Casterly Rock.
The seat of House Lannister, heart of the Westerlands, stood proudly atop its rocky promontory. It was the largest, wealthiest, and best-defended fortress in all the Seven Kingdoms. Even the fabled Dragonflame of the Targaryens had been powerless against its impregnable walls.
For over a thousand years, the Lannisters had ruled this land, ever since their cunning ancestor, "Cunning" Lann, wrested the castle from House Casterly. Generation after generation, the lion's legacy had grown—its gold and its armies rivaling even the might of the crown itself.
Tywin Lannister, the current Warden of the West, embodied the perfection of his house: regal in appearance, calculating in mind, and unmatched in authority. It was said that few in Westeros could match his wisdom or his strategic acumen. His deft handling of the War of the Usurper had left the Lannisters the richest and most powerful house after Robert's rebellion, almost without effort.
"Knock, knock, knock~"
The rapid tapping of the door interrupted Tywin's meticulous attention to family affairs. Since Joanna's death, he had spent nearly ten hours a day in his study, pouring over ledgers, correspondence, and maps, leaving little room for distraction. His diligence had transformed Casterly Rock into an unassailable fortress of wealth, influence, and military might, quietly outshining even the royal family in subtle ways.
"Come in," Tywin called without looking up, his pen still poised above parchment. The tone alone, calm yet commanding, marked him as a king among men.
The door opened, and Kevan Lannister, Tywin's younger brother and loyal deputy, stepped forward, a note clutched tightly in his hand. His usual calm demeanor was fractured, replaced by a rare unease.
"Tywin, you need to see this immediately," Kevan said, urgency tinting his voice.
Tywin took the note without a word, his eyes scanning the words with methodical precision. The room seemed to pause around them, the air thick with silent tension. When he finally lowered the parchment, his golden eyes gleamed sharply, as if calculating possibilities invisible to others.
"Kevan," he said at last, voice low and deliberate, "what do you think of this?"
Kevan's response was immediate and measured. "It is reckless."
The two men shared a moment of quiet understanding. Both were lions in temperament: cunning, precise, and unyielding. Conversation between them required no preamble; every word carried weight.
Tywin nodded slowly, almost as if in agreement with himself. "Yes… too reckless. The nature of a lion is to command, not to charge blindly into battle. Yet this young man… he is clever. He would not act without reason, unless… unless he is certain of his path."
A glint of resolve sharpened in Tywin's eyes. "Kevan! Take the finest knights of our house and ride to King's Landing immediately. The Lannister opportunity has arrived!"
Tywin strode to the window, the morning sun striking his golden lion crest, illuminating it in brilliant radiance. His gaze extended toward the distant city, where a young lion in the making was about to shape the fate of the realm.
Across the Narrow Sea, in the bustling Free City of Pentos, a very different scene unfolded.
A young girl, only thirteen years of age, stood naked before her older brother, Viserys Targaryen. Her natural beauty had already blossomed beyond her years, the silver-gold sheen of her hair catching the sunlight streaming through the windows, her violet eyes glinting with innocence and unspoken power.
"Daenerys, my sister," Viserys purred, greed and hunger in his gaze. Every curve of her body seemed to him not a sibling to protect, but a bargaining chip—an asset to win armies, to claim power, to seize the Iron Throne.
"Tomorrow, Khal Drogo, the leader of the most powerful Dothraki khalasar, will arrive," he hissed. "If you can gain his favor, he will lend me the strength of a hundred thousand warriors. All you need is his approval… even if it costs you to endure the entirety of his horde, one after another. You must… bear it."
His words were venomous, cruel, and devoid of any familial love. Daenerys trembled slightly, lips quivering, but she did not respond. She had long grown used to Viserys's tyranny; resistance seemed almost instinctive, yet the fear was never absent.
"Viserys!"
A voice like wind over steel cut through the tension. Both turned toward the doorway, where a young girl, nearly identical to Daenerys in appearance, stepped forward. Her violet eyes blazed with fury, and she held a longsword at her side, the weapon gleaming even in the dim light of the room.
"You dare threaten my sister?" she demanded, stepping closer with measured steps. Her presence radiated authority and danger, despite her youth.
Viserys, initially filled with arrogance, froze. A flicker of fear passed over his eyes, though he quickly masked it with a sneer. "What do you know? After ten years of wandering, of exile… don't you want to return to Westeros? To claim your birthright?"
The girl advanced steadily, her aura commanding and unwavering. She exuded the presence of a warrior born and tempered by hardship.
"I am the only true dragon," Viserys spat, "and since you refuse to aid me, I will trade Daenerys for my army. A hundred thousand troops… a kingdom in exchange for her! Are you not tempted?"
"Viserys," the girl said, her voice sharp as a blade, "you are a wretch, a bug that preys on the weak and innocent. Even the rats in the sewers are nobler than you. I will not let you desecrate her in the pursuit of your throne!"
A faint, shimmering blue orb of energy materialized in her palm, humming with latent power. Without hesitation, it shot forward, striking Viserys squarely. The force sent him crashing across the room, blood spilling from his mouth as he collided with the wall.
Viserys coughed, struggling to rise, fury and disbelief etched upon his face. "What… is this?"
"This is your consequence," the girl whispered, eyes cold and unwavering. "Filthy means will not serve you, Viserys Targaryen."
Exhaustion began to show in her posture. Arcane magic, even for a skilled practitioner, demanded incredible focus, and she had expended much of her reserves. Slowly, she sank to the floor, taking a moment to recover.
Daenerys, ever concerned for those who protected her, rushed to her side. She ignored her own vulnerability and gently helped the girl to her feet. The two women—strikingly similar, nearly mirrors of each other—stood close, their bond undeniable. Any who saw them would surely be captivated by the sight.
"I'll be fine after a short rest," the girl assured, brushing away Daenerys's worry. "Today, I acted to protect you. Tomorrow, I will stay by your side, no one will take you from me again."
Daenerys's violet eyes shone with gratitude and newfound resolve. "I am ready to marry Khal Drogo," she declared, determination firm in her voice.
The girl's gaze softened, a mixture of admiration and slight disbelief crossing her features. "You… are stronger than I realized. All these years, I have protected you, and now… you are ready to act for yourself."
A sense of purpose filled the room. Daenerys, once timid and compliant, now radiated confidence. Her resolve to reclaim her birthright and forge her path was unshakable.
The girl, born alongside Daenerys and bound by fate, picked up her longsword. She turned toward the door, leaving a silhouette of poise and quiet power behind her. "Once, I was forced to make decisions I regretted. No longer. Your path is yours to walk, Dany. I will respect your choice."
Daenerys watched her departure with a mixture of awe and resolve. "When next we meet," the girl promised, "I will return, fleet of a thousand ships in tow. Westeros will tremble at the mention of our names: Daenerys Targaryen… and Jianna Targaryen."