Chapter Text
POV: Jaime Lannister
The training yard stank of sweat and steel. Summer’s heat bore down on Casterly Rock like a hammer, and Jaime could feel it seeping through his tunic, baking his skin under the golden lion emblazoned on his chest. The clang of steel still rang in his ears. His arms ached from endless drills, and yet he stood tall, eyes glinting in the harsh sun.
At eleven, Jaime Lannister already carried himself like a knight. Not the kind from songs—no white cloaks or dragon-slaying epics—but the kind molded through sweat and repetition. Sword in hand, posture coiled, smile sharp.
"Had enough for the day, eh boy?" Ser Jonas Swyft called, wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve.
Jaime smirked, rolling his shoulder. "I could go on all day, Ser Jonas. Can’t say the same for the others."
A few boys groaned behind him, leaning on their wooden practice swords, red-faced and breathless.
"Aye," Swyft grunted. "The sun’s crueler than the Seven today. Back to the castle with you. And Rhodes—don’t ever drop your guard like that again. You handed him that strike."
Jaime gave the boy a half-smile and tossed his sword to a page. It was a good day—his form was crisp, his strikes landed with weight, and his confidence, always present, was now borderline radiant. Yet there was no triumph in his heart. Not really. Not today.
He had barely slept the night before. Cersei kept him up, chattering in that relentless, demanding way of hers. She had been ranting about their father’s refusal to let her train with swords, again. She’d sat cross-legged on his bed, tossing grapes into her mouth with the practiced disdain of a girl who knew the world wouldn’t give her what she wanted—and refused to accept it anyway.
Jaime had listened, offering a few sympathetic nods. But in truth, he didn’t mind. He liked hearing her talk. She was the only one who ever truly said what she thought in this place.
After a quick bath, he dressed for the evening. There was to be music in the Great Hall. A new bard had arrived, and Lady Joanna insisted her son attend.
Jaime didn’t care for songs of love and tragedy. Knights and maidens, sighs and roses, all of it felt hollow. But the war songs—those stirred something. The ones about Barristan the Bold at the Stepstones, or the conquest of Aegon the Dragonlord. Those were worth hearing.
He slipped through the redstone corridors, boots echoing off cold walls, until he heard the familiar voice shout—
“Jaime! He’s here, Mother!” Cersei's voice rang across the hallway.
He sighed. Of course she was already in place.
---
The Great Hall of Casterly Rock was as grand as any in Westeros, but it felt colder these days. The high seat at the center of the lord’s table was empty, as it often was.
Father was in King's Landing. Where real things happened. Where decisions were made.
Jaime took his seat beside his mother, nodding respectfully. Cersei tapped her foot impatiently, eyes rolling before the bard had even opened his mouth.
“Greetings, my lady,” the bard began, bowing low. “It is my honor to perform at Casterly Rock.”
“Honor, my foot,” Cersei muttered under her breath.
“Cersei,” Jaime hissed.
She arched a golden brow. “He’s not here for honor. He's here for coin. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
He frowned. “It still matters. He’ll be able to say he performed for House Lannister. That’s worth something.”
His mother’s gaze flicked over, just for a second, and both children went quiet.
“And now,” the bard declared, lifting his harp, “a song to honor the lord of the castle—though absent, his shadow looms large. My lady, I present... The Rains of Castamere.”
Jaime froze. That song. That cursed, beautiful, terrifying song.
The harp sang its first sorrowful notes.
> "And who are you," the proud lord said,
"That I must bow so low?"
It wasn’t the words. It wasn’t even the music. It was the weight. The echo of it. Like the stones of the Rock remembered the blood spilled beneath them. Like the wind off the sea still whispered the names of the dead.
> "A coat of gold, a coat of red,
A lion still has claws…"
Jaime’s stomach turned. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the oysters. Maybe it was something else.
“Excuse me, Mother,” he whispered, standing.
He slipped into the corridor, where the salt wind from the western sea slapped his face. He breathed in deep, eyes scanning the darkening horizon. Far below, waves crashed against jagged stone. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet.
The song... it haunted him.
They all spoke of Father’s greatness. The strength it took to crush a rebellion, to destroy House Reyne and Tarbeck root and stem. But how many of them had really thought about what that meant?
He pulled a bow from the rack in the practice yard. Drew an arrow. Let it fly. Missed.
Again. Thud.
He heard the footsteps before the voice.
“Seems distracted, Jaime.”
He turned. “Uncle Kevan!”
Kevan Lannister leaned against the wall, arms folded. The image of his brother, Tywin—only softer. Warmer. Less iron, more flesh.
“Not enjoying the bard?” Kevan asked.
“I was thinking,” Jaime admitted, lowering the bow. “About... Castamere.”
Kevan’s expression darkened, eyes distant.
“Why did Father do it?” Jaime asked. “I know they rebelled. I know they mocked him. But... he ended them. Completely. Even the children.”
There was silence. Then Kevan walked over, picked up the bow, examined it.
“Your father didn’t make that choice lightly,” he said. “And it didn’t happen the way the songs tell it.”
“Then how did it happen?” Jaime asked.
Kevan looked at him long and hard. Something settled in his eyes—resolution, perhaps. Or resignation.
“It’s time you knew. The truth. Not the song. Not the myth. But the real story.”
He sat on the bench beside the archery stand, gesturing for Jaime to join him.
“It began... long before the rains fell at Castamere.”