Winter Is Coming

Imp

"Cersei!" The girl's voice echoed around the barren halls of Casterly Rock. "Cersei, come on!"

The young girl sighed at the impatient knock on her door, haughtily tossing her thick golden hair as she turned towards the sound.

"I told you to wait," she snapped, chucking the deep red dress she'd been folding onto her bed and marching to the door. She flung it open with a dramatic flourish, revealing a dark-haired girl outside. Both looked to be about fifteen.

"I've waited long enough," the dark-haired girl told her.

Cersei rolled her eyes. "Let's go," she said.

The two hurried away from the room, leaving the door open, and ran down the corridor. Turning the corner, Cersei came to an abrupt halt. Sitting on the floor with their legs crossed, playing with what looked like wooden soldiers, were two boys, one Cersei's age, the other much younger. The younger one looked strangely stunted. Cersei's face seemed to fill with fury. She marched up to the boys.

"Sister," the older one greeted her, looking up with a smile. "Come to join us?"

She folded her arms and glared down at him. "What are you doing with him?" she snapped, jerking her head at the younger one, who looked down, his face filled with shame.

"I'm being brotherly," the older boy replied. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yes," Cersei hissed. "It is when it's with Tyrion. He's a cripple. A grotesque."

Tyrion seemed to shrink further into himself.

"Cersei, don't," the older brother pleaded.

"It's all right, Jaime," Tyrion told him. His voice was heavy with resignation and defeat. "I don't mind."

"I mind," Jaime replied, holding Tyrion's gaze. The boy looked at him in surprise and gratitude.

But Cersei's rage was only fuelled by it. "How can you defend him," she demanded, "the monster who tore apart our mother?"

"I didn't," Tyrion cried. "How could I have meant to kill our mother? I didn't ask to be born like this; I..."

Cersei slapped him. Hard. He uttered no cry, only letting the force of it turn his head.

"I will not hear it," Cersei hissed.

She raised her hand to slap him again, but Jaime stood in a heartbeat and wrapped his hand around her wrist, bringing her up short.

"Enough," he told her, holding her gaze. "What's he ever done to you?"

"What's he done? He..."

"Fighting again, children?"

The deep, commanding voice so effectively cut off the children's argument that they all seemed to back away from each other, their heads hanging. Down the corridor towards them strode a golden-haired man dressed in red-and-gold armour, a sword hanging at his side. He carried himself like a king. The Lord of Casterly Rock was followed by no guards. He did not need them. He came to a halt in front of his children, gazing down on them sternly.

"Well?"

"No, father," Jaime said, meeting Tywin Lannister's gaze. "No fighting."

"Good." Tywin almost spat the word. "We must stand together if we are to establish our dynasty."

"Yes, father," Jaime agreed.

Cersei lifted her chin. "We're the only ones that matter," she said proudly. "The only ones that count."

"Be careful with that," Tywin replied. "There are plenty of others that matter. We may need them. You should not dismiss them."

"But we will always be better than them," Cersei persisted, with the tiniest of glances at Tyrion on the word them.

"I hope so," Tywin answered. "I hope you do not let me down. I have already been cursed with too much shame."

He, too, glanced at Tyrion. The boy did not meet his father's gaze, his head down and shoulders tight. He had learned to speak as little as possible in his father's presence.

Cersei laughed. "Little imp," she chided. Tyrion swallowed.

"Enough," Tywin barked. "We do not mock our own. He might be the lowest Lannister, but he's one of us."

His daughter scowled and was silent, but her words echoed in Tyrion's head. Imp. Monster. Grotesque.

That was what he was. What he'd always been and always would be.

It would probably have been better for the world if he had died with his mother.