Chapter Text
Sung Jinwoo stared at the boy in front of him.
Golden hair. Green eyes. Tiny shoulders wrapped in crimson trimmed with gold. Hands clenched into little fists at his sides so tightly that the knuckles had gone white.
Jinwoo continued staring.
Oh.
Oh, he had made a mistake.
It was not a small mistake. It wasn’t the sort of mistake where you accidentally walked into the wrong room, grabbed the wrong coat, or forgot to buy kimchi on the way home and now there’s no banchan for dinner.
No, this was the sort of mistake that quietly reached back through twenty-seven years of careful planning, picked it all up, and threw it off a cliff.
His husband… was tiny.
He was not simply shorter and a bit younger than Jinwoo thought he would be seeing.
This was… tiny. An actual child.
The blond little Lannister boy barely reached his chest, all straight-backed dignity packed into what couldn't have been more than a hundred and forty centimeters of stubborn determination. Round puffy cheeks still clung to the sharp bones that would someday carve kingdoms apart. But for now, they were still soft with baby fat, still dripping pink from youth, and he looked absurdly adorable for someone trying so desperately to appear intimidating.
Hell, he looked like one of those cherubs painted on cathedral ceilings. The sort with tiny golden curls and perpetually offended expressions. If someone handed him a little harp, he could probably pass for an angel.
Except this angel looked like he wanted to challenge Death itself to a duel. And knowing Tywin, he would throw any harp given at the gifter.
Tywin was glaring at him with those green eyes. They were the same impossible emerald that had once stared down kings, defied dragons, and coolly informed Jinwoo that if he continued bringing undead wyverns into the gardens, he would personally be sleeping outside.
But, they weren't the same.
Not yet.
The green hadn't sharpened into that infamous cutting edge.
These eyes were bigger, rounder, like polished emerald marbles that glittered in the light or plump green grapes fatter than one’s finger. These eyes were still full of childhood innocence in ways the older Tywin's eyes had long since forgotten.
Yet they were trying so very hard to become those legendary eyes before their time. The child was glaring at him with every ounce of authority his ten-year-old body could muster.
Unfortunately, his face didn’t get the memo.
Instead of inspiring fear, he looked like an exceptionally offended kitten - a very proud kitten that was absolutely convinced it was a lion.
Jinwoo bit the inside of his cheek.
Don't smile.
He absolutely could not smile. If the adult version of Tywin Lannister hated it, no doubt the child version would hate it just as well. Tywin always maintained, with complete sincerity, that he had always possessed perfect dignity since birth.
Fuck, he was adorable. Fuck, he missed Tywin. The realization came so suddenly it nearly knocked the breath out of him, not in the abstract way he'd missed him these last twenty-seven years, not as a distant ache he'd learned to carry into battle.
He missed him.
Twenty-seven years without hearing - "Jinwoo." - just his name. He hadn't heard Tywin say his name in twenty-seven years. That realization pained him more than he'd expected.
How old was he? Eight? Maybe eleven? Fourteen? He had yet to hit puberty; the shoulders were too narrow, the jaw too soft.
“I,” Tywin declared with a sniff of supposed haughtiness, but it was more to disguise the sudden quiver in his throat, “am precisely the right size for a boy of my age.” And that was that ridiculous confidence and absolute refusal to concede even the smallest point that Jinwoo missed with startling clarity.
"Who are you," Tywin demanded, lifting his chin another fraction, "and why have you come to Casterly Rock?"
He was trying to sound like a lord. He was trying so hard. Instead, he sounded like a child doing an excellent impression of one. His voice—those few brave words he'd managed despite standing before an entire hall of kneeling adults —still carried the lingering notes of childhood beneath all that carefully rehearsed authority.
To Jinwoo, Tywin just sounded heartbreakingly young.
Jinwoo's chest tightened.
He had met Tywin as a man, an intimidating, terrifyingly competent man with all the confidence and surety of someone who wasn’t used to being questioned.
This boy… He'd never known him. This version had never existed for him.
There were portraits, certainly. Kevan had shown him the dusty paintings tucked away in hidden rooms - Tywin had hated them all for it reminded him of his father’s poor rule. No portrait was able to truly capture this; paint couldn't capture the way the boy stood ramrod straight despite shaking ever so slightly nor the emotions to be gleaned from every twitch and clench in those facial expressions.
It couldn't capture the frantic heartbeat Jinwoo heard echoing beneath the silence.
This stubborn little lion cub who was so obviously terrified and still refused to kneel because Westerland was watching. Somewhere inside this tiny body already lived the impossible man who believed House Lannister's dignity rested entirely upon his own shoulders.
Jinwoo hadn't expected, well, he hadn’t expected this.
"Um..." Jinwoo finally managed. He took a step forward - closer - to Tywin. His own voice sounded strange - it was hoarse, too rough. He felt like he'd forgotten how to speak gently. "That rather depends." He swallowed. "...How old are you, Tywin?"
He tried to soften the words, but they still came out harsher and more demanding than intended.
Tywin frowned suspiciously. "...Why?"
"Humor me."
"I am no court jester to entertain and humor you, my lord." Those pink cheeks now blossomed red - with embarrassment or humiliation? Or from shyness?
Jinwoo almost laughed and almost cried at the sharp witty retort.
It had been 27 impossibly long years - 27 years spent marching through worlds where the skies burned strange colors and entire civilizations disappeared before he could reach them - 27 years of blood and violence blurred together to mean nothing - until battle after battle melded together until entire decades felt like a single impossibly long day.
Only one certainty had remained: the fact that there would be an end.
Eventually… He would see his family again - his parents, his sister, Tywin, and the Lannisters.
He had clung to that thought with an almost embarrassing desperation whenever another Monarch unleashed an army that blackened the horizon and the exhaustion had settled so deeply into his bones he had wondered if he would wake up again.
He would think—
Just a little longer. You'll see him again.
Sometimes, when sleep refused to come, he'd let himself imagine small little fantasies of daily life, of Tywin sitting behind that enormous oak desk beneath the crimson lion banners, pretending to work while secretly watching Jinwoo out of the corner of his eye. Or maybe Jinwoo sprawled inelegantly across a nearby couch with a history textbook open on his lap because finals were next week, half studying and half listening to Tywin dismantle some poor lord's political ambitions with frightening efficiency.
That fantasy of Tywin looking up only long enough to remark, in that perfectly dry voice—
"You are reading the same page for twenty-three minutes."
"I'm thinking."
"You're asleep."
"I'm thinking with my eyes closed."
"Remarkable. I had not foreseen that education teaching methods would have advanced this far."
Those stupid, domestic, wonderfully ordinary fantasies had carried him through more battles than pride ever had. He dreamed of coming home. And now...
The home he had dreamed about was now standing in front of him looking much too short and much too young. But-
He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.
That was all that really mattered. He could wait for Tywin to grow up and become the adult that he had known, loved, and married.
Tywin was trying very hard to look intimidating while looking, instead, like the most stubborn little lion cub Jinwoo had ever seen. He looked at Jinwoo with all the fearless defiance of a child who had not yet learned how much the world intended to take from him.
He looked just like his older self. Jinwoo’s chest ached so fiercely it almost felt like one of the Monarchs had managed to land a blow.
"I am ten years old, my lord." Tywin's chin lifted another inch. His jaw set. "I'm ten," Tywin repeated. "Is that... satisfactory?"
There it was again, that tiny pause. It was hesitation carefully buried beneath pride.
Jinwoo's throat tightened.
This Tywin didn’t know the man he would grow up to become; he didn't know that people would admire him as their lord, fear him at the negotiating table, and bend in defeat across the battlefield after losing to him. He didn’t know of all the things that he would accomplish and achieve in the next 20 years of his life.
But Tywin was alive.
He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.
That was what mattered.
He looked at him - at Jinwoo - with all the fearless defiance of someone who hadn't yet learned how much the world intended to take from him.
Jinwoo had spent an entire month searching dimensions, another entire month chasing whispers through fractured realities to find the right world. He had crossed continents on dragonback just to find the familiar fields surrounding the familiar castle.
He had imagined this reunion thousands of times.
Jinwoo found himself moving before he'd consciously decided to. He moved, not slowly and carefully as one would approach a frightened animal, but at his usual speed, his impatience driving him to move faster to touch mine, mine mine.
Tywin didn't retreat. He stood his ground, chin still lifted, shoulders locked so tightly that Jinwoo wondered if the boy even realized he wasn't breathing.
Jinwoo raised one hand. Some of the more courageous knights in the hall finally showed they hadn’t fallen asleep. They stiffened and several swords shifted, yet who were they fooling. They were still kneeling - how could they think to protect their future lord from there?
Tywin didn't move. He was brave, stubborn and too proud to flinch.
Jinwoo rested his right hand lightly atop the boy's head. His hair was unbelievably soft. It was finer than Jinwoo remembered, a shade or two paler as well.
Golden strands slipped between his fingers and so he smoothed his hand over those strands again. And again.
Tywin froze and his eyes widened.
Jinwoo couldn't help it. “Cute.” The corner of his mouth lifted. "You’re more than satisfactory." And concerned that Tywin really would overthink his words, he repeated it again in another way. “I’m more than satisfied.”
Tywin abruptly stepped backward a few steps. It was far enough that the hair slipped out of Jinwoo's hand.
The child’s expression reorganized itself with remarkable speed. Confusion disappeared beneath practiced dignity.
"...Then..." The boy cleared his throat. "If you come in peace..." He turned sharply toward the nearest table, seized an untouched loaf from among the evening meal, broke off a piece with considerably more force than necessary, and marched back.
Every step declared he was entirely in control.
The bread trembled ever so slightly in his outstretched hand. "Will you take salt and bread?"
Jinwoo accepted the bread. There was no butter, so he passed up on the salt. "Of course."
The bread tasted exactly the same as he remembered - it was the same thick golden crust with a hint of barley and nuttiness in the dough along with a faint smokiness from the apple wood used to heat up Casterly Rock's ovens. It was exactly the same bread that had been served for meals in the Great Hall and the same bread Tywin absentmindedly tore apart to eat with fruit and cheese while reading reports in his office.
Fuck, he'd missed this place with all its people and food.
He ripped through the bread quickly and his hands were empty too quickly.
His original plan was up in flames now.
It had been a good plan, a sensible plan. He'd spent literal years refining it while marching across battlefields and sitting alone atop ruined fortresses watching unfamiliar constellations drift overhead, pretending that if he stared long enough they might rearrange themselves into the stars above Westeros.
Westeros and Earth never flowed at the same pace as he had learned that early. The time between worlds behaved less like a river and more like a cat. It wandered where it pleased, refused explanation, and occasionally knocked over everything you'd carefully arranged simply because it could.
So Jinwoo had planned for uncertainty.
He simply hadn't planned for...
This.
The most likely future, he'd reasoned, was straightforward enough. Tywin would already be married. Joanna would still be alive and perhaps pregnant with Tyrion. And if Joanna wasn’t pregnant, the chances of Tyrion being born again was extremely unlikely, so he also said his own farewells to the adorable little boy with too much curiosity and fondness for dragons. He couldn’t very well expect the exact same egg with the exact same sperm to meet again in a timeline that he had changed.
Jinwoo had accepted that.
Mostly.
He had not accepted it happily; that future hurt to imagine yet he had imagined it anyway because it was the most logical.
He planned that he wouldn’t disturb Tywin’s marriage. Tywin had never hidden his love for Joanna, but Jinwoo had never been jealous of a dead woman. How could he be? She had loved the version of Tywin that Jinwoo never knew.
She had made Tywin happy. She had given him years of happiness before the world demanded its payment.
So he'd made peace with it. Or he'd convinced himself he would.
His plan had been simple: he’d make an unforgettable entrance, something dramatic enough that Tywin would immediately recognize strength worth keeping close at hand. Tywin admired strength with almost embarrassing transparency, and he collected those competent talented people like a dragon collecting gold. He was never particularly subtle about it.
Jinwoo had every confidence he qualified, but he would showcase his talents like a peacock spreading its wings. He wanted to make a statement - let everyone to know and whisper of his powers.
He’d let every lord in Westeros understand exactly what standing against House Lannister would cost them. Ironborn captains would think twice before raiding the western shores if they believed Death himself had chosen the lions. Ambitious bannermen would remember those glowing eyes before entertaining thoughts of rebellion. Petty lords would discover entirely new levels of respect for Casterly Rock.
House Lannister was under his protection and that would be his gift to Tywin - his grand entrance would help quell down issues before they became issues, giving Tywin more time to spend with his family.
Perfect.
After that… he'd leave and focus his time on Earth with his family - for his parents who were alive and healthy and whole, and his sister who would never know the struggles of other life.
Jinah would never spend another night wondering whether a Gate had finally swallowed her brother forever. She would never need to calculate grocery bills while pretending not to notice the empty fridge. She’d never skip buying something she wanted because there were hospital fees to pay first.
And for himself, Jinwoo wanted—more desperately than he'd ever admitted aloud—to become someone ordinary. He wanted to finish high school properly, walk across a graduation stage, and see what university life was like. He wanted to figure out what else he was good at beyond fighting. Then every few months… he’d drop by Casterly Rock and make sure his other people were happy and healthy too.
That was his simple dream. After twenty-seven years of endless war, he'd found himself craving boredom with the same intensity other men craved glory.
Then he met ten-year-old Tywin.
Jinwoo looked down.
The boy was still standing there trying very hard to pretend he wasn't sneaking nervous glances at the shadow soldiers surrounding them and trying even harder to pretend he hadn't just offered bread with hands that were still trembling.
He was so...
Small.
So painfully, impossibly small.
He slowly lowered himself onto one knee because standing over Tywin suddenly felt... wrong. He had come to Westeros wearing the body he knew best—the body forged by twenty-seven years of endless war. The body that had wrestled Monarchs into the earth and split mountains with borrowed divinity.
It had never felt cumbersome before.
Now it did.
Now every inch of his height only reminded him how impossibly young the child before him was.
When he settled onto one knee, their eyes finally met on equal ground.
"...There you are," Jinwoo murmured, almost to himself.
Only now could he truly see him.
Tywin’s wrists were heartbreakingly thin, disappearing beneath crimson sleeves embroidered with little golden lions. They were so small and fragile that Jinwoo could trap both wrists in one hand.
One thumbnail had been chewed down unevenly, the edge ragged where nervous teeth had worried at it without thinking.
Dark shadows lingered beneath those brilliant green eyes - not the faint discoloration of a child who had stayed awake reading beneath his blankets but the sort left behind by interrupted sleep.
This was a child trying to solve problems no child should even know existed but had been failed by his father.
And his mouth was tightly drawn as though somewhere along the way he'd learned that relaxing even for a moment invited disappointment.
Twenty-seven years he'd mourned a husband only to discover that his husband had once been this: a lonely little boy wearing confidence like armor because nobody had ever told him it was acceptable to be frightened.
Jinwoo's heart cracked in a way no Monarch had ever managed. It ached with the realization that his love had suffered long before he ever met him.
Damnit.
He's only ten.
This complicated everything. His plans were ruined, the promises he had made were up in flames, and he didn’t even know where his boundaries should be drawn.
This wasn't the Lord Tywin Lannister he had been expecting. This wasn't the husband he'd intended to visit from time to time.
This was a ten-year-old child trying to become an adult sooner. Someone had to be the Lord of Casterly Rock today and the child had decided it might as well be him.
Before Jinwoo could stop the thought from forming, another followed.
Who has been taking care of you?
The answer, judging by the frightened man nearly ready to pass out by the high seat and the desperate way the boy carried himself to act in his father’s place...
No one.
And so, to the husband he had once promised, in the quiet darkness before sleep, that he’ll take care of him...
Will you let me take care of you?
Jinwoo reached out slowly and, ignoring how Tywin's entire body stiffened, he slowly pried open the fists that had been clenched so tightly the nails dug crescents into his own palms.
So much tension was held inside such tiny hands.
Jinwoo gently wrapped his fingers around one fist. It was warm and smaller than he remembered. Everything about him was smaller than he remembered, but the personality within was just as large as ever.
“Come.”
Tywin blinked rapidly. The fierce little mask he'd been wearing faltered for the briefest instant with confusion, suspicion and something else.
“You don't have to do everything yourself.” Jinwoo looked at the ink-stained fingers, the bitten nails, the weary eyes full of stress. His little shoulders were already straining beneath burdens that should have belonged to grown men.
His heart ached.
His thumb brushed lightly across the back of Tywin's hand.
"So..." His voice became almost impossibly tender. "...let me help you."
mine mine mine mine mine