The hum of fluorescent lights replaced the crackle of torches long extinguished. Jaime sat in an office high above the streets of King’s Landing, modern King’s Landing, with its glass towers, its mirrored windows, and its blood still traded in boardrooms instead of battlefields. The city stretched below him like a living organism, money and ambition pulsing through its veins. His reflection glared back at him from the window: the golden hair, a jaw a little too proud for his age, and the faintest smirk that time hadn’t managed to steal. He still looked like the man who thought himself untouchable. The armor was gone, but the arrogance had adapted, like a creature that refused extinction.

The knock came soft, hesitant. Not from someone used to demanding entry, but someone measuring their place in the world before crossing a threshold. Jaime turned in his chair, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can come in,” he said, voice easy, rich with the same drawl that once disarmed kings and cut down knights. The door opened, and there they were, his kid, the only one not born of his sister’s shadow. The only one he could look at without the taste of guilt souring the back of his throat. He leaned back, watching them move, shoulders stiff, eyes sharp, too much of him in the way they carried the weight of silence.

“You’re late,” he said, but not unkindly. The line came with a smirk and a raised brow, the sort that softened its edge before it landed. “Or maybe I’m just early. Gods forbid I’ve become responsible in my old age.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit, before the board thinks I’ve finally hired someone competent.” His humor hadn’t aged a day, still that same reckless charm that could fill a room or ruin one. But under it all was a softness he didn’t let most people see, a nervousness he wouldn’t name. It wasn’t easy being a father when you’d spent half a life pretending you weren’t one.

They sat, quiet but present, their eyes studying the man in front of them. Jaime felt the scrutiny, that familiar, silent judgment that came with youth, the kind that didn’t need words to sting. “You’ve got that look,” he said, chuckling as he leaned forward. “Same one your aunt gets when she’s plotting to fire someone. Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Not in the office, anyway.” He winked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There were ghosts behind them, echoes of a thousand decisions made with a sword instead of sense. Still, he held the smile like a shield, because that’s what Lannisters did: they wore charm like armor, and hoped no one saw the cracks underneath.

The office was quiet for a beat. Outside, the city roared, traffic, horns, the sound of deals being made and promises being broken. Jaime turned back toward the window, letting the light hit the gold of his prosthetic hand. He’d traded battlefields for boardrooms, but the metal still gleamed like an accusation. “You ever think about legacy?” he asked suddenly. “About what people will remember when the noise stops?” His voice was low, almost thoughtful. “Your grandfather thought it was gold. Your aunt thinks it’s power. Me?” He huffed out a laugh. “I’m starting to think it’s just about who remembers your name when you’re gone. Not the headlines,just the people who still give a damn.”

He looked back over his shoulder, meeting their eyes. For a moment, the smile dropped, and there was only truth there,tired, raw, and strangely human. “You’re the one thing I got right,” he said, voice softer than he intended. “And Seven help me, I’m trying not to ruin it.” Then, like snapping a sword back into its sheath, the smirk returned. “But don’t tell your aunt that. She’d never let me hear the end of it.” He stood, crossing to pour himself a drink, the crystal clinking against the glass like punctuation to his half-confession. “You want one? Just don’t tell your mother. The last thing I need is another lecture about being a bad influence.”