Tycen Lannister

The years in Casterly Rock rolled by like the waves below, steady and unyielding, shaping me as they went.

I came into the world in 262 AC, a squalling babe with green eyes and dark hair, the sea's grumble my first lullaby.

By 268 AC, I was six, small but wiry, my steps sure on the crimson rugs, though the weight of what I knew never lifted.

The golden lions on the banners watched me grow, their snarls stitched into every corner, a silent mark of the name I bore.

Joanna was the center of those years, her warmth a thread I couldn't help but follow.

In 264 AC, when I was two, Cersei and Jaime arrived—golden-haired twins, two years younger, their cries sharp and demanding in the nursery.

By 265 AC, they were toddling, their laughter ringing off the stone as Joanna chased them.

"Tycen, help me," she'd call, her voice bright, her crimson gown swirling as she scooped Jaime up.

I'd stumble over, grabbing Cersei's sticky hand—she'd giggle and pull free, and Joanna's laugh would spill out, soft and clear, making the room feel alive.

She'd take us to the high balcony often, the wind sharp against our faces as the sea stretched gray below.

"Look at it, my lions," she'd say, holding Jaime on her hip while Cersei clung to her skirts and I stood close, my hair whipping in the breeze.

"This is yours."

Her lavender scent mixed with the salt air, and I'd nod, her words settling heavy in me.

I loved her for it—the way she made us hers, made this place ours.

The rebellion and the nightwalkers were far off, decades away, but her warmth made it hard to keep my distance.

Cersei and Jaime grew fast, their golden curls and green eyes a matched set, unnerving in their closeness.

By 267 AC, when I was five and they were three, they raced the halls, their shouts a constant echo.

I'd watch them, half-smiling, half-dreading what I knew—their twisted paths ahead.

"Tycen, play!" Jaime would yell, tugging my sleeve, and I'd lift him, his small body light in my arms.

Cersei would scowl until I spun her too, her laughter wild and sharp.

Joanna would smile, her hands busy with needlework by the hearth.

"You're their shield, Tycen," she'd say, stitching lions into crimson cloth.

"The first, the strongest."

I'd nod, my chest tight, wanting to keep them safe despite what loomed in my mind.

That year, 267 AC, Tywin's shadow sharpened.

At five, he named me his heir and set me to work—academics with Maester Creylen, swordsmanship with Ser Denys.

The maester, a thin man with ink-stained hands, drilled me in letters and sums, his voice dry as dust.

"A Lannister must know his worth," he'd mutter, watching me scratch quill to parchment.

In the yard, Ser Denys thrust a wooden sword at me, barking, "Swing, boy," as I fumbled, the weight awkward in my grip.

Tywin observed sometimes, his dark tunic stark against the crimson banners, his eyes cold and distant.

"You'll lead this house," he'd say, his tone flat, then turn away, leaving me to the lessons and the bruises.

He was a wall I couldn't climb, the man who'd shape the game I knew, and I felt him more as a shadow than a father.

Joanna softened those edges, her stories a comfort when we gathered after my training.

"Your father's made us strong," she'd tell us, Cersei and Jaime sprawled on the rug, me sitting stiff beside her, my hands raw from the blade.

"Gold runs deeper than the sea."

The twins would nod, wide-eyed, but I'd stare at the fire, knowing the blood that gold would spill.

She'd ruffle my hair, sensing my quiet, and I'd lean into her touch, her lavender scent easing the storm in my head.

By 268 AC, I was six, my legs steady enough to run, and Cersei and Jaime, at four, were whirlwinds—chasing each other, hiding in the armory, their laughter a bright thread through the stone.

I'd join them, half to watch, half to feel their joy.

Joanna would find us, chuckling as she pulled Jaime from a barrel or dusted Cersei's gown.

"You three," she'd say, her eyes bright, "you'll wear these walls down."

I'd smile, small and rare, because with her, I could forget the nightwalkers—those icy shadows that crept into my dreams—and the chaos I knew waited far ahead.

Then came late summer, 268 AC, when everything broke.

Joanna's belly swelled again, her steps slower, her face paler.

She'd sit more, her hands on the curve, and I'd linger near, my gut twisting with a fear I couldn't name.

I knew this part—Tyrion's birth, her death.

Sixteen years to the rebellion, thirty-two to the nightwalkers' march—but this was now, sharp and real.

I wanted to warn her, to beg her to stop, but my tongue stayed heavy, my resolve to let the story play out clashing with the ache inside.

The day came, the air thick with heat and salt.

I sat outside her chamber, Cersei and Jaime beside me, their small hands clutching mine.

The midwives bustled, their voices tense, and Tywin stood in the hall, a silent figure in dark cloth.

A cry broke through—a babe's wail, thin and fierce—then silence, too long, too heavy.

I knew before they told us, my heart a stone as the door opened.

A midwife, her face gray, murmured to Tywin, and he turned, his eyes colder than the sea, his jaw tight.

Joanna was gone.

Tyrion lived, a small, twisted thing they brought out later, his cries weak but stubborn.

Cersei whimpered, Jaime stared, and I held them, my arms steady despite the shake in my chest.

Tywin didn't look at us—didn't speak—just walked off, his boots echoing on the stone.

Myrla took the twins, her voice flat—"Come along, young lords, young lady"—and I stayed, staring at the closed door, the lavender scent fading from the air.

That night, I stood at the balcony, the sea dark and restless below.

Tyrion's birth, Joanna's death—it was done, as I'd known it would be.

The red thread pulled tight: I'd watched, stayed silent, let it happen, but losing her hurt more than I'd braced for.

Time stretched ahead, plenty of it, but now it was just me, the twins, and that crying babe, figuring out what came next.