Three years later, in 276 AC, on the top floor of Casterly Rock's west tower.
Sunlight fell through the tall arched windows, cutting bright diamonds across the stone floor.
Leon Lannister sat at the edge of a patch of light, perfectly still.
He could not pretend to be a real three-year-old.
In the whispers of Casterly Rock's servants, children his age "should crawl all over the floor, smear food on the walls, and express every need with screams that could shatter glass."
But Leon did not crawl. Instead, he sat.
He could sit on a cushion in the same position for an entire morning, his pale violet eyes following the slow movement of the light across the flagstones.
His gaze was focused and calm, less like a child than a scholar observing some slow experiment.
Jaime is serving as a squire in Dorne right now...
Cersei should be about to meet Maggy the Frog, the woods witch.
This year... I remember it was when Viserys the Beggar King was born. Tywin used the prince's birth celebration to hold a tourney in Lannisport... His aim was to marry Cersei to Prince Rhaegar.
Leon's lips moved slightly, as though repeating the words in silence.
He sat on the cushion, still looking out the window.
What an eventful time. How is Tyrion doing now? Leon wondered idly.
At the same time, in the side courtyard of Casterly Rock's east wing.
It was damp there all year round.
During the rainy season, beads of water seeped from the stone walls and wound down along trails of moss.
The air held the smell of old, rotting wood, along with the rustle of rats scurrying inside the walls.
Tyrion Lannister's "room" was really only a cramped space converted from a storeroom.
There were no windows, only a ventilation grille set high in the side of the ceiling.
A coarse straw mat covered the floor, worn black and hard.
The only piece of furniture was a low bed, its mattress stuffed with hay and scraps of cloth. It rustled when he slept on it, as though insects were crawling underneath.
The contrast with Leon had made Tyrion's already miserable life even worse.
His first wet nurse, a sturdy peasant woman, had been sent away six months earlier for secretly feeding him an extra half bowl of goat's milk.
Her replacement was a taciturn old woman named Grey, with a pockmarked face and thick finger joints.
She said little and did not abuse Tyrion. She simply fed him, cleaned him, and put him back on the low bed as though completing a task.
"Don't cry." Those were Grey's most frequent words, her tone as flat as if she were describing the weather. "Crying won't help."
But Tyrion still cried.
He cried his heart out, cried until he choked and coughed, then kept crying.
It was not an infant's wailing. He was angry.
His two-year-old body was filled with a venom far beyond his years.
Hatred for this world seemed to have been etched into that oversized head early on.
His mismatched eyes shone with a bestial light in the dim room, glaring at everything.
Had Leon been there, his ability would have told him that Tyrion was shouting in hatred:
Why?
Why should this happen to me?
I hate all of this!
Sometimes, between mouthfuls, Grey would stare at that twisted little face for a while, then mutter, "Devil's eyes... The old saying from the Citadel was right."
But Tyrion did more than cry.
Leon did not crawl. He did.
He dragged himself along with his short, thick arms, moving across the cold stone floor and exploring every corner of his cage.
He had knocked over a water jug, torn the hem of Grey's apron, and even tried to gnaw on a bed leg.
It was as though he wanted to leave some mark on this world with his teeth, to prove that he had existed.
One day, he crawled to the door, pressed his face to the floor, and peered through the gap with his green left eye.
He saw light.
It was sunny that day. Sunlight fell on the courtyard's blue stone slabs, dazzlingly white, so bright that it hurt his eyes.
Tyrion stared at that light for a very, very long time. Then he stretched out his short, thick fingers and began clawing at the gap beneath the door.
His nails split and bled, the blood turning black in the dim light.
He did not cry. He only clawed harder, as though he could crawl toward that light and escape this damp prison if he could just pry the gap open.
Meanwhile, on the west tower's top floor, Leon was also practicing with his "eyes."
Thea was mending a little shirt. Her halo was the pale gold of loyalty, but a trace of dejected gray edged it.
Leon watched intently, letting his vision delve deeper...
A few words emerged: "Midsummer's Day... Lannisport tourney... feast... short-handed... might be reassigned..."
Leon understood.
Lannisport could be considered House Lannister's place of origin.
This tourney coincided with Midsummer's Eve, a major festival in the Seven Kingdoms.
Lord Tywin's purpose was straightforward. With the king and prince attending, he would naturally feast the Westerlands, and even all the knights who came to compete.
The kitchens and attendants were short-handed, so servants might be reassigned from elsewhere.
That meant the usual supervision might grow lax.
Leon's thoughts were interrupted.
Thea looked up and suddenly said, "My lord, sometimes I feel you can see into people's hearts."
Leon did not answer. He simply watched her quietly.
Thea smiled, a little bitterly. "I hope I'm imagining things. In this castle, seeing too clearly... isn't a good thing."
She came over, picked Leon up, and carried him to the window.
From that height, most of the castle was visible.
"There," Thea said softly, almost whispering. "The east wing's side courtyard. Your elder brother is there."
Leon turned his gaze in that direction.
He had never seen Tyrion in the flesh. Through Thea's fragmentary accounts and the servants' whispers, this twin brother was ugly, hated, and shut away in the shadows.
But Leon did not think so.
In his memories of his previous life, Tyrion Lannister was one of that story's most complex, intelligent, and tragic characters.
Though he killed his father and bore the infamy, he also survived the game of thrones through his wit and biting humor.
He is my brother.
The thought was clear as crystal in Leon's mind.
I want to meet him.
Before Midsummer's Eve, that wish came true.
The castle's chief steward announced that, for the feast preparations, any servants in nonessential posts might be temporarily reassigned.
Old Grey was sent to help wash the mountains of pots and dishes in the kitchens.
"Keep an eye on him. Don't let him crawl about," Grey told the young maid who came to relieve her. "I'll be back this evening."
The young maid had only been at Casterly Rock for three months and was uncertain whether to believe the rumors of the "double curse."
After Grey left, the maid stayed in the room for a while.
It was too stuffy.
The musty smell gave her a headache.
And that child... was staring at her with those eerie eyes, one green and one black, like two different breeds of cat watching her at once. It sent a chill down her spine.
"I... I'm going to fetch some water," the maid told Tyrion, as though he could understand. "Be good."
She pulled open the door, went outside, and fastened the lock from the outside as required.
But she was too nervous. The clasp did not catch completely and merely rested loosely on the door ring.
The maid's footsteps gradually faded down the corridor.
Tyrion crawled to the door.
He pushed.
The door moved.
A gap gradually widened amid a "bang, bang..."
Light poured in from outside, far broader and brighter than the little square of sky he had seen through the gap.
At the same time, Thea was carrying Leon onto the bridge for some "fresh air."
This was their daily routine.
Thea would carry him down the west tower's narrow spiral staircase to the open-air bridge connecting it to the main keep.
Leon usually liked it there.
But today, his attention was not on the scenery. His "gaze" fell on the east wing.
Something... was moving.
A tiny, burning point of light darted out from the direction of the east wing's side courtyard and moved quickly through the courtyard.
The point of light was a muddy mix of colors:
Deep red anger, pitch-black despair, blood-orange pain, dark purple refusal to yield-all the colors spun wildly, like a storm that would never cease.
At its center lay a faint but stubborn speck of gold, like a seed buried beneath volcanic ash.
Tyrion!
Leon recognized that feeling at once.
"Thea," Leon suddenly said, his voice calm. "Down there."
Thea froze for a moment, then followed Leon's pointing finger toward the courtyard below.
Tyrion was "running."
Running was not an accurate description of a three-year-old dwarf's movements.
He rolled and crawled, using both hands and feet. His heavy head upset his balance, and several times he nearly pitched forward.
But he was fast, like a cornered little beast fleeing for its life.
He rushed out of the east wing's side courtyard, passed through a seldom-used servants' passage, and burst into the small courtyard west of the main keep.
Tyrion stopped, panting hard, his mismatched eyes scanning his surroundings warily.
Sunlight.
Real, warm, unobstructed sunlight spilled over his pale, mottled skin.
He lifted his head and looked at the sky.
The square cut out by high walls was gone, replaced by boundless blue sky, so pure that it made him dizzy.
He opened his mouth as though trying to laugh, but only strange, rasping sounds emerged, like a bird with its throat pinched shut.
Then he saw the people on the bridge.
Time seemed to freeze.
Across a vertical distance of ten yards, the two children's eyes truly met for the first time.
Leon looked at Tyrion.
He saw that stormlike halo, that stubborn speck of gold, and the fragmented words tumbling within it: "Light... sky... freedom... hate... why... him... who..."
And Tyrion looked at Leon.
It was the first time he had seen another child since he could remember.
No, another... himself.
Although their appearances were worlds apart, Tyrion could feel that resonance deep in their blood vibrating through the air.
They were alike, rejected, defined, and shut away in different towers.
A syllable came from Tyrion's throat, indistinct but full of force, like a challenge and a confirmation:
"Ah-!!!"
Leon's eyes widened slightly.
Then he did something Thea would never forget for the rest of her life.
He reached out his tiny hand toward Tyrion and spread all five fingers.
He did not wave, merely held it open, as though greeting him, or saying:
I see that you exist. I exist too.
The commotion soon drew the guards.
Two guards in Lannister red cloaks rushed into the courtyard, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path.
They seized Tyrion roughly, one on each side.
He immediately began struggling and howling, trying to bite a guard's arm with teeth that had not yet all come in.
"Quiet, you little Imp!" one guard snarled impatiently, shaking Tyrion hard.
"Don't hurt him!" Thea could not help shouting from the bridge. "He's only a child!"
But her words were drowned out by Tyrion's cries.
Those cries were shrill and desperate, like a wolf cub robbed of its food.
Leon's hand remained outstretched, his gaze following Tyrion as he was dragged away, until that small, thin figure vanished into the passage's shadows.
He lowered his hand and turned to Thea. "Let's go back quickly."
Thea suddenly felt a bone-deep chill. Clutching Leon tightly, she hurried back to the west tower, locked the door, and leaned against it, gasping for breath.
"Seven protect us..." she murmured, her voice trembling. "The lord must never find out..."
That was impossible.
Casterly Rock had no secrets.
Tywin Lannister learned of it that very evening.
The chief steward knelt on the study's carpet and gave a detailed account of that afternoon's incident.
A maid's negligence, the ugly child's escape, and a brief exchange of glances with the child from the west tower on the covered bridge.
"An exchange of glances?"
Tywin's voice came from behind the desk, betraying no emotion.
He was reviewing a tax report from Lannisport, his quill turning slightly between his fingers.
"Y-yes, my lord. According to the guards, it lasted about... a few seconds."
The study was so quiet that the crackling firewood in the hearth was audible, along with the head steward's own all-too-loud heartbeat.
Tywin set down his quill. "The maid responsible for the east wing courtyard is to receive twenty lashes and be sent home."
He spoke calmly, as though deciding what to have for supper. "Old Grey failed in her supervision. Transfer her to the laundry for a week. The guards handled it properly. Reward them with one silver stag."
"Yes, my lord."
"One more thing."
Tywin raised his eyes, his green pupils like cold cat's-eye gems in the candlelight. "Starting today, fit iron bars over the windows on the top floor of the west tower. Nail boards over half the ventilation grille in the east wing's side courtyard."
The head steward froze. "My lord... in that case, the room in the east wing will have almost no light..."
"And?" Tywin's voice was as soft as a blade sliding across silk. "Do you need me to repeat my orders?"
"No, I wouldn't dare! It will be done at once!" The steward all but crawled out of the study.
Tywin sat alone in his high-backed chair, without returning to the report.
His gaze turned toward the deep darkness outside the window, toward the east wing he could not see.
He recalled another secret report he had received that afternoon:
After the death of his second son in infancy, the Mad King Aerys had executed two more attendants on the grounds that their "gazes were disrespectful."
"The Mad King Aerys..." he murmured, as though speaking to the air. "Once Cersei becomes Rhaegar's queen... the honor of House Lannister will no longer be overshadowed by these two curses..."
He rose, walked to the hearth, and threw the secret report into the flames.
The parchment curled, blackened, and turned to ash, sending up a wisp of bluish smoke.
Late that night, on the top floor of the west tower.
Thick black iron bars divided the starry sky outside the window, their shadows stretching across the floor like the bars of a cage.
Leon was not asleep.
His eyes were open, watching the shadows of the iron bars and the aura around Thea as she sat in the chair beside the window, silently weeping. It was a deep blue sorrow, mingled with the gray of self-reproach.
Leon raised his hand and gently touched the moonlight falling across its back with his fingertips.
Warm.
Like that stubborn fleck of gold at the center of Tyrion's ball of light.
It was a refusal to yield.
An insistence on having his way.
A fierce vitality that would crawl toward the light even if the whole world called him a monster.
Though he and Tyrion differed in their circumstances and how they expressed themselves, they were alike at their core.
They were both survivors...
The east wing's side courtyard.
Boards had been nailed over half the ventilation grille, making the room even darker.
The only light came through the remaining half of the grille, as grudging as a handout, illuminating only a small patch of floor.
Tyrion sat on the straw mat, neither crying nor making a fuss.
His fingers still hurt. A guard had twisted his wrist while he struggled that afternoon.
He remembered that vast blue sky.
He remembered the warmth of the sunlight and the sharp sting of gravel digging into his palms.
He also remembered that child's face, beautiful and calm, as unreal as a dream.
And the hand reaching out to him.
Tyrion crawled toward the remaining half of the light, pressed his face against the grille, and looked outside with his green left eye.
He saw a star.
It hung all alone against the pitch-black sky, shining faintly but stubbornly.
Tyrion stared at that star for a very, very long time.
"He... I..."
Then, with an injured finger, he traced a crooked line across the dust-covered floor.
From left to right, as though connecting something, as though drawing a bridge.
Three mornings later, while changing Leon's clothes, Thea discovered something in his tightly clenched left hand.
She gently pried Leon's fingers open.
In his palm lay a small piece of white lime plaster that had flaked off the wall.
The plaster had been squeezed into a tiny, crude human figure.
It had an oversized head, a short body, and arms reaching forward.
What sent a chill down Thea's spine was that two eyes had been marked on the figure's face with charcoal dust... the left eye was blank, and the right was a black dot.
Mismatched eyes.
Thea stared at the crude "doll," feeling a chill shoot straight to the top of her head. She abruptly looked at Leon in his cradle.
The child was watching her quietly, a faint trace of gentle understanding reflected in his pale violet eyes.
As though saying:
I remembered him, and I remembered all of this.
Thea's hands began to tremble. Then she did something even she had not expected.
She did not throw it away or report it to anyone.
She pried up a loose stone tile, carefully placed the crude doll beneath it, then pushed the tile back into place.
After doing all this, she returned to the cradle and gently stroked Leon's hair.
"I'll protect you," she whispered again, but this time there was a new resolve in her voice. "Both of you."
The shadow had come to know the light.
The light had remembered the shadow.