Chapter 1: A Lion's Rude Awakening
The coppery taste of betrayal was the last sensation Marco "The Shark" Scarlatti registered before the world dissolved into a symphony of agonizing pain and then, nothingness. One moment, he was on top of the world, the undisputed kingpin of a sprawling criminal empire built from the gutter with his own blood, sweat, and an almost preternatural genius for business and violence. The next, his most trusted lieutenant, a man he'd considered a brother, was emptying a .45 into his chest, his eyes cold, dead pools reflecting Marco's own shocked disbelief.
"Et tu, Brute?" Marco had thought, a wry, bloody smile ghosting his lips. He'd always appreciated the classics, even if his life had been anything but classical. Power, he'd learned, was a magnet for betrayal. He'd just never thought Enzo would be the one to pull the trigger. The irony was as bitter as the cheap whiskey he'd started with decades ago.
Then, darkness. A cold, infinite void that stretched for an eternity and a microsecond all at once. There was no judgment, no pearly gates, no fiery pits – just an awareness adrift in an ocean of non-being. He'd always been an atheist, a pragmatist. Death was the end. Full stop. This... this was unexpected.
And then, sensation returned, but not as he knew it. It was muffled, confusing. A feeling of immense pressure, then a sudden, shocking cold, a gasp of air that felt like fire in lungs he didn't know he possessed. Lights, blurry and overwhelming, assaulted eyes that struggled to focus. Sounds, garbled and booming, vibrated through him. He was… small. Helpless.
Panic, a sensation Marco hadn't truly felt since his first knife fight in the slums, threatened to consume him. He tried to roar, to command, to lash out, but all that emerged was a thin, reedy wail. What in the goddamn hell is happening?
His new world was a blur of giant faces, muffled voices, and the constant, frustrating inability to control his own limbs. Days, weeks, months – time became a meaningless concept, measured only in cycles of hunger, discomfort, and blessed, oblivious sleep. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his senses began to sharpen. The blurry giants resolved into distinct individuals. One, a woman with kind eyes and hair the color of spun gold, often held him, her voice a soft, soothing melody. Another, a man whose presence exuded an almost palpable aura of authority and sternness, would occasionally peer down at him, his gaze intense, searching.
Words began to form meaning. "Tywin." That was the stern man. "Joanna." The gentle woman. "Lannister." "Casterly Rock."
Marco, or whatever he was now, felt a jolt that was entirely separate from the infant body's twitches. Lannister? Casterly Rock? Tywin? No. It couldn't be. He'd been a massive Game of Thrones fan. Binged the show multiple times, devoured the books, spent hours on forums discussing theories and character motivations. It was his escape, his guilty pleasure, a world of brutal power plays so much more grandiose and fascinating than his own.
But the pieces fit with a horrifying, exhilarating click. The descriptions he'd read of Tywin Lannister – the stern demeanor, the aura of command, the piercing green eyes flecked with gold – matched the giant who sometimes held him with a surprising, if reserved, gentleness. The opulence he was beginning to perceive around him, the snippets of conversation about gold mines and fealty, the very name of their fortress…
He, Marco "The Shark" Scarlatti, ruthless mafia don and business savant, had been reincarnated. Not just anywhere, but into the heart of his favorite fictional universe. And not just as anyone, but seemingly as the son of Tywin Lannister.
The implications were staggering. He had knowledge. Immense, world-altering knowledge of events to come. Robert's Rebellion, the Greyjoy Uprising, the War of the Five Kings, the dragons, the White Walkers… A predatory grin, entirely out of place on an infant's face, stretched his tiny lips. This wasn't just a second chance; it was an opportunity on a scale he could never have imagined.
He also needed to ascertain his exact position. Was he Tyrion? No, Tywin seemed… proud, in his own grim way. Tyrion's birth was associated with Joanna's death, and the golden-haired woman, Joanna, was very much alive, her warmth a comforting presence in his new, bewildering existence. Jaime? Cersei? He was the firstborn, he gathered from the nurses' cooing and Tywin's pronouncements about his "heir."
The maester, a fussy old man named Vorian, declared him a healthy, if surprisingly alert, babe. They had named him. Not Jaime. Not Tyrion. His name, he learned, was Lyonel. Lyonel Lannister. Eldest son of Tywin and Joanna.
Lyonel. It had a strong, leonine ring to it. He approved. It was better than being saddled with a name whose fate was already written in his mind. He was a new player, an unknown variable.
As weeks turned into months, Lyonel focused on absorbing information and mastering his new, frustratingly weak body. He learned to control his cries, to observe, to listen. He watched Tywin interact with his household, his bannermen. The man was every bit the ruthless, efficient, and proud lord depicted in the books. Cold, yes, but also fiercely protective of his House's legacy. Joanna was his foil – warm, kind, and deeply loved by Tywin, a fact the Lord of Casterly Rock displayed not in flowery words, but in the subtle softening of his eyes when he looked at her, in the rare moments he allowed himself to be gentle with her and their son.
Then came the… anomaly.
It started subtly. He noticed that on bright, sunny days, he felt stronger, more energetic. His infant grip, usually pathetically weak, would become surprisingly firm. He healed from the occasional scratch or bump with unnatural speed if sunlight touched his skin. At first, he dismissed it. Wishful thinking, perhaps.
But the pattern persisted. Dark, overcast days left him feeling sluggish, almost listless, more akin to a normal baby. Bright, clear days, especially when the sun was high in the sky, filled him with a burgeoning vitality that was clearly beyond the norm.
One sweltering afternoon, around his first nameday, he was in the courtyard gardens with his mother. Joanna was seated on a stone bench, reading, while he, Lyonel, was placed on a thick blanket spread on the sun-drenched grass. He was attempting the monumental task of sitting up unaided. The sun beat down, hot and intense. Noon.
He felt it then – a surge. Not just energy, but power. A warm, invigorating fire coursed through his tiny veins. His muscles, usually soft and undeveloped, felt… dense, coiled. He pushed up, and instead of the usual wobbly failure, he sat bolt upright, his back straight, his head steady.
Joanna gasped, dropping her book. "Lyonel! Oh, my clever boy!" She beamed, her eyes shining with pride.
But it wasn't just that. A golden retriever, one of the Rock's hounds, had wandered over, sniffing curiously at a ball near him. Playfully, it nudged the heavy leather ball, about the size of Lyonel's torso, towards him. On instinct, driven by the strange, exhilarating power thrumming within him, Lyonel reached out, his chubby fingers closing around the ball. And then, he lifted it. Not just nudged it, or rolled it. He lifted it clear off the ground, holding it with one hand for a breathtaking moment before his infant coordination failed and he dropped it with a soft thud.
Joanna stared, her mouth agape. The hound whined, looking from the ball to the baby with confused eyes.
Lyonel himself was stunned. That ball was heavy. Far too heavy for any one-year-old. He looked at his chubby hand, then up at the blazing sun. A quote, unbidden, surfaced from the recesses of his memory, from a completely different fictional universe he'd also indulged in – an anime, The Seven Deadly Sins.
"My power, Sunshine, it peaks at noon."
Escanor. The Lion's Sin of Pride.
His mind raced, connecting the dots with the speed of a supercomputer. Reincarnation benefits? Was this it? The powers of Escanor? It seemed too fantastical, even for a world with dragons and ice zombies. Yet, the evidence was undeniable. The sun-fueled strength, the surge at noon…
His internal, adult mind felt a thrill that was almost terrifying in its intensity. Escanor's power was immense, god-like at its peak. Combined with his own ruthless intellect, his knowledge of the future, and the backing of House Lannister… the possibilities were limitless. He could reshape this world. He could ensure the survival and dominance of his new House on a scale Tywin could only dream of. He could crush his enemies before they even became enemies.
But with great power came great… scrutiny. And Escanor's power had a distinct, very visible characteristic when fully unleashed: his physical transformation. He couldn't exactly Hulk out into a seven-foot behemoth in the middle of Casterly Rock without raising some serious questions. Control. He needed absolute control. And secrecy, for now.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across his lavish nursery, he felt the power drain away, leaving him feeling like a normal, tired infant. The contrast was stark, a clear confirmation. He was weak, almost feeble in the darkness. The duality of Escanor's existence was now his.
Tywin entered the nursery, a rare unannounced visit. Joanna was there, recounting the day's miracle of him sitting up and, with some hesitation, the incident with the ball.
"He lifted it, Tywin. The large hound ball. Lifted it clean up. I swear it." Joanna's voice was filled with a mixture of awe and maternal pride.
Tywin looked down at Lyonel, who was now gurgling and appearing as harmless as any babe his age in the fading light. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. "A strong lad," he said, his voice neutral. "Good. The heir to Casterly Rock must be strong." He placed a large hand on Lyonel's head, a gesture that was surprisingly gentle. "Grow strong, Lyonel. Bring further glory to our name."
Lyonel met his father's gaze, a flicker of his old, calculating self deep within his infant eyes. Oh, I will, Father, he thought. More glory than you can possibly imagine. This Lion of Lannister will not just roar. He will burn with the power of the sun.
The next few years were a delicate balancing act. Lyonel, the child, grew. He learned to walk, to talk – his first word, much to Tywin's quiet satisfaction, was "Gold," though he'd meant it as a test, focusing on the sun-like color. His second, much to Joanna's amusement, was "Sun," spoken with an almost reverent awe as he pointed a chubby finger at the morning rays streaming through the window.
He was a prodigy, of course. With an adult mind and Marco Scarlatti's genius IQ, learning was effortless. He absorbed languages, numbers, histories, and courtly etiquette from his maesters and tutors at a terrifying pace. He was careful, though. Too much, too soon, would attract the wrong kind of attention. He played the part of a gifted child, exceptionally bright, but a child nonetheless.
His Escanor powers were his secret weapon, developing in tandem with his physical growth. He learned to feel the subtle ebb and flow of his strength with the sun's position. Mornings were a gradual awakening of power, peaking at noon into a truly formidable might for his young age, then slowly waning as dusk approached. Nights were his time of vulnerability, a humbling reminder of his strange gift's nature.
He practiced in secret. During sunlit afternoons in secluded parts of the Rock's vast gardens or his own chambers, he would test his limits. Lifting increasingly heavier stones, running faster than any child should, his senses sharpening to an incredible degree. He also learned to moderate it, to use only a fraction of his sun-blessed strength for everyday tasks, to avoid arousing suspicion. The image of Escanor, transforming from a scrawny bar owner at night to a veritable demigod of muscle and pride at day, was a constant reminder of the potential and the peril. He had no Rhitta, no divine axe, but he had his fists, his mind, and a growing understanding of how his power worked. It wasn't just raw strength; it was an indomitable vitality, a burning aura that, even when suppressed, lent him an undeniable presence.
His relationship with Tywin solidified. The Lord of Casterly Rock saw in his eldest son a reflection of his own ambition and intellect, magnified. Lyonel wasn't just smart; he was insightful. He didn't just learn; he questioned, analyzed, and often, in the guise of childish curiosity, offered observations that were unnervingly astute.
"Father," he asked once, around the age of four, while Tywin was reviewing ledgers from the Lannisport docks, "if we lend gold to other Houses, and they grow prosperous, do they not become stronger rivals?"
Tywin had paused, looking down at the small, golden-haired boy who sat unusually still, his green eyes, so like his own, fixed on him with an unnerving intensity. It was mid-morning, and Lyonel felt the comfortable warmth of his growing power, a subtle confidence flowing through him.
"Prosperity can breed complacency, Lyonel," Tywin explained, his voice devoid of condescension. "And a debtor is always beholden to his lender. Their strength serves our interests, as long as they remember who holds the purse strings. The Lion does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep, even wealthy ones."
Lyonel nodded slowly. "But what if the sheep grows fangs and thinks itself a wolf?"
Tywin's lips quirked in a rare, almost imperceptible smile. "Then the Lion reminds it what true fangs can do. And ensures its flock pays the price for such insolence." He was pleased. This was no ordinary child. This was an heir he could truly mold, one who understood the intricate dance of power and wealth.
Joanna remained his soft place, his sanctuary. Her unconditional love was a balm to the harsh pragmatism of his father and the lingering ruthlessness of his past life. She taught him kindness, empathy, the value of a gentle word – lessons Marco Scarlatti had rarely learned and often scorned, but which Lyonel now saw as potentially useful tools in a different kind of arsenal.
He watched his younger siblings, Cersei and Jaime, arrive. Twins. Beautiful, golden-haired, and already, even in their infancy, displaying the fierce, possessive bond he knew would define and doom them. Cersei, even as a babe, had a demanding streak, a nascent arrogance. Jaime was more carefree, but with a glint of recklessness. Lyonel observed them with a detached fascination, his meta-knowledge casting a long shadow over their innocent gurgles. He knew their paths, their tragedies. Could he change them? Should he?
He was six when the incident happened that truly tested his control and revealed a fraction of his potential to his father.
They were visiting Lannisport. Tywin was inspecting the fleet, Lyonel at his side, a miniature lordling in crimson and gold. Joanna was at the Rock, as Tyrion's birth was approaching, and the pregnancy was proving more difficult than her previous ones. This trip was Tywin's way of initiating Lyonel into the more public aspects of his lordship.
A scuffle broke out on the docks. Drunken sailors, a disputed debt, the usual squalor. One sailor, a hulking brute from the Iron Islands by his look, drew a rusty dirk, lunging at a Lannister guard. The guard stumbled back, caught off guard. Other guards were moving, but the Ironborn was fast, fueled by cheap ale and rage.
It was high noon. The sun blazed directly overhead, reflecting dazzlingly off the waters of the Sunset Sea. Lyonel felt the familiar, exhilarating surge of Escanor's peak power. To his sun-enhanced senses, the world slowed. He saw the trajectory of the dirk, the fear in the guard's eyes, his father's hand instinctively moving towards the sword he rarely wore in the city.
Before Marco Scarlatti's calculating mind could fully process the decision, the instinct honed by Escanor's prideful power took over. It wasn't a conscious thought of heroism; it was an affront. This scum, daring to spill Lannister blood in his presence, under his sun? Unacceptable.
He moved.
To the onlookers, it must have been a blur. One moment, the six-year-old heir was standing beside his Lord father. The next, he was a small, crimson streak. He didn't consciously think of how to move; his body, empowered by Sunshine, just knew. He shoulder-checked the Ironborn's leg with the force of a charging boar. It wasn't the full, unrestrained power of "The One," which would have atomized the man, but it was far, far more than any child – any normal man, even – could muster.
The Ironborn howled, his leg buckling with an audible crack as he crashed to the ground, the dirk skittering away. Lyonel stood over him, a small, golden-haired figure radiating an almost visible heat, his green eyes blazing with a fierce, righteous fury that was utterly terrifying on a child's face.
Silence. Then, chaos as the Gold Cloaks swarmed, subduing the rest of the brawlers.
Tywin Lannister had not moved, but his eyes were fixed on his son with an intensity that was almost frightening. He had seen. He had seen the unnatural speed, the impossible strength. He'd felt the sudden, inexplicable wave of heat radiating from Lyonel.
Later, in the privacy of their commandeered quarters in the city's finest inn, the Lord of Casterly Rock stared at his son. The sun was beginning to set, and Lyonel could feel his extraordinary power waning, the fiery confidence being replaced by a more familiar, albeit still potent, mental acuity. He looked, once more, like a normal, if exceptionally composed, six-year-old.
"Explain," Tywin commanded, his voice low and dangerous. It was not a request.
Lyonel met his father's gaze squarely. He had known this day would come, though he hadn't expected it so soon, or so publicly. He had prepared for it. Marco Scarlatti had always believed in contingency plans.
"I am strong, Father," Lyonel said, his voice clear and steady. "The sun… it makes me stronger." He chose his words carefully. Not the whole truth, not about Escanor or reincarnation – Tywin would have him locked up with the maesters as a lunatic. But enough to explain the undeniable.
"Stronger?" Tywin's lip curled. "You shattered that man's leg with a child's tackle, Lyonel. You moved faster than my own Kingsguard. That is beyond 'stronger.' What are you?"
Lyonel took a breath. This was the precipice. "I am your son, Father. A Lannister. Perhaps the gods have seen fit to bless our House with a champion unlike any seen before." He played the 'divine blessing' card, appealing to Tywin's immense pride and ambition for his House. "At noon, when the sun is highest, I am at my peak. As it sets, my… gift… wanes."
Tywin was silent for a long time, his gaze unwavering. Lyonel could almost hear the gears turning in that formidable mind, weighing the implications, the opportunities, the risks. A son with such power… a controllable asset, or a dangerous anomaly?
Finally, Tywin spoke. "This 'gift,' as you call it. How strong, precisely?"
"I don't know the limits, Father," Lyonel admitted truthfully. "It grows as I grow. Today was… instinctive. An insult to our House was about to occur. I reacted." He framed it in terms Tywin would understand: honor, retaliation, the projection of Lannister dominance.
"Can you control it?"
"I am learning. I will master it." Lyonel's voice resonated with a confidence that was pure Escanor, even as the sun's power faded within him. This was his own pride now, Marco Scarlatti's iron will merging with the Lion's Sin.
Tywin nodded slowly. "You will speak of this to no one. Not your mother, not your siblings when they are old enough, not your maesters. No one. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"We will find ways to test this… gift. To hone it. Discreetly." Tywin's eyes gleamed with a new, calculating light. "A lion with such claws and teeth, hidden until the moment to strike… that is a weapon of unimaginable value."
Lyonel felt a surge of triumph, not the fiery heat of Sunshine, but the cold, satisfying click of a plan falling into place. He hadn't just been accepted; he was now a secret, prized weapon in Tywin Lannister's arsenal. His father didn't understand the true scale of his power, not yet. He likely thought it was some kind of freakish, magnified strength. He had no concept of the magical, almost divine nature of Sunshine at its zenith.
That night, as Lyonel lay in his bed, the last vestiges of the sun's power gone, leaving him feeling utterly ordinary in strength but extraordinarily alert in mind, he smiled into the darkness.
His journey in Westeros had truly begun. He was Lyonel Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, secretly empowered by a legendary sin. He had the mind of a criminal mastermind, the knowledge of a future scholar, and the burgeoning power of the sun itself.
The game of thrones was about to get a new player, one who would not merely play, but dominate. And as Marco Scarlatti, he knew one thing above all else: in any game of power, you either dominate, or you die. He had no intention of dying again.
He thought of the coming years. His training, both mundane and magical. The birth of Tyrion, and Joanna's fate – could he intervene? Could he save her? The thought sent a pang through him. Joanna's genuine affection was a warmth he hadn't realized he'd craved. Yes. He would try. For her, and for the stability she brought to Tywin.
Then there were the wars to come. The Targaryen dynasty was crumbling. Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark, Jon Arryn… they were all young men now, their destinies still largely unwritten in the grand tapestry, though he knew the major threads. He could pull those threads, redirect them, or sever them entirely.
A ruthless, predatory smile, so reminiscent of Marco "The Shark" Scarlatti, touched Lyonel Lannister's lips.
Let them come, he thought. Let them all come. This time, the Lion will not just roar. He will burn so brightly that all of Westeros will either kneel or be reduced to ash.
The first chapter of his new, epic life had closed. The pages of the next were waiting to be written in fire and gold.