JAIME
The footsteps on the cold stone felt light and familiar to this seven-year-old body, but to the soul within, each step was heavy and calculated. Steven— Jaime , he had to keep correcting himself, the name was his shield now—walked away from the balcony, his back straight, his pace steady, a facade of calm he hoped was convincing. Inside, his heart hammered with the last vestiges of adrenaline from the confrontation. It wasn't a debate, he knew that. It was a performance. An audition. And he felt, with a nauseating sense of relief, that he had passed.
He hadn't wanted to sound like a prodigy. Gods know, being a smug wunderkind was a quick way to make enemies, even within your own family. But he wasn't dealing with just anyone. He was dealing with Tywin Lannister. A man who valued strength, intelligence, and ruthlessness above all else. A man who viewed weakness and sentiment with the same contempt he held for a cockroach in his kitchens. To approach such a man with a heartfelt plea about "helping the people" would have been as effective as trying to put out a hellfire with spit.
So, he played the game, as he had been for two months. He took the truth—his genuine desire to create a stable and just society—and wrapped it in the language Tywin would understand and respect. He spoke of "systems," "assets," and "investments." He turned compassion into pragmatism. He turned people into sheep.
The word "sheep" left a bitter taste in his mouth. In his old life, as Steven Evans, primary school teacher, he had dedicated himself to those sheep. He had seen the potential in every child's eyes, no matter how poor or neglected. He had fought underfunded school boards, apathetic parents, and a broken system just to give them a chance, a sliver of education that could be their way out. He had often failed. He had often gone home to his empty apartment, tired to the bone, feeling like he was holding back the tide with his bare hands. He had the will, but he had no power.
Now… now he had the potential for unimaginable power. The power to rule the entire western region of Westeros. The power to change the lives of millions. And to earn that power, he had to convince the lion at the top of the mountain that he, too, was a lion, not a sheep in disguise. He had to make his father proud, not because he craved the cold man's love, but because Tywin's pride was the key that would unlock the door to responsibility. Tywin's trust was the currency he needed to fund his quiet revolution.
The halls of Casterly Rock felt different now. For the past two months, since he had woken up in this child's bed to a scream of agony that was not his own, he had walked through them in a daze. He had woken up into grief. There was no memory of Joanna Lannister in his mind, only a painful void where a mother should have been. He had inherited the sorrow of a seven-year-old boy with none of the memories to go with it. He saw her portrait, a beautiful woman with the same green eyes as his, and he felt a strange, detached sense of loss, like reading about a tragic character in a book. He mourned the idea of a mother, while the small body he inhabited trembled with real, visceral grief.
The halls carved from living rock, the tapestries depicting golden lions tearing their prey apart, the glint of gold everywhere—it had all felt like a fantastical, terrifying fever dream. He was a thirty-year-old man trapped in a boy's body, grieving for a lost life and a mother he never knew, all while trying to understand the rules of this brutal, feudal world.
Now, the grandeur looked different. It was no longer just a backdrop. It was an arsenal. Every golden goblet on a table was a reminder of the wealth that could fund a school. Every armored knight he passed was an enforcer of the law who could protect a farmer from a brigand. The castle itself, this impregnable fortress, was the seat of power he could wield for good or for ill. It was an immense responsibility, a weight that felt far too heavy for his small shoulders.
He passed a pair of servants sweeping the stone floors, their heads bowed as he went by. The original Jaime would likely not have noticed them at all. But Steven did. He noticed their calloused hands, the weariness in their posture, the way they avoided his gaze as if he were a sun too bright to look upon. They were part of the "machine" he had described to his father. The unseen cogs that kept the world of lords turning. And they were illiterate. Their children would grow up to be illiterate, too, inheriting a life of service with no hope of advancement.
A memory surfaced, sharp and clear from last week. His uncle, Kevan, had taken him down to Lannisport to inspect some warehouse supplies. The air had been thick with the smell of salt, fish, and a thousand people living in close quarters. It was then he had seen her: a little girl, no older than his own body, with matted hair and bare feet, her huge, hungry eyes fixed on a baker's stall.
Without thinking, Steven had reacted. He had reached into his pouch—a still-unfamiliar gesture—and pulled out a silver stag. It was a fortune for a commoner. He had walked over to the girl and pressed the coin into her grimy hand. For a moment, she had just stared at it, then up at him in total confusion, as if a statue had just spoken to her. Then, she had run, clutching the coin as if it were the entire world.
He had felt a swell of pride in himself then. A simple act of kindness. But as he walked back to his uncle, he had truly seen . In every alley, in every doorway, there were more. Dozens. Hundreds. Thin faces and desperate eyes. His silver had helped one girl for one day. But it had changed nothing. It was a bandage on a gaping wound. He couldn't change the world with silver stags. He could only change it with power. With laws. With grain in the granaries and schools in the villages. That was when the seed of his plan had hardened into certainty. That was when he realized that to be Steven Evans, the teacher, he first had to become Jaime Lannister, the lord.
He reached the base of the Maester's Tower, a cylindrical structure that rose high into the heart of the mountain itself. This was where the castle's knowledge was kept, where a thousand years of history was written on fragile scrolls. To him, it was the most important place in all of Casterly Rock. It was his armory.
He climbed the spiral stairs, his step lighter now. The conversation with his father had been a necessary political maneuver. This, his lesson with Maester Creylen, was the real work. This was intelligence gathering.
The door to the Maester's study was old oak, reinforced with iron. He paused before it for a moment, steadying his breath. He was no longer Jaime the heir, being tested by his father. He was now Jaime the student, hungry for knowledge. He knocked three times, a sharp, polite rap.
The door creaked open. Maester Creylen stood there, a stooped figure in a loose grey robe. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes, behind the maester's chain that hung from his neck, were clear and sharp. The room behind him smelled of old parchment, dust, and drying herbs—the smell of knowledge itself.
"Ah, young Lord Jaime," Creylen said, a kindly smile touching his lips. "Come in, come in. I was just setting out some texts for you. The history of House Westerling, as you requested."
"Thank you, Maester," Jaime said, slipping back into character. He stepped into the room. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with scrolls and leather-bound tomes. A large Myrish telescope was aimed out one of the windows, and a great worktable in the center of the room was cluttered with maps, astrolabes, and glass vials of colored liquids. It was a paradise for a man who had once taught science.
"My father and I were just speaking," Jaime said as he took the seat that had been prepared for him. "We were discussing the management of the lands."
Creylen's eyes twinkled with interest. "Oh? A most vital topic for a future lord. Far more important than the genealogies of the Andal kings, though that has its place too."
"Indeed," Jaime agreed. "And it set me to thinking. I have been reading of taxes and mine yields, but I realize there is so much I do not know. I don't want to just know the history of lords, Maester. I want to know the history of the smallfolk."
The Maester stroked his wispy beard, his gaze growing sharper. "An unusual field of study for a boy your age. Most of that history is unwritten."
"Then we must begin to write it," Jaime said with a seriousness that made the old man pause. "How much grain do the Westerlands produce in a good year? How much do we need to feed everyone through a long winter? How many children were born in Lannisport last year, and how many of them will learn to read?"
The questions poured out of him, the ones that had been burning in his mind for weeks. The questions of a teacher, a planner, a man who saw society not as a pyramid of power, but as a fragile ecosystem.
"How many septries do we have outside of Casterly Rock? Are the sons of merchants and craftsmen taught their sums? If not, how can they trade fairly? How can they innovate?"
Maester Creylen was staring at him, utterly captivated now. Jaime knew this went beyond the curiosity of a bright child. These were the questions of a statesman.
"My lord," Creylen said softly, "those are very profound questions. The answer to most of them is… 'not enough' or 'none'."
"I know," Jaime said. "And that is what I want to change. But I cannot change anything without facts. I need data. I want you to teach me, Maester. Not just about Aegon the Conqueror. Teach me about crop rotation. Teach me about the sewer systems of the old cities. Teach me about the laws and economy of Braavos. Teach me how to build something that lasts."
He leaned forward, his green eyes flashing with the same intensity he had shown his father, but this time it was driven by passion, not calculation. "My father rebuilt the strength of House Lannister with fear and gold. I will build upon that foundation. I will build our strength with knowledge and prosperity. A strength that will not crumble when the gold runs out or when the fear fades."
For a long time, Maester Creylen just looked at him. The silence in the room was charged with potential, with the weight of history and the promise of the future. Then, the old man smiled, the first genuine smile Jaime had seen since he arrived in this world.
"Then," the Maester said, his voice filled with a new energy, "let us begin your lesson, Lord Jaime. We have a great deal of work to do."
As Maester Creylen turned to retrieve a thick tome on agriculture from a high shelf, Jaime leaned back in his chair. The exhaustion from his performance for his father was fading, replaced by a quiet wave of purpose. The road ahead of him was long and fraught with peril. He would have to navigate his father's ambition, his sister's jealousy, and the deadly politics of the Seven Kingdoms. He would have to wear the mask of the proud lion, perhaps for years, hiding the true soul within.
But here, in this sanctuary of knowledge, he could be a little more himself. Here, he could begin to gather the bricks and mortar for the better world he wanted to build. It would not be easy. It would not happen overnight. But for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cold, grieving world, Steven Evans felt a flicker of hope. He was ready for his lesson.