Casterly Rock, often referred to as "the Rock," stood as an architectural marvel, three times the height of the towering Hightower in Oldtown and even surpassing the colossal Wall guarding the northern realms. Its dominating presence extended not only in height but in the reach of its panoramic vistas. On the rarest of perfect days, when the gods themselves seemed to smile upon the western coast, one could stand within the fortress and gaze clear across the vast expanse of the Sunset Sea, where endless horizons met the endless skies.

This formidable fortress, the ancestral seat of House Lannister, was perched precariously on a rocky promontory that jutted defiantly into the waters of the Sunset Sea. From this commanding position, Casterly Rock had an unrivaled view of the bustling city of Lannisport below, which thrived under the shadow of its might.

Beneath the impervious stone walls and formidable fortifications of Casterly Rock lay a hidden treasure that fueled the boundless wealth of House Lannister. A sprawling goldmine, nestled deep within the heart of the Rock itself, yielded untold riches. It was, without question, one of the most productive and valuable mines in the entire realm, serving as the lifeblood of House Lannister's prosperity.

Casterly Rock's history, like the inexorable tides of the Sunset Sea, stretched back through the annals of time. It was the ancient seat of House Casterly, the progenitors of House Lannister, and over countless generations, the Lannisters had fortified and expanded their ancestral home into the grand citadel it had become.

Within the Rock's labyrinthine corridors and opulent chambers, tales of the house's illustrious history were woven into intricate tapestries that adorned the walls. The color scheme, rich in shades of crimson and gold, symbolized not only the family's wealth but their indomitable spirit and unyielding ambition.

Casterly Rock, with its soaring towers and formidable battlements, remained an enduring symbol of House Lannister's power, influence, and unyielding dominance in the realm. It guarded their secrets, witnessed their schemes, and cast its long shadow over the Sunset Sea, a silent sentinel of the Lannister legacy...

.

.

.

Tywin Lannister pov:

.

Tywin Lannister, the formidable Lord of Casterly Rock, sat in his grand chamber, his imposing presence accentuated by the opulence of his surroundings.

Before him, a roaring fireplace cast flickering shadows across the room, its flames dancing and crackling with an almost palpable intensity. The fire's warmth bathed the lord in a subtle, ruddy glow, contrasting starkly with the deep frown etched upon his face.

Tywin's countenance was a mask of stern determination, his sharp blue eyes reflecting the weight of his responsibilities and the ceaseless burdens of ruling one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms. His graying hair was meticulously combed, and his attire was impeccable.

His strong jaw was set, and his fingers, adorned with rings of great value, were steepled beneath his chin as he contemplated the intricate web of politics, alliances, and rivalries that defined the world of Westeros. The furrowed lines on his forehead bore witness to the ceaseless calculations and strategic maneuvers that occupied his thoughts.

In the presence of the Lord of Casterly Rock, silence was as heavy as a winter's cloak, and the chamber seemed to hold its breath, as if anticipating the weighty decisions that would undoubtedly flow from his brooding mind. Tywin Lannister was a man who ruled with an iron will, and in the solitude of his chamber, he was a formidable force of ambition, authority, and unyielding resolve.

"The world...has gone mad..." He whispered softly , still staring into the fireplace.

"First , Jon Arryn dies under suspicious circumstances" He uttered the words with a weary, world-worn voice.

"This is still quite a normal occurrence , knowing the pit of snakes that King's Landing is...But then 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗱𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺𝘀𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲𝘀 saw fit to punish the one guilty, throwing the whole realm into a religious frevor..." He continued , trying to forget the shock such news caused him when he first heard them.

"And then , as if to mock us all , the King himself kicks the bucket... because of "natural" causes..."

With a sudden surge of energy that defied his advanced age, Tywin sprang up from his chair, sending it crashing to the floor.

"And so , the "Blessed Prince" himself ascends to the throne, and his first act is 𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗥𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢 𝗔 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗘" He bellowed , uncaring that half the castle could hear him.

Tywin stared into the flickering flames, a turbulent storm of anger, confusion, and a subtle undercurrent of fear swirling in his eyes. He held this intense gaze for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. He then retrieved the fallen chair and settled back into it. His fingers pressed against his temples, massaging away the growing headache, as he contemplated the complex and uncertain future that lay ahead.

"The second thing he does is proclaiming that bastard of mine as his Hand...but that's irelevant in the grand scheme of things."

'With a bit of luck , the dwarf will end up like Arryn...' Tywin though ruthlessly , but then his thoughts started drifting....towards that 𝗹𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿.

The one he had thrown in the very fireplace he was staring at right now after reading it.

The one that gave him chills every time he remembered it's contents.

Those words...he couldn't wrap his head around them no matter how much he pondered. All his speculations seemed off , lacking too much information to be credible...

That letter...was the reason he hadn't left his room in more than ten hours , not bothering to eat anything and barely drinking water.

He couldn't understand....

Why would the "Blessed King" send him such a letter.

Why now of all times? Sure , Stannis was rallying his army in the Stormlands, but compared to Joffrey, he was nothing but a bug...

'What kind of game is he playing...' Tywin wondered for what felt like the thousandth time, feeling his fists clenching once again , his nails threatening to break the skin of his palms once more , just like it did many times ever since he had gotten that letter.

"I don't understand the crux of the matter...but what I know...is that the young king...𝗺𝘆 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻....wants to use me as a pawn..." Tywin spoke softly , his chest steadily falling and rising , trying to control the overwhelming rage that threatened to consume his reason.

Because he clearly remembered the contents of that letter...those simple words that shattered any doubt he might have had that his grandson was much more than he appeared to be...

And those words were...

-"Stand on my side for five years...and the realm shall be yours to rule, Tywin Lannister.

Signed : Joffrey Baratheon"-

.

.

.

.

-------------

.

The Tower of the Hand, a prominent structure in King's Landing, stands as a symbol of authority and influence. Perched at the summit of Aegon's High Hill, it overlooks the sprawling city below. This tower is where the Hand of the King conducts the majority of the realm's affairs.

The position of the Hand of the King has a rich and storied history. It is often considered the second most powerful role in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to the monarch. The Hand serves as the king's closest advisor, managing the day-to-day governance of the realm, enacting policies, overseeing the Small Council, and acting as regent when the monarch is too young or indisposed.

The Tower of the Hand itself is an imposing structure, built with dark stone and fortified against any potential threats. It is home to many chambers and offices where the Hand can meet with lords, conduct state matters, and make important decisions on behalf of the crown.

Over the centuries, several notable Hands have occupied this tower. From Tywin Lannister to Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark, each has left their mark on the tower and the realm itself. Yet, despite its grandeur and history, the Tower of the Hand has also witnessed its share of political intrigue, betrayals, and secrets.

.

.

.

Tyrion Lannister Pov:

.

Tyrion sat on a plush chair, his gaze fixed on the large, canopied bed beside him. Two sleeping ladies lay there, remnants of the previous night's indulgence. He watched them with a deep frown etching his features, his mind preoccupied with thoughts that weighed heavily on him. Troubling questions and concerns swirled in his head as he contemplated the implications of his newfound position as Hand of the King.

'For as long as I can remember, I've been scorned and ridiculed. From the moment I entered this world, a dwarf, the disappointment in my father's eyes was palpable. I tried, oh, how I tried to gain his approval, to prove my worthiness as a Lannister. But my efforts were futile, for in his eyes, I was nothing more than an embarrassment, a stain on the family name.

As the years passed, I grew resentful of my family, of the world that saw me as a grotesque oddity. My cynicism took root, and I realized that I would never earn the respect or love of those around me. So, I decided to embrace a different path. I resolved to live my life to the fullest, to indulge in all the pleasures and vices that the world had to offer.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I reveled in wine, women, and wit, using my sharp tongue to cut down those who dared to mock me. I became a master of quips and japes, a cynic who saw through the façades of those who thought themselves superior to me. I cared not for the judgments of others; I was determined to find my own brand of happiness, no matter how unconventional it may be.

I surrounded myself with those who didn't judge me for my stature, who saw beyond the surface to the intellect and wit that lay beneath. The two ladies lying in that bed, now lost in slumber, are but a glimpse of the hedonistic tendencies I've embraced. They offer a temporary respite from the world's cruelty, a fleeting taste of pleasure in a life filled with pain.

But now, as I sit here, contemplating my newfound position as Hand of the King, I can't help but wonder if it's just another cruel twist of fate. What game is my nephew Joffrey playing? Is this an opportunity to prove my worth, or am I merely a pawn in someone else's scheme?

This past week has been a whirlwind of madness and chaos. The moment my nephew, Joffrey, proclaimed me as the Hand of the King, my world turned upside down. I find myself thrust into a position of power and influence that I never imagined I'd hold. The second most powerful man in the realm, it's a notion that still leaves me somewhat shaken.

But it's not just the newfound power that unnerves me; it's the enigmatic nature of Joffrey himself. The boy-king has become a mystery...

He's rarely to be found in the Red Keep, and when he does make an appearance, it's often for some fleeting moment, and then he vanishes again into the recesses of the castle. What he does during those absences, I can only guess.

To make matters more complicated, he's given me a list of tasks and orders, each one marked with a sense of urgency...I've barely had time to gather my thoughts, let alone implement his demands.

The list that Joffrey handed me was a peculiar one, to say the least. It was as if he had a vision for some grand undertaking, something that was both ambitious and bizarre. I read over the tasks he'd outlined, each one more perplexing than the last.

The first task was to build a public school for impoverished children, a noble endeavor, one might say. However, the choice of instructors left me bewildered. Pycelle, the old and doddering Grand Maester, was to teach them? Alongside priests and retired soldiers? It was an odd mix, grooming these children into something akin to future commanders. I couldn't fathom what Joffrey had in mind with this peculiar combination.

The second task was equally baffling. We were to find the most formidable retired warriors in the city and have them serve as teachers in Joffrey's school. It was as if he wanted to create a new generation of fierce soldiers, but the idea of retired warriors taking up the mantle of educators was unconventional, to say the least.

And then came the third task, the one that truly left me scratching my head. We were to seek out the most skilled thieves and turn them into teachers as well. I couldn't comprehend why Joffrey would want thieves to be teachers. Perhaps he believed they had unique skills to impart? Or maybe he saw it as a way to keep an eye on the criminal element in King's Landing. It was a mystery I didn't dare to delve into too deeply.

But in the wake of the recent revelations about the gods watching over us and passing judgment, it seemed that everyone was still reeling, and no one dared to question the king's orders. So, I set about the tasks as best I could, hoping that the bizarre combination of educators Joffrey had chosen would somehow achieve his grand vision. It was a challenging endeavor, to say the least, and one that left me pondering the enigma that was King Joffrey.

I also delved into the task of forging an alliance with House Tyrell, and I couldn't help but ponder the nature of King Joffrey's schemes.

Joffrey's decision to grant amnesty to his uncle following the revelation of Renly's homosexuality and the subsequent breaking of his engagement with Margaery Tyrell, was a shrewd move. Even though it should have been considered blasphemy by the church , nobody dared to question his decision.

It demonstrated a level of political cunning that I had not expected from the young king. And with Joffrey breaking off his engagement to Stark's daughter a few days prior, he had become an eligible bachelor once more, making him the perfect match for the Tyrell heiress who claimed that Renly had never laid a hand on her.

The support of house Tyrell would be crucial in the war to come...

Why was he thinking of war all of a sudden? Well, because the absence of any word from Stannis Baratheon, the stern elder uncle of our newly crowned king, was a glaring omission in the political landscape.

It was a troubling sign, one that couldn't be ignored. Stannis had not yet pledged his loyalty to Joffrey as the rightful king of Westeros. This, undoubtedly, spelled trouble, and not just a minor inconvenience but a significant challenge that would need to be addressed.

Stannis Baratheon was not a man to be underestimated. He possessed a stern sense of duty and an unyielding commitment to what he considered right. If he chose not to recognize Joffrey as the legitimate king, it could lead to a significant fracture in the realm. His silence hung ominously over the court, a foreboding cloud that hinted at potential conflict and unrest.

Tyrion clenched his small fist, determination etching lines on his clever face. Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever turmoil might brew in the realm, he was resolved to make the most of this unexpected opportunity. His mind, as sharp as his wit, was already racing with plans and strategies to navigate the treacherous waters of King's Landing.

With a sense of purpose, he reached for the Hand of the King's brooch, a symbol of immense power and responsibility. Carefully, he fastened it to his chest, feeling its weight and significance settle upon him. It was a stark reminder that he was now the second most powerful man in the realm, and he was determined to wield that power wisely, even if it meant dancing on the edge of chaos. Tyrion Lannister was not one to shy away from a challenge, especially when fate had thrust him into a role that could reshape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms...

.

.

.

.

-------------

.

The training grounds of King's Landing were a sprawling expanse, situated within the heart of the city itself. Enclosed by towering stone walls adorned with banners displaying the sigils of various noble houses, this arena was where the city's warriors honed their skills. A cacophony of clashing blades, grunts of effort, and shouts of instructors echoed throughout the training yards.

The grounds were divided into distinct sections, each catering to different forms of combat. Knights in shining armor sparred with swords, their mounted drills shaking the earth beneath powerful hooves. Archers lined up, their bows drawn and arrows flying toward distant targets. Foot soldiers practiced formations and tactics, while masters-at-arms instructed young squires in the art of combat.

At the center of the training grounds stood a grand dais, where the king and his court would often watch tournaments and demonstrations of martial prowess. Banners bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon fluttered in the breeze, a reminder of the reigning dynasty.

The air was filled with the scent of sweat, leather, and steel as warriors of all ages and backgrounds trained tirelessly. Here, in this crucible of skill and discipline, aspiring knights sought to prove their mettle, and seasoned veterans refined their abilities. It was a place where honor was earned, where glory was won, and where the echoes of clashing blades resonated with the ambition and dreams of those who aspired to greatness in the Seven Kingdoms.

In the heart of the bustling training grounds, a remarkable spectacle was unfolding, capturing the attention of countless soldiers and onlookers. Two legends of the realm clashed in a display of martial skill that left those present in awe.

Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer, stood at one end of the practice yard, his gleaming steel sword in hand. His golden armor reflected the sunlight, giving him an almost ethereal glow. Across from him, equally imposing, was Ser Barristan Selmy, the renowned knight known for his unwavering loyalty and unmatched combat prowess. Ser Barristan bore a simple but elegant suit of white armor, a stark contrast to Jaime's opulence.

As the two knights squared off, their swords clashed with a harmonious ring that resonated throughout the training grounds. The speed and precision with which they exchanged blows were a testament to their unparalleled skill. Every swing, every parry, every step was executed with the grace and fluidity that came only from decades of experience.

Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, observed the duel with a keen eye from the sidelines. His expression was one of deep concentration, appreciating the artistry of their combat. Stark, a man of honor and stoicism, understood the importance of martial prowess, even if he himself preferred the stark simplicity of his ancestral sword, Ice.

The crowd of spectators fell silent as they watched the clash of these titans. It was not just a contest of strength and technique; it was a clash of reputations and histories. Jaime Lannister, once reviled as the Kingslayer, sought to prove himself on the field of combat, to cast aside the shadows of his past. Ser Barristan Selmy, the paragon of chivalry, defended his honor and the legacy of the Kingsguard.

Each strike and parry was a masterstroke, a testament to the art of swordplay. The crowd was treated to a display of skill and valor rarely witnessed, and they watched with bated breath as the duel unfolded. Jaime's golden locks shimmered in the sun as he pressed his attack, and Ser Barristan's movements were a graceful dance of steel.

In the midst of this battle, where steel met steel and honor clashed with ambition, Eddard Stark found himself itching to fight against the winner.

Winter was coming, after all , and he didn't want to be caught unprepared.

.

.

.

Jaime Lannister pov:

.

As I squared off against Ser Barristan Selmy on the training grounds, the thrill of the fight coursed through my veins. Every clash of steel, every calculated maneuver, it was all part of a dance of blades, a dance I was determined to win.

I surged forward, my blade singing through the air as I aimed a swift thrust at Ser Barristan's chest. He met my advance with the precision of a true master, deflecting my strike with ease. Our swords collided in a resounding clash, the tension in the air palpable.

Undaunted, I spun to the left, launching into a series of rapid slashes, each blow a calculated attempt to find a weakness in Ser Barristan's defenses. His movements were like poetry, his sword a graceful extension of his will. He countered each of my strikes with graceful precision.

With a flourish, I executed a deceptive feint, my sword swinging left before I swiftly redirected it to the right. Ser Barristan, ever the vigilant adversary, smoothly pivoted to counter my anticipated attack. Our swords danced in a mesmerizing display of skill and strategy.

Stepping back, I took a moment to catch my breath, my chest heaving with exertion. Ser Barristan remained unwavering, his stance unwavering, his gaze never leaving mine. The intensity of our duel had yet to yield a clear advantage.

With renewed determination, I lunged at him once more, a blur of steel in motion. My strikes came in rapid succession, my swordwork a testament to my relentless spirit. Yet, Ser Barristan's defense was unyielding, his calm resolve in the face of my aggression unwavering.

In that thrilling exchange, I reveled in the artistry of combat. Each move, each countermove, flowed seamlessly as we clashed in our intricate dance of blades. The thrill of battle coursed through me, urging me to push myself further, to prove that I was more than just a Kingslayer – I was a formidable warrior. The duel was far from over, and I relished every moment of it.

But as the King's Guard Captain transitioned from his defensive stance to a sudden and calculated offense, I found myself momentarily overwhelmed. His movements were like a whirlwind of precision and experience, and it was all I could do to defend against his relentless attacks.

Ser Barristan pressed forward, launching a rapid series of precise strikes, each aimed at a different opening in my defenses. His sword danced with purpose, a blur of steel and skill. I parried, dodged, and blocked, desperately trying to maintain my composure.

With a fluid motion, he executed a swift spinning slash, catching me off guard. I managed to deflect the blow just in time, but the force of his strike sent shockwaves of impact through my arms, nearly causing me to lose my grip on my sword.

Stepping in closer, he launched a powerful thrust that I barely managed to sidestep. The tip of his blade grazed my armor, leaving a faint mark.

Barristan then shifted his tactics, executing a quick flurry of slashes and thrusts from various angles. My defense became frantic as I desperately blocked and parried his strikes, my movements less graceful than before.

As I struggled to regain control of the fight, Ser Barristan executed a stunning maneuver. He feinted high with a powerful overhead swing before abruptly changing direction and delivering a lightning-fast low strike. I barely managed to redirect his blade, but the shockwave from the impact sent me stumbling backward.

In those crucial moments, the old man's mastery of combat became abundantly clear. His offense was relentless and precise, and it took every ounce of my skill and determination to defend against his assault. I knew that I had to adapt if I wanted to hold my own against this legendary knight.

And even though I was now sure I couldn't defeat him and at best this match would end in a draw...I couldn't wipe the smile of my face...

'Fuck the gods , fuck politics , fuck the iron throne' He thought merrily...and kept fighting.

.

.

.

.

--------------

.

Cersei Lannister's chamber was a display of opulence and grandeur befitting her position as the queen. The room was adorned with rich tapestries, sumptuous furniture, and gilded decorations that spoke of her regal status. Large windows adorned with intricate stained glass filtered the afternoon sunlight, casting colorful patterns across the chamber's marble floor.

Seated on a lavishly cushioned chair, Cersei's striking green eyes were locked onto an ancient tome resting open upon her ornate desk. Her golden curls cascaded elegantly over her shoulders, framing a face that bore a perpetual expression of calculated cunning. She wore a gown of crimson and gold, adorned with the sigil of House Lannister, a lion, that proclaimed her family's dominance.

Despite the surroundings, her expression was far from content. Her lips were pursed in a slight frown, and her brows were knitted together in concentration. Cersei's fingers absently tapped the surface of the open book as she delved into its cryptic contents, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and schemes, her eyes scanning the pages in search of answers to her own enigmatic questions.

.

.

.

Cersei Lannister pov :

.

'It's been a week since Joffrey was crowned king, and with each passing day, it feels like we're drifting further apart. My son, who should have been my closest ally, seems to be slipping away from me. It began with his sudden appointment of that thing I am obligated to call Brother as his Hand, a move he made without even consulting me beforehand.

When I confronted Joffrey about it, he spoke sweet words of reassurance, as if trying to calm my concerns. But I know now that they were empty promises and half-truths.

His affections have shifted, and he's become enamored with the notion of ruling without guidance, without restraint. It's almost as if he's embracing his newfound power to spite me, to show that he doesn't need my counsel.

It's a dangerous path he's treading. I've seen firsthand what unchecked power can do, what it did to Robert, and now Joffrey seems determined to follow that same perilous road. I must find a way to regain his trust and influence him, or the realm will descend into chaos.

But the way he spoke , the way he acted...it was as if he was another person altogether.

The Joffrey I knew, my son, was slipping away before my eyes, replaced by someone I could hardly recognize. There was a cruelty in his tone and a recklessness in his decisions that sent shivers down my spine.

'To turn the iron throne into a statue of that man...'

I've always been his mother, his protector, and his confidante. But now, it's as if he's shutting me out, shutting out the very person who has guided him and loved him unconditionally. It's a painful realization that my influence over him is waning, and I fear the consequences of his unchecked behavior.

I must find a way to reach him, to understand the source of his transformation. Is it the newfound power of the gods that seemingly chose him as their spokesperson, or something else?'

I kept pondering, countless thoughts swirling in my mind , but then I grabbed hold of them forcefully, and started studying the ancient book once again.

As I delved into the pages of the ancient tome, I couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency. The Seven Star religion had taken hold of my son's mind, and I needed to understand the gods behind it, their origins, and their influence. I needed to find not just information, but a weakness that could be exploited.

The pages were filled with cryptic tales, myths, and histories of these enigmatic deities. I read about their supposed benevolence, their dominion over the cosmos, and their role in shaping the world. But it all felt like a carefully constructed narrative, a story meant to ensnare believers.

My fingers traced the illustrations of these so-called gods, their faces serene and divine. But beneath that facade, I sensed something more sinister. There were hints of manipulation, of dark motives lurking in the shadows. I needed to uncover the truth.

As I read on, my determination grew stronger. I would delve deeper into the heart of this religion, uncover its secrets, and find a way to protect my son from its clutches. The gods may have taken hold of Joffrey, but they would soon learn that a lioness does not yield so easily.

And as she kept on reading , a single thought stood unchallenged at the forefront of her mind.

'How does one kill a god?'

.

.

.

.

-----

--------

.

A.N:

.

As much as you might wish to fill up that time with something productive, remember that mental exhaustion is something that needs to be avoided as well.

Every second of every day doesn't need to be dedicated to self-improvement.

A sword sharpened too often is that much easier to break.

-But what if I...refuse to break?"

.

.

.

.

There are some stat changes that happened in this past week , but they will be explained next chapter.

Cheers!