the skills that would define him as a lord and a warrior. A year of weakness, of vulnerability, of being less than he should be.
And if the hand didn't heal properly? If Adrian was left with a permanent injury?
Tywin thought of Tyrion, twisted and stunted. He thought of the whispers, the mockery, the doubt that followed a lord with any visible weakness.
He thought of what it would mean for Adrian to be known as the heir to Casterly Rock who couldn't hold a sword properly.
Unacceptable.
"What else?" Tywin asked, his voice giving away nothing.
"The chest injury is serious but manageable," Creylen continued. "The ribs will heal on their own. But the bruising around the sternum concerns me. There may be internal damage, bruising to the organs beneath. The heart, the lungs."
"What do you recommend?"
"Rest. Soft foods only for at least three months. Nothing that requires hard chewing or puts strain on the chest. Broths, porridge, stewed meat, bread soaked in milk or wine. He needs to regain the weight he's lost, but we must be careful not to stress the damaged tissue."
"Three months," Tywin said.
"Yes, my lord. And no heavy lifting. No running. No sparring. Any activity that might cause him to fall or be struck in the chest could cause serious complications."
"How serious?"
Creylen met his gaze steadily. "He could die, my lord. If the internal bruising is worse than I suspect, and if it's aggravated, he could bleed internally. Or the ribs could shift and puncture a lung. He's a child. His body is still growing. We must be cautious."
Tywin absorbed this in silence.
Three months of soft foods. A year without use of his sword hand. Possibly longer. Possibly permanent damage.
The boy had survived his captivity. He had killed four grown men and escaped on his own. He had proven himself a lion in truth.
And now he would spend the next year as an invalid.
"Is there anything else I should know?" Tywin asked.
Creylen hesitated.
"Speak."
"The boy is in shock, my lord. I've seen it before, in soldiers after battle. He's functioning—answering questions, obeying commands—but he's not... present. Not fully. He's retreated somewhere inside himself."
"He'll recover."
"Perhaps. Children are resilient. But he may need time. And patience."
Tywin's lip curled slightly. "Patience."
"Yes, my lord." Creylen's tone was blank. "He's six years old. He was held captive for weeks, likely tortured, certainly terrorized. And then he was forced to kill to survive. That would break most grown men. The fact that he's still functioning at all is remarkable."
"He's a Lannister," Tywin said coldly. "He will do more than function. He will excel."
"As you say, my lord."
Tywin studied the Maester for a long moment. Creylen held his gaze without flinching, which was to his credit.
"You've served my house well, Creylen," Tywin said finally. "Continue to do so. See to the boy's care. Keep me informed of his progress. If there are any complications—any at all—I expect to be notified immediately."
"Of course, my lord."
"And Creylen?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"The boy's injuries are to be discussed with no one outside of myself, Ser Kevan, and Ser Jaime. No servants. No soldiers. No one. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, my lord."
"Good. You may go."
Creylen bowed and gathered the last of his supplies. He left the cabin with his two helpers without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
Tywin stood alone in the sudden silence.
Through the porthole, Castle Blacktyde continued to burn. The smoke rose thick and black, a pillar of destruction visible for miles. A message to the Iron Islands: This is what happens when you touch what belongs to Tywin Lannister.
But the message meant nothing if Adrian was broken beyond repair.
Tywin moved to the porthole and looked out at the burning castle. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, hard eyes, stern mouth, the face of a man who had never known mercy and never given it.
A year without the use of his left hand.
Tywin thought of all the things that required two hands. Holding a shield. Gripping reins. Climbing. Fighting.
He thought of Adrian, small and hollow-eyed, saying I don't want to sleep with the voice of someone who feared their own dreams.
He thought of the boy gripping a Valyrian steel blade with his bare hand because it was the only way to lift it high enough to kill.
And despite himself, despite everything, Tywin Lannister felt something that might have been pride.
The boy had not waited to be rescued. He had not begged for mercy. He had not broken.
He had killed four men. He had escaped. He had survived.
He saved himself.
That was worth more than two good hands. That was worth more than a year of training.
That was proof that Adrian was his heir in truth, not just by blood, but by will. By steel. By the cold, ruthless calculation that defined what it meant to be a lion.
Tywin turned from the porthole.
The boy would heal. He would recover. And when he did, he would be harder than before. Stronger. More dangerous.
Weakness tempered by fire became strength. Tywin could still see the smile, the man whom he used to call father. A Man of smiles, laughter, and weakness. Yet, he was not weak. He was a Lion, and Tywin had learned that strength came from weakness.
Tywin would make certain of it.
He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Ser Addam Marbrand stood guard outside the adjoining cabin, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"My lord," Addam said, straightening.
"How is he?"
"Quiet, my lord. He's lying down, but I don't think he's sleeping."
"Good." Tywin glanced at the closed door. "See that he's brought food. Broth, bread. Nothing heavy. And water. As much as he'll drink."
"At once, my lord."
Tywin turned to leave, then paused.
"Ser Addam."
"My lord?"
"If the boy asks for anything—within reason—see that he gets it."
Addam's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Of course, my lord."
Tywin walked away without another word.
He had a war to finish. And a son to rebuild.
Both would be done with Lannister efficiency.
And Lannister's ruthlessness.
War Room
The war room was larger than the cabin where Maester Creylen had examined Adrian, but not by much. It had been the captain's day cabin, a place for charts and ledgers, and now served as the command center for the Lannister fleet.
Maps covered the heavy oak table that dominated the center of the room, weighted down at the corners with a dagger, a wine cup, an inkwell, and a polished stone. The Iron Islands sprawled across the parchment in browns and greys, each island labeled in careful script: Pyke, Harlaw, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Orkmont, Saltcliffe, Blacktyde.
Blacktyde had been crossed out with a single slash of red ink.
Through the stern windows, the last light of afternoon painted the sea in shades of copper and blood. Castle Blacktyde was a blackened skeleton on the distant shore, still smoking, the flames reduced to sullen red embers that would burn through the night.
Tywin stood behind his desk, commandeered from the same unfortunate captain, studying a dispatch from Lord Mallister. His brother Kevan sat in a chair to his left, a cup of wine in hand. Jaime stood near the windows, his white cloak catching the dying light, his armor removed, but his sword still at his hip.
And on Tywin's desk, resting on a length of black velvet like a crown jewel, lay Red Rain.
The Valyrian steel sword gleamed even in the dim cabin. Someone had cleaned it thoroughly. The blood was gone. The rippled pattern in the steel seemed to move in the lamplight, waves of dark red flowing through the blade like wine through water.
It was beautiful.
It was worth a kingdom.
"The final tally, my lord," Kevan said, consulting a ledger balanced on his knee. "From Castle Blacktyde and the surrounding holdings."
"Go on," Tywin said without looking up from the dispatch.
"Three thousand gold dragons in coin. Another five thousand in silver stags and copper stars. Twelve chests of trade goods, silks from the Summer Isles, spices from the east, amber from the north. Twenty barrels of preserved fish. Forty barrels of salt. Grain stores sufficient to feed five hundred men for half a year." Kevan turned a page. "Weapons and armor, mostly serviceable, some of good quality. Six hundred swords, three hundred axes, two hundred spears. Mail, leather, a dozen suits of plate."
"And the library?" Tywin asked.
"Saved, as promised to Lord Harlaw. His men are loading the books onto his ships even now. He seemed... grateful."
"Gratitude costs us nothing and buys us loyalty," Tywin said. "Continue."
"The castle itself is lost, of course. Unsalvageable. But the lands are fertile, fishing waters, some arable soil, grazing for sheep. The village of Blacktyde Port is intact. We spared it per your orders."
"Good. Burned villages produce no taxes." Tywin finally looked up. "And the bloodline?"
Kevan's expression grew grim. "Extinct, my lord. The Lord of House Drumm died in the Great Hall. His two sons died in the courtyard; both took up arms against us. His brother died on the docks. There are daughters, but they're married into other houses. No male heirs. No cadet branches."
"The holdings?"
"Will revert to the Iron Throne by law. King Robert will decide their disposition after the war."
Tywin's lip curled slightly. "Robert will give them to whichever lord gets drunk with him first and tells the best joke." He set aside the dispatch. "We'll make a formal claim. House Drumm harbored an enemy of the Crown, Euron Greyjoy, and conspired in the kidnapping of my son. Their lands are forfeit. The Crown owes House Lannister restitution."
"Will Robert agree to that?" Jaime asked from his position by the windows.
"Robert will agree to whatever Jon Arryn tells him to agree to," Tywin said flatly. "And Arryn is a reasonable man. He understands the value of keeping House Lannister satisfied."
Kevan made a notation in his ledger. "I'll draft the petition."
"See that you do." Tywin's gaze shifted to the sword on his desk. He reached out and rested one hand on the velvet beside it, not quite touching the blade. "The material gains are acceptable. But this..." He looked at his sons. "This is the true prize."
"Red Rain," Jaime said quietly.
"A Valyrian steel sword," Tywin confirmed. "One of perhaps two hundred left in the world. Worth more than Castle Blacktyde. Worth more than ten Castle Blacktydes." His fingers moved closer to the hilt. "And it is fitting that the boy took it himself."
Kevan shifted in his chair. "He killed the Lord of House Drumm with it. The man was trying to flee with his house's treasure."
"Like a rat abandoning a sinking ship," Jaime added. "He barricaded the Hall, sent his own men to die buying him time, and tried to steal Red Rain for himself. He planned to run. Sail for Essos, most likely."
Tywin showed the smallest smile. "The man tried to run like a coward. He died like one."
"He died badly," Jaime said. "I saw the body. Adrian stabbed him through both eyes. Repeatedly."
"Good," Tywin said simply.
Kevan glanced at Jaime, then back at Tywin. "The boy is six years old."
"The boy is a Lannister," Tywin corrected. "And he proved it. Four men dead by his hand. He escaped his captors, armed himself, killed a grown lord in single combat, and claimed a Valyrian steel sword as his prize." He looked at Kevan. "That is not the behavior of a frightened child. That is the behavior of a lion."
Jaime said nothing, but his jaw was tight.
Tywin turned his attention back to the maps. "Now. Strategy." He traced a finger across the parchment. "We've taken Harlaw by surrender and Blacktyde by force. Two of seven islands. The Ironborn know we're here now. Balon Greyjoy knows his rebellion is bleeding."
"Where do we strike next?" Kevan asked.
Tywin's finger moved north. "Old Wyk. Seat of House Goodbrother. It's one of the larger islands, more defensible than Blacktyde but less fortified than Pyke. If we take it, we'll control the western approaches."
"House Goodbrother has three branches," Kevan noted. "The main line at Hammerhorn, the Goodbrothers of Corpse Lake, the Goodbrothers of Crow Spike Keep. They can field perhaps two thousand men."
"Against five thousand Lannister heavy infantry and three thousand Riverlanders?" Tywin's tone was dismissive. "They'll break. The question is whether they surrender or die."
"They'll die," Jaime said. His voice was cold. "Ironborn don't surrender. They're too proud. Too stupid."
Tywin glanced at him. "You sound like you approve of killing them."
"I do."
There was a brief silence.
Kevan cleared his throat. "The Royal Fleet should arrive within three days. Four at most. Stannis Baratheon has two hundred warships. Once he arrives, we'll have control of the sea."
"And then we strike Pyke," Tywin said. He placed his palm flat on the map, covering the island like a falling shadow. "The heart of the Iron Islands. The seat of House Greyjoy. We will attack with overwhelming force. Three sides, Stannis from the sea, Robert and the North from the south, our forces from the west."
"A siege?" Jaime asked.
"If necessary. But I doubt it will come to that. Pyke is strong, but it's not impregnable. And Balon Greyjoy is a fool." Tywin's voice was filled with contempt. "He crowned himself king of a dozen rocks in the middle of nowhere. He attacked the richest house in Westeros. He kidnapped my son. He invited his own destruction."
"We will make an example of him," Kevan said quietly.
"We will make an example of his entire house," Tywin corrected. "When this war is over, House Greyjoy will be synonymous with failure. With stupidity. With the cost of defying the Iron Throne and House Lannister." He looked at both his brother and his son. "We will drown them in blood and leave their corpses for the crabs."
Jaime, who had argued against his father's brutality a hundred times before, who had objected to the sack of King's Landing and the murder of Elia Martell's children, said nothing.
His silence was answer enough.
Tywin noted it with satisfaction. "You agree."
"I saw what they did to Adrian," Jaime said quietly. His hand moved to his sword hilt, gripping it unconsciously. "I saw the marks on his throat. The bruises. The fear in his eyes." His voice hardened. "That was my first time seeing him. Meeting him. And the first thing I saw was a six-year-old boy covered in blood because those animals—" He stopped, his jaw working. "Yes. I agree. Let them drown and join their precious drowned god."
Kevan looked down at his wine. Even he, typically the voice of moderation, offered no objection.
The mood in the cabin was grim. Vengeful.
Tywin studied the map for another moment, then nodded. "Good. We're in agreement. Kevan, send word to Lord Mallister. Tell him to prepare his forces for embarkation. We sail for Old Wyk at first light."
"At once, my lord."
"And send a raven to Robert and Lord Stark. Inform them of our victory here and our next target. Coordinate timing for the assault on Pyke."
"Yes, my lord."
Jaime shifted by the window. "When will Adrian sail back to Casterly Rock?"
Tywin looked up from the map.
"I was thinking ten ships," Jaime continued. "A strong escort. Enough to discourage any Ironborn raiders who might still be prowling the waters. He should be safe at home. Away from—" He gestured vaguely. "—all of this."
"Adrian is not going anywhere," Tywin said.
Both Jaime and Kevan turned to stare at him.
"What?" Jaime said.
"You heard me."
"Father—"
"Adrian will remain with the fleet until the rebellion is concluded."
Kevan set down his wine cup carefully. "Brother, are you certain that's wise? The boy is injured. He needs rest, proper care—"
"He will receive both," Tywin interrupted. "Here."
Jaime's expression hardened. "Why? The boy should not stay in the middle of a rebellion. He is much safer at home, where he is surrounded by people who love him and will serve him, and will make sure his needs are met."
"His needs will be met here as well," Tywin said coldly. "But I want Adrian to stay here until the Rebellion is over."
"That makes no sense," Jaime said, his voice rising slightly. "He's six years old. He was just held captive for weeks. Tortured. Terrorized. He killed four men to survive. And now you want to keep him on a warship in the middle of a war zone?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Tywin's gaze was level. Unreadable. "Because I do."
Kevan looked profoundly uncomfortable. He glanced between his brother and his nephew, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
Jaime's hands clenched into fists. "This is madness."
"This is my decision," Tywin said. "And my decision is final."
"Father—"
"Jaime." Tywin's voice was a blade. "You will not question me on this matter. Adrian stays."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Jaime looked at Kevan, as if hoping for support. Kevan avoided his gaze.
"Uncle," Jaime said tightly. "A word? Outside?"
Kevan stood, clearly grateful for the escape. "Of course."
"No," Tywin said.
Kevan froze halfway to the door.
Tywin's gaze was fixed on Jaime. "If you have something to say, Jaime, say it here. To me."
"Fine." Jaime's jaw was tight with suppressed anger. "I want to speak to you. Alone."
Tywin regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. "Kevan. Leave us."
Kevan didn't need to be told twice. He set down his ledger and left the cabin, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Tywin folded his hands on the desk. "Speak."
"Why are you really doing this?" Jaime demanded. "What possible reason could you have for keeping Adrian here?"
"I've already told you—"
"You've told me nothing!" Jaime's voice rose. "You've given me orders and expected me to obey without question, like I'm one of your bloody bannermen. But I'm your son, and that boy is my brother, and I deserve to know why you're putting him at risk!"
Tywin's expression didn't change. "You've developed a taste for playing the rescuing knight, I see. How does it feel to save someone for once, instead of failing them?"
Jaime flinched as if struck.
"Is that what this is?" Tywin continued, his voice soft and deadly. "Guilt? You're trying to redeem yourself by protecting Adrian? Make up For Elia and her son? For every other failure in your gloried career?"
"This isn't about me," Jaime said through gritted teeth. "This is about a six-year-old boy who killed four men to escape that castle alive. Four. Do you understand what that means? Do you care?"
"Of course I understand," Tywin said coldly. "It means that Adrian is a lion. It means he did not wait for someone to save him. He saved himself. It means that Adrian will not disappoint me..." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Unlike some."
Jaime's face went white. "You're talking about me. And Tyrion."
Tywin said nothing.
"Seven hells," Jaime breathed. "You think Adrian is the only one of your sons worth a damn, don't you? The only one who isn't a disappointment."
"He's proven himself," Tywin said. "Can you say the same?"
"He's six years old!"
"And he's already killed more enemies than you killed defending your king."
The words struck like a lash. Jaime's hand trembled.
"You bastard," he whispered.
"Sit down, Jaime."
"No."
"Sit. Down."
Jaime remained standing, but some of the fire went out of him. His shoulders sagged slightly.
Jaime continued. "Adrian is only six. The last thing he needs is to see more blood, more bodies. He needs to heal. He needs to be a child."
"The boy will not stay a boy forever," Tywin said. "He will need to get used to it. And he is already halfway there."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he has seen the worst of what men can do. He has been subjected to violence, terror, and cruelty. He has been forced to kill or die." Tywin's gaze was steady. "That cannot be undone. That cannot be forgotten. The boy who went into that cell is not the boy who came out of it."
"Which is exactly why he needs to go home," Jaime said desperately. "He needs safety. Comfort. Familiar faces. People who care about him. Not... this." He gestured around the cabin. "Not war. Not death. Not more trauma."
"He'll be in danger here," Jaime continued. "Every day we're at war, he's at risk. What if the Ironborn strike back? What if Euron Greyjoy returns? What if—"
"I agree," Tywin interrupted.
Jaime stopped mid-sentence. "What?"
"I agree. He will be in danger here. That is precisely why I want you to take care of him."
Jaime stared at his father. "You... want me to protect him?"
"Yes."
"I have to fight this rebellion as well, not play nursemaid," Jaime said, his frustration returning. "I'm a knight of the Kingsguard. I should be leading charges, not babysitting a—"
"You have been playing nursemaid for the last eight years now, Jaime," Tywin said, his voice sharp as a knife. "To a mad king. To a drunken usurper. You should have gotten used to it by now."
Jaime's face flushed red.
"At least this time," Tywin continued, "you'll be protecting someone who actually shares your blood. Someone who actually matters to House Lannister's future. Or is that beneath you?"
"That's not—" Jaime stopped, breathing hard. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" Tywin's eyebrow arched. "You want fairness? You abandoned your family to wear a white cloak. You swore an oath to a madman and then broke it when it became inconvenient. You've spent six years in King's Landing playing at being a knight while Tyrion drinks himself into stupidity and I run the Seven Kingdoms from Casterly Rock. And now you lecture me about what's fair?"
Jaime looked away, his jaw working.
"You want to know why I'm keeping Adrian here?" Tywin's voice softened slightly, but there was steel beneath it. "Because I need to know if you're capable of protecting something that matters. Because I need to see if my eldest son is worth the name Lannister."
Jaime's head snapped up. "You're testing me."
"I'm giving you an opportunity," Tywin corrected. "Adrian stays with the fleet. You will guard him. Keep him safe. Make sure he's cared for. And when this rebellion is over, when we return to Casterly Rock in triumph, you will have proven that you're more than just a sword in fancy armor."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't refuse," Tywin said simply. "Because for all your flaws, Jaime, you're not a monster. You saw what was done to that boy. You saw what he had to do to survive. And despite everything, despite your vows, despite your pride, despite your resentment toward me, you care about him. I saw it in your face when you brought him here."
Jaime said nothing, but his expression confirmed the truth of his father's words.
"So you will protect him," Tywin continued. "Not because I command it. But because it's the right thing to do. And perhaps, in doing so, you'll remember what it means to be a Lannister."
Finally, Jaime shook his head. "You really are a bastard."
"I'm a pragmatist," Tywin corrected. "And a father who hasn't given up on all his sons. Yet."
Jaime turned toward the door. His hand was on the latch when something caught his eye.
Red Rain, resting on the black velvet on Tywin's desk.
Jaime paused. "What will you name it?"
Tywin looked at the sword, then at his son.
"Adrian will name it," he said. "It is his, after all."
Jaime blinked. "His?"
"He took it from the Lord of House Drumm. He killed a man with it. He earned it." Tywin's voice was firm. "The sword belongs to him. Not to me. Not to House Lannister. To Adrian."
It was, Jaime realized, perhaps the first time his father had ever acknowledged Adrian as owning something of true value. Not holding it for him. Not keeping it safe until he was older. Not planning to pass it down when the time was right.
It was his. Now. At six years old.
A Valyrian steel sword worth more than a castle.
"He's six," Jaime said quietly. "He can barely lift it."
"He lifted it enough to kill," Tywin replied. "That's all that matters."
Jaime looked at his father for a long moment. Then he shook his head and opened the door.
"Jaime," Tywin called as he stepped into the corridor.
Jaime paused, looking back.
"Don't fail him," Tywin said. "Don't fail another child who depends on you."
The words landed like a sword thrust. Jaime's face went pale, and anger filled his face. He knew his father had been the one to make the order, and now, he was using that against him.
He stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him.
Tywin sat alone in the war room, surrounded by maps and ledgers and the spoils of conquest.
Red Rain gleamed on his desk, beautiful and terrible.
A weapon made for killing.
A weapon that now belonged to a six-year-old boy.
Tywin reached out and rested his hand on the hilt. The leather was soft, worn smooth by generations of Drumm lords who had wielded it in battle.
Now it would be wielded by a Lannister.
By his heir.
By the boy who had proven himself a lion when it mattered most.
Tywin allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
"Well done, Adrian," he murmured to the empty cabin. "Well done."
.
.
Chapter 23 (The Cub and The Golden Lion): Jaime and Adrian will finally have their first real conversation.