A Lion in the Dance (ASOIAF OC/Slight Gamer Crossover)

Prologue: Character Creation

"So... I'm dead," I stated. Somehow, that thought did not terrify me as much as it should have. For the afterlife, this place did not seem all too bad. Sure, it was not particularly bright, but it wasn't pitch dark or filled with fire and tortured screams like the hells certain religions believed in... Did I believe in those hells? I couldn't quite remember. Weird... Anyway, the place seemed to be nothing but grey mist that seemed to go on forever, what light there was conveying that it was either shortly after dawn or shortly before dusk. It was...

"A limbo of sorts, isn't it?" someone announced candidly, causing me to blink in surprise as I turned to face an elderly man, half-moon spectacles gleaming in the twilight. I groaned.

"Albus Dumbledore? Really?" I asked in slight exasperation. The Being-Who-Appeared-To-Be-A-Merlin-Expy laughed.

"I just recently started appearing in this form. It makes the sort of things I have to say a tad easier to accept... At least, until Book 5 came out. Then, souls such as yourself began to suspect my motives!"

He looked mildly offended. I snorted.

"Maybe you should start going with a new form. Or an old one," I pointed out. The being shook his head.

"I just got this one. I'm not changing so soon. Do you know how hard it is to fit an infinite amount of cosmic power into a form small enough for you mortals to comprehend? I'd have to go months without working on projects like yourself. Months!"

"Projects like myself... What is that? Just who am I? I know I was human and I was on earth then I died and then..."

"Well, that is quite natural, my boy. It's all a part of the reincarnation process. As you perceptively pointed out, you are dead. What you are just now starting to realize is that this is, as I said, a sort of limbo. A place between what you and your kind refer to as the Otherworld, Afterlife, Heaven, Hell, Yomi, Hel, Valhalla, Hades, Mictlan, etcetra, etcetra, and the mortal worlds. You are now undergoing what has invariably been called reincarnation, Samsara, reincarnation, rebirth, or what I like to call "Character Creation" or "Character Reroll." Any questions?"

"Yeah.... You make it sound like a sort of roleplaying game," I pointed out.

"It is more like the next phase of your spiritual journey, but I find tabletop roleplaying terms to be more useful. If you like, think of me as the Gamemaster, yourself as the player, and this phase as your Character Creation or Character Reroll since you just finished playing your previous character in a less than stellar manner, I might add. You see, you died from:

A. An unfortunate incident where you ate a tainted meal from Taco Bell. It collapsed your insides in a most amazing fashion. They named the new disease after you! (Poison Resistance Trait Gained)

B. You fought most valiantly in an altercation at your local Walmart. You were shopping for groceries, but, unbeknownst to you, it was Black Friday. You stood against the hordes of desperate shoppers until one shoved you to the ground from behind and bludgeoned you to death with a Rollback sign. Unfortunately, Bob, the Maintenance Associate, forgot to repair the cameras that day so your assailant got off scot free. (Bonus to Combat)

C. You embarrassed a rather short-tempered man quite thoroughly in a bar one night when drunk. Unfortunately, he murdered you on the way to your car. (Bonus to Charisma)

D. Your dog ran into a busy street and you raced after him. You saved your most important friend in the world, but the car splattered your brains everywhere. (Bonus to Smallfolk Interaction)

"I died in a Walmart... Yeah. I remember that. That... Is a sad statement about my life."

"Oh, don't feel too bad," the Gamemaster comforted, "There's really no such thing as a dignified way to die and, besides, your life wasn't meaningless, you were..."

A. Quite the athlete. True, you died before you managed to even get a shot at going pro, but you were in the top 10% of athletes in your high school. Not everyone can say that (Bonus to Fitness)

B. You were the weatherman on a local news station. True, you never made it into the top 1% of journalists that appeared on Fox, CNN, MSNBC, etc., but you were a local celebrity in your small town. It helped with the local female population, I'll give you that. (Bonus to Charisma)

C. You were a lifelong academic. College had never ceased to be your home. Sure, it was just at a community college and you never got full hours as a professor, but that was a small price to pay to cling onto your late teens/early twenties. (Bonus to Intelligence)

D. You were a mechanic. You spent your days fixing cars that people were too stupid to take care of in the first place, but you comforted yourself with the knowledge that it was a well-paying job for someone who could not afford to goto school as an engineer (Bonus to Technological Knowledge)

"A weatherman... I wish I had predicted what would happen at Walmart," I sighed. The Gamemaster nodded in understanding, "It happens. We all have our weaknesses. Speaking of weaknesses, you were..."

A. Never an athlete. The sun burned you and you preferred to exercise as little possible. (Penalty to General Fitness)

B. You were a paranoid loon. Everyone was out to get you. It wreaked havoc on your social life (Paranoid Trait Gained)

C. You were not the most perceptive person around you. A great deal of things took you by surprise both in sports and in life (Penalty to Perception)

D. You had difficulty reading. You got over it, but not without a lot of effort from private tutors and screeching from your mother (Dyslexic Trait Gained)

"Don't remind me. It took me forever to get over that... Wait. Will I have that again?!" I asked. The Gamemaster grinned slightly.

"We are re-rolling your character. Usually, that means you can make such tweaks, but given the abysmal amount of experience you accumulated since your last respawn, there is little you can do to change your stats and traits."

"What?" I asked, dumbfounded. The Entity-That-Definitely-Wasn't-Albus-Dumbledore waved a hand.

"...Fuck you dude," I said after a while. Again, the Gamemaster looked mildly offended.

"Now, see here, I am being imminently fair to you. Seeing as you had just fallen in love with Lord of the Rings again, I was going to give you the chance to incarnate into Arda, but now, well... You will have to be happy playing through Westeros. How do you feel about that, tough guy?"

"You said this was part of my spiritual evolution. Now you seem like a Gamemaster whose ego was just bruised."

"Peaceful eras eliminated," he said smugly. I resisted the urge to groan. Shit... My life was in the hands of an egomaniac of a Gamemaster. Maybe it was best I shut up for now (+1 Wisdom Gained).

"Now, you have five eras to choose from: Aegon's Conquest, the Reign of Maegor the Usurper, the Dance of Dragons, the First Blackfyre Rebellion, or Robert's Rebellion. You will have to choose a life born within Westeros. Unfortunately, Essos and Yi Ti are not playable regions at the start of your new life. Now, what will it be?"

Shit... I had to choose which era of Westeros I had to live in. Maegor's era was instantly out. His reign sounded like an epoch of random cruelty and bloodshed, even by George R.R. Martin's standards. I did not feel like I was a big enough fan to know how to ward off the trainwreck that was canon if I chose to be born during Robert's Rebellion and the same could be said of the First Blackfyre Rebellion. I thought for a moment. I was familiar with the Dance of Dragons. Enough that I felt confident that I could minimize it (if I was in the right House) or avoid losing my head. Aegon's Conquest sounded like something I could survive unless I was unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of Aegon's dragons, but even if that was the case, when did Maegor become king?

"I'll take my chances with the Dance."

"Interesting choice. Truthfully, I was hoping for another Blackfyre player, but, there's always the next death. Now, on to business. Which House would you like be incarnated in?"

"I could choose any House... Any at all?" I asked tentatively. The Gamemaster nodded.

"Any house you know of... except Targaryen. There are too many Targaryen playthroughs in that era."

Well, shit. I didn't know too many houses off the top of my head beside the Lords Paramount and House Hightower. If I remembered correctly, only the Starks and Martells got out of it unscathed, but I did not really want to spend my day in the freezing north considering that the Stark during the Dance took people down to fight in the war specifically so they could die. As for Dorne....

Fuck the Dornish.

"I choose House Lannister."

"Then you have two options:

Jason Lannister

The Heir (+1 Fitness, +1 Charisma,)

Tyland Lannister

The Spare (+1 Perception, +1 Intelligence/Cunning)"

I thought for a moment. Being Tyland would give me more freedom and would allow me overcome my dyslexic handicap faster, but being the heir of Casterly Rock seemed appealing... Plus, in these games, it was best to play to your stat strengths, right?

"Call me Jason, then."

"Alright Jason, call me Al... And don't expect me to let you exploit the Gamer system too much and, remember, if you trip during a dance, be sure not to break your neck!"


A/N. I generally feel uncomfortable playing SIs, so I decided to try out a unique way of crafting an OC without it becoming me accidentally. For all multiple choice options selected from above, I used a dice app to make the selection: Roll a Die . There will be some Gamer features here, but not to the extent that it becomes a huge exploit like in certain fics. Thanks for taking the time to read this.

 

"Jason..."

I shifted in my sleep, murmuring a little.

"Jason, come on. Wake up," a child's voice told me impatiently. This time, it was accompanied by a shaking of my shoulder. I swatted at it.

"'Tired. Go away, Tyland," I ordered. I heard a sigh.

"Lord Jason, tell me. Have you memorized the Citadel's account of Aegon's Conquest already?" a rather dry voice asked as the child next to me shoved me awake. I yawned blearily, eyeing first the old man and then the child who had been my brother for the past eleven years of life. I smiled winningly in the old man's direction as I sat myself up properly.

"Well, I don't know if I have it quite memorized, Maester Jarad, but I think I rather got the basics down. Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros with dragons, burned everyone who didn't submit, and won himself Seven Kingdoms... Well, six, but we're not supposed to mention Dorne in the capital, right?"

The child next to me slapped a face that looked to be a mirror image of my own even as a balding, elderly man sighed at my description. Yawning, I propped up my face with my elbow and smiled at him again.

“My apologies. I assure you, I was merely tired from studying your lessons late last night with Tyland. The letters were getting jumbled up again,” I explained smoothly, shooting said twin a grateful look which, with a slight roll of his eyes, he accepted even as Maester Jarad grunted.*

“Understandable, but your lord father charged me with the education of both his children. Tell me, Lord Jason. Who was your ancestor during the conquest and what was his role?”

Tyland shifted in his seat, his eyes brightening in excitement and I could not help but shoot a grin at him.

“Well, personally, I like to think that King Loren I Lannister was approached first by Visenya Targaryen for terms. One thing led to another, and scandalous adultery took place right here in these walls, culminating in a heartbroken Targaryen promising him Fire and Blood….”

Tyland tried to stifle a laugh as I continued.

“Loren, brave chap that he was, joined with Mern Gardener the… I don’t know how many of his name he was, and their armies clashed with Aegon the Conqueror’s in a field somewhere in the Reach. All three dragons took off as we were winning, and, yada yada yada, Loren became Warden of the West after kneeling and, Mern… I think he was dinner for Balerion the Black Dread.”*

“Riveting. I will be sure to send a Raven to the Citadel telling them of your discoveries. Why, I may even send one to King’s Landing,” the maester said dryly even as my brother could not take it anymore and burst out laughing.

“Well, if I’m dragon food, I’m sure my father will toss you off a balcony,” I shot back. Maester Jarad sighed.

“Sweet Mother above, what did I do to become saddled with impetuous children?”

“You left the Citadel?” Tyland asked helpfully. The maester shot him a look, but turned to me.

“Do tell me, Jason, what was the day and year that the Field of Fire occurred?”

Oh, crap.

***

“That was brutal,” Tyland noted as we made our way to the practice yard. Said practice yard was five hundred feet above the ground and build into a side of a huge fucking mountain, but that was Casterly Rock for you. I had explored and played in this place for eleven years and it was still abysmally huge. George RR Martin really suffered from a scale problem, I reflected.

“I know,” I answered my brother with a groan, “Making me the list the dates of who did what and where for all of Aegon the fucking Conqueror’s reign and then maths through lunch.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Good for you.”

“You provoked him.”

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tell father you were sleeping during lessons again.”

“I already knew most stuff.” I grumbled like the eleven-year-old I physically was. If there was one thing I hated, it was straight memorization of dates and pure arithmetic. If it was related to something real such as how many apples this or that farmer would have after taxation or the quartermaster’s old records Maester Jarad brough out, I could understand it much better. I suppressed a sigh. That dyslexic penalty Al saddled me with was as bad as it was in my old life. Numbers and letters contorted themselves in my head, and my old reading tricks weren’t much help. Intellectually, I knew how to use them, but I had to relearn each of them one at a time. I was sure that old Albus Dumbeldore lookalike took great delight in watching me struggle and ask for help from my much younger (in total years lived) brother.

The tell-tale sounds of clashing metal and pained grunts brightened my mood considerably.

“The Seven Hells are you doing, Jace! Your enemy is on the ground. Keep your sword at the bloody bastard’s throat. This isn’t some feel good tourney!” a middle aged man shouted at a young teenager who, from the looks of him, stepped back from a grounded opponent. Jerkily, he moved forward to do as instructed. The master-at-arms sighed as he spotted us as we moved through a crowd of young squires watching the fight.

“The dregs I put up with… Jace, Donnel. Take a breather, while I see to your future lords. The rest of you lot, find a partner and knock some learning into him. Hans, you’re green as a Septa, but better than the rest. Make sure they don’t kill each other,” he ordered as he turned to us. Tyland nodded his head in greeting.

“You’re as cheerful as ever, Ser Bryce,” he noted wryly.

“He means that you haven’t throttled someone to death yet, Uncle,” I noted with a smirk. Ser Bryce towered over us in full armor as always, a crimson lion adorning his breastplate. He grunted at me.

“Not for lack of cause, I assure you. Tyland, you’re good enough now to take opponent’s a year older. Jason, fight who you will. I will see to you both once you have the blood pumping. You know how it’s done: choose your weapons, find a good place on the field, and remember blunt weapons can still crack a skull.”

Our uncle didn’t beat around the bush, I mused as I went to the armory carved into Rock and pulled on a gambeson, helm, grieves, and leather gloves. It wasn’t plate, but even if I was going into real battle, it was damned good protection. Contrary to popular belief, gambesons weren’t shit tier armor. They were thick and heavy enough to protect against blunt trauma, swords, arrows, etc. It was perfect for sparring matches and preparing you for wearing goddamn plate in the future.

I grinned as I selected an arming sword and buckler while my brother chose the same sword with a kite shield. This felt a lot better than struggling with numbers in a musty room. Of course, learning was important, arguably more important if I wanted to improve my family’s position or make any number of changes I wanted to make, but in the end, this was Westeros. I needed to be able to fight and perhaps it was the fact that I made sure my stats reflected that or because Jason in canon was a gallant warrior, but it felt right as soon as I stepped into the practice field.

My first opponent was Daven Westford, a gangly young man two or three years my senior. I grinned winningly until I forgot my face was hidden beneath my helm. I raised my sword arm in greeting.

“Let’s have a good match, Daven,” I announced cheerfully.

“Aye, milord,” he replied, drawing his longsword and holding it in both hands. I felt adrenaline empty itself into my veins. Daven had gotten the better of me last time, but I knew the weakness of a hand and half longword like his.

With a mutual nod from one another, we began the match. We circled one another for half a minute, he trying to get me in wage of his long blade and me staying just out of reach as I adjusted my footing.

He moved forward with an overhead strike and I stepped aside from the blow, stepping backward as he pulled back his sword and delivered a quick slash. Dodging was the name of the game right now. My eyes followed his footwork as he exerted himself, waiting for the right opportunity.

There, he took too big a stride with his long legs. He was lunging forward. I grinned and ran forward as he aimed an overhead strike at me. I lifted my buckler forward to deflect (not block) his blade over my head and held my point of my sword at his throat.*

“Do you yield?”

“Aye, milord,” he replied, “Gods, how did you…”

“Just a matter of getting through your guard,” I told him cheerfully. Most novices tried to stay out of reach when it came to swords like his, but that was folly. Sooner or later, you’d get sliced. The key was to get close enough so that the reach didn’t matter. My arm throbbed from deflecting his blow, but it didn’t matter. Already I was moving to my next opponent…
****

I grunted as I fell on my back, my face practically bathed in sweat. Before me, an older boy about four summers my senior, shifted nervously. In Westeros, shithole it was, you never knew what the consequences were for beating the crap out of your liege lord’s son, even if you weren’t supposed to pull any punches.*

“That was a good feint, milord… I think you’d have gotten me if you rested a little?” he asked uncertainly. I barked a laugh as I pushed myself off. That didn’t matter. Spamming my matches and getting my ass kicked only made me more skilled, a little exploit that I wish applied more elsewhere. Of course, if I did break my arm or something, that meant my skill atrophied, a little balance mechanic that I think Al added on to check said exploit.

“Forget it, I’ll beat you later. Count on it, ser,” I told him, pulling off my helm to let myself cool down for a moment even as the courtyard seemed to freeze for a second. I looked up to find a ball of energetic scarlet gold hair and scarlet clothing practically glomp me.

“You lost Jason,” a little girl accused. I smiled down at her and ruffled her hair, drawing a whine from her as I stood us both up.

“I’d like to see you try, Cira,” I smirked down at her, earning an excited look from her even as my brother groaned at me from where he stood watching us.

“Brother, don’t give our mother a heart attack. Please,” he requested. I laughed.

“Maybe I should tell her it was your idea. I think I have you to thank for pointing her in the direction of my ignoble loss.”

“Why would you think that? You wound me, Jason.”

“Step over here and that won’t be all I wound,” I jested.

“Tyland could beat you Jason,” our sister put in, making me fall down in mock horror.

“Your words… They hurt. I shall never recover…”I groaned, earning a giggle from her that turned into a sheepish gulp as the telltale heavy footsteps of Uncle Bryce made itself known. I looked up to find him standing by a mustached man garbed in silk and satin, his keen eyes looking us over. He shook his head.

“I too should like to see my sons try their skills against each other, Cira… Yet, I feel your mother and Septa Aida will have a word with you for skipping your lessons,” he informed her. I winced in sympathy. I didn’t know who was worse. Talking to either of them would mean an hour’s lecture and 42 minutes of prayer, a seven minute prayer to each of the Seven save the Stranger. I saw my expression mirrored in Tyland’s face. We exchanged a glance for a moment before he spoke.

“As long as she is here, can she watch Jason and I?” he asked. I nodded my head in agreement as we faced our father.

“She is Cira Lannister, the only daughter of Lord Tymond and Lady Estella Lannister. The purest maiden in all of Westeros. She should become accustomed to knights fighting for her honor.”*

“Jason, you really are full of horseshit. Fighting for her honor,” Uncle Bryce muttered, but he quieted down as our father raised a hand.

“He has a good point, Bryce. Your sister may dislike it, but my son makes a good point, Won’t you prepare the match? And you, uh, squire,” he paused, addressing my previous opponent, “Please fetch a servant. A couple chairs and a goblet of wine and fruit juice for myself and my daughter would make this afternoon a paradise.”

I smiled slightly as Tymond and I prepared. Tymond Lannister did not have a Tytos button like dear, I-hope-I-butterfly-him-away, Tywin Lannister, but he had a sore spot about our family being honored/outshone by others such as Matthos Tyrell. I spotted the resigned look on my brother’s face after he finished gulping down a flagon of water.* I gripped his shoulder. A silent promise.

When we returned, we found a much wider space available for us as the rest of the squires finally tired of playing at ignoring what was going on to watch us. My brother stiffened a little, but I gripped his arm and dragged us over to Cira, beaming as though her punishment was in some far-off future.

“Won’t you honor one of us with token of your affection, milady?” I asked grandly. She looked confused, but my father smiled.

“Give your ribbon to the one you’d have win, little one,” he ordered. She smiled brightly and grabbed a ribbon from her hair, letting it run freely. She pressed it into my brother’s hand.

“I choose Tyland,” she announced brightly, sticking her tongue over at me. I could not help but smile at her antics.

God, Al, Seven, whoever is listening… Please let this teach her to expect honor from whoever my father saddles her with one day… Let Father not put his pride before her then.

It was a foolish prayer, a false hope given Westeros, but…

My brother and I faced one another, our stances mirroring one another as we moved around the clearing.

I don’t remember her from canon, but she is six right now.

My moved to strike at my brother and he deflected with his shield as he knew he would. I pulled back to dodge the strike I knew was coming.

I cannot let her be hurt by her own husband or worse… Taken by the Ironborn.

I looked at my brother and instead I imagined a man full grown, hooded, blinded, gelded. A victim of the Dance. A Dance that I needed to avert or keep my family safe from. I was tempted to press my attack, but father was here.

“Almost Tyland. Come at me like I’m an Ironborn,” I ordered, as he made a few strikes at me, his footwork stumbling. I knew he was trying not to glance at father. I groaned in frustration. Damn it, Tyland.

I stayed my hand for a good couple minutes until I couldn’t take it anymore. I unleashed a barrage of strikes at him, and he was stuck on the defensive. I knew this would happen. It happened whenever father watched us.

There are worse things, Tyland. You were mutilated. You were broken. And the Jason in that timeline was dead and could not help you!

I at last had him on the ground with my blade at my throat.

“I yield,” he groaned and I offered him my hand. I could hear the rest of the squires cheering as I helped him up.

“You did good, Tyland,” Cira said helpfully.

“Yes, Tyland. An honorable defeat, to be sure. Just imitate your brother and you’ll be great in no time,” our father announced. His smile here seemed reserved for me, however.

“Just like I imitate him in Maester Jarad’s lessons, Father.” I reminded him and he seemed to take my hint, at least a little.

“Yes. That is true. You are both old enough. Tomorrow you will both sit at my side while I hold court. It is time you learn what it is to be my heir,” he announced. I suppressed a sigh. Again, he was paying more attention to me. Still, we both nodded.

“Of course father.”
I needed to build Tyland up. And I had an idea on just how I was going to do that.

A/N. I apologize for the long wait. The virus has my work busy and chaotic right now. At the moment, I am debating on whether to use stat checks throughout the story and put it at the end of the chapter as I did below or if I just want the stats to simply be shown to have an impact on the story (e.g. what happens when wisdom is your dump stat), so I'm putting up a poll to help me decide on it. Up next, there will be a little explanation on how Jason improves his skills, more character development, and Jason enlisting his brother's aid in one or two things.

Spoiler: Character Profile

Name: Jason Lannister

Age: 11

Stats

Fitness: 11

Vitality: 9

Charisma: 10

Perception: 5

Intelligence/Cunning: 9

Wisdom: 2

Authority: 3

Traits:

A Noble Death: +2 to Fitness when in combat; rate of experience gained in combat increased by .5% until level 10 in Fitness.

A Silver Tongue: +1 to Charisma

The Heir (+1 Fitness, +1 Charisma)

Dyslexic: -1 to Intelligence/Cunning when reading. Experience gained by reading decreased by .5% until base level 10 in Intelligence/Cunning.

Spoiler: Stat Checks

• Talking to Maester Jarad- Persuasion Success
• Talking to Maester Jarad 2- Persuasion Fail
• Duel with Daven- Fitness/Combat Success
• Duel with various other squires- Success, Success, Fail
• Duel with Tyland Lannister- Success
• Talking to Tymond Lannister- Persuasion Success
• Noticing Tyland’s Mood- Perception Success

 

Father liked Jason best. Maybe he loved them equally as Maester Jarad told him again and again, but even if that was true, Jason was still the favorite. Jason, who could outfight squires three years their senior. Jason, who could talk his way out of Mother's praying sessions with the right twist of scripture. Jason, who yammered on about this idea or that. Ideas that made Maester Jarard scoff, but really made a bit of sense if Tyland thought about it. The only thing Tyland had over his elder brother was letters and numbers. Not that father cared, he thought sourly. He focused on the book he was reading, trying to get the look on his father's face from earlier out of his head. Gods, why did he freeze like...

"Dragons, Wyrms, and... Wravens?" a familiar voice asked. Tyland suppressed a huff in irritation.

"It's Wyverns. A smaller dragon. More vicious. It's supposed to live in Sothoryos and eat most of the people who live there.

"Awesome..." Jason whispered in awe, Tyland nodding in agreement. He had long gotten used to his brother's weird phrases. A reader he was not, but the way he took to playing with words like a born minstrel.

"But how do you know they eat most people?" He asked.

"Because Septon Barth wrote it in a book. He was the Old King's best friend, so he would know."

"How would he know?"

"Because the Targaryens have dragons. So they'd know about creatures like dragons."

"What if they were wrong?"

"Why would they be wrong?" he asked, quickly getting annoyed. He didn't feel like playing this right now. He turned to face his brother directly and for the first time, noticed that he was wearing clothes far plainer than they were expected to wear. He raised an eyebrow, "Brother... What are you planning?"

"To answer your first question, you never know if a writer is wrong. He could be biased. His sources could be wrong. Any number of things could cause him to be wrong. The prudent man confirms these things to be true. Take this wisdom from your much older, experienced elder brother," he mock lectured, striking a noble pose. Despite himself, Tyland felt his lips twitch.

"Jason, I know this may be hard to hear, but you are exactly one minute older than me and you have barely left the Rock in your life."

"I'm so glad that you have pointed this out, brother. The answer to your second question is that I plan to remedy said lack of outside of experience, therein making me said much more experienced elder brother. Tyland, it is time we have a grand adventure. To Lannisport, we go!" He announced grandly. He looked at Jason skeptically.

"Do Mother and Father know about this?"

"No, which is why we must move with utmost haste and secrecy, lest we are confined to the Sept like poor, sweet Cria is this evening."

"Jason... We can't walk all the way to Lannisport and be back."

"Who said anything about walking?”

***

"Jason... This is a terrible idea," he announced for the hundredth time. He had repeated it over and over again since he first told him his plan, and he repeated it even as his brother through a passage behind the Lion's Mouth and saw for himself what his brother had been telling him about on the long lock down: a secret dock on the far side of the main port behind the Lion's Mouth with room for but one vessel and what a vessel it was. His eyes were drawn to the boat before him: a small boat in the style of a cog, large enough for two people or an adult and two children. Tyland's objections died on his mouth as he stepped forward to handle the triangular sail, an innovation he quite approved of.

"It's just like the boat Maester Jarard and Uncle Bryce have been showing us how to sail. And people only go here once a month to make sure it's serviceable. Just incase the Rock somehow falls and we have to flee. There are others hidden around the back of the Lion’s Mouth, but I've only found this one..."

"We have never sailed on our own," he objected weakly. Jason grinned at him.

"Come on, Tyland... She's been cooped up her for ages, waiting for a big, strong captain to put her through her paces..."*

"You make her sound like a whore," Tyland grumbled as Jason stepped in behind him. His eyes drifted over to a couple of barrels stashed in the center of the boat, but he chose to say nothing. Instead, he allowed his hand to drift over the wood of the boat. Very fine craftmanship…

"My apologies. She is a fine lady."

"Jason," he said weakly as his older brother untied it. His brother grinned at him.

"You know more about boats than I do. You are the captain of this mighty vessel. What shall we name it?"

Slowly, he allowed himself to smile, “The Loreon. Let’s call her The Loreon. Now, untie us and take the ores while I take the rudder. We have a sea voyage to make.”

“Aye, aye, mi capitan,” Jason laughed, as he set about doing what he told him. Tyland shook his head. Where his brother picked up Dornish, he’d never know. His twin was weird at times. Still, he smiled as they quickly, made their way out from under Casterly Rock. For the first time in a while, he was grateful for his brother’s absurd strength as they made quick time from his brother’s rolling and then his angling of the sail according to Tyland’s specific instructions.

He felt the sea breeze at their back and he breathed in deeply. He didn’t know how to describe it but being at sea felt right. It was one of the few things he was good at outside Maester Jarad’s lessons and even their uncle praised him when he took them out to sea. Yet, it was more than that. When he was on a boat, he dreamed of sailing to Old Town, to King’s Landing, even to the Free Cities of Essos and beyond. If this was what Jason felt when they sparred, then it was no wonder he spent nearly every free moment in the training yard.

He gazed in wonder at the crystal blue waters and the gleaming towers of Lannisport fast approaching them in the late afternoon sun. The city was so different from the Rock. True, the Rock was a city unto itself, but at times, it was readily apparent that they lived in a mountain at the edge of the sea. Lannisport… It was so much more alive. As they approached, he could see dozens upon dozens of men at work at the docks, some of whom looked to be from outside Westeros. There were thousands more in other parts of the city, going about their in a way so different from the regimented lives of the smallfolk who served Casterly Rock.

Jason grinned winningly at him as they docked. Tyland, meanwhile, felt his heart race as a well-dressed man flanked by two men in armor approached them. The dockmaster? He asked himself.

“It is late in the day for a new boat to arrive,” he noted, his eyes going from the boys, to the boat, to the parchment he held in his hand.

“Late in the day, milord, but not unheard of. Why, last week, I saw someone dock in town at sunset and we have hours of daylight left today,”* Jason replied easily before Tyland could so much as think of a word to say, his mind still on the sea and the city and new smells that began to assault his senses (earth with a hint of woodsmoke).

“Be that as it may, boy. I will note it is a bit unusual, but the docking fee remains the same: a groat for the right to dock your boat till dusk,” he announced smugly. Jason’s face fell and he glared at the man with such petulance that even Tyland could have been fooled if he did not know that such an amount was a pittance for a Lannister.

“A groat! Our father said it was a half-groat for the full day, you old cheat!”

Tyland glanced at his brother in surprise, but the man before them gave him a small grin.

“It is late and I am making an exception only because a spot is still open.”

“There are several spots open,” Jason grounded out, “We’re just here for one thing.”

“Your coin purse is full,” came the reply. Jason groaned.

“Our father is sick! We came here from a village down south and have been sailing since midday. We got money for medicine and the docking fee. Nothing else.” *

Tyland caught his brother’s eye. Really, Jason loved his theatrics, but did he really have to…

“What about the barrels?” The dockmaster asked. Jason shrugged and opened one of them, revealing a nasty stench. Tyland resisted the urge to gag.

“Pickled fish, milord. We were going to sell them real quick incase we didn’t have enough in our coinpurse.”

“Okay then. I will tell you what, my boy. I will dismiss you boys’ payment of two groats each for one of those barrels of fish.” He informed him. This time, Tyland answered him.

“Four groats? That is four times what you said you were going to charge us!”

“That was before I saw your merchandise. You are not from Lannisport and you are bringing goods in to sell. That makes you merchants and subject to additional duties as decreed by Lord Cyril Lannister. Take if up with him, if you are unhappy.”

“I’d rather take it up with you,” Jason growled, stepping onto the dock before a voice boomed.

“Shaking down two kids, Roland? That is scummy, even for you,” a large man announced. His skin appeared to be made of leather, like many a man who made their living upon the Sunset Sea, and his beard and hair were unkempt. Still, his voice was measured as he spoke.

“Leo, you know I am performing my duties,” he announced, stepping behind his guards. The man grunted.

“And enriching yourself at the same bloody time.” He eyed the man contemptuously. He eyed Jason, who still had his fists clenched. He shook his head.

“I’ll pay ten groats for both. Enough to cover any medicine your father would need,” he told them, presenting the coins to Jason. This time, there was no mistaking the look of surprise on his brother’s face.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jason began, but the man shook his head.

“By the Mother, I want to. ‘Sides, I know a fisherman who hasn’t caught anything in a week. He’ll repay me in a few days time once he sells ‘em. Just pay the toad and help me load these, will ya?”

Still with a look of surprise on Jason’s face (and most his too, most likely), they did as he said, Jason shooting one last glare as they followed the man.

“We could’ve paid him in the end, you know,” Jason muttered, still half-playing his role of an angry fisherman’s welp. The man laughed.

“Aye, I’m sure you could, but he was cheating you and were gonna get acquainted with the Watch. Also, I doubt you know who to sell fish to and who to buy medicine from. Name’s Leo. Master Shipbuilder. By the skin of my teeth and the grace of the Smith thanks to the Shipbuilder’s Guild, but there I am.”

Tyland turned to him, his eyes, wide, “You build boats?”

Jason laughed, “Oh, Tommen’s going to have so many questions for you. I’m Joffrey by the way. This is Tommen. We… Haven’t visited Lannisport before.”

“Then what I said was true. You’d have been cheated of your coin and returned to your village with weeds. Heard it all by the way. You are a loud bumpkin, no mistake. But, yes, Tommen. I build boats. Have a couple journeyman under me and a smattering of apprentices. Time’s have been tough, truthfully so I’ve been repairing mostly. Now, come on. I know a Tommen myself. He’d be happy to take the fish off my hands and will be good on payment later. Also, I know of a good apothecary...”

Jason eyed him half-suspiciously, but he went along with Leo’s suggestion. For his part, Tyland could not contain his excitement. His eyes rolled over the dozens upon dozens of stone buildings as they went about securing medicine for their “father” and he couldn’t help but ask Leo questions.

“Do you know all the styles?”

“A lot of them. Westermen, Reach, Northern, even Dornish and Iron Isles. Got a smattering of knowledge of Essosi ships too.”

“What kind of ships do you build?”

“All kinds. Mostly, replacements for boats like yours and merchant ships. Good quality, that one. Your father is lucky. Now, there is Tommen. He’ll be delighted, I tell you. Poor sod’s been land-bound for a week. Damaged boat, you see….”

***

It really was an adventure. After Leo sold the fish, he had led them to an apothecary as they said and Jason had insisted on them all grabbing a drink before leaving the dock. Leo knew a lot about Lannisport and ships and Tyland was just fascinated, particularly by the Essosi designs he spoke about. They sounded so much better than what they had now, and Tyland could not help but wonder why they weren’t creating new designs in Westeros.

The whole trip had been exciting. But it had also been concerning. Corruption had taken root in every aspect of the city’s governance. He had focused on learning everything he could about boats and ships since he didn’t know when he’d get the chance again, but Jason had focused on learning everything he could about how Lannisport worked and he didn’t stop himself from voicing his opinion.

“Lad,” Leo had told him at one point, “You have a fierce heart. Fierce as the Warrior. But you can’t go righting every problem with a hot head and a raised fist.”

“So, you’d do nothing?” Jason had asked. The shipbuilder shook his head.

“I do things. Small things that add up. Like bailing out a couple of children I saw at the docks one evening.”

Still, Jason seemed happy with their little adventure if the smirk he shot his way was any indication.

“What did I tell you? I had it all planned out.”

“Including almost getting in a fight with the City Watch, brother?” he asked sarcastically as he guided the sail this time. Jason laughed.

“It was a fun act. I didn’t know I was that good act until now.”

“And that was it? Just some fun. What if Leo hadn’t calmed everything down? What then?”

“Tyland, Tyland. I was going to pay the man in anycase. A few groats, a barrel of fish. That is nothing to a Lannister.”

“Obviously… So, why the theatrics? It was stupid.”

“Was not… I wanted to experience things like one of the smallfolk. Really put myself in their shoes. We’re going to be ruling the whole Westerlands one day, especially the land around Casterly Rock. I learned a lot today.”

“Cousin Cyril cares more about visiting whores than running his city,” Tyland noted. Jason grunted.

“Tariffs, docking fees, high taxes strangling trade and development. Corruption in every petty official. Lords and trade guilds who care for nothing but enriching themselves.. Lannisport is still great, Tyland…”

“Jason…” He began, already seeing the gears in his brother’s mind turn.

“But it can be so much more! We have the gold. We have people who know these things. Like Leo. Like Maesters from the Citadel. And we have the opportunity. Tomorrow, Tyland!”

Was it the light of the sunset behind him or did Jason look so much older than his years?

“We can make this land shine like Valyria under the Archons.”*

Tyland said nothing for a moment, taking in his brother’s words and imagining ships and goods from the whole world filling the half-empty docks they had visited just a few hours ago. He said nothing for a moment.

“What’s the plan?”

A/N Truthfully, I had only planned on Tyland’s POV only being a small part of this chapter, but he kind of took over. Next will be Lord Tymond Lannister holding court with his sons at his side. This is unbetad, so pointing out spelling or grammar mistakes is appreciated.

Spoiler: Character Profile

Name: Jason Lannister

Age: 11

Stats

Fitness: 11

Vitality: 9

Charisma: 11

Perception: 5

Intelligence/Cunning: 10

Wisdom: 2

Authority: 3

Traits:

A Noble Death: +2 to Fitness when in combat; rate of experience gained in combat increased by .5% until level 10 in Fitness.

A Silver Tongue: +1 to Charisma

The Heir (+1 Fitness, +1 Charisma)

Dyslexic: -1 to Intelligence/Cunning when reading. Experience gained by reading decreased by .5% until base level 10 in Intelligence/Cunning.

Spoiler: Stat Checks

Convincing Tyland to take the boat out with him- Persuasion Success

Acting out their cover story- Persuasion Success

Asking for Tymond’s help the next day- Persuasion Success