Casterly Rock - 286 AC
The early morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes of Lucien Lannister's chamber, casting golden rays that danced across the polished stone floor. Lucien awoke with a start, the remnants of dreams dissipating like mist in the morning light. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he felt the familiar prickling sensation beneath his elbow—the Mark of Cain, now visible on his right forehand. It had not been there at birth, and its sudden appearance filled him with a mix of dread and curiosity.
The Mark was a distinct, scar-like symbol. Contemplating its significance, Lucien turned toward the crackling fire in the hearth, its flames flickering with an inviting dance.
With a reckless yet exhilarating resolve, he approached the fire. The heat radiated against his skin, a warm embrace that quickly escalated into a scorching kiss. He steeled himself and thrust his hand into the flames. The pain surged through him—an indescribable agony that morphed into a symphony of sensation. Each second stretched into eternity, the flames coiling around him, igniting not just his flesh but his very spirit.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the pain vanished. What remained was an extraordinary clarity, akin to floating in the purest essence of nothingness. A victorious grin crept across Lucien's lips, a smile that mirrored the triumph of a phoenix rising from its ashes. He had tasted the fire, and in return, it had gifted him the bliss of peak adaptation.
Yet, he could not linger in this moment of euphoria; Jaime was waiting.
A gentle knock on the door interrupted his reverie. "Come in," he called, eager to embrace the day ahead. The door swung open, revealing a maid who bowed slightly. "Ser Jaime is waiting for you, my lord."
"Lead the way," Lucien replied, his heart racing at the prospect of training with his brother.
As they walked through the familiar corridors of Casterly Rock, the walls whispered tales of glory and blood, of Lannisters who had shaped the realm. Lucien recalled the stories his father had told him—of honor and ambition, and the weight that came with their name.
Entering his father's office, he found Jaime deep in conversation with Tywin. The contrast between them was striking: Jaime, with his relaxed demeanor and golden hair, and Tywin, a mountain of a man, as imposing as the very stone of the castle itself.
"Long time since I've seen you, Jaime," Lucien interjected, breaking the tension in the air.
Jaime turned, a grin breaking across his handsome face. "Comes with being a Kingsguard, little brother. Duty calls."
"Our father and I were discussing whether you should join the Kingsguard," Jaime continued, a teasing glint in his eye.
Lucien's heart sank for a moment. "No," he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. "How about teaching me how to swing a sword instead? I think Father wouldn't oppose that."
Both Jaime and Lucien turned their gazes to Tywin, whose stern face remained inscrutable. After a moment that felt like a lifetime, Tywin nodded, the smallest flicker of approval crossing his features.
"Training is essential," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But I expect you to continue your studies with the maester as well."
Lucien's mind raced. This was his opening. "What if... what if you could hire Syrio Forel? He's one of the finest swordsmen in the realm. "Lucien believed he should be excellent, particularly since he would possibly be training under the one who taught Arya Stark who had defeated the Night King."
Tywin's eyebrows raised slightly, caught off guard by the audacity of the request. "A valid argument," he conceded, his tone neutral. "But you will still learn from the maester."
Lucien nodded eagerly, his heart swelling with excitement. "Of course, Father. I won't let you down."
As he left the office, a familiar figure ambled into view—Tyrion, his brother, with a knowing smirk that always promised mischief.
"Off to conquer the world, are we?" Tyrion quipped, leaning against the wall.
"More like swinging a wooden sword while trying not to trip over my own feet," Lucien replied, rolling his eyes.
"A noble endeavor, indeed," Tyrion shot back, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Just remember, the only thing worse than falling is falling in front of a crowd."
Lucien laughed, the warmth of camaraderie enveloping him like a comforting cloak. "I'll keep that in mind. Jaime is inside if you're looking for him."
"Ah, the Kingsguard. I suppose I should prepare for the day the realm needs saving from itself," Tyrion replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief, a wine cup in hand.
With a wave, Lucien entered his room, the door clicking shut behind him. He quickly approached the table where a wooden sword lay waiting, its surface smooth and inviting. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a surge of energy coursed through him, igniting a fire within his veins.
He felt as if he could move mountains, like the very essence of battle flowed through him. The Mark of Cain pulsed softly under his skin, alive and vibrant. In that moment, he realized it had fully activated, granting him strength and stamina he had only ever dreamed of.
"No cliché life for me," he thought, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll carve my own path."
Standing before the polished silver of the mirror, he saw not just his likeness—standing a mere 3'10" with the telltale features of a Lannister: golden hair and green eyes—but a reflection of his determination.
"Open status," he commanded silently, and a shimmering screen materialized before his eyes, revealing possibilities:
[ACHIEVEMENT SYSTEM]
Lucien Lannister
Abilities: Mark of Cain, Three-Eyed Raven, Peak Adaptation
Titles: None
Achievements Completed: Take your first step; walk, run, talk; make it to 1 year old; make it to 5 years old.
He studied the entries, a sense of pride swelling within him. Each achievement was a testament to his growth, a reminder that he was not just Lucien Lannister, but something more—something that could shape the world around him.
His gaze then fell upon an icon in the corner, a gift waiting to be claimed.