Tycen Lannister

I came into the world gasping, my chest lurching as air flooded lungs that felt too small, too fragile. It was a brutal shock—cold and jagged, like inhaling a storm. My eyes flickered open to a haze of dim light seeping through thick crimson curtains fringed with golden thread. Shadows shifted across smooth stone walls, and above me hung a canopy of rich red fabric, stitched with a snarling lion that stared down with fierce, unblinking eyes.

My body ached, not with any strain I could name, but with a raw, newborn tenderness that left me reeling. I tried to move, to sit up and figure out where I was, but my limbs flailed weakly, useless, and a thin, trembling wail slipped out before I could stop it.

Voices hummed around me, soft and tense, piercing the fog in my head. A woman's voice came first, warm but rough with exhaustion. "He's strong, my lord. Look at him—already fighting to be heard." It tugged at something in me, though I didn't know why.

"Another son," came the reply, sharp and deliberate, each word heavy with a weight I couldn't place. That voice—cold, commanding—stirred a flicker of recognition I couldn't pin down.

Hands lifted me then, gentle but firm, and I was pressed against a warm chest. A scent washed over me: lavender and a faint sweetness, tangled with the metallic bite of blood still thick in the air. "Tycen," the woman murmured, her voice a soft lifeline in the chaos. "Tycen Lannister. You'll carry our name higher than the Rock itself."

Her golden hair brushed my face, cool and silky, and through the blur of my infant eyes, I saw her smile—worn but radiant. The name, Tycen, didn't mean anything to me yet—just a sound, a tag for this strange, helpless shell I'd become.

The room sharpened as the moments stretched on. The walls were smooth sandstone, warmed by a hearth crackling in the corner, its flames casting a faint glow over the stone. Midwives bustled around, their skirts whispering against thick rugs—crimson and gold, a pattern that echoed everywhere. A stout woman with gray hair tied back in a tight bun adjusted the furs on the bed, her movements brisk. "A fine boy, my lady," she said, her voice gruff but kind. "Healthy, too. Those lungs'll wake the whole keep."

The man with the cold voice stepped closer, his shadow stretching long and dark over us. I couldn't see him clearly—just a tall smear in dark clothes—but his presence pressed down like a weight I couldn't shake. "See to them," he said, his tone flat, and then he was gone, the door slamming shut with a thud that echoed through the stone.

Those first days were a blur of noise and sensation, my mind clawing for something to hold onto. I didn't know where I was—not at first. The life before this slipped away, leaving only vague traces: a hum I couldn't name, a glow I couldn't place. I had no stories, no context—just this new, bewildering reality.

The wet nurses took over soon, their hands rougher than the woman's—my mother's, I assumed. They muttered as they fed me, their voices a mix of coos and grumbles. "He don't cry much," one said, a thin woman with a sharp nose and a grip that pinched. "Just stares, like he's judging us."

I couldn't help it. My eyes—green, they'd tell me later—followed her every move, drawn to a world I didn't understand. I didn't cry because I didn't know what to mourn. I just watched, trying to make sense of it all.

The nursery was my new prison, a small chamber carved into stone. The walls were pale and smooth, broken by tall, narrow windows that let in the wild roar of the sea—endless and restless, crashing against cliffs far below. Tapestries hung heavy around me, woven with golden lions hunting stags or standing proud on jagged peaks, their threads glinting in the candlelight. My crib was dark wood, its sides carved with claws and curling tails, and I spent hours staring at the patterns, my tiny hands grasping at air.

My mother came when she could, her visits a bright thread in the endless days. She'd sit by the hearth, a shawl of soft fur over her shoulders, and hum songs about waves and stars, her voice wrapping me in warmth. Sometimes she'd carry me to the window, the salty wind stinging my face, and I'd blink out at the gray sea, the horizon a faint smear I couldn't reach. "This is yours, Tycen," she'd whisper. "The Rock, the sea, the name. You're the first." The words felt heavy, but I didn't know why.

Months dragged on, and my body grew—slowly, maddeningly. By six months, I could lift my head, peering around with eyes that saw more each day. Sharp-Nose started taking me to the great hall, cradling me as the household moved around us.

It was massive—its ceiling a vault of thick beams, chandeliers dripping wax onto the stone floor. Banners hung everywhere—crimson with golden lions, snapping in the drafts from high windows. I watched the servants scurry, heard the clink of goblets and that cold voice giving orders, saw the gleam of gold on the table where he sat. I didn't know who he was—just a man who ruled this place.

I couldn't speak yet, my tongue too clumsy, but I listened. The stewards grumbled about crops, the guards bragged about drills, the maids giggled over my mother's beauty and flinched at that man's temper. It was a world I didn't recognize—alive, strange, and pulling me in.

Then it hit me—one quiet afternoon, lying in my crib, staring at the lion tapestry above. The pieces clicked together like a lock snapping shut.

The crimson and gold, the Rock, the name Lannister. That cold voice—Tywin. My mother—Joanna. I froze, my tiny heart pounding as the realization crashed over me.

I'd been reborn. Not just anywhere, but into Game of Thrones—the story I'd watched, devoured, in a life I could suddenly remember. A cluttered room, a flickering screen, hours spent lost in a tale of ice and fire. I'd died—how or when, I didn't know—and now I was here, Tycen Lannister, the firstborn son of a house I knew too well.

Shock ripped through me, sharp and dizzying. I wanted to scream, to laugh, to claw my way out of this crib and demand answers, but my body wouldn't obey. I was trapped, a man's mind in a babe's flesh, staring at a future I'd seen play out—dragons, betrayals, a throne soaked in blood. How had this happened? Why me?

My breath hitched, a tiny whimper escaping, and Sharp-Nose glanced over, frowning. "What's got you now?" she muttered, but I barely heard her. My world had shifted, and I was still reeling.

One evening, near the end of my first year, my mother came to the nursery alone. The fire was low, its embers painting her face in faint orange as she lifted me from the crib. She looked different—her cheeks fuller, her eyes brighter, though a tiredness lingered beneath.

She settled into a chair, holding me close, and I felt the steady beat of her heart against my ear.

"Tycen," she said, her voice soft, almost a secret, "you're going to be a brother soon."

Her hand rested on her stomach, just starting to round, and she smiled down at me, gentle and worn. "Two of them, the midwives think. Growing strong already."

I stared up at her, my infant face still, my mind spinning. Cersei and Jaime.

The twins were coming, and with them, the game I'd watched would start to unfold