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Chapter Text

Something had changed in Jaime.

The thought arrived unbidden, a shard of obsidian in the granite sea of his duties. Tywin Lannister sat behind his great solarwood desk in the heart of Casterly Rock, the pale afternoon light filtering through the high, arched windows, casting a faint sheen on the meticulously arranged letters and ledgers before him. Outside, the Sunset Sea churned ceaselessly against the base of the mountain, an ancient rhythm that usually soothed him. For the past two months, however, ever since the deafening silence from that birthing chamber, the sea sounded only like a sigh of endless grief.

Two months. Sixty days since Joanna had gone, taking all the warmth from this fortress and from within him, leaving him with a repulsive dwarf of a son and a gaping hole where his heart had been. Tywin had filled that hole with the only material he trusted: duty. He worked harder than ever, governing the Westerlands with cold efficiency, responding to the King's letters from King's Landing, and ensuring the machinery of Lannister power continued to turn without a single falter. Duty was his fortress, his only defense against the sorrow that threatened to swallow him as the sea swallowed careless ships.

And yet, the thought kept returning, nagging at him like a rat gnawing at a tapestry. Something had changed in Jaime.

It was not a change an outsider would notice. To the household knights or the servants, Jaime was still the Young Lion, the golden twin, the heir to Casterly Rock. His hair still shone like newly minted gold, his eyes were still as green as a summer sea. But Tywin was his father. He had observed his son since the day of his birth, noting every strength and flaw with the precision of a jeweler examining a gemstone. And the gemstone he saw now had a different cut.

Before, Jaime had been a contained storm. Energy radiated from him, a restless spirit that could only be calmed through physical exertion. Sadness or anger—and boys often felt both—had always been channeled into the practice yard. He would swing a wooden sword at a straw dummy for hours, his cheeks flushed with effort, sweat plastering his golden hair, until exhaustion finally quelled the turmoil within him. That was his way. Strong, direct, predictable.

Now, the boy was quiet. Too quiet.

Tywin had seen it that morning. He had been walking down the hall, his mind occupied with a border dispute between House Westerling and House Jast, when he saw his son emerging from the library. Not bolting out as if escaping a prison, as was his custom, but walking with a measured, thoughtful pace beside Maester Creylen. There was no wooden sword at his hip. Instead, he had a leather-bound book tucked under his arm. They were speaking in low voices, and Jaime was nodding, his expression serious.

Jaime had never liked to read. Tywin knew this for a certainty. The letters seemed to dance on the page for him, a source of endless frustration that would have him throwing a book across the room. It had been Joanna who had the patience for it. She would sit with him for hours, tracing the lines of text with her slender finger, her soft voice coaxing the words to stay still.

More disturbing was the look in the boy's eyes. In the weeks after Joanna's death, Tywin had steeled himself for a child's tears and tantrums. He had received neither. There was the initial grief, of course, a glassy-eyed confusion he shared with Cersei. But it had passed quickly. Mourning, even for a child, had its limits. What replaced it, however, was not a return to his usual boyish exuberance.

When Tywin looked into his son's eyes now, he did not see lingering sorrow. Nor did he see the innocence of a seven-year-old boy. What he saw was a deep and unsettling calm, a stillness that seemed far too old for such a young face. And beneath that calm, there was a thin veneer of melancholy, not the sharp grief of recent loss, but an older, more weary sadness, as if the boy had seen the world and found it wanting. It was a look he might have expected to see in his brother, Kevan, after a long and difficult campaign, not in his own young heir.

Tywin shook his head, trying to banish the unproductive thoughts. Speculation was a waste of time. Facts were the currency of the realm. And the fact was, he had supper to attend with his children. He rose, straightening the black velvet tunic embroidered with gold thread at the collar and cuffs. Even in mourning, a Lannister must project strength. Especially in mourning.

They did not eat in the Great Hall, whose vaulted ceilings and vast tapestries felt too empty, too full of the echoes of Joanna's laughter. Instead, they gathered in the Lord's private dining solar, a smaller room with dark wood paneling and a great hearth where a fire crackled merrily, a falsehood of warmth in the chill that had seeped into the very stones of the castle.

There were only the four of them. Tywin at the head of the table, silent and imposing as a judge about to pass sentence. To his right sat Cersei, and beside her, Jaime. Across from them, to Tywin's left, sat Kevan, his loyal brother, his quiet shadow, his presence a steady and unwavering support. Servants moved without a sound, placing platters of baked trout, buttered peas, and warm bread. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the clink of silver on porcelain.

It was Tywin who broke it. He could not abide a purposeless silence. "Maester Creylen says your lessons go well, Cersei," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was not a question, but a statement of fact he expected to be confirmed.

Cersei, who had been stabbing at her trout as if it were a personal enemy, looked up. Her eyes, so like Jaime's, flashed with defiance. "Septa Lauren says my cross-stitch is the finest she has ever seen," she said, her tone a fraction too loud. "She says I have the hands of a queen."

Tywin gave a short nod. Ambition. Good. That was a Lannister trait. "And you, Jaime? Is Ser Benedict working you hard in the yard?"

Jaime placed his fork neatly beside his plate before answering. The movement was controlled, nothing like the fidgeting he usually displayed at the table. "Yes, Father. We practiced the basic stances and a few parries this morning. Ser Benedict says my wrist is growing stronger." He paused, then added, "But I spent most of the afternoon in the library."

Cersei snorted softly, a sound thick with childish contempt. "The library," she repeated, as if the word tasted foul. "You smell of old parchment."

Jaime ignored her. He kept his eyes on Tywin, his gaze steady and serious. "I was reading Archmaester Ludwell's History of the Conquest. And Maester Creylen showed me the maps of the Westerlands and Essos."

This time, Cersei could not contain herself. She twisted in her seat to face her twin fully, her long golden hair spilling over her shoulder. "Maps? You hate maps! You said they were just boring lines on cowhide and you'd rather fight someone with a real arakh!" Her accusation hung in the air, a reminder of their old world, a secret world of shared games and vows.

Tywin raised an eyebrow slightly. He remembered those complaints well.

Jaime turned to his sister, and for a moment, Tywin saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes—not anger, but something closer to pity. It was the look an adult gives a naive child, and to see it directed from one seven-year-old to another was deeply strange.

"I changed my mind," Jaime said calmly. "It is a proper thing for an heir to do. To know the lands he will one day protect. To understand the trade routes that keep us strong." He shifted his gaze back to Tywin, and the intensity in his green eyes silenced his father for a moment. "I have also been reading some of your ledgers, Father. About the tax tariffs in Lannisport and the yields from each of the mines. It is fascinating how gold is turned into power."

A complete silence fell over the table. Kevan had paused mid-lift of his goblet, his normally placid eyes wide with surprise. Cersei was staring at Jaime as if he had grown a second head.

Tywin felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. It was surprise, certainly, but beneath it was a cold, powerful wave of satisfaction. Tax tariffs. Trade routes. How gold is turned into power. These were not the words of a boy. These were the thoughts of a lord. They were echoes of his own lessons, of the philosophy he had built upon the foundations of his father's ruin. To hear them spoken so plainly from his heir's lips… it was almost perfect.

Too perfect.

"You never cared for those things before," Cersei hissed, her voice trembling with betrayal. "You only cared about being a Knight."

"I still mean to be a great knight," Jaime replied patiently, as if explaining something obvious. "But a knight protects his Lord's people and lands. How can I do that if I do not understand what I am protecting? Being Lord of Casterly Rock is more than having the best sword."

Tywin set down his goblet. The sound of silver on wood was loud in the quiet room. He looked at his son, truly studying him now. The boy sat straight, not slumped. His hands were still in his lap. He spoke with an eloquence and logic he had never before displayed. It was as if a small man had taken his son's seat.

"You speak wisely, Jaime," Tywin said, and the words of praise, so rarely given, felt foreign on his tongue. "Continue your studies with the Maester. Knowledge is a weapon, same as a sword. Often, it is the sharper of the two."

He saw a small glint in Jaime's eyes, but it was not the joy of a praised child. It was the quiet satisfaction of a man whose plan had succeeded. Across the table, Cersei's eyes narrowed, her lips thinning into a white line. She did not see a wise brother. She saw a stranger.

Later that night, long after the fire in his hearth had dwindled to embers, Tywin was still awake. The dinner conversation replayed in his mind.

The change was real. It was undeniable. But what was its cause?

He considered the possibilities with cold logic. Could this be a mere coping mechanism? A boy's way of dealing with unbearable grief by emulating the man he saw as a pillar of strength—his father? By immersing himself in duty and responsibility, he was building his own fortress against sorrow. It was a plausible explanation. It was an appealing one. It suggested a resilience, a strength of character he had not suspected his son possessed.

Grief, he thought, was a crucible. It could break a man, render him weak and pitiful like his own father, Tytos, who had wept at every petty slight. Or, it could burn away the dross, all the childish frailties, leaving harder, stronger steel behind. Was it possible that Joanna's death, the cruelest blow fate had ever dealt him, had inadvertently forged his son into the very heir he had always desired? A boy who understood that legacy was more important than happiness, that power was more lasting than love?

It was a monstrous and tempting thought. It gave a kind of cruel meaning to his loss. As if Joanna, in her final sacrifice, had given him not just a dwarfish monster, but a perfect heir as well.

And yet, the doubt remained, a cold undercurrent. The melancholy in the boy's eyes. The sudden eloquence. The abrupt interest in economics. It did not feel like growth; it felt like a replacement. As if his son's soul had been plucked out and another—older, wiser, and infinitely sadder—had been put in its place.

Tywin rose and went to the window, staring out at the inky blackness over the sea. Casterly Rock stood defiant against the night, a monument to pride and permanence. He had sacrificed everything for it, for the Lannister name. He demanded perfection from his children because legacy demanded it.

And now, it seemed, he was getting it from Jaime.

He would accept it. Whatever the source of this change, the results were undeniably positive. He would encourage it. He would nurture this new, inquisitive mind, give him access to the ledgers and reports. He would shape this new boy into a perfect reflection of himself.

He made the decision with his characteristic finality. He would ignore the feeling of unease, the sense that something was fundamentally wrong. He would ignore Cersei's suspicious glares and Kevan's astonishment. He would focus on the outcome.

Tywin Lannister had lost his wife, the only softness in his life. But in the process, it seemed he had gained a son worthy of the name. It was a cruel exchange, a bargain made in some hell.

And as he stood there, staring into the darkness, Tywin found that he could live with it.

Chapter Text

This balcony was a place of quiet power. Carved directly from the living rock on the western face of Casterly Rock, it jutted out over the Sunset Sea like the jaw of a stone god. From this high perch, the whole of the Lannister world was laid out below. Tywin stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, the salt wind tugging at the hem of his crimson tunic. It was his favorite place to think, a vantage point from which small problems looked as they should: small.

Below him, Lannisport sprawled like a tapestry woven by merchants and fishermen. Its red-tiled roofs clustered around the bustling harbor, where the masts of merchant ships from Lys and Tyrosh swayed like a leafless forest. Beyond the city, a patchwork of green and gold fields stretched to the rolling hills, dotted with small villages and winding roads that looked like silver threads in the late afternoon sun. Every ship in that harbor paid a duty. Every bushel of wheat harvested from those fields fed his armies. Every soul in that city and those villages was his, a piece of the great order he had built and maintained. The view was not one of beauty to Tywin; it was a balance sheet. Assets and liabilities, perfectly arranged.

The sound of slow, steady footsteps on the stone behind him announced his son’s arrival. Tywin did not turn. He kept his eyes on his domain.

"Father," Jaime’s voice came, clear and calm, without a hint of the breathlessness of a child who had run to answer a summons. "You sent for me."

Tywin remained silent for a long moment, letting the quiet establish who was in command. It was the first lesson of power: the one who speaks first is often the weaker. He felt his son’s presence at his side, standing a few paces back, waiting with his newfound patience. The old Jaime would have been fidgeting by now, kicking at a loose pebble or pulling at a stray thread on his tunic. This boy simply waited.

Finally, Tywin spoke, his voice as flat as the sea’s horizon. "Come here."

Jaime stepped forward and stood beside him at the edge of the balcony, his small hands gripping the carved stone balustrade. He came no higher than Tywin’s waist, yet he stood with a stillness that belied his age.

"Look down there," Tywin said, indicating the vista with a short sweep of his hand. "Tell me what you see."

It was a test. A simple one, but revealing. He expected a boy’s answer, seasoned with his newfound gravity. I see our city. I see the strongest castle in the world. I see the wealth of House Lannister. Such an answer would have been satisfactory. It would show the boy understood the fundamentals of their station.

Jaime stared down for a long time, his green eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. The wind stirred his golden hair, making it look like a small, dancing fire next to his tall, dark father. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet, almost a whisper meant for himself.

"I see… something that must be protected," he said.

Tywin’s brow furrowed slightly. It was not the answer he had expected. "Protected from what? The Pirate have not dared raid our coasts since I sank their fleet. The mountain clans fear to come down into the valleys. There are no threats."

"Not from outside threats, Father," Jaime clarified, turning to look up at him. That look again—calm, serious, far too old. "Protected from itself. From neglect. From rot."

He raised a small hand and pointed toward the city. "I see the port. Ships come and go. They bring goods, but they can also bring plague. The docks must be kept clean, the guards must be vigilant for smugglers. I see the markets. Merchants sell their wares. Their scales must be true, their goods unrotten, or the people will sicken and be unable to work. I see the fields. The farmers till the soil. They need good seed and protection from drought or flood."

He lowered his hand and looked at Tywin earnestly. "I see a great many small, moving parts. If one of them stops working correctly, the others suffer. A lord does not simply sit on a golden lion and roar. He must ensure every part of the machine… is well-oiled."

Tywin stared at his son, that familiar sense of unease pricking at him again. A well-oiled machine. Where did a seven-year-old boy get such a phrase?

"You speak of merchants and farmers," Tywin said, his voice tinged with dismissal. "You speak of sheep. Why should a lion concern himself with the affairs of sheep?"

"Because without the sheep, the pasture grows wild," Jaime answered instantly, as if he had considered this very response before. "Without the flock to graze, the grass grows too high and chokes out the wildflowers and smaller shrubs. The land becomes tangled and impassable. Wolves and other predators draw closer to the villages, looking for easier prey." He paused, letting the analogy sink in. "The sheep may be weak and foolish, but they serve a purpose in the greater order. They maintain the balance. The smallfolk are our sheep, Father. If we do not tend to them—ensure they are fed, safe, and have a purpose—then our own lands will grow wild. Discontent will grow like weeds, and the wolves—rival lords, rebels—will see it as an opportunity to strike."

Tywin was silent. The logic was… flawless. It was a cold, pragmatic, and utterly unsentimental argument he might have made himself in a small council meeting to justify a policy. But to hear it from his son, who should be dreaming of dragons and tourneys, felt profoundly wrong. It was like watching a hawk crack a nut with the precision of a sculptor. The skill was impressive, but the nature of it was disturbing.

"You get these ideas from your books," Tywin said, more a statement than a question. "From Maester Creylen." He needed a source. A rational explanation.

"Maester Creylen gives me the books," Jaime replied, "but the books do not tell me how to think. They only provide the facts. I am simply… connecting them." He looked up at his father, and for a second, Tywin saw a flash of something else in his eyes—a deep sadness, a weariness that was beyond comprehension. "I understand now that the world is not a collection of stories. It is a system. Everything is connected. An action in one place has consequences in another."

"A system ruled by strength," Tywin countered, his voice sharp. He felt the need to wrest back control of this lesson, to steer it back to the truths he knew. "You speak of balance. I will tell you of balance. Balance is maintained by fear. The Reynes of Castamere thought they were more than sheep. They thought they were lions, too, with fangs and claws of their own. They did not maintain the balance; they tried to overthrow it. And I restored that balance. I wiped them from the face of the earth, every man, woman, and child. Now their ruined castle stands as an eternal reminder of what happens to those who forget their place. That is how a lion tends his flock, Jaime. By showing the wolves what will happen to them if they draw near."

He expected this to shock the boy, perhaps even horrify him. He expected a respectful nod, an acknowledgment of undeniable power.

Instead, Jaime just nodded slowly, as if Tywin had made a valid but incomplete point. "Fear is a useful tool," he conceded, and the calm agreement unsettled Tywin more than any argument could have. "It is a fine hammer for driving down a nail that stands out. But you cannot build a house with only a hammer. You need wood, and stone. You need a strong foundation."

"And what is that foundation, if not fear?" Tywin demanded.

"Loyalty," Jaime answered without hesitation. "Fear makes men obey, but only so long as you are watching them. The moment you turn your back, they will stab it. Loyalty makes men obey even when you are not there. They obey because they believe you are protecting their interests as well as your own. The people of Castamere feared you, Father. But the people of Lannisport? They must be loyal to you. Otherwise, they are just a collection of strangers living on your land, waiting for a chance to betray you for a better lord."

"Better?" Tywin snorted. "You sound like your grandfather. Tytos wanted to be loved by his people, too. He forgave debts, laughed off insults, and allowed his bannermen to mock him behind his back. He was loved, yes. And he nearly destroyed our House. Love is meaningless without respect, and respect comes only from strength."

"I did not speak of love," Jaime said sharply, and for the first time, there was a flicker of irritation in his voice. "I spoke of pragmatism. Grandfather Tytos was weak not because he was kind, but because he was a fool. He gave away our resources for nothing in return. He did not understand the value of what he possessed. Feeding your people in a harsh winter is not kindness; it is an investment. It ensures you have strong soldiers and healthy farmers when spring comes. Ensuring the scales in the market are just is not an act of mercy; it is good economic policy. It encourages trade and fills your coffers. This is not about being good, Father. It is about being smart."

Each word was a carefully calculated blow. Each sentence built upon the last, creating an argument that was solid, irrefutable. Tywin felt as if he were not talking to his son, but debating a rival in the King’s council. He kept searching for a flaw in the boy’s logic, a childish mistake, a misplaced sentiment, and he found nothing.

He tried another tack, a more personal one. "And what of yourself? All this talk of systems and loyalty… what do you want for yourself, Jaime? Do you still wish to be a knight?"

"More than anything," Jaime answered, and this time, there was a hint of warmth in his voice, the first glimmer of the boy he had been. "I want to be like the knights in the songs. Like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. I want to be a shield for the innocent."

"A knight is his Lord’s instrument," Tywin said flatly. "He protects what he is commanded to protect. Nothing more."

"Then perhaps the songs are wrong," Jaime said quietly. "Or perhaps a wise Lord would only command his knight to protect what is right. He would protect… the balance." He used the word again, and Tywin realized it was the core of his son’s strange, new philosophy.

Tywin turned away from his son and looked out at the horizon again. The sun was beginning to dip, staining the clouds orange and purple. The colors of House Martell. Their delegation was still in Lannisport, awaiting his answer. Their offer—their daughter for his son, their prince for his daughter—lay on his desk, a bold move in the great game. An alliance that would secure the entire south. Joanna had wanted it. And now, his son spoke of balance and strong foundations.

"You have given me much to think on," Tywin said, and the admission felt like pulling a tooth.

"I only said what I see, Father," Jaime replied.

"Return to your Maester," Tywin commanded, his voice suddenly different. Not tired, but thoughtful. "Continue your lessons."

"Yes, Father."

Jaime gave a slight bow—a stiff, formal gesture—then turned and walked away, his steady footsteps echoing on the stone before vanishing back into the castle.

Tywin remained on the balcony for a long time, as dusk faded to night and the first stars began to prick the blackening sky. The wind grew colder, but he did not feel it. His mind was no longer racing; it was calm, cold, and clear.

The sense of unease was gone, replaced by something else entirely. Something he had not felt in a long time. Pride. Not the shallow pride of having a handsome son or a strong heir. This was a deeper, more satisfying pride. The pride of a smith who discovers that the steel he is forging is not just strong, but possesses a keenness he did not expect.

The boy had debated him. Not defied him with a childish tantrum, but engaged him in intellectual discourse. He had taken his father’s core principles—strength, fear, ruthlessness—and had not rejected them, but refined them. He had built upon them, adding a layer of pragmatism and long-term strategy that even Tywin himself, in his fury at his own father’s weakness, sometimes overlooked in favor of a decisive, brutal act.

This is not about being good, Father. It is about being smart.

In that one sentence, Jaime had encapsulated Tywin’s entire philosophy and elevated it. He had shown that he understood the difference between wanton cruelty and purposeful ruthlessness. He understood that a legacy was built not just by vanquishing enemies, but by managing assets.

The source of this change was still a mystery, a confounding anomaly. But Tywin found he no longer cared about the why. He cared only about the what. And what he had now was an heir who surpassed all his expectations. Grief had forged his son, not into a mirror of himself, but into a better version.

A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched Tywin Lannister’s lips in the darkness.

Chapter Text

JAIME

The footsteps on the cold stone felt light and familiar to this seven-year-old body, but to the soul within, each step was heavy and calculated. Steven— Jaime , he had to keep correcting himself, the name was his shield now—walked away from the balcony, his back straight, his pace steady, a facade of calm he hoped was convincing. Inside, his heart hammered with the last vestiges of adrenaline from the confrontation. It wasn't a debate, he knew that. It was a performance. An audition. And he felt, with a nauseating sense of relief, that he had passed.

He hadn't wanted to sound like a prodigy. Gods know, being a smug wunderkind was a quick way to make enemies, even within your own family. But he wasn't dealing with just anyone. He was dealing with Tywin Lannister. A man who valued strength, intelligence, and ruthlessness above all else. A man who viewed weakness and sentiment with the same contempt he held for a cockroach in his kitchens. To approach such a man with a heartfelt plea about "helping the people" would have been as effective as trying to put out a hellfire with spit.

So, he played the game, as he had been for two months. He took the truth—his genuine desire to create a stable and just society—and wrapped it in the language Tywin would understand and respect. He spoke of "systems," "assets," and "investments." He turned compassion into pragmatism. He turned people into sheep.

The word "sheep" left a bitter taste in his mouth. In his old life, as Steven Evans, primary school teacher, he had dedicated himself to those sheep. He had seen the potential in every child's eyes, no matter how poor or neglected. He had fought underfunded school boards, apathetic parents, and a broken system just to give them a chance, a sliver of education that could be their way out. He had often failed. He had often gone home to his empty apartment, tired to the bone, feeling like he was holding back the tide with his bare hands. He had the will, but he had no power.

Now… now he had the potential for unimaginable power. The power to rule the entire western region of Westeros. The power to change the lives of millions. And to earn that power, he had to convince the lion at the top of the mountain that he, too, was a lion, not a sheep in disguise. He had to make his father proud, not because he craved the cold man's love, but because Tywin's pride was the key that would unlock the door to responsibility. Tywin's trust was the currency he needed to fund his quiet revolution.

The halls of Casterly Rock felt different now. For the past two months, since he had woken up in this child's bed to a scream of agony that was not his own, he had walked through them in a daze. He had woken up into grief. There was no memory of Joanna Lannister in his mind, only a painful void where a mother should have been. He had inherited the sorrow of a seven-year-old boy with none of the memories to go with it. He saw her portrait, a beautiful woman with the same green eyes as his, and he felt a strange, detached sense of loss, like reading about a tragic character in a book. He mourned the idea of a mother, while the small body he inhabited trembled with real, visceral grief.

The halls carved from living rock, the tapestries depicting golden lions tearing their prey apart, the glint of gold everywhere—it had all felt like a fantastical, terrifying fever dream. He was a thirty-year-old man trapped in a boy's body, grieving for a lost life and a mother he never knew, all while trying to understand the rules of this brutal, feudal world.

Now, the grandeur looked different. It was no longer just a backdrop. It was an arsenal. Every golden goblet on a table was a reminder of the wealth that could fund a school. Every armored knight he passed was an enforcer of the law who could protect a farmer from a brigand. The castle itself, this impregnable fortress, was the seat of power he could wield for good or for ill. It was an immense responsibility, a weight that felt far too heavy for his small shoulders.

He passed a pair of servants sweeping the stone floors, their heads bowed as he went by. The original Jaime would likely not have noticed them at all. But Steven did. He noticed their calloused hands, the weariness in their posture, the way they avoided his gaze as if he were a sun too bright to look upon. They were part of the "machine" he had described to his father. The unseen cogs that kept the world of lords turning. And they were illiterate. Their children would grow up to be illiterate, too, inheriting a life of service with no hope of advancement.

A memory surfaced, sharp and clear from last week. His uncle, Kevan, had taken him down to Lannisport to inspect some warehouse supplies. The air had been thick with the smell of salt, fish, and a thousand people living in close quarters. It was then he had seen her: a little girl, no older than his own body, with matted hair and bare feet, her huge, hungry eyes fixed on a baker’s stall.

Without thinking, Steven had reacted. He had reached into his pouch—a still-unfamiliar gesture—and pulled out a silver stag. It was a fortune for a commoner. He had walked over to the girl and pressed the coin into her grimy hand. For a moment, she had just stared at it, then up at him in total confusion, as if a statue had just spoken to her. Then, she had run, clutching the coin as if it were the entire world.

He had felt a swell of pride in himself then. A simple act of kindness. But as he walked back to his uncle, he had truly seen . In every alley, in every doorway, there were more. Dozens. Hundreds. Thin faces and desperate eyes. His silver had helped one girl for one day. But it had changed nothing. It was a bandage on a gaping wound. He couldn't change the world with silver stags. He could only change it with power. With laws. With grain in the granaries and schools in the villages. That was when the seed of his plan had hardened into certainty. That was when he realized that to be Steven Evans, the teacher, he first had to become Jaime Lannister, the lord.

He reached the base of the Maester's Tower, a cylindrical structure that rose high into the heart of the mountain itself. This was where the castle's knowledge was kept, where a thousand years of history was written on fragile scrolls. To him, it was the most important place in all of Casterly Rock. It was his armory.

He climbed the spiral stairs, his step lighter now. The conversation with his father had been a necessary political maneuver. This, his lesson with Maester Creylen, was the real work. This was intelligence gathering.

The door to the Maester’s study was old oak, reinforced with iron. He paused before it for a moment, steadying his breath. He was no longer Jaime the heir, being tested by his father. He was now Jaime the student, hungry for knowledge. He knocked three times, a sharp, polite rap.

The door creaked open. Maester Creylen stood there, a stooped figure in a loose grey robe. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes, behind the maester's chain that hung from his neck, were clear and sharp. The room behind him smelled of old parchment, dust, and drying herbs—the smell of knowledge itself.

"Ah, young Lord Jaime," Creylen said, a kindly smile touching his lips. "Come in, come in. I was just setting out some texts for you. The history of House Westerling, as you requested."

"Thank you, Maester," Jaime said, slipping back into character. He stepped into the room. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with scrolls and leather-bound tomes. A large Myrish telescope was aimed out one of the windows, and a great worktable in the center of the room was cluttered with maps, astrolabes, and glass vials of colored liquids. It was a paradise for a man who had once taught science.

"My father and I were just speaking," Jaime said as he took the seat that had been prepared for him. "We were discussing the management of the lands."

Creylen's eyes twinkled with interest. "Oh? A most vital topic for a future lord. Far more important than the genealogies of the Andal kings, though that has its place too."

"Indeed," Jaime agreed. "And it set me to thinking. I have been reading of taxes and mine yields, but I realize there is so much I do not know. I don't want to just know the history of lords, Maester. I want to know the history of the smallfolk."

The Maester stroked his wispy beard, his gaze growing sharper. "An unusual field of study for a boy your age. Most of that history is unwritten."

"Then we must begin to write it," Jaime said with a seriousness that made the old man pause. "How much grain do the Westerlands produce in a good year? How much do we need to feed everyone through a long winter? How many children were born in Lannisport last year, and how many of them will learn to read?"

The questions poured out of him, the ones that had been burning in his mind for weeks. The questions of a teacher, a planner, a man who saw society not as a pyramid of power, but as a fragile ecosystem.

"How many septries do we have outside of Casterly Rock? Are the sons of merchants and craftsmen taught their sums? If not, how can they trade fairly? How can they innovate?"

Maester Creylen was staring at him, utterly captivated now. Jaime knew this went beyond the curiosity of a bright child. These were the questions of a statesman.

"My lord," Creylen said softly, "those are very profound questions. The answer to most of them is… 'not enough' or 'none'."

"I know," Jaime said. "And that is what I want to change. But I cannot change anything without facts. I need data. I want you to teach me, Maester. Not just about Aegon the Conqueror. Teach me about crop rotation. Teach me about the sewer systems of the old cities. Teach me about the laws and economy of Braavos. Teach me how to build something that lasts."

He leaned forward, his green eyes flashing with the same intensity he had shown his father, but this time it was driven by passion, not calculation. "My father rebuilt the strength of House Lannister with fear and gold. I will build upon that foundation. I will build our strength with knowledge and prosperity. A strength that will not crumble when the gold runs out or when the fear fades."

For a long time, Maester Creylen just looked at him. The silence in the room was charged with potential, with the weight of history and the promise of the future. Then, the old man smiled, the first genuine smile Jaime had seen since he arrived in this world.

"Then," the Maester said, his voice filled with a new energy, "let us begin your lesson, Lord Jaime. We have a great deal of work to do."

As Maester Creylen turned to retrieve a thick tome on agriculture from a high shelf, Jaime leaned back in his chair. The exhaustion from his performance for his father was fading, replaced by a quiet wave of purpose. The road ahead of him was long and fraught with peril. He would have to navigate his father's ambition, his sister's jealousy, and the deadly politics of the Seven Kingdoms. He would have to wear the mask of the proud lion, perhaps for years, hiding the true soul within.

But here, in this sanctuary of knowledge, he could be a little more himself. Here, he could begin to gather the bricks and mortar for the better world he wanted to build. It would not be easy. It would not happen overnight. But for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cold, grieving world, Steven Evans felt a flicker of hope. He was ready for his lesson.

Chapter Text

The vibration from the hard clash of wood traveled up the practice sword, into his wrist, and exploded into a dull ache in his shoulder. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and sweat plastered his golden hair to his forehead in dark clumps. In his previous life, as Steven Evans, the only combat he had ever known was a fight over the television remote or a heated debate in a school staff meeting. He was a man of chalk dust and textbooks, not steel and bruises.

And yet, this body… this body was different.

Thud. Slide. Parry.

The movements flowed from him with a grace he did not possess. When Ser Benedict Broom, the Master-at-Arms, came in with a high swing, Jaime’s arm was already rising of its own accord, deflecting the blow at a perfect angle. When the knight attempted a low thrust, Jaime’s feet were already moving, pivoting out of range while his own sword dropped to block. It was a strange, terrifying dance. His mind, Steven’s mind, was several steps behind, a stunned spectator inside his own skull, while the seven-year-old body of Jaime Lannister moved with instinct and muscle memory forged since he could walk.

"Enough!" Ser Benedict’s gruff voice broke the rhythm of the fight. The knight lowered his sword, his broad chest heaving. He was a hard-faced man with arms as thick as Jaime’s thighs, but there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes. "The Seven have blessed you, lad. I’ve never seen the like. You move like a shadowcat."

Jaime bent over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his ragged breath. Every inch of him ached, a symphony of protest from muscles pushed beyond their limits. "Thank you, Ser," he gasped, the gratitude genuine. This man, unlike his father, wasn't testing his intellect or judging his worth. He was simply teaching him how to stay alive.

"Don't thank me. Thank your blood," the knight grumbled, but there was a note of pride in his voice. "Now, be off with you. Get some water and rest. Tomorrow we start on the more complex stances."

Jaime nodded, returning the wooden sword to the rack. He walked out of the dusty practice yard, the afternoon sun warm on his sticky skin. The exhaustion felt good, in a strange way. It was a pure, physical fatigue, a welcome distraction from the relentless mental gymnastics that were his new destiny. Here, in the practice yard, he didn't have to think. He just had to move. He could let the ghost of the original Jaime take over, let the boy's instincts guide him.

But the moment he stepped out of the yard and back into the cool stone corridors, the silence returned, and so did Steven.

"Jaime."

The voice was as cold as ice and as sharp as a shard of glass. He froze, every tired muscle in his body tensing. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. There was only one person in the world who could say his name like it was both a possession and an accusation.

He turned slowly. Cersei was standing there, a few paces behind him, her arms crossed over her chest. The light from a high, arched window caught her golden hair, making it seem like a halo around her beautiful, angry face. Her eyes, a mirror of his own, were narrowed into dangerous green slits.

"Cersei," he said, and his voice sounded more nervous than he would have liked. "What is it?"

A soft, contemptuous snort escaped her lips. "I should be asking you, what is it? What is wrong with you?" She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "You're strange. For two months, since… since then, you've been a stranger."

Jaime felt a powerful urge to retreat. For the past two months, he had consciously avoided his twin sister. It was a cowardly act, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Being near her felt… wrong. Deeply wrong. He had watched the television show, yes, but that had been years ago in his old life, a passing entertainment. He'd preferred lighthearted comedies after a long day of teaching. He'd never been a die-hard fan, so many of the details were hazy. But the one thing he remembered with sickening clarity was the nature of the Lannister twins' relationship.

And then, there were the memories. Fragments that weren't his, bubbling up at unexpected moments. A game of hide-and-seek in the dark tunnels beneath the castle. Small hands exploring where they shouldn't. A shared secret that had felt thrilling and forbidden to the children, but felt repulsive and monstrous to the man inside the boy's body. Gods, they were children. The thought made him shudder, a mixture of horror and a guilt that was not his own. So he had avoided her, immersing himself in lessons with Maester Creylen and drills with Ser Benedict, using duty and exhaustion as a shield.

Now, that shield had been shattered.

"I'm not strange," he said weakly.

"You're a liar!" Cersei hissed, her eyes flashing. "You don't seek me out. You don't talk to me. You spend your time with that dusty old maester or swinging sticks in the yard. You didn't even sit beside me at supper last night! You left me alone!" The pain in that last word was so real, so childishly raw, that it pierced his heart.

"Is it because of the Imp?" she asked, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Has that little monster poisoned your mind against me? Because if he has, I'll—"

"Enough!" The word was out of Jaime's mouth before he could stop it, louder than he'd intended. A pair of guards down the corridor glanced in their direction.

The fury on Cersei’s face instantly morphed to shock, then back to a smoldering rage. Before she could scream, Jaime grabbed her arm. The touch sent a strange jolt through him, a mix of familiarity from Jaime’s memory and revulsion from Steven’s soul. "Not here," he snarled. He pulled her, half-dragging her, into a nearby alcove hidden behind a thick tapestry.

Once they were inside the dim, quiet space, he let go of her arm as if he’d touched a hot coal.

"This has nothing to do with Tyrion," he said, his voice calmer now, but firm.

"Then what?" Cersei demanded, rubbing her arm where he had held it.

Jaime took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He couldn't tell her the truth. How could he possibly explain that he was a stranger inside her twin brother's body? He had to find another truth, one she could accept.

"Everything has changed, Cersei," he said quietly. "Mother… Mother is gone." Saying the words felt strange, like reciting a line from a play. "Father is different. Everything is colder now. I… I have to grow up. We both do."

"I don't want to grow up if it means becoming like you!" she shot back. "And don't you dare speak of that monster as if he's anything to us. He killed her. He made everything cold."

"Don't say that," Jaime said, and this time, there was real force in his voice, a strength that came from Steven's conviction. "You must not say that. It isn't true."

"Not true?" Cersei laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "He murdered our mother and he lives!"

"He didn't murder her! He's a baby, Cersei. Babies don't murder anyone. Mother died bringing him into the world. It's a sad, terrible thing, but it's no one's fault." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And you have to stop calling him that. He is our brother. He is our blood. He is… he is all we have left of Mother."

It was a gamble, tying Tyrion to the sacred memory of their mother. He saw something flicker in Cersei's eyes, a confusion, a pain, but it was quickly swallowed by her hatred.

"He is not what's left," she hissed. "He is the price we paid. I hate him. I will always hate him."

Jaime sighed, a profound weariness settling over him, heavier than the fatigue from his sword practice. Arguing with his father was difficult; it was a game of chess. Arguing with Cersei was like trying to reason with a hurricane. Her emotions were so powerful, so absolute, that they left no room for logic.

He had to try another way. The same way he had approached his father. He had to speak the language a Lannister understood. The language of pride and power.

"Fine," he said, his tone shifting, becoming colder, more analytical. "Hate him if you must. Hate him in your chambers. Hate him in your heart. But you must stop showing it to everyone."

Cersei frowned, her arms crossing again. "You can't tell me what to say. And the dwarf deserves it."

"This isn't about what he deserves," Jaime said patiently. "This is about us. This is about House Lannister. Think, Cersei. Every time you call him 'Imp' in front of the servants, they hear. Every time you push him or refuse to sit near him, the knights and the guests see. What do they think?"

"They think I'm right!"

"No," Jaime said, shaking his head. "Some might pity him. Others might think you are cruel. But the other lords, the guests from other Houses who come here… they will see something else. They will see a crack in our House. They will see that Lord Tywin's children hate one another. They will see that the golden heir of Casterly Rock has a malformed brother, a little monster that his own sister is disgusted by."

He saw the line between her brows deepen. He knew he was getting through.

"Do you want them whispering behind our backs? Do you want the Ladies telling their daughters that the beautiful Lannister twins have a stain on their family? That they are not as perfect as they seem?" He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tyrion is a Lannister. He bears our name. Every insult you throw at him, bounces off and hits us, too. His flaw… becomes our flaw if we show it to the world. It becomes a weapon our enemies can use against us."

Cersei snorted, but it lacked its earlier conviction. "Let them try."

"Oh, they won't dare say it to Father's face," Jaime agreed. "But they will whisper it in their own courts. They will laugh at us. They will say, 'Look at the mighty lions, they cannot even keep their own house in order.' Your hatred for Tyrion, Cersei… you are turning it from a family matter into a public weakness. You are handing our enemies an arrow and showing them where the gap in our shield is."

He saw it now. The doubt. It was just a flicker in her green eyes, a brief battle between her burning hatred and her ice-cold pride. Pride was the strongest muscle in any Lannister, and he had just pressed on it, hard.

"So what would you have me do?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Pretend I like him?"

"I am not asking you to like him," Jaime said softly, sensing an opening. "I am asking you to be smart. Ignore him. Treat him like a piece of furniture, if you must. Show the world that a Lannister is not affected by something as trivial as… physical appearance. Show them that our strength is so great we do not even notice his flaws. That is how we win, Cersei. Not by screaming, but by showing cold indifference. It is what Father would do."

Invoking their father was the final blow. He was the standard they both, in their different ways, strove to meet.

Cersei said nothing for a long time. She just stared at the stone floor, her golden hair hiding her expression. The alcove felt quiet and suffocating. Jaime could hear his own heart beating in his ears.

Finally, she looked up. The anger was still in her eyes, but now beneath it was something else, a cold glint of calculation. "You've been doing a lot of thinking lately, brother," she said, her tone flat.

"Someone has to," Jaime replied.

She gave him one last, long, appraising look, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time in two months. Then, without another word, she turned and stepped out of the alcove, the tapestry swinging back into place behind her, leaving Jaime alone in the gloom.

He leaned against the cool stone wall, letting out his breath in a shaky sigh. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. Confronting Cersei, fighting his own revulsion, trying to plant a seed of logic in a ferocious field of emotion. He didn't know if it would work. It probably wouldn't. But he had to try.

…

He stepped out from behind the tapestry, back into the main corridor. The torches on the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows like ancient ghosts. He began to walk, with no clear destination in mind. His feet seemed to have a will of their own, carrying him down familiar hallways, past the portraits of Lannister ancestors who stared down with cold, judgmental, painted eyes. He passed the doors to the high halls, and the passage to the kitchens, from which the faint sounds of clattering pots and shouting cooks could be heard.

He wasn't thinking about where he was going. His mind was still filled with Cersei’s flushed, angry face, the battle between hatred and pride in her eyes. He had planted a seed, an idea of how Lannister pride could be stronger than a child’s hate. But seeds took time to grow, and the soil of Cersei’s heart was rocky and unwelcoming. He could only hope.

Without realizing it, his feet had carried him to a quieter, more private wing of the castle. The air here was warmer, the floors covered with thick tapestries to muffle the sound of footfalls. These were the family quarters, where the public grandeur of Casterly Rock softened slightly into something resembling a home. And here, at the end of the corridor, was the door that had been his subconscious destination.

The nursery door.

He stopped before it. It was slightly ajar, allowing a soft sliver of light from within to spill onto the darker stone floor. The low, monotonous sound of humming came from inside, a lullaby sung in a low key by a wet nurse. For the past two months, since he had woken in this strange world, he had found himself drawn to this door. Usually at night, when the rest of the castle was asleep and he couldn't quiet his own mind. He would stand outside, listening to the sound of a baby’s steady breathing, and feel a strange sort of peace. It was the only place in this vast, cold fortress that didn't feel weighed down by history or ambition.

Tonight was different. After his conversation with Cersei, he felt the need to see him. To remind himself why he was fighting this seemingly impossible battle.

He pushed the door gently. It swung open silently on its well-oiled hinges. The room was warm and cozy, heated by a low-burning fire in the hearth. A stout woman in a simple wool dress sat in a rocking chair near the fire, humming her tune as she mended a tear in a small shirt. She was one of several nurses assigned to the babe. She looked up as Jaime entered, her eyes widening in surprise and a little fear to see the heir of Casterly Rock standing in her doorway.

Jaime put a single finger to his lips, a gesture for silence. The woman nodded quickly, her eyes dropping, and returned her focus to her sewing, though her fingers seemed to tremble slightly now. Jaime ignored her. His attention was on the carved wooden crib that sat in the center of the room.

He approached with slow steps, his soft leather boots making no sound on the rug. He peered over the edge of the crib.

There, swaddled in soft wool blankets, Tyrion was asleep.

Even in the gentle firelight, the differences were obvious. His head seemed too large for his small body, his brow prominent. His legs, bundled in the blankets, looked shorter and more crooked than they should be. His hands, fisted near his face, were plump and stubby, his fingers short. This was not the perfect, golden babe that was expected of House Lannister. This was something else, something broken, by the standards of this world.

But beneath all that, he was just a baby. His small face scrunched up in his sleep, as if he were dreaming of something confusing. His lips twitched, making a small bubble of drool. His tiny chest rose and fell with the steady, peaceful rhythm of his breathing.

Jaime felt a tightness in his own chest. He reached out a hand, hesitated for a second, then gently laid the tip of his finger on the baby’s cheek.

The skin was warm. Impossibly soft and warm, full of fragile life.

The touch was like a lightning strike into a past that wasn't his, yet felt more real than the stone beneath his feet. Suddenly, he wasn't in Casterly Rock. He was in a bright, modern living room, the smell of freshly baked cookies in the air. He was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. His nephew, Michael. He could feel the solid weight of him in his arms, smell that distinct, sweet baby smell, a mixture of milk and powder. He remembered how Michael’s tiny fingers had gripped his own with surprising strength, how the baby’s blue eyes had looked up at him with absolute, unquestioning trust. Michael didn't care if Steven had had a bad day at work, or if he was feeling lonely. He just knew that this was a warm hand, this was a soothing voice, this was safety.

A sharp, painful wave of longing stabbed Steven so deeply he almost gasped. He missed his world. He missed the simple things: a cup of coffee in the morning, the laughter of his students, the sound of traffic outside his apartment window. He missed a life where his biggest problems were test scores and school budgets, not dynastic hatred and the threat of war.

He pulled his hand back from Tyrion’s cheek, but the warmth lingered on his fingertips. He looked down at his sleeping brother, and a different wave of sadness washed over him. A sadness for this child.

He could understand, on the most basic, childish level, why Cersei hated Tyrion. To a seven-year-old, the world was a simple place of direct cause and effect. Their mother went into the birthing chamber to have this baby, and she never came out. In the mind of a grieving, confused child, it was easy to draw a straight line between Tyrion’s arrival and their mother’s departure. It was a flawed, cruel logic, but it was a child's logic. Perhaps, with time and guidance, Cersei could be made to see beyond it.

What he couldn't understand, what truly horrified him, was how that hatred could persist and harden into something so cold and permanent in an adult. In the future Cersei he remembered from the show. And even worse, in his father.

Tywin Lannister was a man of pragmatism to his very core. He was a cold strategist who viewed the world as a giant cyvasse board. Emotion was a weakness to be exploited in others and eliminated in oneself. And yet, in the case of Tyrion, all his logic and pragmatism seemed to evaporate.

How could a man like Tywin not see the simple truth? That this baby was helpless. That he had no malice. That he did not "murder" anyone. The difficult birth was a medical tragedy, a stroke of terrible luck, not an act of aggression. Could not the most logical of minds grasp that?

Steven looked at Tyrion's sleeping face, and the answer began to form in his mind, cold and terrible. The adult Tywin and Cersei didn't hate Tyrion for what he did. They hated him for what he was .

To them, Tyrion was a symbol. He was the physical embodiment of imperfection. In a family that built its entire identity on an image of golden perfection—of beauty, wealth, and strength—Tyrion was a stain that could not be washed away. He was a walking, breathing reminder that even the lions of Casterly Rock were not immune to the cruel whims of fate.

And for Tywin, it must have been even worse. Tyrion wasn't just a blemish on his legacy; he was the eternal reminder of his greatest loss. Every time Tywin looked at his dwarf son, he didn't see a child. He saw the price he had paid for Joanna's death. He saw the one time in his life when he had been truly powerless, when all his gold and all his armies could not save the woman he loved. Tywin's hatred for Tyrion wasn't the hatred for a murderer. It was the hatred for a mirror that reflected his own failure and grief.

They had turned an innocent baby into a vessel for all their pain, their anger, and their disappointment. They had condemned him before he could commit his first sin.

He leaned over the crib, so close he could feel the warmth of Tyrion’s breath on his cheek. The room was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the near-silent scrape of the nurse’s needle. The entire cold, ambitious world of Casterly Rock felt a universe away. Here, in this soft circle of light, there were just the two of them. Two souls, stranded in the wrong place.

He whispered the words, so quietly that not even the nurse could hear. They were meant more for himself than for the sleeping baby.

"I'm here," he breathed into the tiny ear. "Don't be afraid."

It was a simple whisper, the words of comfort any brother might offer.

But in the silence of his own heart, it felt like something far greater. It felt like an oath. A promise. A promise from Jaime to Tyrion Lannister. A promise that for as long as he drew breath in this body, this child would never be alone. He would be his shield, his voice, and if it came to it, his sword.

Chapter Text

JAIME

Lannisport was a symphony of ordered chaos. The smell of salt and fish from the harbor mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the bakeries and the sharper tang of the stables. The shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the groan of cart wheels over cobblestones created a relentless soundtrack to the city’s life. And yet, amid this bustle, there were pockets of silence.

One of them was the Sept of Lannisport.

The moment Jaime stepped over the intricately carved threshold, the sounds of the city seemed to fade away, replaced by a solemn, echoing quiet. The air inside was cool and smelled of cold stone, long-burnt incense, and wax. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through seven massive stained-glass windows, each depicting one of the aspects of the Seven, casting a tapestry of color across the polished marble floor. The Father was bearded and judgmental, the Mother smiled with mercy, the Warrior raised his sword, and so on. It was a place designed to make mortals feel small and the gods feel near.

Behind him, standing as still as a statue, was Jon, a household knight assigned as his guard for today’s journey. He was a quiet, dependable man, whose presence was more reassuring than a hundred chattering guards.

Jaime walked down the main aisle, his boots making soft, rhythmic taps that echoed in the vaulted ceiling. In his previous life, Steven Evans had not been the most faithful of men. Sure, he believed in the existence of God, a greater power that governed the universe. But for him, it was an accepted fact, like gravity or photosynthesis. He felt no need to attend church every week or recite memorized prayers.

His philosophy was simple: as long as he did good, God would be pleased, right? An omnipotent and omniscient being couldn't possibly have an ego so fragile that it required constant adoration. Steven felt that God didn't need worship. He just wanted humanity to do the job He had given them: to do good unto all things, to be keepers of their fellow man, and to leave the world in a slightly better state than they found it.

But Steven Evans was in a different world now. He felt so lonely, his old friends gone.

So, now, he came here. Not out of habit or duty, but out of a genuine need. He felt like a sailor stranded on an endless ocean, searching for a lighthouse in the dark. Perhaps, if he was sincere enough, if he truly opened his heart to the gods of this world, he would get a hint. A sign. A dream. Anything to tell him he was not alone in this madness.

He stopped before the altar of the Father, whose face was carved from white marble with an expression of stern justice. He knelt on the plush velvet kneeler, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together. He did not recite the standard prayers. Instead, he spoke from his heart, a silent whisper meant only for the gods.

I hope my family back there is always healthy, may they be happy, and let Michael grow up healthy.

I do not know what I was sent here for, but I hope I can do something good. So for that, could you please give me a sign? What should I do?

He remained kneeling there for a long time, letting the silence of the sept wash over him. There was no celestial voice, no divine vision. Just the quiet of stone and colored glass. And yet, when he finally rose, he felt a little lighter. The burden was still there, but his shoulders felt a little stronger to bear it.

He walked over to an alms box set into a nearby pillar, an iron-banded oak box with a narrow slit in the top. He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a gold coin. A Golden Dragon. It was a staggering sum, enough to feed a family for a month in decent comfort. Without hesitation, he pushed it through the slit. The clink of it falling onto the pile of other coins below sounded impossibly loud in the quiet sept.

"A generous offering, young lord."

Jaime turned. Septon Orland was standing there, an old man with thinning white hair and a gentle smile that seemed etched into his wrinkled face. He was the head of this sept, a man known for his piety and kindness.

"The gods have given my House much, Septon," Jaime replied. "It is only right to give a small piece back."

The Septon nodded, his pale blue eyes full of sympathy. "You have been a frequent visitor of late, my lord. It warms my heart. I am sure your lady mother rests easy in the Mother's arms, seeing her son's devotion."

"I can only pray," Jaime said, and he let a genuine smile touch his lips, for a part of his words was true. He did pray for the woman he only knew through a child's memories, which were themselves being suppressed by the thirty-year-old soul of Steven. He felt a sorrow for the original Jaime's loss, a strange empathy for the boy whose body he was borrowing. "Septon," he asked, turning the conversation in the direction he had planned, "if we do good, the Seven will be pleased, will they not? And will they make our path easier?"

"Of course, my lord," Septon Orland replied warmly, his eyes twinkling. "The Seven are seven aspects of one divinity, and each aspect values virtue. The Mother smiles on acts of mercy, the Smith values honest labor, the Father judges us by the justice we show to others. By living piously and performing good deeds, we not only ensure our place in the heavens, but we also bring the blessings of the gods into our lives in this world. The path of the righteous may not always be easy, but its light will never be extinguished."

It was the expected answer, a comforting and orthodox one. It was the kind of answer any priest in any world would give.

Jaime sighed, as if contemplating a deep theological problem. "That is a relief to hear. And yet, something has been troubling me. Since I began spending more time in Lannisport, I listen to the common folk talk in the markets and on the docks. To many of them, the Father, the Mother, the Warrior… they are not just different aspects. They are different gods. A sellsword will swear by the Warrior, as if the Mother has no care for the life he takes. They splinter the unity of the Seven."

He paused, looking at the Septon with an expression of sincere concern. "It troubles me, and I was thinking, perhaps it is also due to a lack of media that can enlighten their thinking. They cannot read the Seven-Pointed Star. They only hear the stories passed down, which may have changed over time."

Septon Orland nodded slowly, his expression growing serious. "You have a keen eye and a sharp ear, young lord. It is a problem the Faith has long wrestled with. The faith of the smallfolk is often simple, sometimes to the point of superstition. They understand the gods through the lens of their immediate needs."

"But does that not weaken the true faith?" Jaime pressed gently. "Does it not make them more vulnerable to heresies or the influence of foreign gods?"

"It does," the Septon admitted with a weary sigh. "But the solution is not easy. Our holy books are difficult to duplicate. Each copy of the Seven-Pointed Star takes a learned brother months, even years, to copy by hand onto expensive vellum. It requires a great deal of manpower. And finding men who can read and write well, and who are willing to dedicate their lives to such a painstaking task, is no simple thing."

"I understand," Jaime said, "but what if there were more men who could read and write?"

The Septon frowned. "That would be a blessing, of course, but…"

"Think on it, Septon," Jaime continued, his voice filled with a genuine-seeming passion. "Right now, only the nobility and the maesters are truly learned. But what of the classes just below? The merchants, the master craftsmen, even the clerks who work for them. They are the backbone of this city. They deal with numbers, contracts, and bills of lading every day. They have a need for literacy, and many of them must surely have the wit for it."

He gestured around at the grand, stained-glass windows. "What if, just if, there was a place in Lannisport where the sons of these men could learn? A school. Not to become maesters or lords, but just to learn to read the words, to write their names, and to properly sum their figures. Would that not be a great good?"

Septon Orland's eyes widened as he began to grasp the implication.

"It would improve their trade, of course," Jaime continued, anticipating the next argument. "A merchant who can read his own contracts is less likely to be cheated. A craftsman who can read an order will make fewer mistakes. It would make the entire city more prosperous. And a more prosperous city means larger offerings for the sept, does it not?"

"But more than that," he said, his voice softening again, returning to his original theme. "If more people could read, then there would be more people who could read the Seven-Pointed Star and also copy it. The Faith would no longer be something they only hear from a Septon once a week. It would be something they could hold in their own hands. They would read of the unity of the Seven for themselves. Their faith would become deeper, more personal, and truer. You would have more candidates for septons. You would have a populace that is not only richer, but more pious."

He paused, letting the picture form in the old man's mind. A better, richer, holier city.

Septon Orland stared at him, utterly speechless for a moment. His gentle smile was gone, replaced by an expression of profound awe. "My lord," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "That… that is the most sensible and most noble idea I have heard in a very long time. A school… for the common folk…" He seemed to be tasting the words. "Of course, there would be challenges. Finding teachers, the funding…"

"The funding can be found," Jaime said with quiet confidence. "And teachers… That is simple, perhaps there are some of the learned brothers who would see this as a holy calling. For now, it is just an idea. A prayer, perhaps."

"A most powerful prayer," the Septon said, his eyes misting over. "The Seven truly work through you, young Lord Jaime."

Jaime just smiled. If they knew the strange truth, they might think otherwise.

He took his leave of the now-energized Septon and walked back down the main aisle. As he stepped out of the great sept doors, back into the sunlight and the noise of Lannisport,

"Jon," he called, and the knight was instantly at his side. "We're going home."

As they walked across the square before the sept, a great flock of pigeons that had been pecking at crumbs on the stones was startled by their approach. With a unified thunder of wings, they took to the air, circling over Jaime's head in a grey and white cloud before scattering to the four corners of the city.

Jaime stopped for a moment to watch them fly, they looked so free, and it was a joy to see.

Chapter Text

The journey had been long and tedious, a tour of the grandeur and oddities of the Seven Kingdoms. Oberyn had gazed at the stars from the towers of Starfall, tasted the sweetest wine in the Arbor, inhaled the dust of ancient manuscripts in Oldtown, and felt the salt spray on his face as he sailed past the Shield Islands and Crakehall. Every castle had its own soul, every lord his own particular brand of pride. But nothing had prepared him for Casterly Rock.

The stories did not lie, but neither could they capture the truth of it. Casterly Rock was not a castle built upon a mountain; it was a mountain that had been forced to become a castle. It was an act of conquest against nature itself, a monument of petrified arrogance and cold strength.

Their welcome, like the castle itself, was impressive and without warmth. Lord Tywin Lannister was a man who seemed carved from the same material as his home—hard, uncompromising, and with a cold glint of authority in his eyes. The small feast they had prepared was perfect. Every dish was served with precision, the wine was among the finest Oberyn had ever tasted, and the conversation was painfully polite.

And now, a day after their arrival, they were enduring another performance, a private tour of some of the castle's more hospitable sections, guided by his sister's potential husband.

Watching Jaime Lannister walk ahead of them, Oberyn couldn't suppress the amused smile that kept pulling at the corners of his lips. The boy was a miniature copy of his father in coloring, his hair shining like a newly minted golden dragon, his eyes as green as emeralds. But that was where the resemblance ended. He was small, his steps still a bit unsteady as he navigated the uneven stone paths of the garden. His cheeks still had that characteristic childish plumpness, the kind that aunts and nurses yearned to pinch.

And this little man, the future lord of all this wealth and power, was the one proposed for his sister, Elia. Graceful, kind Elia, who was already a young woman. It was a cosmic joke, a political absurdity that could only happen in Westeros. Oberyn knew that marriages between older women and younger lords were not unheard of, but to see the contrast so starkly in person was deeply amusing.

"So," Elia finally spoke, her soft, melodic voice breaking the comfortable silence between them. She had been quiet for most of the tour, observing everything with her characteristic tranquility. "What do you often do each day, Lord Jaime?"

The boy turned. They had reached a secluded garden courtyard, a pocket of green hidden within the massive stone fortress. An oak tree provided dappled shade over beds of roses and lavender. "Sword practice," he answered, his voice clear and without hesitation. "Reading, visiting Lannisport, or playing with Tyrion."

Oberyn raised an eyebrow at that last part. Ah, yes. The Imp. Since their arrival, whispers about Lord Tywin's second son had crept through their retinue like snakes among the rocks. The Lannister servants and guards never spoke his name. It was always "the dwarf," "the Imp," or, in crueler whispers, "the monster." Wild rumors had reached beyond the Westerlands—of a babe born twisted and malformed, with a tail, claws, and demonic red eyes. The truth, as always, was likely far more boring, but Oberyn found himself hoping, just a little, that the rumors were true. Life was too often dull; a real monster would be a welcome sight.

However, the way Jaime Lannister said the name "Tyrion" so casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, like mentioning the weather, ruined that entertaining fantasy. Clearly, the tales of a demon babe were just that—tales. It was a disappointment. A small one.

"You like to read?" Oberyn interjected, his curiosity piqued. "I would have thought your head was full of nothing but swordplay." Since his arrival, the only time he had seen the boy show any passion was in the practice yard that morning. He had watched from above, seeing the boy move with a speed and precision unnatural for his age, his eyes focused on the wooden sword as if it were the rarest gem in the world.

Jaime looked at him, his green gaze steady and unafraid. "To be a master swordsman requires tactics, and tactics come from a clever mind. Therefore, one must study a great deal."

This child was truly a prodigy. Oberyn had to suppress a snort. The words sounded like something memorized, a maxim drilled into his head by his father or a maester.

"Perhaps you could come to Oldtown then," Elia said kindly, trying to ease the tension her brother had created. "You would find many books there."

"Of course, one day I will travel," Jaime smiled at Elia, and it was the first genuine smile Oberyn had seen from him, briefly transforming his serious face into that of a boy. "But I still have many books here, and they won't be finished in ten years' time."

"By then you will surely be married," Oberyn said lightly, glancing at Elia with a teasing smirk. Elia's expression didn't change, but Oberyn, who knew her better than anyone, saw the slight twitch at the corner of her eye. Ah, teasing his sister was one of life's simple pleasures.

"If fate wills it," Jaime said quietly. He showed no excitement or embarrassment, just a resigned acceptance. This boy was wrapped in gold and trained courtesy.

They reached a stone bench in the shade of the oak tree, and Jaime gestured for them to sit. Oberyn deliberately sat in the middle, with Elia on one side and her tiny potential husband on the other. The distance between them felt vast.

"So, tell me," Oberyn decided to dig deeper, casting aside the pleasantries. Their mission here was a formality, of course; the betrothal would be decided by his mother and Lord Tywin in private meetings. But if Elia was truly to be bound to this House, Oberyn wanted to know what kind of foundation she would be standing on. "What do you want in the future?"

Jaime looked at him, his green eyes clear and focused. "As an heir, of course I want to make Casterly Rock prosperous. And you, what do you desire?"

A classic answer, straight to the point, and immediately turning the question back. Oberyn gave him a point for that.

"Me?" Oberyn laughed, leaning back against the cool stone. "I want to see the world. All of it. I want to drink wine in the Summer Isles, fight in the pits of Meereen, study poisons in Asshai, and bed the most beautiful women in every city in between. The world is too large to sit in one chair, no matter how golden that chair may be."

Elia smiled softly at her brother's outburst. "And I," she said, her voice as calm as the water in a garden pool, "I want to see my people happy and healthy. I want to see the gardens bloom, and children play without fear. Peace is a prize more precious than any victory."

Two very different philosophies, the fire and water of House Martell. Oberyn looked at Jaime, expecting confusion or incomprehension on the boy's face. Instead, he saw the gears turning behind those green eyes.

"Those are noble wishes," Jaime said, first to Elia, with a tone of sincere respect. Then he turned to Oberyn. "And your travels, Prince Oberyn, they have their purpose as well. Travel is a way to learn the weaknesses of enemies and the strengths of allies. The knowledge you gain from distant cities could strengthen Dorne in a way no army could."

Oberyn stopped smiling. The boy had taken his wild, selfish passion for adventure and turned it into a strategic asset. He had taken his lust for life and framed it in the language of power.

"And your gardens, Princess Elia," Jaime continued, his voice softening as he spoke to her. "A garden needs more than hope to grow. It needs water, good soil, and protection from storms. Peace does not simply happen; it must be built and defended. It needs strong walls and vigilant guards on those walls."

Oberyn stared at him, truly studying him now. This wasn't rote memorization. It couldn't be.

"You speak of walls and tactics," Oberyn said, his voice a little sharper now. "But what binds a kingdom? What makes the people follow a lord? Is it the walls? Or something else?"

"Some would say it is fear," Jaime answered instantly, and Oberyn knew he was quoting his father. "Others would say it is love. I think both are wrong."

"Oh?" Oberyn leaned forward, genuinely intrigued now. The amusement of the situation had faded, replaced by sincere curiosity. "Then what is it, little lord?"

"Interest," Jaime said with chilling simplicity. "A farmer does not follow a lord because he fears his sword or because he loves his banner. He follows him because the lord protects him from bandits, ensures he has enough food to survive the winter, and provides a just court if his neighbor steals his cow. If a lord serves his people's interests, his people will serve him. Loyalty is not an emotion; it is a transaction."

A silence fell over them in the garden. Elia was looking at Jaime with a soft expression of astonishment. Oberyn felt as if his entire world had tilted slightly. He had debated maesters, but he had never heard a boy whose feet couldn't even touch the ground from the bench he sat on speak like this.

"A transaction," Oberyn repeated slowly. "So, to you, ruling is like being a merchant?"

"It is the most complex form of trade," Jaime corrected. "You do not trade silk for spices. You trade security for service. Prosperity for taxes. Justice for obedience. A good lord is a good merchant. He ensures both sides get fair value in the exchange. A tyrant is a bad merchant. He demands too high a price for shoddy goods, and eventually, his customers will go to another shop, or burn his to the ground."

Oberyn leaned back, a real, unforced laugh bubbling out of him. It startled Elia and seemed to surprise Jaime as well. "By the seven hells," he said, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "You are the most interesting Lannister I have ever met, and I have only been here for a day."

The boy didn't blush or look proud. He just gave a slight nod, as if it were a logical observation.

Oberyn glanced at his sister. Elia's face was thoughtful, a small frown between her brows.

Oberyn's initial amusement had completely evaporated. The joke of this betrothal suddenly felt far more complicated. Marrying Elia to a boy was one thing. Marrying her to… this… was something else entirely.

He had come to Casterly Rock expecting gold, arrogance, and perhaps a funny little monster in the dungeons. Instead, he had found this—a child who spoke with the logic of a maester and dreamed of swords like a hero from the songs.

"You know, young Lord Jaime," Oberyn said, his tone more serious now. "I am beginning to think a visit to Oldtown will not be enough for you. You may have to see the whole world, just as I plan to. If only to see if your theories on trade hold true everywhere."

Suddenly, something shifted. The mask of the serious little man cracked and fell away, replaced by something entirely unexpected: the bright, genuine grin of a young boy. His green eyes, which had been so sharp and analytical, now sparkled with a pure, unadulterated light.

"You first, Prince Oberyn, and perhaps I will follow later," Jaime said, his voice filled with a cheerfulness that had been entirely absent before. "I haven't even passed my tenth nameday."

Then, with a completely new energy, he leaned forward on the bench, closing the distance between them. His small face was filled with genuine curiosity. "Now, tell me about the experiences you've had on your way here," he whispered conspiratorially, as if they were schoolmates sharing a secret. "I'm sure there were many interesting ones."

Oberyn grinned broadly. This boy… he was like a cyvasse player, able to change his entire strategy in a single move. A moment ago, he was a cold philosopher. Now, he was an eager boy wanting to hear tales of adventure. And Oberyn, if there was one thing he loved almost as much as the adventure itself, it was recounting it.

"Interesting?" Oberyn repeated, his voice once again filled with theatrical bravado. "My friend, you don't know the half of it. Before we sailed past boring Crakehall, we stopped in Oldtown. Elia dragged me to the Citadel, of course, the dullest place in Westeros. But at night…" He leaned in, too, lowering his voice. "At night, in the taverns near the port, you can find sailors from the Summer Isles with skin as black as obsidian and warriors from Lys with silver hair and purple eyes. I had a drinking contest with a Braavosi captain who swore he once saw a kraken pull a ship to the bottom."

Jaime's eyebrows shot up. "Truly?"

"Of course not," Oberyn laughed. "The man was a liar and a cheat, but the stories were good! And the wine there… a red from the Arbor so sweet it could make a Septon throw off his robes and dance on a table."

"Oberyn," Elia chided gently, but there was an amused smile on her lips.

"Only speaking the truth, sweet sister," Oberyn said. "At Starfall, the seat of House Dayne, the towers are made of a pale stone that seems to drink the starlight. They have a sword there, called Dawn, that they say was forged from the heart of a fallen star. I ached to hold it, but they are very possessive of the thing."

The conversation flowed easily after that, fueled by Jaime's eager questions and Oberyn's exaggerated tales. Elia would occasionally interject to provide a more accurate detail or to gently correct her brother.

But as he spoke, Oberyn kept watching the boy. He saw how Jaime's eyes never left his face, how he absorbed every detail, how he asked follow-up questions in the sunlight.

…

Night in Casterly Rock had a different kind of silence. It was not the peaceful quiet of the water gardens of Sunspear, filled with the soft rustle of palm fronds and the whispers of lovers. It was the heavy, dense silence of uncountable tons of stone, the silence of a gilded tomb pressing in from all sides. In their lavish guest chambers, a roaring fire in the massive hearth seemed to fight a losing battle against the chill that clung to the air.

Oberyn lounged in a velvet-upholstered armchair, swirling a goblet of dark red wine in his hand. The firelight danced on the surface of the liquid, making it look like blood and shadow. Across the room, Elia sat near a window, a book open in her lap, though Oberyn could tell from her distant gaze that she was not reading. And between them, in the chair closest to the fire, sat their mother, the Princess Martell, ruler of Dorne. She was still, her long, slender fingers tapping softly on the arm of her chair, her dark, intelligent eyes staring into the fire, as if reading fates in the flames.

This was their ritual. After a day of pleasantries, forced smiles, and careful observation, they would gather. Here, in the privacy of their rooms, the masks came off. Here, they were not polite ambassadors. They were analysts.

"The boy is interesting enough," Oberyn began, breaking the comfortable silence. He took a sip of his wine, letting the rich, fruity taste coat his tongue. "He acts like a grown man, yet some of his words hit their mark."

His mother turned from the fire, her gaze shifting to him. Their mother possessed neither Elia's delicate beauty nor Oberyn's sharp good looks. Her beauty was in her intelligence, in the aura of calm authority that radiated from her. "He must get that from his father," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "Children, especially boys, always want to be like their fathers. The father is the first thing they will observe and imitate. Lord Tywin is a man who values intelligence and strategy. Of course his son would strive to emulate those traits."

It was a logical explanation, a politician's explanation. Oberyn could see the truth in it. The boy's philosophy of "transactions" sounded like something distilled directly from the ruthless teachings of Tywin Lannister.

Elia closed her book gently and joined the conversation. "And yet he lacks Lord Tywin's coldness," she said, her voice melodic. "At least, not entirely. He jests from time to time, and there is still a boyishness there. Did you not see how his eyes lit up when you spoke of the pirates in the Stepstones, Oberyn? That was not a young lord. That was a boy who wanted to hear a story of adventure."

"He's a combination of his mother then," the Princess Martell said with a faint smile, a rare expression that softened her face in the candlelight. "She was a kind woman, with a warmth that could melt even the ice in her husband. She was intelligent, but her kindness was what stood out most."

"Perhaps so, if your description is to be believed, Mother," Elia nodded. She paused, her expression growing more serious. "But while Jaime's nature is thus, his twin's, Cersei, is very different. I only spoke with her briefly this afternoon when the Septas had us embroidering together. But I could see a great deal of pride in such a small child, and she seems to look down on everyone."

Oberyn snorted softly into his cup. "You only just noticed? The girl walks as if she has a right to the very air we breathe."

Elia shot him a chiding look before turning back to their mother. "She asked me of Sunspear. But not out of curiosity. She asked as if she were interrogating a servant. 'Is it true your castles are made of mud?' 'Is it true you let the smallfolk walk barefoot in your gardens?' Every question was layered with contempt."

Their mother nodded slowly, unsurprised. "Great power breeds such traits, depending on whether one can suppress them or not. The girl has been raised at the top of the world, inside this mountain of gold. She has known nothing but wealth and the highest station. Pride is the air she breathes. Though I doubt the girl can suppress it," she said that last sentence like a certainty, a final judgment that had been passed.

"She needs to see the world," Oberyn said, rolling his eyes. Cersei Lannister was beautiful, no doubt. A perfect porcelain face, the same golden hair as her brother. But her eyes… those sharp green eyes were cold and devoid of any warmth. They did not see other people; they only judged them, looking for flaws and weaknesses. It was a boring kind of beauty to Oberyn. He had seen it a hundred times. It was an untested beauty, an arrogance born of ignorance.

Their mother gave a soft chuckle, a sound as dry as autumn leaves. "She is certainly not ready." She paused, her gaze growing sharper as she looked at both her children. "But we are not here to judge the characters of children for our own amusement. We are here for a purpose. So, tell me. Forget the girl for a moment. What of the boy, Jaime? Would he make a good husband for you, Elia? Would he be a strong ally for Dorne?"

The question hung in the air, shifting the mood from casual chat to strategic analysis.

Elia was the first to answer, choosing her words with care. "He is intelligent," she said. "And he seems to have a good heart beneath all his father's teachings. He spoke of his brother, Tyrion, with genuine affection. He is not cruel. I believe he will be an honorable man."

Honorable. The word tasted bland in Oberyn's mouth. Honor was a luxury rulers could seldom afford.

"Honor does not win wars, Elia," Oberyn said. "But his intelligence… that is a different weapon. He listens. I noticed that. When we spoke, he wasn't just waiting for his turn to speak. He was truly listening, processing, analyzing. He sees the world as a board, a puzzle to be solved. That makes him dangerous. And that makes him valuable."

"So you approve of this match?" his mother asked, her eyes fixed on him.

Oberyn shrugged, swirling the wine in his cup again. "It is a plausible move. Uniting the wealth of the Lannisters with the strength of Dorne… it would create a bloc that would make even the Targaryens think twice. The question is not whether it is a clever move. The question is, can we trust them?"

"We can never truly trust anyone outside of Dorne," their mother said quietly. "But we can trust their interests. Lord Tywin's interest is to see his House remain at the apex of power. And for now, our interests may align."

"And what of the boy?" Oberyn pressed. "He speaks of loyalty as a transaction. Do you trust in such a loyalty, Mother?"

"I trust in a loyalty I can understand," she answered. "I would rather have a loyalty born of mutual interest than one born of blind sentiment. Sentiment can change. Self-interest is far more constant." She looked at Oberyn, then at Elia. "The boy is more than a reflection of his father. There is something else there. I saw it at supper. The way he watches everyone, even when he is not speaking. He is not just a child mimicking; he is a player who has already learned the game. That makes him predictable, to a degree. And it makes him an ally we can manage. Whatever the final outcome of our visit, it will be important to remain on good terms with him."

Chapter Text

OBERYN

The morning air in the Westerlands had a sharp chill to it. Here, in the vast training yard of Casterly Rock, it felt clean and refreshing, carrying the faint scent of salt from the unseen sea and the damp smell of the castle's ancient stones. For Oberyn, it was a pleasant diversion.

The blunted tip of his practice spear danced through the air, a threatening blur of wood. Before him, a small figure in gold and red moved with unnatural speed.

Jaime Lannister.

The boy dodged, his wooden sword rising in a perfect defensive stance. His skill was undeniable. The sword moved with speed and precision, not like a toy in a child's hand, but as if it were a natural extension of his arm. His movements were economical, every step with purpose, every parry calculated. Oberyn had seen grown knights with years of training who lacked this innate grace.

This was their fifth day at Casterly Rock, and for the third time, he found himself in this yard in the morning, engaged in a strange war game with a seven-year-old. The first session had been a formality proposed by the Master-at-Arms. The second and third were at Jaime’s own request, a request delivered with formal politeness but with a spark of eagerness in his eyes that Oberyn could not refuse.

And if he was honest, he was enjoying it.

Of course, it was no challenge. With the advantages of age, height, and years of experience, Oberyn could evade the boy’s every attack as easily as breathing. He moved around Jaime, his spear a fluid barrier, occasionally jabbing quickly only to pull back before it landed, forcing the boy to react. The child might be a prodigy, but he still needed more reach, more strength, and more time. Time would grant him all of that.

"You're too stiff in the shoulders," Oberyn said lightly, leaping back as Jaime's sword cut through the air where he had been a moment before. "You think like a Westerosi knight. Strong slashes, straight thrusts. A sword can dance. Let it dance."

Jaime didn't answer, too focused on catching his breath. His face was flushed with exertion, but his green eyes never wavered, constantly watching, searching for an opening.

Oberyn grinned. He decided it was time to end this game. He let Jaime advance, baiting him with a slow movement of his spear. The boy took the bait, lunging forward with a quick, direct thrust aimed at the chest.

It was a good move. Fast and committed. Against a slower opponent, it might have worked.

But Oberyn was not slow.

At the last possible second, he pivoted, letting the tip of the wooden sword pass harmlessly by his side. Jaime’s momentum carried him a fraction too far forward. And there was the opening.

Oberyn struck with the butt of his spear, a short, sharp jab to the small wooden shield strapped to Jaime’s arm. The boy blocked it, but his whole body shuddered slightly from the impact of the much stronger blow. It was the jolt he needed. Jaime’s balance wavered for an instant.

Then Oberyn made his move.

He saw the wide-open gap on the boy's right side. With a deft flick of his wrist, he spun the spear, its blunted tip whipping around in a fast, inescapable arc. He aimed not with the strength to injure, but with the precision to end it.

Thwack!

The sound of wood hitting flesh and soft bone was sickening. The spear connected with Jaime’s ribs, just below his raised arm. Oberyn could see the pain flash across the boy’s cherubic face, his eyes widening in shock and his breath rushing out in a hiss. He stumbled sideways, landing hard in the dust of the practice yard, his sword falling from his grasp.

Oberyn lowered his spear, expecting tears or perhaps an outburst of frustrated anger. He got neither.

Jaime gasped for a few moments, curled in on himself. Then, slowly, he rolled onto his back. He stared up at the pale blue sky of the Westerlands, and then he did the last thing Oberyn expected.

He laughed.

It wasn't a small chuckle, but a real, unrestrained boy's laugh, echoing in the quiet yard. He threw a hand up towards the sky as if trying to catch a cloud.

"Alright, alright," he said between his still-panting breaths. "I yield."

Oberyn couldn't help but smile. This child was full of surprises. He walked over and offered his hand. "Up you get."

Jaime took his hand, and Oberyn helped him to his feet. He was light, as a lean boy should be, and he swayed a little as he stood, one hand pressed to his side.

"You have skill, Prince Oberyn," Jaime said, a tired smile on his dirty face. There was no trace of resentment in his voice, only sincere admiration and the joy of a good fight. "I have been analyzing you for a while now, but it seems my skills are not yet enough to compensate."

Analyzing me. Oberyn almost laughed again. A seven-year-old talking about analyzing his fighting style as if it were a mathematics problem. "Take it easy," he said, clapping the boy gently on the shoulder. "Wait a while and you will be taller. You will be stronger. By then, your skills will have improved, and you will be a real threat."

"I will ask for your advice along the way," Jaime nodded, the smile still there, bright and genuine. "May I send a raven later to ask a few things?"

"Of course, who would forbid it?" Oberyn replied as they walked to the edge of the practice yard and sat on a cool stone bench.

And with that last sentence, Oberyn understood.

This wasn't just about sparring. It had never been just about sparring. The boy didn't need his advice on how to hold a sword; Casterly Rock was full of knights and masters-at-arms who could teach him that. The request to send a raven, the request for "advice"—it was an overture. A boy's way of forging a connection without appearing to be politicking.

The child didn't just want to learn how to fight from him. He wanted to befriend him. Or, more accurately, he wanted to build a bridge between Casterly Rock and Sunspear, a personal line of communication separate from the formal negotiations between their mothers and Lord Tywin.

And honestly, there was no harm in that at all. Quite the opposite. This was a good thing. Having a personal relationship with the future Lord of Casterly Rock… that was a very valuable asset. It was a back door into the Lannister fortress, a channel of communication that could prove very useful in the years to come.

Oberyn grinned, this time to himself. "Send as many ravens as you like," he said. "But I warn you, my replies may take a long time to arrive. I do not like to stay in one place for too long."

"That doesn't matter," Jaime said, his eyes shining. "It just means I'll have more to hear about the places you visit."

"By the way," Oberyn said, his tone as light as possible, as if it were a thought that had just occurred to him. "You keep talking about your brother, Tyrion, but I have yet to meet him. I hear he is quite amusing, may I see him?"

It was a calculated jab, delivered with a smile. He used the word "amusing," a deliberately neutral and innocent word, to see how the boy would react. He had heard the rumors, of course. Who hadn't? The Imp of Casterly Rock. The monster whose birth had killed the beautiful Lady Joanna. He wanted to see if Lannister pride would make the boy show even a flicker of shame. He expected an awkward silence, a change of subject.

Instead, he got something far more interesting.

Jaime's eye twitched. It was an infinitesimal movement, almost imperceptible, a brief tremor in the muscle below his left eye. A momentary crack in his armor of composure. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, swallowed by a soft laugh that sounded like the chime of a small bell.

"Tyrion is indeed amusing," Jaime said, and there was not a trace of hesitation in his voice. There was only warmth, a genuine affection that took Oberyn slightly aback. "His cheeks are so plump they make you want to touch them constantly. His eyes, his eyes are large and beautiful, so full of mirth and life."

Oberyn stared at the boy. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie with the same certainty that he knew the sun rose in the sky. Every whisper he had heard, every averted gaze from the servants when the youngest Lannister's name was mentioned, screamed against this beautiful description. This was not a lie to deceive. This was something else. This was a shield, a declaration. This boy was not just accepting his deformed brother; he was actively creating a beautiful counter-narrative to protect him.

And that, Oberyn realized, was far more fascinating than any gruesome truth.

"So, may I see him?" Oberyn pressed, his grin widening. He wanted to see how far this boy would defend his fortress. "Honestly, your description alone has made me even more curious!"

Without a flicker of hesitation, Jaime nodded. "Of course, why not? Just be sure not to be noisy, Tyrion is usually asleep at this time."

"My lips will be sealed," Oberyn promised, placing a hand over his heart.

They returned their practice weapons to the racks, the dust of the yard still clinging to their clothes. Jaime led the way, stepping out of the bright sunlight and back into the dim labyrinth of stone corridors. This journey felt different from their previous tours. Before, Jaime had shown them places of power and beauty—galleries filled with treasure, balconies with breathtaking views. Now, they walked down corridors that were more private, more hushed. The guards they passed seemed to stiffen slightly as they saw their destination, their gazes flicking from Jaime to Oberyn with a tightly controlled curiosity. Clearly, the wing housing the Imp was not a place guests often visited.

They arrived at an unremarkable wooden door, the same as any other in the corridor. Jaime stopped and turned to Oberyn, placing a finger to his lips with a comically conspiratorial expression. It was such a childish gesture that it momentarily contrasted with the maturity he had shown earlier, reminding Oberyn again just how young his host truly was.

The door opened silently, and they stepped inside. The room was warm and quiet, lit only by the soft light from a window and a small, crackling fire in the hearth. A nurse sitting in the corner of the room looked up at them, but Jaime just gave her a brief, reassuring nod before walking towards a large crib in the center of the room.

Oberyn followed, his heart pounding with a strange anticipation. He felt like an explorer about to discover a new land. They stood side-by-side, two young men from two ends of Westeros, looking down into the crib.

And there he was.

The rumors, it turned out, were not entirely wrong. They were just unimaginative.

The baby in the crib was… disproportionate. His head was too large for his thin neck, pressing into the pillow beneath it. His forehead bulged, and his small face seemed squashed beneath its weight. His legs were short and crooked, and his arms seemed too stubby for his small body. Even in sleep, there was an undeniable aura of incongruity about him. This was not a baby anyone would describe as "beautiful." This was a baby that would make people whisper, that would make septas pray harder.

This was the cold, undeniable truth. And it did not match Jaime's poetic description of plump cheeks and cheerful eyes in the slightest.

Oberyn glanced at Jaime. The boy showed no sign of discomfort or shame. He was looking down at his brother with an expression that could only be described as pure affection, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Oberyn knew this was a test. He had to say something. The wrong words here would shatter the bridge they had just built. He could have remained silent, or he could have been brutally honest.

"He is… adorable," Oberyn said, keeping his voice neutral, letting the slight pause hang in the air.

Jaime didn't blink. He didn't acknowledge the irony in Oberyn’s words. It was as if he truly believed this baby was the most adorable creature in the world, and Oberyn's words were merely an affirmation of a clear fact.

"I know," he said with a grin, his eyes never leaving his brother. "One day I was holding him, and he laughed so hard, it was as if I was the only person who could make him do that."

Oberyn listened, fascinated. He could imagine it. Not the baby's laugh, but the sight of Jaime holding him, his own small face lit up with genuine joy. And seeing the look in Jaime’s eyes now, Oberyn thought, perhaps it was true. Perhaps to Jaime, this baby’s laugh really did sound like the sweetest music in the world.

"Then he gripped my fingers so tightly," Jaime continued, his voice dropping to a wonder-filled whisper. "Like he didn't want me to leave. I wonder how a baby can have such strength?"

"Perhaps he knows who protects him," Oberyn said softly, and the words came out on their own, without calculation.

Jaime finally turned to look at him, and in those green eyes, Oberyn saw something new. He saw gratitude. He saw an acknowledgment that Oberyn understood, at least in part, what was happening here.

"Everyone… they only see what's different about him," Jaime said, his voice barely audible. "They don't take the time to see him. To really see him."

"Difference makes people uncomfortable," Oberyn said.

Jaime just nodded.

They stood in comfortable silence for a few more moments, just watching the baby's steady breathing. Oberyn realized this was the most honest moment he had experienced since arriving at Casterly Rock.

"Your father," Oberyn asked carefully, "does he visit him often?"

Jaime’s expression tightened for a fraction of a second. "Father is very busy," he said, a diplomatic answer that said everything.

"And your sister?"

"Cersei… is grieving in her own way," Jaime replied, once again protecting his family even as he admitted their faults.

It was then that Oberyn understood it completely. This boy, Jaime Lannister, was an anomaly. He was raised in the proudest, most ruthless house in Westeros, taught to value strength and perfection above all else. And yet, somehow, he had developed a capacity for unconditional love that would make a High Septon weep. He did not just tolerate his brother's weakness; he celebrated it, building a beautiful fantasy world around him to shield him from the cold reality.

This was not a weakness. Oberyn realized that with a sudden clarity. In a world full of men like Tywin Lannister, who would sacrifice anything for legacy, this kind of blind, protective loyalty was not a weakness. It was a different kind of strength entirely. It was a strength that could not be bought with gold or won with a sword. It was a strength that could make a man do unexpected things, noble things, and terrible things, all in the name of love.

Oberyn had come to this room expecting to see a monster. Instead, he had found a knight. Not a knight in shining armor, but a true knight, protecting the weak from the strong, even when the strong were his own family.

They left the room as quietly as they had entered, leaving Tyrion to his peaceful sleep. As they walked back down the corridor, back into the world of politics and posturing, Oberyn saw his companion in a completely new light.

He was no longer just a clever heir or a suitable match for Elia. He was an unknown factor. A wild card. A boy with a dangerously loyal heart. And in the great game they were all playing, a card like that was the most valuable of all.

And perhaps, the most fragile.

…

Two days later, Oberyn and his retinue returned to Sunspear; there would be no betrothal, and they returned home in peace.

Chapter Text

GERION

Casterly Rock, 275 AC

Gerion Lannister had always believed that a castle needed laughter. Without it, it was just a cold pile of stones, no matter how much gold lined its walls. He did his part to fill the halls of Casterly Rock with cheer, walking through them with a smile on his face that was like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. He winked at a young serving girl, who blushed and nearly dropped a basket of laundry, and exchanged a rough jest with a guard, whose hoarse laughter echoed for a moment in the high corridor.

He stopped before a set of well-carved oak doors and, without knocking, entered. The room was his sister Genna’s private solar, a comfortable sitting room filled with plush furniture and embroidered cushions. And there she was, sitting by a window overlooking the Sunset Sea, her head bent over an embroidery frame, her needle moving with a steady pace.

"Embroidering again? Is that all you do these days?" Gerion grinned, his voice filling the previously quiet room.

"Better than wandering about and charming ladies with foolish jokes," Genna retorted without looking up, her voice as sharp as her needle, but lacking any real venom. It was the tone an older sister used with her incorrigible younger brother.

Gerion grunted, his expression mock-offended. "Hey! As a man, it is a duty. We can't let the ladies grow dull from a lack of attention, or I'll lose my charm."

"Funny joke, your charm is just a gold coin," Genna replied, finally setting down her work and looking at him. Her eyes, like all the Lannisters', were intelligent and sharp, with the slight weariness of an older sister who had heard all her brother's jests before.

"That's one of our family's advantages," Gerion said with a laugh, collapsing onto the settee opposite his sister’s. It was soft and comfortable. "And my charm is more than just gold, I'll have you know. There's also my hair."

Genna snorted, a sound remarkably similar to Tywin's. Gerion continued. "Where is Cleos? He said he wanted to see the ships in the harbor this afternoon." Cleos Frey, Genna’s eldest son, was an awkward lad of eight namedays, who had his mother's eyes but his father's weasel-like nose.

"He has probably gone without you," Genna said. "He has been a bit restless lately. Though he doesn't show it much."

"Hah," Gerion sank deeper into the sofa, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Speaking of ships, I sometimes dream of an adventure across the continent. Where we would find many people with various personalities, foods of all kinds, and of course, stunning lands. Have you ever thought of that, sister?"

Genna looked at him, her expression softening for a moment. "Those thoughts are tempting, Gerion. When I was a girl, I dreamed of sailing to Braavos. But since I've had two children, all I want now is to make sure they don't die from choking on a chicken bone." Her body, which had begun to plump with motherhood, shifted on the sofa to get comfortable again.

"Pffftt, they're stronger than you think," Gerion countered. But he understood. Genna had always been the more practical one, even when they were children. She had her purpose. Outwardly she was a mother and the wife of an unimportant Frey, but here, at Casterly Rock, she was a sharp advisor and a keen observer. She had her place.

Gerion, on the other hand, often felt like a ship without a rudder. Tywin ruled the Seven Kingdoms at the King’s side, drowning in tasks that were surely boring. Kevan was his loyal shadow, managing the Westerlands with humorless efficiency. Even Tygett, with all his moodiness, was a respected warrior. And Gerion? He was the last son, the fun uncle. It wasn't a bad legacy, but sometimes it felt… empty. To be honest, he was a little envious of Tywin's purpose, even if it meant spending his days arguing about grain taxes.

His thoughts turned to the greatest source of his amusement and confusion lately: his nephew, Jaime.

"You know who has a purpose these days?" Gerion said, leaning forward. "Jaime."

Genna raised an eyebrow. "The boy has always had a purpose. He will be the Lord of Casterly Rock."

"No, it's more than that," Gerion said. "I know about all his lessons with Maester Creylen and his training with Ser Benedict. But there’s something else. Something strange. Lately, he’s been spending most of his time with the blacksmiths and the carpenters."

This caught Genna’s attention. She set down her embroidery frame completely. "The blacksmiths? I thought he already had the finest practice sword money could buy."

"Oh, he still has them forging swords," Gerion said. "But also other odd things. I visited him in the workshop yesterday. He's having them make little metal blocks, dozens, even hundreds of them. Each one the size of my thumb, and on the end is a single carved letter."

Genna frowned. "Letters? What for? Printing?"

"That's what I asked him!" Gerion exclaimed. "And he just smiled, that little secret smile of his, and said, 'It's still a process, Uncle. I don't know if it will work or not.'"

Gerion shook his head in amusement. "And that's not all. He's also having the carpenters build… a thing. A huge wooden frame, as tall as a man, with this and that in strange places. And on top of it is a giant piece of wood, thicker than my arm. He's also having them make shallow wooden trays and some sort of rectangular frame that can be opened and closed."

"It sounds like expensive nonsense," Genna said, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

"Perhaps," Gerion agreed. "But the way he directs it… he's not like a boy playing. He speaks to the head blacksmith and the master carpenter as if he were their Lord, giving precise instructions, checking their work, making them redo it if it's not to his liking. A nine-year-old boy, Genna! Telling a man who has worked with wood for forty years how to cut a dovetail joint."

"And they listen to him?"

"Of course they listen to him," Gerion said. "He's Jaime Lannister. And he pays them well from his own pocket money, I hear."

"That is Tywin's son, no doubt," Genna murmured.

"Then there was his other request," Gerion added, almost forgetting. "Two weeks ago, he came to me and asked if I could help him get some cloth. Not silk or velvet. Linen cloth. A great deal of it. 'The best quality, Uncle,' he said, 'but it doesn't need to be dyed.' As if that were the most common thing in the world for a boy to ask for."

"Linen?" Now Genna was truly confused. "For sails? Shirts?"

"Perhaps!" Gerion threw up his hands in cheerful surrender. "I got it for him, of course. What uncle wouldn't spoil his favorite nephew? But I have no idea what it's all for. Metal blocks, a giant wooden frame, piles of linen cloth… Either he's building the strangest siege weapon in history, or he's completely mad."

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the mystery of their nephew. Gerion was amused. Since Joanna's death, the boy had changed, becoming more serious and mature beyond his years. But this was something new. This was a strange, detailed obsession that seemed to have no clear purpose.

"Perhaps we should be more concerned about him," Genna said quietly, a protective older sister's tone in her voice.

"Concerned?" Gerion laughed. "Genna, the boy is happier than I've ever seen him. His eyes sparkle when he talks about his 'project.' Let him be. It's better than him moping in his room. Whatever he's building, it's given him a fire. And frankly, I can't wait to see what it is."

He rose from the sofa, stretching like a contented cat. "Alright, I'm off to find Cleos here and there. And if he has indeed gone to the port, perhaps I can find some entertainment in one of the better taverns."

…

Eight-year-old Cleos Frey proved to be as slippery as a buttered eel. Gerion had checked all the usual haunts: the stables, where the boy loved to stare at the great warhorses with quiet admiration; above the training yard, where he would sometimes watch his cousin Jaime move like a golden flame; and even the kitchens, in the hopes that the scent of pork pie might have lured him in. But the boy was nowhere to be found.

Gerion wasn't overly concerned. Within Casterly Rock, a boy was safer than a dragon in its lair. Most likely, Cleos had found a quiet corner to daydream, or perhaps he had indeed snuck down to the port without his uncle. The boy was quiet, but there was a restless spirit in him.

The fruitless search had led him out of the castle gates and down the grand, winding road to Lannisport. Here, the air changed. The majestic coolness of the Rock was replaced by a humid warmth and the bustling pulse of life. The air was filled with a hundred different scents: the sharp tang of fishnets drying in the sun, the sweet aroma of exotic fruits being unloaded from Tyroshi ships, and beneath it all, the unavoidable smell of thousands of humans and animals living in close quarters.

This was Gerion’s element. While Tywin looked down on the city from above as an asset and Kevan saw it as a responsibility to be managed, Gerion saw it as a stage. A stage filled with characters, comedies, and small tragedies. He loved it.

He didn't find Cleos at the main docks, so he let his feet carry him to the place he always ended up when he was seeking either entertainment or escape. A tavern.

It wasn't the most lavish tavern in Lannisport. Far from it. It was a crowded, smoky, and perpetually loud establishment tucked into a wind-sheltered alley near the fish market. Its clientele were not wealthy merchant captains or knights off duty. They were dockworkers with thick arms, sailors with weather-beaten faces from a dozen different lands, and small-time merchants who had been haggling all day. It was a real place, with dirt under its fingernails and truth at the bottom of its cups.

The moment he pushed open the heavy wooden door, a wave of noise and warmth hit him. Loud laughter, a fierce argument in a language he didn't recognize, and the off-key singing of a song about a girl from the Summer Isles, all blended into a single, deafening hubbub. The smell of sweat, spilled ale, and smoked fish was so thick you could almost chew on it. It was the smell of life without pretense.

Gerion grinned, feeling right at home. He made his way through the crowd, clapping a man he knew on the back and ignoring a glare from a sailor. He reached the wet, scarred wooden counter.

Behind it stood Robb, the tavern keeper. He was a man who looked as though he were built from the barrels he served: round, sturdy, and with a thick mustache that could hide a mouse.

"Give me the usual," Gerion said over the din.

Robb’s small eyes lit up when he saw him. "Coming right up, My Lord!" the man replied, his rough, loud voice cutting through the noise. He took a pewter tankard from a hook, blew into it to clear out some imaginary dust, and filled it to the brim from a cask.

The drink was placed before him with a satisfying thud. Gerion tossed a few copper coins onto the counter, more than enough to pay, and took a deep swallow. The ale was cold, bitter, and perfect.

He leaned his elbows on the counter, surveying the crowd. In a far corner, a particularly animated group of men were gathered around a table, their voices louder than the rest. They were gesturing wildly, slamming their cups on the table, and arguing with a passion usually reserved for brawls or politics.

"What's with them?" Gerion asked, nodding toward the group. "Isn't this tavern loud enough without their addition?"

Robb followed his gaze, picking up a wooden mug and starting to wipe it with a dubious-looking cloth. "Ah, them," he said with a snort. "They're discussing a ship, My Lord. Serwyn, that perfume merchant, plans to build one. This time he's not making a trading ship, but one to cross the continent. He wants to experience 'adventure,' he says."

Gerion raised an eyebrow. Serwyn. He knew the man, at least by reputation. A man who had built a small fortune from importing strange scents from across the sea. A man who owned one of the fanciest houses in Lannisport. A man whose hands were soft and whose clothes always smelled of flowers.

"Is he tired of being rich?" Gerion took a sip of his drink, amusement dancing inside him.

Robb laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh from his belly. "Seems so, that's what people think. After years of smelling like women, he seems to have decided to go back to being a tough man. That is, to have the smell of an adventurer. Haha!"

Gerion laughed along. The image of the soft Serwyn, with his neatly trimmed beard, trying to be a rugged adventurer was indeed ridiculous. He'd probably faint if a sail ripped or if he had to eat hardtack for a week. "What about his wife? Will she be joining him? I doubt Lady Serwyn would be pleased to trade her silk sheets for a hammock."

Robb’s laughter faded. He set down the mug he was polishing and looked at Gerion, his expression growing more serious. "As far as I know, his wife passed a few years ago, My Lord. A fever, I heard. Now he's only close with his children, and they're grown and have their own businesses. The perfume shop is run by his eldest son now." Robb shrugged. "Perhaps that's why he decided on it. He's lonely, and wants to see the world."

Those words hit Gerion with unexpected force.

Lonely and wants to see the world.

Suddenly, the noise of the tavern seemed to fade. The laughter, the arguments, the singing, it all receded to a distant, meaningless hum. All he could hear was the echo of Robb’s last sentence in his head.

He stared into his tankard, seeing his distorted reflection in the dark surface of the ale. The face of a smiling man, a man always ready with a joke. But behind the smile, in the eyes of that reflection, he saw something else. Something he recognized in Robb's words.

Loneliness.

It was a strange word to apply to himself. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock. He was surrounded by family, servants, knights. He was never truly alone. And yet… he often felt alone. Alone in the middle of a crowd. He was the younger brother, the cheerful uncle. His role was defined for him. He was the entertainment, a pleasant diversion from the seriousness of Tywin and Kevan. But no one truly depended on him. No one truly needed him. Genna had her children. Tywin had his kingdom. Kevan had Tywin. And Gerion? He had his jokes.

And the desire to see the world… by the Seven, how he felt it. It was a constant hunger inside him, a yearning for something more than the familiar golden corridors of Casterly Rock. He had spoken of it to Genna, but he had said it lightly, as if it were a boy's dream. But it wasn't. It was a real, aching desire. A desire to see the Titan of Braavos with his own eyes, to hear the songs of the red priests in Volantis, to feel the heat of the Dornish sun on his skin. A desire to be more than just Gerion Lannister, the younger brother. A desire to be Gerion, the adventurer.

And now, here, in this smelly tavern, he was hearing that a lowly perfume merchant was about to do the very thing he only dreamed of.

Serwyn was no longer ridiculous. Suddenly, he was an object of envy. A man who, after fulfilling all his duties, building his business, raising his children, had finally decided to do something for himself. He was not trapped by a name or a legacy. He was just a lonely man who wanted to see what was beyond the horizon. And he was going to build a ship and do it. It was that simple.

Gerion drained the rest of his ale in one long gulp, the bitter taste unable to mask the sudden bitterness in his own heart. He set the tankard back on the counter with a soft thud.

A profound silence had filled his head, a vacuum where only his own thoughts swirled. What was holding him back? Gold? Status? The Lannister name? All the things that were supposed to be his strength suddenly felt like the bars of the most beautiful cage in the world. He was a well-fed lion, with a gleaming coat and a full belly, but he was still in a cage, while a humble perfume merchant was building his own wings.

He felt Robb's gaze on him, the curious look of a tavern keeper who had seen a thousand stories begin and end over his counter. But Gerion couldn't find any words to say. His jests and his smiles had abandoned him, lost somewhere out on a sea he had never seen.

He just stared into his empty tankard, as if he could find the answer at the bottom. But all he saw was the reflection of a man who suddenly felt very, very small.

Chapter Text

A knight's duty, according to the teachings of Ser Warren Cole, was to protect. Protect your Lord, protect your lands, protect the weak and the innocent. Jon had held fast to those teachings. He had trained until his muscles felt like they would tear, he had taken blows that would have knocked a smaller man unconscious, and he had spilled blood, both his own and his opponent's, in the dust of the tourney grounds. He was a knight. The sword and shield were his tools, courage and loyalty were his core.

Right now, his tools were a clumsy pair of iron shears, and his enemy was a seemingly endless pile of white linen cloth.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

The sound was the only music in the carpenter's workshop that had been commandeered as his young Lord's private space. The workshop itself was strange enough. In one corner stood a giant wooden frame that looked like a mad wine press. On the workbenches normally used for planing boards, there now sat shallow wooden trays and hundreds of little metal blocks, each with a letter on top. And everywhere, on every available surface, were piles of cloth.

And his duty? His duty, as the sworn protector of the heir to Casterly Rock, was to sit on a hard stool and cut these piles of cloth into pieces the size of his thumb.

It was tedious. It was boring. It was women's work, or perhaps the work of a servant being punished. It made him want to roll his eyes so hard he could see his own brain.

But the money the boy paid... the money was very tempting. A shining Gold Dragon slipped into his hand "for your troubles, good Jon," as if it were just a few copper pennies. It was more than he earned in a full month as a guard. So, he sat there and he cut. Besides, he couldn't exactly refuse a Lannister.

"Keep your head up high and proud, Jon."

Lord Jaime's cheerful voice broke his reverie. The boy was sitting across the room, near his own bucket of cloth scraps, grinning at him.

"I can still see your frown from here," the boy continued, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "A frown that seems to say, 'I hate this nonsense and I wish I were buried alive.'"

Jon coughed, cleared his throat, and quickly straightened his aching back. He tried to arrange his face into an expression he thought looked diligent and focused. "Oh, no-no, Lord Jaime. I love doing this. It makes me concentrate so hard all day that I think I'll be able to spot an enemy's weaknesses at a single glance!"

It was the most foolish excuse he had ever made, and he knew it.

"Good," Jaime said, his grin widening, "because we're going to be doing this for a very, very long time."

Jon's heart sank into his boots. Damn it!

"Do you not have plans in the library again, Lord Jaime?" he tried, a desperate attempt to gain a reprieve. It was late afternoon, the time when the boy would usually be closeted with Maester Creylen, or sitting alone in a corner, writing rapidly on sheets of parchment. Jon had seen the results: neat stacks of pages, filled with clear handwriting, which the boy then bound himself into thin books using a needle and thread.

Jon didn't understand his young master's strange obsession with books and ink. It wasn't natural. A boy his age should want to be outside, hunting or riding, not getting his fingers stained with ink. Once, a few weeks ago, Jaime had given him a complex set of instructions to relay to the master carpenter, something about the angle on one of the wooden trays. Jon, his mind filled with horses and swords, had of course gotten one of the details wrong.

When he returned and reported the job was done, the boy had just looked at him, sighed a long, sad sigh, and said, more to himself than to Jon, "As my guard, you should have taken notes."

Taken notes! As if Jon were a maester or a scribe! His heart rebelled at the idea. But then he thought of the warm, heavy Gold Dragon in his pouch. Yes, for another dragon, he would certainly carry notes, a quill, and even the damn inkwell if asked. The boy's money was like the tide in Lannisport, it seemed to never run out. And for that, Jon was grateful to be a part of all this madness.

His mind drifted back, away from the smell of sawdust and this tedious task. He thought of home. Clearwater. A small, wet, green village that wasn't even on most maps, where the biggest event of the year was the harvest. He was a farmer's son, destined for a life of plowing the same soil as his father and his grandfather. But his father had bigger dreams for him.

Jon could still remember the day clearly, his father, a good, quiet man with hands as calloused as stone, standing with his cap in his hands before Ser Warren Cole, his voice trembling with nervousness. House Cole was a vassal of House Crakehall, and Ser Warren was a true knight, a good, no-nonsense man who valued hard work over lineage. Whether out of pity or because he saw a spark of potential in young Jon's eyes, he had agreed.

Ser Warren had taught him everything: how to care for a horse, how to polish armor until it shone like a mirror, and most importantly, how to use a sword. He was a patient teacher and a good mentor. Under his tutelage, Jon grew from a clumsy farm boy into a capable squire, and eventually, a knight.

The day he was knighted was the proudest day of his life. But pride didn't fill a stomach. The tourneys were where the money was, but also where bones were broken and dreams were shattered. He had won a few melees, earned enough to buy a decent suit of armor and a strong warhorse. But then came the offer. A position as a household knight at Casterly Rock.

It was like a dream. To serve House Lannister, the richest and most powerful House in the Westerlands. It was the pinnacle for a lowborn knight like himself. A steady income. Honor. Glory. He could send money home regularly to his parents, ensuring they would never go hungry. He could even save, something his father had never been able to contemplate.

And now, thanks to the funny little man before him, his savings were growing faster than mushrooms after a rain. So, yes. He would cut cloth. He would take notes. He would do whatever nonsensical thing this golden heir asked of him.

"Enough theorizing, Jon, and now it's time for practice." Jaime's voice brought him back to the present. "So no, I don't have plans to go to the library now." The boy's face was focused on his work again, his shears moving with a neat speed and precision.

Jon nodded, suppressing a sigh. "What is all this for, Lord Jaime? Haven't we cut so much cloth already?" The bucket between his feet was already nearly full of small white scraps.

Jaime looked up, his green eyes looking straight into Jon's, filled with a strange, infectious enthusiasm. "Listen, here we are going to make paper," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And since you, me, or anyone here has never tried it, we have to prepare a lot of material. If we fail on the first, or second, or fifth attempt, we don't want to run out of material, do we?"

Paper. Of course. Jaime was always talking about paper. How expensive parchment was. How rare it was. How it limited the spread of knowledge. Jon didn't really understand half of what he talked about, but he understood the obsession.

"So why not just let your people do this?" Jon asked, trying one last time. "Surely you must be tired, My Lord."

Jaime laughed, a clear, genuine laugh. "Tired? I'm just moving my fingers, this isn't tiring at all! Besides, this is my idea, and if I can do it for a while, why not? This is the first experiment, so I want to experience the process myself. To understand every step. If you don't understand the process, you can never improve it." He paused, and that sly grin returned. "Though, when it comes to the pulping, I'll be leaving more of that to you."

Jaime winked, and Jon groaned internally. Pulping. That meant sweaty, back-breaking work, turning these scraps of cloth into a slurry. Of course the boy would leave that part to him.

Jon picked up another handful of cloth and began to cut, the rhythm of his shears becoming faster, driven by resignation. He was Ser Jon of Clearwater. A knight of the Westerlands. Protector of the Young Lion.

And a professional cloth-cutter. And soon, a pulp-pounder.

…

As the heavy workshop door closed behind them, the world seemed to take a breath. The sharp smell of sawdust and cloth dust was replaced by the cool, clean evening air, carrying the faint scent of salt from the sea. The sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky over the Sunset Sea with strokes of orange, pink, and purple. It was a sight that would make a singer write a song, but to Jon, it was just a marker that another strange workday was nearly over. His back ached, and his fingers were stiff from gripping the shears for hours.

"Tired?" Jaime's voice came from beside him, filled with an energy that Jon certainly didn't possess. They walked side-by-side down the path leading back to the main keep, their footsteps making a soft crunching sound on the gravel.

Jon glanced at his young lord. The boy's green eyes were bright in the twilight, and his golden hair looked like a crown of fire. "Not a bit," Jon lied smoothly. "It was just women's work."

Jaime looked at him, his eyebrows raised in a mock-shocked expression. "So you mean men shouldn't do it?"

Jon nearly stumbled over his own feet. By the Seven, this child loved to twist words. "Uh, not really, that's not what I meant, My Lord," Jon cut in quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly. "What I meant was... that stage doesn't require much strength. And women's strength isn't as great as men's. That's all."

Jaime's laughter burst out, a clear, free sound that was pleasant in the quiet air. "Oh come on, I'm just teasing, Jon. I know what you meant." He patted Jon's arm in a friendly manner, a gesture that was strangely reassuring. "Are you hungry? Let's sneak into the kitchens and grab some food."

Jon's grin appeared instantly, wiping away all his fatigue. He had served Young Lord Jaime for over two years, and he had learned that the boy had two very different sides. There was Lord Jaime, the thinker who spoke of paper and printing presses with the gravity of a grand maester. And then there was Jaime, the boy, whose eyes would sparkle with mischief and who loved a simple little adventure. Jon preferred the latter.

"This idea of yours is the most interesting one yet, My Lord," Jon said, his grin matching his master's.

They didn't take the main path back to the great hall, but veered onto a smaller, servant's path, a route that led them to the back door of the kitchens. This was a conspiracy they had undertaken many times, a little ritual that had developed between them.

The kitchens of Casterly Rock were a world entirely different from the rest of the castle. It was a vast, hot cavern teeming with life. Fires roared in giant hearths large enough to roast a whole ox. Dozens of cooks and kitchen hands rushed to and fro, the sound of clanging copper pots, chopping knives on cutting boards, and shouted orders creating a symphony of organized chaos. The air was thick with a magnificent array of smells: the sharp scent of onions being sautéed, the sweet aroma of apple pies baking, the savory smell of frying chicken, and the delicious smell of fish being grilled with lemon.

As they entered, a few of the younger servants looked up, their eyes widening in surprise to see the heir of the castle and his sworn sword entering through the back door. But they quickly bowed their heads and returned to their work. They were used to this by now.

In the midst of it all, like a queen in her bustling kingdom, stood Rhae. She was the head cook, a middle-aged woman with arms made strong from kneading dough and a face that always seemed a little flushed from the heat of the fires.

"Young Lord Jaime!" she exclaimed, her warm, raspy voice cutting through the noise. "I was wondering when you'd show your handsome face again. Your stomach starting to rumble, eh?"

"Always for your cooking, Rhae," Jaime replied with a smile, easily slipping into the relaxed atmosphere. He walked over to a water barrel, took a dipper, and poured himself some warm water, drinking it in a few gulps. "Just a drink," he said to Rhae. "I won't eat much. It's almost dinner, and it would be impolite if I just sat there and stared."

"Nonsense," Rhae said with a laugh. "A growing boy needs fuel." She picked up a freshly baked pastry from the oven and handed it to Jaime. "Here, try this. Still warm."

Jaime took it, blew on it slightly, and took a bite. His eyes closed for a moment in bliss. "Seven, Rhae, this is incredible."

Jon watched the interaction with a small smile. Here, in the kitchens, among the common folk, Jaime seemed most at ease. He didn't have to be a genius or a lord. He could just be a boy who liked pastries.

"Try this grape, Young Lord, it's very sweet," Jon said.

Jaime took one, popped it in his mouth, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Yes, you're right. The farmer must have taken good care of it," his eyes sparkled. "Oh, Jon, want to hear a story?"

"Out with it," Jon said, grabbing a piece of fried chicken from a nearby tray as Rhae pretended not to see.

"Alright," Jaime said, leaning against a table in a conspiratorial manner. "I was watching Addam today in the practice yard."

Jon nodded as he chewed. Addam Marbrand. They saw him almost every day. Addam was one of the few other pages who could keep up with Young Lord Jaime in training, a friendly boy with brown hair and a too-quick smile.

"He's getting better, isn't he?" Jaime continued. "His movements are quick, and he's learning to read his opponent's moves."

"He has talent," Jon agreed. "Ser Benedict says he has a good wrist."

"He does," Jaime said, and that mischievous grin appeared on his face. "But I have a prophecy for him."

Jon raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "A prophecy?"

"I have seen his future," Jaime said with a funny, mock-seriousness. "One day, he will be a great knight. Maybe even captain of the guard. But he will be defeated, not by a sword or a spear, but by a pair of blue eyes and a sweet smile."

Jon burst out laughing. It was absolutely true. Addam, though a promising fighter, had a notorious weakness for a pretty face. He would blush and stammer whenever one of Lady Genna's handmaidens walked past. Of course, only they knew this.

"He asked me about adventure songs yesterday," Jaime continued, his eyes dancing. "About knights who rescue princesses. I told him, 'Be careful, Addam. Sometimes the princesses don't need rescuing, and they can be more dangerous than any dragon.' He didn't understand, of course. He just looked at me as if I had gone mad."

"He might not be wrong," Jon joked, and Jaime punched him playfully on the arm.

It felt good to laugh. It was a harmless joke, a sharp observation shared between two people who understood the small world of their training yard. It was a rare and precious moment of normality.

After their laughter died down, Jaime took one more pastry for the road. "Thanks for the food, Rhae. As always, you're the best."

"Anytime, Young Lord," the woman said with a warm smile.

They left the kitchen the same way they had entered, returning to the quieter, more formal corridors of the castle. A smile was still on Jon's face, and he could still taste the savory chicken on his tongue.

And there she was. Standing like a marble statue in the middle of the corridor, as if she had been waiting for them.

Cersei Lannister.

Her arms were crossed, and her fine brows were furrowed in an expression of cold disapproval. The smile on Jon's face vanished instantly. The air around them seemed to drop several degrees.

"As a Lannister," she said, her voice as sharp as winter ice, "you should pay more attention to your conduct." Her gaze was fixed on Jaime, completely ignoring Jon's existence.

Jaime didn't seem intimidated. His smile faded slightly, but the mischief in his eyes remained. He did something with his mouth, pushing out his lower lip in a childish, mock-pout. "What did I do, sister? We were just eating a warm snack."

Cersei snorted, a sound full of contempt. "You sneak out of the kitchens like a thief. If someone saw you, they would think you never get any food. You embarrass our name by consorting with the cooks."

"Rhae is the best cook in the Westerlands," Jaime retorted cheerfully. "I don't see it as an embarrassment. I see it as an act of ensuring I stay on her good side."

"You shouldn't care about a servant's 'good side'," Cersei hissed. "They are here to serve us. Not the other way around."

"Of course," Jaime said, his tone still light. "And they serve us better if they are happy. I call it maintaining the assets."

Cersei narrowed her eyes, frustrated at her inability to pierce her brother's cheerful mood. "Whatever you say, Jaime. Whatever."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned with a sharp rustle of her silk gown and walked away, her back straight and angry.

Jon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The girl's presence was like a sudden storm cloud.

He glanced at Young Lord Jaime. The boy was watching his sister's retreating back, his smile gone, replaced by a more complex expression, a mixture of annoyance and sadness.

Then, he turned to Jon and shrugged, a small, tired smile returning to his face. "Well," he said. "Not everyone can appreciate a warm snack, I suppose."

Jon didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. As they continued their journey towards the great hall for the inevitable, silent dinner, he reflected on how different the two twins were. They looked like two sides of the same golden coin, but where one was cold, hard, and cared only for its outer shine, the other… the other had an unexpected warmth, a sense of humor, and a complexity that continued to surprise Jon.

He preferred the latter side of the coin. Very much so.

Chapter Text

CERSEI

Cersei Lannister sipped her tea, the warmth of the fine porcelain cup a small comfort in her hands. From the window of her solar, she could see the leaves of the garden trees swaying gently in the sea breeze. It was a peaceful sight, a sight that should have been calming. And yet, within her, there was a constant restlessness, an irritation that buzzed like a fly trapped in a bottle.

The source of that irritation, like most things in her life lately, was Jaime.

Her mind drifted back to the past, to a world that felt so distant though only two years had passed. A world where "Jaime and Cersei" was a single word, a single thought, a single soul in two bodies. They were mirrors of each other, golden and perfect. They shared secrets in the dark, their world a fortress that no one, not even their father, could penetrate. He was half of her soul, and she was half of his. It was that simple. That true.

Now… now everything was different. Strange.

They were still close. They still talked. The warmth was still there, in the flash of his eyes when he smiled at her, but beneath that warmth was a widening chasm, a crack that had begun the day the Imp was born and their mother had died, and had widened into a gulf ever since.

This new Jaime was a stranger. Half of her soul would not have spent hours hunched over dusty books with Maester Creylen, returning smelling of old parchment and with eyes sparkling over some boring fact about taxes during King Jaehaerys's reign. Half of her soul would not have wasted time in filthy workshops, consorting with blacksmiths and carpenters, making strange contraptions of metal and wood that had no clear purpose. And worst of all, half of her soul would not have shown such a strange, unnatural concern for… the smallfolk.

She had seen him talking to the cooks in the kitchens as if they were his friends. She had even heard him argue with Father, with Father!, about the importance of "serving the interests" of the peasants. It was nauseating. It was weak.

No. Jaime was no longer half of her soul. He was a disappointment, a puzzle she no longer wished to solve. Their relationship was now more filled with taunts than secrets, more arguments than understanding. She would find her other half elsewhere, when she was grown.

Someone great. Someone powerful, who understood that the smallfolk were there to serve, not to be served. Someone who would never choose a book over a sword, and who would never dirty his hands with strange inventions. Someone destined for great things, just like her.

Oh, she would be queen. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew her hair was gold. Father would see to it for her. Father might not smile, but he understood ambition. And there was no greater prize, no stronger alliance, than marrying his daughter to the crown prince. Her true other half was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Handsome, mysterious, a warrior and a singer. He was fire, and Cersei was gold. Together, they would rule the world.

"The braids worn by the main actress in that play were lovely, weren't they?"

Melara Hetherspoon's slightly shrill voice pulled Cersei from her daydreams of thrones and dragons. She shifted her gaze from the window and looked at her friends. Melara sat opposite her, her large brown eyes shining with simple enthusiasm. At her side, Jeyne Farman sat quietly, her plump figure looking awkward in the delicate chair. They had gone to Lannisport a few days ago to watch a troupe of traveling players perform a drama about love and betrayal. It was a foolish story, but the acting was good enough that Cersei had enjoyed it slightly.

"Would you like one like that? I could braid it for you," Cersei replied, a friendly smile playing on her lips. It was a smile she had practiced, one that made people feel special.

Melara's face immediately flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. "Oh, no, I think it would suit you better, My Lady. Besides, the woman there had blonde hair too."

Of course it would suit me better, Cersei thought, taking another sip of her tea to hide her satisfaction. She was the most beautiful in all the Westerlands, perhaps in all the Seven Kingdoms. Any hairstyle would suit her. She didn't need to take inspiration from a lowborn actress paid in copper coins.

"Don't think so little of yourself," Cersei said, her voice filled with feigned warmth. "You are beautiful yourself, Melara. And that hairstyle would make you stand out. It would highlight your eyes."

Melara beamed, completely taken in by the compliment. "That is a kind thing to say, Cersei." Then she turned to Jeyne, who had been silent all this time. "What about you, Jeyne? Are you interested in trying it?"

Cersei glanced at Jeyne. Jeyne's hair was a dull, straight brown. To imagine it in the same intricate braids worn by the slim leading lady in the play… Cersei had to stop herself from shuddering. Perhaps it could charm the stableboys, she thought, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips at the thought.

"No, I am comfortable with my style as it is," Jeyne said quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

Nodding, Melara then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Well, you already look good with that hairstyle. It will surely attract many knights."

What knight would want her? Cersei thought cruelly. Perhaps a shadow knight in her dreams. Jeyne was kind, yes, but she was also plump and shy. Knights wanted glittering prizes, not a silent sack of grain.

"The knights would be lucky to have you, Jeyne," Cersei said, her voice as sweet as honey. "You just have to be outside more to show your charm."

"Like in the training yard!" Melara exclaimed, her eyes lighting up again as she took the bait. "There's Addam Marbrand there, he's so handsome. And Derrick Lefford, they say he'll be a great fighter. And… Jaime."

As she said the last name, the same blush as before returned to Melara's cheeks, and she quickly looked down, feigning interest in the pattern on her teacup.

Cersei felt a wave of cold annoyance. So, simple Melara had set her heart on her twin brother. How… boring. How predictable. Every girl in Casterly Rock, from a lord's daughter to a scullery maid, looked at Jaime with the same adoring gaze.

Take him, Cersei urged her in her mind. You are both strange, it's a perfect match. He can make you strange little contraptions, and you can stare at him with those cow eyes all day. The idea, somehow, was satisfying. It would be the final proof that she and Jaime had gone their separate ways. She was destined for a prince, while Jaime… Jaime was destined for the daughter of a minor, unimportant lord. The balance of the universe would be restored.

"Jaime does train hard," Cersei said lightly, deciding to play along. "Father says he has a natural talent."

"He's more than talented!" Melara said with passion, forgetting her shyness. "He moves like a dancer! And he's always kind to me. Yesterday, he saw me drop my hair ribbon, and he picked it up for me."

Cersei had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. A basic act of courtesy, and this girl was already planning their wedding. "Jaime was taught to be courteous to all ladies," she said, deliberately emphasizing the word "all."

But Melara didn't catch the hint. She was too lost in her fantasy. "I think I will take a walk near the training yard tomorrow morning," she said, more to herself than to anyone else. "Perhaps I will wear my blue dress."

Cersei looked at her friend, at the hope shining in her innocent face, and she felt something strange. It wasn't jealousy. By the seven, no. It was closer to pity. A cold, superior pity. Melara and Jeyne, with their little dreams of hair braids and smiles from squires, they lived in a completely different world from her. Their world was made of small things and simple hopes.

Cersei's world was made of gold and fire and thrones.

"That's a fine idea, Melara," she said, her smile never wavering. "Wear the blue dress. I'm sure someone will notice you."

She leaned back in her chair, sipped her tea again, and let their unimportant chatter wash over her. They spoke of new dresses and gossip from the court. Cersei occasionally contributed a comment, playing her part as the perfect friend, the benevolent golden goddess who descended from her throne to sit with mortals.

But inside, her mind was already far away. She was thinking of King's Landing. She was thinking of the Red Keep, with its towering spires and magnificent halls. She was thinking of Prince Rhaegar, with his melancholy violet eyes.

That was her world. That was her destiny.

She glanced at Melara, who was still chattering about Jaime's bravery, and then at Jeyne, who was quietly eating a third pastry. They were pawns in her game, temporary companions she would leave behind when she ascended to her rightful place. They were part of her childhood, a childhood she realized, with a sudden clarity, she was very eager to leave behind.

…

The tedious tea party finally came to an end. Cersei rose with an elegance she had practiced since she could walk, her movements fluid and controlled. Melara and Jeyne followed her, like two little lapdogs trailing their mistress. They walked out of her private solar into a long hall whose high, vaulted ceiling was supported by pillars and whose walls were adorned with tapestries woven with real gold thread, depicting Lannister victories of the past.

They walked slowly, pretending to admire the scenery, though Cersei had seen these tapestries a thousand times until she knew every stitch by heart. The girls' chatter returned to trivial matters—a new ribbon sold by a merchant in Lannisport, a rumor about a guard supposedly having an affair with a kitchen maid, and the weather that might be fine for the upcoming festival.

Cersei let their words flow around her like water, occasionally giving a nod or a small smile to appear as if she were listening. In truth, her mind was elsewhere. The tea party had confirmed what she had long suspected: she had outgrown her friends. Melara, with her childish fantasies about knights, and Jeyne, with her shy nature and insatiable appetite, they were simple creatures. They were content with their small world. They had no ambition, no fire. They were pale little moons, destined to forever be outshone by the sun, herself.

Suddenly, the sound of laughter and energetic footsteps from the end of the gallery broke her reverie. A group of boys appeared from a corridor, walking towards them. They were clean and full of energy, wearing simple leather training tunics and each carrying a wooden sword at his side. In the lead, with a natural arrogance, was Derrick Lefford. At his side, the more reserved Addam Marbrand. And behind them, of course, was Jaime, with his shadow-like sworn sword, Jon, following a few steps behind.

"Ahh, where are the pretty ladies off to?" Derrick Lefford's voice rang out, a little too loud in the hall. He was a few years older than Jaime and Addam, a squire to Uncle Kevan, and he carried himself with the arrogance of a young man who had just realized he was strong and important. "Tired of your tea party?"

Cersei stopped, forcing her friends to stop as well. She felt a wave of irritation. Derrick Lefford, with his straw-colored hair and his too-wide grin, was the type of boy she despised most: arrogant without the intelligence to back it up. She wanted to claw his annoying face.

"We were thinking of finding a new view, Lord Lefford," Cersei replied, her voice as sweet as honey but with a hint of venom behind it. She deliberately used his title, a subtle reminder of their status, a way of saying, I know who you are, and I am not impressed. "And where are you off to?"

"The usual, men's business," Derrick said, puffing out his thin chest while patting the hilt of his wooden sword. "We're going to practice. Want to watch? Surely that's more amazing than trees and buildings, right?" His grin widened, as if he had just offered the greatest prize in the world.

Watch you swing a wooden sword like a farmer chopping wood? Cersei thought. I'd rather stare at a horse.

Before she could deliver another sharp retort, Jaime stepped forward. "Be quiet, Lefford," he said, his tone light but with an undeniable authority that made Derrick immediately pout. "Let the ladies do their things."

Then, Jaime smiled at them, the girls, and the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was his famous smile, the one that could melt the hearts of serving maids and make noble ladies sigh. It was the smile that used to belong only to her.

And as expected, Melara immediately blushed. She lowered her head, her cheeks turning the color of a summer rose, and began to fidget nervously with the end of her ribbon.

Annoying. So annoying.

"Lady Cersei, Lady Melara, Lady Jeyne," Addam Marbrand greeted, giving a polite nod. He was always more courteous than Derrick, more reserved.

"We are on our way to the training yard," Jaime said, filling the awkward silence. "Ser Benedict has prepared some new drills for us."

"I'm going to take you down today, Lannister," Derrick joked, his bad mood quickly recovering as the topic returned to fighting.

"In your dreams, Lefford," Jaime replied with a smile.

Cersei just smiled faintly. This talk of sword practice was incredibly boring.

"Well, we wouldn't want to keep you from your 'men's business'," Cersei said, her voice sweet again, but this time with a slight chill that anyone listening closely would have noticed. "We're sure you have many important things to do."

Jaime caught her tone. His smile faltered slightly as he looked at her, a question in his eyes. But he said nothing. "Then, we'll take our leave," he said to his friends. He gave a final nod to the girls. "Have a good day."

The group of boys walked past them, leaving a faint trail of soap and leather. As they left, Cersei heard Derrick whisper something to Addam, and their suppressed laughter.

Once they had turned a corner and disappeared from view, the atmosphere among the three girls changed. The excitement caused by the boys' presence evaporated, leaving an awkward silence.

Cersei was the first to break it. She had had enough. Enough of Melara's blushing, enough of Jeyne's silence, and enough of pretending that their chatter was interesting.

She turned to face them, her friendly smile gone, replaced by an expression of polite indifference. "I am going to see my Aunt Genna," she said, her voice flat and final. "You may go wherever you please."

It was a dismissal, not a suggestion.

"Ah, yes, of course, My Lady," Jeyne and Melara said in unison, a little taken aback by her sudden change in mood. They curtsied slightly, an awkward and unnecessary gesture between friends, but Cersei didn't correct them. Right now, they were not her friends. They were her followers, and she was done with them for the day.

Without another word, Cersei turned and walked away in the opposite direction, her gown swishing behind her. She didn't look back. She didn't care where they went or what they did. She just wanted to be alone.

As she walked down the now-empty corridor, her cold anger began to subside, replaced by a familiar feeling of emptiness. The encounter had bothered her more than she had expected. Not because of Derrick Lefford's arrogance; she could handle boys like that in her sleep. No. It was because of Jaime.

The way he had smiled at Melara. It was shallow courtesy, she knew that. It was what was expected of a young lord. But still, it felt like a small betrayal. Once, that smile was for her alone. Once, she was the only girl he protected. Now, he distributed his charm freely, like a prince tossing copper coins to the smallfolk.

As she walked towards her aunt's chambers, the image of Prince Rhaegar returned to her mind. He would never smile at common girls like Melara Hetherspoon. He would never waste his time with empty chatter in a corridor. He was a true prince. And Cersei would be his queen.

…

The corridor leading to Aunt Genna's chambers felt like a sanctuary. Here, she could drop the exhausting mask of friendliness she had to wear in front of her boring friends.

She found her aunt exactly as she had expected, sitting in her favorite armchair by the window, her golden-blonde head bent over an embroidery frame. Her needle moved with a steady, practiced precision, pulling silk thread through the taut linen. Another lion she was embroidering, or perhaps that ugly, boring Frey sigil. Cersei honestly didn't care. Her aunt's calm, non-judgmental presence was what she sought.

Without a word, Cersei walked to her own sewing basket, took out her unfinished embroidery frame, the deep red silk thread, and her needle. She sat on the sofa opposite her aunt and began to work. She was embroidering a roaring lioness. It would be a masterpiece.

"Are you tired of your friends, Cersei?" Genna spoke without looking up, her sharp, practical voice breaking the comfortable silence. Her aunt had an uncanny ability to know her thoughts without needing to see her face.

Cersei didn't bother to hide her annoyance. "I am just tired of watching them talk about men as if they were jewels," she replied, stabbing her needle into the cloth with a little more force than necessary. "Addam this, Derrick that. Who cares about sweaty boys and their empty minds?"

"That is what a girl your age usually does." Genna finally looked up, a thin, amused smile on her lips. "They are just becoming interested in the opposite sex. It is the dance of nature, my dear niece. As inevitable as the tides."

"And they seem to want to get married and have children quickly too." Cersei snorted, the words coming out full of contempt.

"They are indeed destined for such things," Genna said calmly, returning to her embroidery. "Melara will marry a knight or a minor lord, bear a few sons, and consider herself fortunate." She paused, and Cersei felt her aunt's gaze on her. "Your role, of course, is different."

Of course it was different. Cersei was a lion. They were sheep. "I would never be content with such a fate," she said firmly. "To be the wife of a landed lord, overseeing kitchens and birthing rooms. I would rather die."

Genna chuckled softly. "I know, my child. I know." She set her embroidery in her lap. "But even a lioness must marry. It is the way of the world. When you marry, Cersei, what color dress would you like to wear?"

The question diverted Cersei's thoughts instantly. Her wedding. Not just any wedding, but her wedding. The image appeared in her mind with such clarity, so real she could almost smell the hundreds of candles in the Great Sept of Baelor. She saw herself walking down the aisle, not in Casterly Rock, but in King's Landing. She saw the entire court watching her, their eyes filled with awe. And at the end of the aisle, waiting for her, was Prince Rhaegar.

"Of course I would want a red dress," she answered, her voice filled with unshakable conviction. "Deep red, the color of our House. It highlights my hair and eyes better. That way, everyone will only look there. To their queen."

"Then you must tell Jaime now." Genna said the words in a joking tone, but her aunt's eyes were watching her carefully. "He has been collecting a lot of cloth lately, you could ask him for a little to make a dress."

Jaime's name was like a bucket of ice water poured over her beautiful dream. The image of King's Landing vanished, replaced by a much less pleasant one: her twin brother, surrounded by piles of dusty linen cloth.

Cersei frowned in disgust. "He is strange," she said, her annoyance returning with full force. "I don't understand why he does that. The other day he came home with his clothes covered in ash and sweat. It was truly disgusting."

"He is a boy," Genna informed her patiently, as if explaining a simple fact of life. "It is normal. They like to make things. They like to get dirty."

'Normal?' Cersei thought to herself, stabbing her needle again fiercely. 'There is nothing normal about it.'

Jaime used to be perfect. He was her reflection, clean and shining and golden. This was not normal. This was a deviation.

Cersei was sure she knew the cause. It was those books. And the old man who gave them to him. Ever since Jaime had started spending so much time in the library with Maester Creylen, he had changed.

It must have warped his brain. Yes, that was the only explanation. Too much reading had made Jaime's mind soft and twisted. It had made him forget who he was.

"He is not like the other boys," Cersei said finally, her voice filled with certainty. "Addam Marbrand doesn't spend his time like that. Derrick Lefford doesn't care about books. They care about winning tourneys and getting the attention of girls. That is what a boy from a great House should be doing."

"Jaime is different," Genna agreed, but there was no hint of disapproval in her voice. "Tywin was different too when he was young. While the other children were playing, he was studying his father's ledgers, finding ways to restore our honor. Perhaps Jaime just has his own way of being strong."

Cersei didn't believe it. Tywin's strength was obvious. It was in his cold gaze, in his firm commands, in the way he crushed his enemies.

She set down her embroidery, suddenly feeling restless. The cozy room felt suffocating. She needed fresh air, but more importantly, she needed certainty.

"Father will arrange for me to marry Prince Rhaegar, won't he, Aunt?" she asked, the question coming out more abruptly than she had intended.

Genna looked at her, the thin, amused expression on her face gone, replaced by the seriousness of a player in the great game. "Your father will do what is best for House Lannister," she said carefully. "And there is no better alliance than one with the Iron Throne."

It was a "yes." Cersei felt it. It was a "yes" wrapped in political caution.

A genuine, satisfied smile touched Cersei's lips. That was enough for now. Jaime could continue playing with his dirty toys. He could continue to warp his brain with books and theories. It no longer mattered. Their paths had truly diverged.

Her path led to King's Landing, to a crown and a throne.

And Jaime's path… honestly, Cersei didn't know where his path led. And she found that she no longer cared.

Chapter Text

JON

It was coarse and thick. Jon stared at the newly lifted sheet with nearly unbearable frustration. It was an unappealing pale gray, its texture more like worn-out sackcloth than something you could write on, and there were little clumps of fiber that stuck out from its surface like warts. After days of pounding the damned cloths until his arms felt like they would fall off, after carefully pouring the watery pulp into the mould, and after painstakingly pressing it under that strange press, the result was still a failure. Again.

He glanced at the pile of other sheets that were already drying on a nearby wooden rack. They were all the same. Each one was a testament to his wasted effort.

Jon let out a long sigh, a puff of white vapor escaping his mouth in the chilly workshop air. He could feel eyes on his back. He turned to the side. There, under the only window that let in the dim light, stood Lord Jaime and his friend, Addam Marbrand. They were also examining one of the failed sheets.

Lord Jaime held the rough paper in his hands, tilting it towards the light, feeling its texture with his thumb. Jon expected to see disappointment or even anger on the boy's face. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his expression filled with the concentration of someone examining something interesting.

"Well, the first attempt always begins with failure," Jaime said, more to himself than to anyone else. "But at least we're learning." He glanced at the pile of drying sheets. "We must be lacking in the pounding and the pressing."

Jon wanted to snort at that last sentence. We? Since the pounding process had begun, Young Lord Jaime had done nothing but watch, giving instructions from a safe distance while Jon sweated over the stone mortar, the heavy pestle feeling like a cow in his hands. It was he who had spent hours turning scraps of cloth into a disgusting, fibrous pulp. It was his muscles that were still screaming in protest.

"You could still write on this," Addam said, taking the sheet from Jaime's hand and examining it skeptically. "Well, if you tried really hard. And if you didn't mind your quill breaking."

Jaime smiled wryly, "We're making paper to make things easier, Addam, not harder."

"Why bother anyway?" Addam frowned, voicing the question that had been in Jon's mind for weeks. "We've always used parchment. You can get it anywhere."

"Now, that's where you're wrong," Jaime countered, his enthusiasm returning. He seemed most alive when he could correct someone. "Parchment is expensive. Very expensive. You have to raise a sheep or a calf, slaughter it, skin it, clean it, stretch it, scrape it… it's a long and difficult process. That's why only lords and maesters have it. Only people with money can afford it."

Jon had to agree with that. In his village, no one owned any. He had never cared much about parchment, but he knew it wasn't something you could buy at the market.

"Then you can afford it, Lannister," Addam said, nudging his friend's shoulder. "You have a mountain of gold. You could buy all the parchment in Westeros if you wanted to."

Jaime laughed, a genuine, carefree laugh. "You think I'm going to all this trouble just to use it myself?"

Addam looked confused. "So why are you making it? To sell it? You already have plenty of money."

"Of course to sell it," Jaime nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And then, something new entered his voice, something that sounded like a merchant.

"Besides, what man doesn't want to be richer?" he said. "Parchment is expensive and hard to come by. With paper, we might be able to minimize the cost. Used linen cloth is much cheaper than sheepskin. The process, once we perfect it, can be done by common laborers. With that, we can sell it for less. Much less. And a lower price means more people will use it. The merchants in Lannisport. The scribes. The septons. Maybe even the household stewards to make their shopping lists. And if more people use it…" He paused, a sly smile on his lips. "…the money will keep flowing."

Money.

The word buzzed in Jon's head like a bee. Suddenly, the ache in his back lessened slightly. His frustration with the rough paper eased a bit. He looked at the drying pile of failures, and for the first time, he didn't see a pile of trash. He saw a pile of unminted coins.

If Young Lord Jaime succeeded… if they could really make cheap paper… and if they sold it… and if the money really did "keep flowing"…

Suddenly, Jon felt a strong urge to try making this damned thing again. He didn't care if he had to pound cloth all night. Maybe, just maybe, some of that "money" would splash on him. A handful of Gold Dragons could change the entire year for his family back in Clearwater.

"You really do sound like a merchant from Lannisport," Addam said, shaking his head in amusement.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Jaime replied without hesitation. "But it's more than just money, Addam. Think about it. What makes a kingdom strong?"

"Swords," Addam answered instantly.

"Swords are important," Jaime agreed. "But a sword needs a hand to hold it, and that hand needs a brain to guide it. Information, Addam. Knowledge. That's what makes a kingdom truly strong. Right now, that knowledge is locked away on expensive parchments in the cabinets of lords and maesters. It's a slow-flowing river that only a few can drink from."

He picked up one of the failed paper sheets. "Paper… paper is a way to widen that river. To make it flow faster, to more places. If a merchant can easily write down his inventory, he can trade more efficiently. If a builder can easily draw his plans, he can build stronger walls. If a commander can easily send orders to his subordinates, his army will move faster. When information is available to more people, more people can make money. More people can innovate. And that will make all of us, the entire Westerlands, more prosperous. And a more prosperous kingdom is a stronger kingdom."

Jon listened, his mouth slightly open. He didn't fully understand everything Jaime was saying, but he understood the basic idea. His young lord wasn't just trying to make paper. He was trying to change the world. Or at least, their part of it.

"You think too much, Jaime," Addam said with a laugh, but this time his laugh was softer. "My head hurts listening to all that. Leave this pile of wet trash. The sun is still shining, and I hear the fish in the river near the woods are hungry. Let's go fishing. At least we might catch our dinner."

Jaime's serious face instantly transformed, replaced by the enthusiastic gleam of a young boy. "That's the best idea I've heard all day!" he exclaimed. He carefully placed the paper sheet back. "Much better than staring at cloth pulp."

He turned to Jon, his grin returning. "Jon, did you hear that? Leave this rubbish. Get us some fishing rods and bait from the storeroom. We're going to show Addam how a Lannister catches fish."

Jon could only nod, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. Fishing. He could do that. Fishing was quiet. Fishing was peaceful.

As Jaime and Addam walked out of the workshop, already arguing cheerfully about who would catch the biggest fish, Jon stayed behind for a moment. He walked over to the drying rack and touched one of the rough paper sheets. It felt like nothing. Just crushed and dried cloth.

Shaking his head, Jon followed them out of the workshop.

…

The sun felt warm on Jon's back, a pleasant warmth that soaked into his tired muscles. The air was filled with peaceful sounds: the soft rush of the river flowing over stones, the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the nearby forest, and occasionally, the muffled laughter of two boys sitting on the riverbank.

He stood leaning against an old tree, his arms crossed over his chest, his watchful eyes scanning his surroundings. Although the chances of danger here, so close to Casterly Rock, were minuscule, the habits of a sworn sword were hard to break. But most of his attention was on the two boys. Lord Jaime and Addam Marbrand sat side-by-side on the grassy bank, each holding a simple wooden fishing rod, their lines disappearing into the clear water. They didn't talk much, just enjoying the comfortable silence and the quiet competition of who would get the first bite.

"Jon?"

Jaime's voice broke the silence. The boy didn't turn, his eyes still fixed on the tip of his fishing rod.

"Yes, Lord Jaime?" Jon raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture.

"You've never been outside the Westerlands, have you?" he asked in a light tone, as if commenting on the weather.

Jon smiled faintly. "You know me well, Lord Jaime," Jon replied. "What's this about?"

"My father sent a raven," Jaime said. He was still staring at the water, but there was a shift in his tone. A little more serious, a little more tired. "He wants me to come to King's Landing. He said, 'it is time you saw how the kingdom is truly run, not just from books.' He said it could open up more knowledge and connections for me." Jaime snorted softly. "Though he didn't say it quite like that, I knew what he meant."

Jon felt a small jolt of interest. King's Landing. The capital. The seat of the Iron Throne. The place where history was made.

"Oh, you're going to King's Landing?" Addam's voice came, full of surprise and a little jealousy. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jaime finally turned, and he smiled at his friend. It was a strange smile, Jon thought. A patient and slightly condescending smile, like an old man talking to a child. Since Jon had known him, that look would sometimes appear, as if the boy were seeing them from a great distance. And yet Jaime himself was only nine namedays old. "I just got the letter this morning," Jaime said calmly. "And the day was busy enough to start with news of a rather long journey. Do you want to come?"

Addam's eyes lit up immediately. "Come? To King's Landing? Of course," he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I've never been to King's Landing."

"Good," Jaime said, a sly grin returning to his face. "That means we'll be leaving Lefford behind."

Addam snorted lightly, his excitement subsiding into a familiar annoyance. "That boy has a dozen others to bother."

"You have a good point," Jaime grinned. Then he turned, his green eyes looking straight at Jon, and Jon felt the full force of his young master's attention return to him. "And that means, Jon, you'll have to pack. Though we probably won't leave for another month. Father isn't always in a hurry for things like this."

King's Landing. The thought swirled in Jon's mind. He would see the Red Keep. He would see the same streets that Aegon the Conqueror had once walked. He would see the greatest city in all of Westeros. It was a staggering prospect for a farmer's son from Clearwater.

"That's good, Lord Jaime," Jon replied, trying to keep his voice steady, though a little excitement was creeping in. "A change of scenery will be welcome."

"Now, don't get too excited," Jaime countered, his smile growing wider. "I hear the place smells like a pile of human filth."

The three of them laughed, their free and genuine laughter echoing over the quiet river, scaring a bluebird that was perched on a nearby branch.

Suddenly, Jaime's fishing line twitched violently, the tip of his rod dipping sharply towards the water.

"A bite!" Addam exclaimed.

Jaime reacted quickly, pulling his rod back with a practiced motion. The line went taut, and for a moment he could feel the resistance on the other end, the strong pull of something alive beneath the surface. Then, with a sudden snap, the line went slack. He reeled it in, and the hook came out of the water, empty and glistening in the sun. The fish had gotten away.

Addam groaned in disappointment. Jaime just stared at his empty hook for a few moments. Then, he shrugged and cast his line back into the water.

He turned to Jon, a small, enigmatic smile on his face.

"Fishing requires patience, doesn't it?"

Jon just nodded, saying nothing.

Indeed, Jon thought to himself, his mind suddenly flashing back to the dusty workshop and the pile of failed cloth. Everything requires patience.

Chapter Text

GERION

The caress was so subtle, almost imperceptible against his sleep-warmed skin. Gerion felt the woman's arm draped across his chest, its softness a contrast to his hard muscles. The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air, a remnant of the previous night's pleasures. He didn't remember her name. Lyla, perhaps? Or Serra? It didn't matter. What mattered was the warmth of her body pressed against his back and the first light of dawn seeping through the cracks in the wooden shutters, signaling the end of their night.

Gerion smiled, stretching like a contented cat on the tangled linen sheets. "Hey," his voice was hoarse with sleep and the dregs of ale. "I have to get up."

"Can't you lie a while longer, My Lord?" The woman's voice was like honey, sweet and sticky, a plea designed to ensnare.

Gerion chuckled softly, a rumble in his chest. "And abandon my duties as a Lord?" Of course, he had no duties beyond entertaining himself, but she didn't need to know that. He turned over to face her. Her face was pretty in the soft morning light, her dark hair splayed across the pillow like a spill of ink. "My brothers would kill me."

"Oh... what loving siblings," she whispered, not believing him in the slightest, but playing along nonetheless. She leaned in and kissed Gerion's cheek, surrendering to the inevitable morning.

Gerion rose from the bed, ignoring the faint throb in his head. He quickly donned his breeches and tunic, which lay discarded on the floor, his movements efficient from long practice. He tossed a purse of silver coins onto the bedside table, more than enough, and without a backward glance, stepped out of the place where pleasure existed only in the night and vanished with the rising sun.

The Lannisport air felt fresh and clean this early in the morning, before the heat and smells of the day's activities tainted it. The cobblestone streets were still damp with dew, and the city was mostly quiet, save for the cries of a few gulls over the harbor and the faint creak of a distant cart. Most of the city was still asleep, recovering from yesterday's work and preparing for today's.

He found his horse in the stable where he'd left it, giving it a few pats on the neck before mounting. With ease, he guided the horse through the empty streets, the sound of its hooves echoing strangely between the silent buildings. The ride up the wide, grand road to Casterly Rock always provided perspective. The bustling city below slowly shrank, becoming an intricate model of rooftops and streets, while the mighty stone fortress loomed above, an eternal reminder of his place in the world.

Upon arriving at the castle, he handed his horse to a still-drowsy stablehand and walked with a brisk pace toward the private dining hall. He knew he was late, but he didn't particularly care. He could hear the murmur of conversation from within as he approached, a good sign that they weren't finished yet.

He pushed the door open with a flourish and strode inside. There, around the long wooden table, most of his family was already gathered. His brother, Kevan, sat at one end, his back straight and his expression as placid as ever. Beside him sat his wife, Dorna Swyft, a kind but timid woman. His sister, Genna, was there with her husband Emmon Frey, who was currently stuffing a large piece of bacon into his mouth. And of course, the children. His niece, Cersei, sat with regal grace, looking like a perfect porcelain doll. His other nephew, Jaime, sat beside her. And Genna's son, Cleos, sat awkwardly. Gerion couldn't find Tygett. His moody brother was probably in the training yard, taking out his anger on a straw dummy, or perhaps just sulking somewhere dark.

"How good of you all not to start breakfast before I arrived!" Gerion called out cheerfully, his voice breaking the polite silence. He walked to his empty chair beside Jaime and dropped into it, deliberately ruffling his nephew's neatly combed hair as he passed.

Jaime grinned up at him, not the least bit annoyed. "It certainly crossed our minds, Uncle Gery," he said, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. "But we feared you would whine for days."

Gerion feigned a wounded expression. "You exaggerate. I would not have whined for days. A few hours at most."

"Wow, what a vast difference," Cersei commented from across the table, her voice dry and humorless.

"Are you finished with all your activities of the night?" Kevan's voice came, calm and emotionless, but Gerion knew exactly what he meant. It was a reprimand wrapped in a polite question. It was Kevan's way of saying, Why do you always sleep with whores in the port? Gerion hated it, that silent, judging disapproval.

"I am here, am I not?" Gerion grunted, taking a roll from the basket. "Of course I am."

Kevan said nothing more, but his gaze was enough. He led a brief prayer to the Seven, a formality he always performed with sincere piety. Gerion bowed his head, mumbling along with the others, his mind already on the bacon and eggs.

They ate in a studied silence after that, the only sounds the clinking of silver on plates and the occasional polite comment from Dorna to Genna about a new embroidery pattern. Gerion ate quickly, his healthy appetite a good antidote to the lingering ale from the night before.

"Cleos, you have no plans today?" Jaime's voice broke the silence, his tone friendly.

His young cousin looked up from his plate, seeming a little surprised to be addressed. "No," Cleos replied quietly. "Just riding here and there."

"Then you can come with me," Jaime said with a smile. "I'm going to practice archery in the woods. It's better than riding aimlessly."

"Be sure to take more guards for that," Genna interjected, her tone that of a wary mother. "The wild boars can be quite troublesome sometimes."

Jaime laughed, a light sound. "I know, Aunt. Luckily I have Jon."

Gerion swallowed a piece of sausage and looked at his nephew. "Are you done with what you were doing, Jaime?" he asked, his curiosity piqued again. "With the linen cloths?"

"Soon, Uncle," Jaime confirmed, not a hint of shame in his voice. "It's going well."

"How well?" Gerion leaned in.

Jaime's face soured slightly. "Well enough that you can stack it and throw it like a rock."

Gerion didn't understand and just nodded.

"You enjoy doing those things, Jaime?" Kevan's voice came again, this time with a tone of genuine confusion. Not judgment, just pure incomprehension. "Spending your time in a dirty workshop. Aren't your lessons with Maester Creylen enough?"

Jaime set down his fork and looked at his uncle, Gerion's brother, directly. "I have an idea," he said simply. "And if I can make it and do nothing, that doesn't feel right."

"An idea for what? How to make more dust?" Cersei sneered.

"An idea for making something new," Jaime retorted, ignoring the venom in his sister's voice. "Something that might be useful."

"If so, you should come up with another idea." Cersei's voice came, sharp as ice. She glared at her twin from across the table. "You are just wasting time. A Lannister would not do that. Dirtying your hands with the work of craftsmen. It's shameful. Father would be sick if he saw you."

A cold silence fell over the table. Gerion could feel the sudden tension. Even Emmon Frey paused his chewing for a moment.

Jaime didn't seem fazed. He just looked at his sister with a calm expression. "A Lannister does what they want to do," he replied quietly, his voice not raised, but every word carried weight. "They do not care about the opinions of others."

Those words hit Gerion like a tidal wave.

They do not care about the opinions of others.

It was something he had lived by his entire life. It was the reason he could spend his nights in Lannisport and walk to the breakfast table without any real shame. He was Gerion Lannister. He did what he wanted. Kevan's judgmental opinions, the scorn of other lords, he didn't care.

But to hear those words spoken by Jaime, in such a simple, confident way… it felt different. For Gerion, it had always been a justification. A justification for running away from any troubling thoughts, for seeking pleasure, for being the laughing lion that no one took seriously.

For Jaime, it was not a justification. It was a declaration of purpose. He wasn't using the words to justify idleness or pleasure. He was using them to justify… work. Innovation. The pursuit of an idea, no matter how strange or "shameful" it seemed to others.

Suddenly, Gerion felt a little dizzy. He looked at his nine-year-old nephew, and he didn't see a boy. Gerion saw the embodiment of a philosophy he had claimed as his own, but used in a completely different and far more structured way. Jaime wasn't running away from anything. He was creating something.

Gerion looked at his sister, Genna. There was a glint of understanding in her eyes. She saw it. She saw the strength behind Jaime's words.

And he looked at Cersei. Her beautiful face was a mask of cold anger and contempt. She saw Jaime's actions as a stain on their perfect image.

The echo of Jaime's words continued to reverberate in his mind. They do not care about the opinions of others.

…

"You're getting heavy!" Gerion exclaimed with a booming laugh as he lifted and lowered Tyrion. "I was only gone for a few hours and you already weigh as much as a bear!"

"I ate lots of cake!" Tyrion laughed gleefully, his high-pitched voice filling the room. For a two-year-old, he spoke with remarkable clarity, his words having developed faster than Gerion's beard.

Gerion put on a mock-shocked expression, his eyes wide. He looked down at his small nephew. "Did you steal from the kitchens?"

"No!" Tyrion said earnestly, shaking his slightly oversized head vigorously. "Jaime stole it!"

On the sofa near the window, Jaime, who was sipping water and eating a pastry, choked and coughed.

Gerion looked at Jaime, raising his eyebrows in a challenging manner, seeking an answer to this serious accusation.

"I didn't steal it," Jaime countered after he managed to swallow. "I asked for permission to take them, but no one heard me amidst all the noise."

"See, Tyrion?" Gerion said, rubbing his nose against his tiny nephew's. "Your brother is very good at making excuses, isn't he?" Tyrion, of course, didn't understand the subtleties of self-justification, but he giggled at his uncle's tone.

"It's called providing an accurate explanation," Jaime added, neatly brushing cake crumbs from his hands.

Gerion set Tyrion's plump legs on the floor. "Maybe you should learn that too, my little nephew." He let go of Tyrion, who immediately toddled happily towards a pile of carved wooden blocks scattered on the carpet.

Gerion then sat on the soft sofa beside Jaime, sighing contentedly. This room felt peaceful. "He's growing up pretty fast, isn't he?" he said, watching Tyrion now trying to stack two blocks with intense concentration.

"I remember it felt like just yesterday he called my name for the first time," Jaime said, a nostalgic note in his voice that sounded incredibly strange coming from a nine-year-old.

Gerion laughed and ruffled his nephew's golden hair, just as he had at the breakfast table. "You're still a child yourself, you know."

"I'm aware," Jaime said, not trying to push his uncle's hand away. "But having a younger brother has taught me to grow up faster."

"You love him very much, don't you?" Gerion asked, his tone softer now. He watched Tyrion, who had successfully stacked his blocks and was now clapping his hands for his own achievement. It was hard not to smile at him.

Jaime shrugged, but there was a small smile on his lips. "It's hard not to when he's clever with his words and uses those eyes to plead for something."

"Those eyes do have a magic to them." Gerion agreed, "Maybe you should learn some self-defense."

"I'm already in too deep, it seems," Jaime grunted, but his eyes never left his playing brother.

A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment. Gerion leaned back, feeling relaxed for the first time all day. "Anything interesting about your day?" he asked, just to fill the silence.

"Besides making paper that's more like stone?" Jaime looked at him, grinning. "No, nothing. Every day is just spent with sword practice, going for a ride. Or walking around Lannisport, and occasionally visiting the sept."

"Do I hear a note of boredom in there?" Gerion grinned, trying to bait him.

"No, I'm not bored," Jaime defended himself quickly. "I actually like it. It's peaceful. I get to see a lot of people and make more connections. More importantly, I can think more to correct the mistakes I've made. This paper will be finished soon."

"You have spirit," Gerion said, and this time he was serious. "That's good. Passion is needed in life. Otherwise, we're just walking dolls, doing what we're told." He thought of Kevan, and then he thought of himself.

"Speaking of passion," Jaime said suddenly, his tone changing. "Oberyn has just poured his passion into something unforgettable."

The name immediately caught Gerion's attention. Oberyn Martell. The wild Prince of Dorne. Gerion knew that Jaime and the prince had been exchanging letters for the past two years, ever since the Martells' visit. A strange pen friendship between a boy from the West and a man known for his sword and his swagger.

"What is it?" Gerion raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. This sounded interesting.

"He's just been accused of 'murdering' Edgar Yronwood, apparently," Jaime said calmly, as if commenting on the weather.

Gerion flinched. Edgar Yronwood. The Lord of Yronwood, one of the most powerful Houses in Dorne after the Martells. "As in… actually murdered?"

Jaime shook his head. "They dueled. Lord Yronwood accused him of seeing him and his lover in an inappropriate relationship. They fought, and they accused Oberyn's spear being coated in poison."

"Of course," Gerion muttered.

"Both were injured," Jaime continued, quoting from the letter he had clearly just received. "But Lord Yronwood was more severely wounded. Afterwards, the treatment apparently failed, so his life could not be saved."

"By the seven," Gerion whispered. This was serious. "What happened to Oberyn?" Killing the head of a major House, even in a duel, would have severe consequences.

"He is heading to Oldtown for exile," Jaime said. "To 'pacify' House Yronwood. He's being sent away for a while until things cool down."

Gerion processed the information. Exile. "Under a pile of books?" Gerion asked, imagining the vibrant Oberyn cooped up in the dusty Citadel.

"Under a pile of books," Jaime confirmed with a thin smile. "He's not very happy about it. He said he'd rather face the entire Yronwood army than one week with the boring maesters."

Gerion burst out laughing, picturing the Dornish Prince's face. "I can imagine." He shook his head in amusement. "There's always an adventure around you, isn't there, nephew? Even in your lettes."

"The world is an interesting place, Uncle," Jaime sighed, his eyes returning to Tyrion, who was now trying to fit a square wooden block into a round hole. "If you know where to look."

Chapter Text

Cleos Frey wasn't sure why he had agreed to come along. The forest was cool and pleasant now, with the sunlight filtering through the canopy of oaks and pines in golden pillars, and the air was filled with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. But "learning archery," as Jaime had called it, was not something that held any interest for him.

He stood a little apart from the main group, leaning against a tree, feeling its rough bark against his back. There, in a small clearing, his cousin, Jaime Lannister, along with Addam Marbrand, Derrick Lefford, and a few guards, including Jaime's ever-present sworn sword, Jon, were taking turns shooting arrows at a straw target propped against a large, dead tree. Cleos didn't know the names of the other guards, and he honestly didn't care.

He had come along for only two reasons. First, he had nothing else to do. His days at Casterly Rock were often like that: long and empty, filled with aimless riding or just sitting in his room, trying to be invisible. The second reason, and the more important one, was because Jaime had asked him to.

Jaime was always kind to him. Among all the proud, confident lions in this castle, Jaime was the only one who never laughed at him. In the training yard, when Cleos would trip over his own feet or misgrip his wooden sword until it nearly flew out of his hands, Derrick Lefford would roar with laughter and Addam Marbrand would give him a pitying look. But Jaime never did. He would just patiently show him the correct stance again, his voice calm and without a trace of condescension. "You just need more practice," he always said. "No one is born a master swordsman."

That simple kindness felt like an anchor in the sea of discomfort that was his life at Casterly Rock. Being a Frey in the lion's den was not easy. He had been born here, raised in the same halls as his golden cousins. This was the only home he had ever known. And yet, the name "Frey" clung to him like an ill-fitting cloak. He could feel it in the gazes of the servants, in the way the knights spoke to him with a slightly more patronizing tone. It was the name of a vassal, the name of a bridge-keeper.

And then there was Lord Tywin's gaze. Cleos had only met his uncle a few times, on the rare occasions when the Hand of the King returned to Casterly Rock. But each time, those pale green eyes would sweep over him, and Cleos would feel as though he were being weighed, measured, and found wanting. It was a sharp, oppressive gaze, filled with a cold judgment. He hated that look more than anything. It made him feel small and worthless, like a mouse before a snake.

"You'll have to do better than that!" Derrick Lefford's arrogant voice broke Cleos's reverie. He looked over at the clearing, where Addam Marbrand's arrow had just landed a few inches outside the outermost ring of the target.

Marbrand retorted flatly, taking another arrow from its place. "It's the wind. The wind has been strong lately."

Cleos glanced up at the leaves in the treetops. They were all still. There was no wind at all. It was a blatant lie, but it was part of their game.

"A good archer," Derrick said, taking his stance. He played along with the boy, drawing his bow with a theatrical flourish. "Is one who can become one with the wind." He released his arrow. The arrow flew with a soft hiss and landed with a satisfying thud near the target, better than Marbrand's. He grinned arrogantly, which made Marbrand grunt in annoyance.

"A stroke of luck," Addam said, rolling his eyes. "The wind stopped just as you shot."

"Try again, can you?" Derrick challenged, his face flushed with pride.

"It's Jaime's turn now," Addam said, deliberately ignoring Derrick and turning to Jaime.

Jaime smiled, stepping forward and taking his bow. It was a beautiful yew bow, much finer than the ordinary practice bows they used. "If you insist," Jaime said, his tone light and full of confidence. "I'm already good at this sort of thing."

"Don't get too big for your breeches, Lannister," Derrick said, still a little annoyed at being ignored.

"Just a fact," Jaime replied calmly.

Cleos watched as his cousin took his stance. There was a subtle change in Jaime when he focused. The cheerfulness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a cool intensity. He stood tall, his feet shoulder-width apart. He took a deep breath, raised the bow, nocked an arrow, and drew the bowstring to his cheek in a single, fluid, effortless motion. For a few seconds, he was still as a statue, one with his bow. Then, he shot.

The arrow flew like a golden streak of light. THWACK!

It hit the target dead center in the small black circle at its heart. A perfect shot.

The guards, who had been watching with bored expressions, cheered and clapped. Even the usually stoic Jon had a wide grin on his face.

"See?" Jaime said, lowering his bow. He said it as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "You just have to be calm and focused. That's the essence of archery."

"You say that as if it's easy," Derrick grumbled, voicing Cleos's thoughts.

Jaime shook his head, his smile returning. "No one said it was easy. I practiced many times for this." He paused, and then his green eyes looked straight at Cleos. He held out the bow. "Want to try?"

All the blood seemed to drain from Cleos's face. Him? Archery? In front of all these people? He would rather play with sand than do it. It was more fun and far less embarrassing. But the clumsy and awkward Cleos could never refuse a Lannister, especially not Jaime.

He walked forward reluctantly, feeling everyone's eyes on him. He took the bow from Jaime's hand. It felt heavy and strange in his hands.

"I'll break your bow," Cleos whispered, a last-ditch effort to escape.

"Don't be so modest," Jaime whispered back, his voice reassuring. "Besides, if you do break it, we can make a new one. It's just a bow."

Cleos had almost forgotten. To a Lannister, a beautiful bow was just a toy.

Nodding in resignation, Cleos tried to mimic Jaime's stance. He had used a bow a few times before, when his father had tried to teach him. Of course, in his small, clumsy hands, everything had gone wrong. His arrows had flown wild, and his father had sighed in frustration.

So now he concentrated. He ignored Derrick's smirk and Addam's sympathetic gaze. He took a deep breath, like Jaime had. He nocked an arrow, his fingers feeling clumsy and uncoordinated. He drew the bowstring with all his might, his untrained muscles straining. He aimed, trying to keep the tip of the arrow steady on the target. He held his breath, praying to the Warrior and whoever else among the Seven might be listening. Please, please don't let me embarrass myself.

He aimed and held it for what felt like several minutes, or maybe just a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, until the others were probably bored of watching him. Then, Cleos shot.

The arrow flew quickly, but not straight. It flew in a strange arc, veering far to the left, and disappeared into the dense undergrowth beside the target. It didn't even hit the tree behind it.

A total silence fell over the clearing. Cleos's heart sank into his stomach.

Then, he heard it. A suppressed laugh from Derrick's direction.

Before the laugh could fully erupt, Jaime's voice cut in, sharp and cold. "Derrick."

Cleos didn't see it, but he could feel the sharp glare Jaime was giving the older boy. The laughter stopped instantly.

Then, Cleos felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jaime's. "That was good," his cousin said, his voice warm and comforting. Cleos knew it was a lie, but he was grateful nonetheless. "The shot was strong. You could see from how fast the arrow flew. You just need more practice to aim it."

"Maybe," Cleos replied quietly. And that would take a lifetime, he thought to himself.

"Of course," Jaime said with confidence. "We'll practice together every day if you want."

Cleos could only nod, speechless. He handed the bow back to Jaime, feeling like a beggar returning a borrowed crown.

He returned to his place under the tree, away from the center of attention. He watched as Addam and Jaime took turns shooting again, their banter returning, though a little more subdued now.

Jaime was kind to him. He was truly kind. He had defended him. But even that kindness felt like a reminder of their differences. Jaime was so effortless in everything—archery, sword fighting, even talking. Everything came naturally to him. For Cleos, every action felt like a struggle.

He sighed, and retreated into his own world, the sound of the other boys' laughter fading into the background, like the sound of the wind in the trees.

…

The path back to the castle felt quieter now. Derrick Lefford and Addam Marbrand had split off at a fork, rushing back to clean up before dinner, their laughter and jests fading among the trees. Now there were just the three of them: Jaime, Cleos, and the sworn sword named Jon, who walked a few steps behind like a faithful shadow.

Cleos walked awkwardly, aware of the cold mud patches that were beginning to dry on his tunic. Earlier, when he had jumped over a protruding tree root, he had accidentally landed too close to a puddle from last night's rain, and the splash had hit the bottom of his trousers.

"Sorry for getting you dirty," Jaime said suddenly, his tone filled with genuine regret.

Cleos glanced down at the stain, then at his cousin's worried face. 'I get dirty every day,' Cleos thought to himself. He didn't understand Jaime's way of thinking. Even if they were just practicing swords in a dry yard, getting dirty from sweat and dust was normal. Being dirty was part of being a boy, especially one learning to be a knight. Sometimes, Jaime talked like a worried old man. Like his mother. He didn't know.

"I'll just take a bath," Cleos replied with a shrug, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt.

But Jaime still looked worried. "Your mother won't be angry, will she?"

Cleos almost laughed. Angry over a little mud? His mother would faint if she saw the state of his clothes after a truly serious sword practice session. "She'll just give me more perfume," Cleos tried to joke, his voice a little dry.

Jaime looked relieved. Then he laughed, a free and genuine laugh. "Good. If you run out, I'll give you more."

Cleos shuddered at the thought of having to wear more of the cloying lavender scent his mother favored. He looked up at the evening sky, which was beginning to turn orange. "Don't give her any ideas, Jaime."

"Too late," Jaime said with a smile.

A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment as they continued to walk. Cleos felt a question forming in his mind, a question he had long wanted to ask but never dared. Now, after Jaime's kindness in the woods, he felt a little braver.

"You're very good at things involving bows and swords," Cleos said, his voice quieter than he had intended. "How do you do it?"

Jaime didn't answer right away. He tilted his head back, looking up at the canopy of trees above them as if the answer were written there. "Practice," he said finally. "Is there any other way?"

"I practice every day… with a sword," Cleos said, a familiar frustration creeping into his voice. "But I can't be like you."

Jaime stopped walking and turned to look at him. He had a strange expression, as if he were really thinking about it. "Everyone has their own learning pace, Cleos."

'But no one is as slow as me,' Cleos thought bitterly. He had seen other boys, boys who had just picked up a sword and in a few months could move with more confidence than he had after years.

Instead, he said, "Did you mean it when you said I could practice with you every day?" He held his breath after asking, afraid the answer was just a momentary courtesy.

Jaime looked straight into his eyes, and there was not a trace of doubt there. "Of course! We're cousins, how could I lie to a cousin? You can come to me anytime and I'll be ready. As long as…" He paused, a small grin appearing on his face. "…you're also ready for more sweat and bruises."

A wave of relief and something that felt like hope washed over Cleos. He didn't care about the sweat. He didn't care about the bruises. It was a small price to pay. "I can handle that," Cleos said, and he was surprised at how strong and confident his voice sounded. "It will be worth it if I can be as strong as you."

Jaime laughed again, this time he looked back. "I'm not the strong one. You should aim to be as strong as this Jon here! He could take me down with one hand if he wanted to."

Jon, who had been silent all this time, looked a little surprised to suddenly be the center of attention. He just gave a small, awkward smile.

Cleos looked at his cousin, at the golden lion who seemed to be able to do everything with ease. "Maybe it's because the goal is easier to reach with you," Cleos said, and the words just came out.

Jaime looked at him, a little confused at first, and then he understood. He smiled, this time not the smile of a confident warrior. It was a warm and understanding smile.

And in return, Cleos smiled back. And for the first time that day, the smile felt genuine.

…

Cleos stepped over the threshold of his room, leaving the dim corridor behind him. Here, in his private space, the world felt a little simpler. The air was filled with the faint scent of lemon soap and polished wood. It was his place, a small pocket within the vastness of Casterly Rock where he didn't have to constantly feel like he was being judged.

He felt tired, but it was a good kind of tired. His muscles ached from drawing the unfamiliar bowstring, and there were mud patches on his tunic, but inside his chest, there was a new spark of warmth. Hope.

A quiet young servant was already waiting there, ready to help him out of his dirty clothes and prepare a bath. Cleos was starting to undo his laces when a familiar, sharp voice broke the silence.

"Have fun?"

Startled, Cleos spun around. His mother, Genna Lannister, was sitting in an armchair by the window, a place he hadn't noticed when he first came in.

"Mother! You startled me!" Cleos exclaimed, his heart pounding.

"That was the point." Genna smiled, but her intelligent eyes were not smiling. Her eyes were observing, analyzing, as always. "I wanted to make sure an archer knows that even in a calm wilderness, a lion will surprise you."

"And the archer will be startled to death," Cleos said flatly, trying to regain his composure.

"Easier for the lion to eat him." Genna laughed, a sharp, knowing laugh. She gestured for the servant to step back for a moment. "Oh, you are filthy," she said, her eyes sweeping over the mud patches on Cleos's clothes. "I hope it was worth everything you did."

"It was worth it," Cleos said, and he was surprised at the note of conviction in his own voice. "Jaime is going to teach me the bow, and maybe the sword too."

His mother looked straight into his eyes, her gaze piercing. "There are many knights in Casterly Rock who are better than Jaime, you know that. Ser Benedict is a master-at-arms who has trained dozens of knights. You just have to train harder." She paused, and a small smile returned to her lips. "But that's good. Being close to your cousin will make your days less boring."

Less boring. It was his mother's way of saying safer. Cleos knew it. Being close to Jaime meant Derrick Lefford and the others would think twice before mocking him. It meant he would be part of the inner circle, not just a Frey who happened to live here.

"Yes," Cleos said quietly. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to voice the confusion that had been bothering him. "Mother, sometimes Jaime says things I don't understand. About 'paper,' 'interests,' and… everything. It makes me wonder if I'm getting stupider."

"Don't say that." Genna sighed, and for a moment, the hardness in her face softened into a genuinely maternal expression. She patted the chair beside her, an invitation. Cleos walked over and sat down awkwardly. "Jaime is more mature in his thinking even though he is only a year older than you," she said, her voice softer now. "Don't blame yourself for that. He is the son of Tywin Lannister. He was raised to think about legacy and power even before he could walk properly."

Hearing that, Cleos nodded slowly. It was a simple, undeniable truth. Jaime was Tywin's son, the heir to everything.

'And I am the son of a Frey,' he thought, and the familiar bitterness rose in his throat. The difference was vast. It was the difference between pure gold and mud.

As if she could read his mind, his mother's hand reached out and stroked his cheek, her thumb gently brushing away a smudge of dirt he hadn't realized was there. "And you?" she said softly, her eyes looking intently into his. "You have Lannister blood in you too. My blood. Never forget that. You are more than what others see, Cleos. You have a quietness that other boys lack. You observe. You listen. It's a different kind of strength, but it is strength."

Cleos's throat felt tight. Praise from his mother was rare, and when it came, it always carried a heavy weight. So many thoughts swirled in his mind—gratitude, frustration, confusion, and a new flicker of pride. He wanted to say something, to explain how hard it was to be him, caught between two names, two worlds. But the words wouldn't come. It was all too complicated.

He swallowed, pulling away from his mother's touch. He stood up, suddenly feeling the need to do something simple, something physical.

"I need a bath."

Genna looked at him for a moment longer, her eyes filled with an understanding that couldn't be put into words. Then, she nodded. "Yes," she said. "You do."

As the servant stepped forward to help him, Cleos was no longer thinking about mud or sweat. He was thinking about Lannister blood and the Frey name, about being strong in a quiet way, and about the promise of training with his strange, brilliant cousin. A bath wouldn't wash all of that away. But at least, it was a start.

Chapter Text

JON

After two weeks, after two damned, relentless weeks where his muscles screamed and his patience was tested to its limits, Jon finally saw it. And the sight, strangely, left him speechless.

On the long table in the center of the workshop, arranged in neat stacks, lay the fruits of their labor. Paper. But not like the coarse, thick sheets they had produced before, which were more like stiff rags than anything else. This was different.

These papers were thinner, almost translucent when held up to the afternoon light filtering through the window. They were a clean white, not the pale gray of their failed attempts. And when Jon dared to touch one, its surface felt slightly rough yet smooth under his calloused fingers.

He stared at the stacks with an admiration he had never felt before. This was not the beauty of a sword blade or the grandeur of a tapestry. This was a different kind of beauty. The beauty of something born from chaos. He knew exactly what was contained in each of those sheets: hours of pounding linen cloth in a stone mortar until his arms felt numb, the strange smell of the boiled pulp, the frustration of lifting the mould from the water and seeing the pulp clump incorrectly, and the ache in his back from pressing the water out of the stacks. He had hated every second of it.

But now, seeing the result, he felt a strange, powerful wave of pride.

At the end of the table, Lord Jaime was grinning, of course he was grinning. The satisfied grin of a general who had just won a difficult battle. It worked! It worked! After Jon did almost all the heavy lifting!

"This is very good, Jon," Jaime said, his voice filled with sincere satisfaction. He was sitting on a stool, holding one of the paper sheets, and carefully dipping the tip of a quill into an inkwell. He began to write, his strokes smooth and unhindered. "The texture is not bad," he murmured, more to himself. "And the ink absorbs without spreading or bleeding."

"I am glad to hear that, Young Lord," Jon said calmly, keeping his voice flat and respectful. But in his mind, he was cheering: 'I've conquered this stupid game! I did it! I, Jon of Clearwater, am the best papermaker in all of Westeros!'

The workshop door creaked open, and Addam Marbrand entered, followed by the more reserved Cleos Frey. They had been coming every few days to check on "the Lannister's crazy project," as Addam called it.

"Wow," Marbrand said as he approached and saw the stacks of paper. He picked up a sheet, examining it with a critical eye. Cleos also leaned in for a closer look. "This actually looks good," Addam admitted, sounding genuinely impressed. "Thinner and whiter than parchment." Then, he did a strange thing. He sniffed it. "And it doesn't smell too bad. Not like sheepskin."

"Amazing," Cleos said, nodding earnestly. His eyes shifted from the paper to Jon. "Seeing Jon fail repeatedly and finally succeed is something worth celebrating."

'Yes!' Jon cheered in his head. 'Let's celebrate! You don't need to provide food or drink, Young Lord. You just have to give me a gold coin and I'll be happy!'

"With this, the first problem is solved," Jaime said, setting down his quill and nodding in satisfaction at his work.

Jon frowned. "There's a second problem?" he asked, his heart sinking a little. He thought his suffering was over.

Jaime looked at him, and that grin returned, this time a little more sly. "Of course there is. The easy parts are done." He leaned back in his chair. "For mass production, we can't use high-quality linen like this... well, we could, but it wouldn't be profitable."

"Therefore," Jaime continued, "used cloths will be very useful. Old clothes, rags, torn ship sails. Anything we can get cheaply. We can get that from many places."

"For example?" Addam asked, his curiosity piqued.

Jaime shrugged, a strange, casual gesture. "There are plenty in this castle. Think of all the old sheets or worn-out servant's tunics. In Lannisport, there are thousands of households. Every house must have a pile of used cloth."

"After mass production, we can sell it?" Jon asked, finally getting to the part he really cared about.

Jaime grinned at him, his eyes dancing. "No, we're going to eat it." He paused for a moment to enjoy the confused expression on Jon's face before laughing. "Of course we're going to sell it, Jon! I'll gather these papers first, our best 'samples.' I'll show them to the merchants in Lannisport later. And maybe to my father when we visit King's Landing."

King's Landing. The journey was getting closer. Jon nodded slowly. With the Lannister name and the connections of the Hand of the King, selling these stacks of paper would be very easy. He could see it now: carts full of paper, and other carts returning full of gold.

"If paper can spread information like you say, Lannister," Addam said slowly, his gaze distant. He held a sheet of paper in his hand as if it were something far more precious. "This might change a lot of things later. The Maesters, the Septons… even the kings. And I'm here to witness it."

"You'll see," Jaime said, his grin full of absolute confidence.

"But how will you get all those used cloths?" Cleos asked, ever the practical one. "You can't just go from house to house and ask for their old clothes."

"That's where the clever part comes in," Jaime said. "We're not going to ask for it. We're going to buy it. For a very cheap price, of course. We'll pay people for their trash. They'll get a few copper pennies, and we'll get our raw materials. Everyone is happy." He turned to Jon. "And you, Jon, will be a very powerful man. You'll have to supervise the workers later."

Jon knew it was just a joke, but he tried to imagine himself ordering a dozen men to do the back-breaking work he had done alone. The image was quite pleasant.

"This all sounds like a lot of work," Addam said. "I think I'd rather fight with a sword."

"That's why you'll be a great knight, and I'll be a rich Lord," Jaime retorted cheerfully. "Everyone has their role."

Jon listened to them talk, his mind spinning. Money. Mass production. Connections. Changing the world. It was all too big for him to fully comprehend.

"Let's go, Jon, I'm going to see Uncle Kevan."

Young Lord Jaime's voice broke the satisfied thoughts in the workshop. The boy moved with a sharp purpose, carefully gathering the best sheets of paper—the whitest, the smoothest, the most perfect. He placed them one by one into a leather pouch he had prepared specifically for this moment. Every movement was filled with conviction, the conviction of a man who knew he held something valuable.

'Oh, this is the first stage for the spread of this paper!' The thought flashed through Jon's mind, and a hot wave of excitement washed over him, banishing all the remaining fatigue from his muscles. This was it. The moment when all his sweat and his aching back would start to pay off.

They left the workshop, bidding a brief farewell to Addam and Cleos, who were still staring at the stacks of paper with a mixture of awe and confusion.

The journey from the workshop to the solar felt different. Usually, when walking beside Young Lord Jaime, Jon felt like a guard, a protector. Today, he felt like an escort on an important mission. Every step on the familiar stones felt heavier, more meaningful. He carried the pride of the work he had done, not as a knight, but as a… creator. It was a strange and intoxicating feeling.

They arrived at the door to Ser Kevan Lannister's solar. The thick wooden door seemed intimidating, like a gate to a different world. In Jon's world, people solved problems with swords or muscle. Behind this door, problems were solved with words, numbers, and quiet decisions that could change the fates of thousands. Two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention on either side of the door, their spears held perfectly. They nodded respectfully at Jaime, their gazes betraying no curiosity.

Jaime didn't hesitate. He knocked on the door three times, a sharp, confident rap.

A calm, deep voice came from within. "Enter."

Jaime pushed the door open and stepped inside. Jon followed him, standing silently behind his young lord's shoulder, his hand instinctively on the hilt of his sword, a habit hard to break even in the safest place in the Westerlands.

Ser Kevan's solar was exactly like the man himself: orderly, efficient, and without unnecessary frills. Neat bookshelves lined one wall, scrolls of parchment were stacked meticulously on a table, and a large map of the Westerlands was spread under glass on a massive desk. Ser Kevan himself was sitting behind that desk, reading a scroll. He looked up as they entered, and a pair of thick, blond eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Jaime? You're not practicing your sword or playing? That's something."

Jaime shook his head and walked forward, sitting in one of the chairs in front of his uncle's desk without waiting to be invited. "Practice and play can wait, Uncle," he said, his voice calm and serious. "Right now, I have something important."

Jon watched the interaction closely. Ser Kevan was a hard man to read. He didn't have the intimidating coldness of Lord Tywin, nor the easy cheerfulness of Ser Gerion. He was a quiet, considerate man, a man whose actions always had a purpose.

"What is it? Is the toy you were making finished?" Kevan smiled lightly, a rare smile that softened the corners of his eyes. Jon knew that beneath his serious demeanor, Ser Kevan was very fond of his nephew.

Jaime laughed, a relaxed sound. "You can read my mind, Uncle. Only, this isn't just a toy anymore. I have something real, that might, just might, change a few things for real."

With a deliberate movement, Jaime opened the leather pouch and carefully took out a small stack of white paper. He placed it on the desk between himself and his uncle.

The paper I made. Jon could feel a hot wave of pride rise in his chest. He had seen that paper wet, clumpy, and torn. Now, seeing it lying on Ser Kevan's polished wooden desk, looking so clean and perfect, it felt almost like magic.

Kevan stared at the stack with a confused expression. He reached out and took a sheet. Jon watched as his uncle's thick, strong fingers gently felt the surface of the paper. "You made this?"

"Yes," Jaime said. "I didn't show it to you before because, frankly, it was more like trash than something you could write on." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm beginning to show. "Now it's finished. Try writing something, Uncle. Feel it for yourself."

Kevan didn't speak. He set the sheet down, took a quill from its stand, dipped it in ink, and then, with a steady, firm stroke, he wrote a single word in the center of the white page.

Lannister.

The black ink looked sharp and clear on the white surface, absorbing quickly without the slightest bleed.

Kevan set down his quill and stared at the word for what felt like a very long time. The room was completely silent, the only sound the frantic beating of Jon's heart in his ears.

Finally, Ser Kevan looked up and stared straight at Jaime. The amused expression on his face was gone, replaced by something much deeper. Something that looked like genuine admiration.

"This is very good, Jaime."

"I know!" Jaime exclaimed, his excitement finally bubbling over. He leaned even further forward, almost jumping out of his chair. "I know how you value brains and information, Uncle, so you of all people would understand. It's cheaper to make than parchment, faster, and lighter. I plan to produce and sell it. For that, I need your help. And Father's."

Kevan smiled again, this time a different smile. Not the smile of an uncle to his nephew, but the smile of a lord who has just seen a powerful new weapon. "A thing like this is indeed worthy of appreciation," he said, his quiet voice filled with a new weight. He picked up the sheet again. "How much of it can you make? If it's the same or less than parchment, it's useless. Just a waste of time."

It was a Lannister's question. A question of scale, efficiency, and profit.

"For now, I can't confirm it for certain," Jaime answered, not at all daunted. "But I am sure, with the right process, we will be able to make about ten to twenty thousand sheets every three weeks." He nodded, as if it were a simple calculation. "That's if we have up to twenty skilled workers."

Jon raised his eyebrows. Ten to twenty thousand? The number was so large he couldn't even imagine it. He had spent two weeks making less than a hundred decent sheets. The thought of twenty thousand made his head spin.

Ser Kevan also seemed taken aback. He set the paper sheet back down as if it had suddenly become hot. "Ten… thousand?" he repeated, to make sure he hadn't misheard. "Jaime, with that amount, the maesters at the Citadel could write the history of the entire world in a year. You… you could write endlessly with that much." He looked at his nephew as if seeing him for the first time. "What do you need?"

And then, Jaime began to explain. Jon listened in awe as his young master spoke no longer like a boy, but like a planner. He spoke of "pulping efficiency," of the need for larger mortars, and of his main idea: a waterwheel.

"We can build it on the riverbank," Jaime said with passion, his hands moving as he explained. "The power of the water can be used to move giant wooden hammers. Those hammers will pound the cloth into pulp continuously, day and night. It will be much faster than human labor. It will be the heart of the operation."

Kevan listened intently, his eyes never leaving Jaime's face. He nodded slowly, absorbing every detail. When Jaime had finished, silence once again filled the room.

"A waterwheel," Kevan said softly. "That is a large project. It will require gold."

"We have gold," Jaime replied simply.

Kevan looked at his nephew for a few more moments, and then a decision was made. "Alright," he said. "You will have your waterwheel. And your twenty workers. I will arrange everything." He paused, and a sly smile very similar to Jaime's appeared on his face. "But first, I will tell Tywin. I will send a raven to King's Landing tonight." He picked up the sheet of paper he had written on. "And of course, I will use your invention to write the letter."

Jon felt a thrill of excitement. This was real. This was really happening.

"One more thing, Jaime," Kevan said, rising from his chair. "I want to see it."

Jaime looked confused. "See what, Uncle?"

"The process," Kevan said. "Take me to your workshop. I want to see with my own eyes how you turn a pile of rags into… this."

One more chapter for today, see you next week! 😃

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister sat alone in the vast silence of his solar in the Tower of the Hand. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound to break the thick quiet. Outside, King's Landing pulsed with its filthy, noisy life, but here, in this center of power, the world seemed to be held at bay. On his massive oaken desk, among the reports and royal decrees, lay a letter from Casterly Rock.

He felt a strangeness in the medium he held. This was not parchment. It was whiter, almost flawless, and its texture, though smooth, had a slight fibrous roughness that felt alien under his fingers. It was light, almost weightless, yet the words written upon it carried an immense weight.

He had read the letters from Kevan with the efficiency that had become his trademark. The first part was as expected: reports on Casterly Rock, the health of his vassals, and meticulous details of taxation. Kevan was always thorough, a reliable man who kept the Westerlands running smoothly while Tywin was occupied by the larger, though often more foolish, duties of the realm.

Then, at the end of the letter, he finally found it. The part written in a slightly different tone, a tone of barely restrained astonishment that was very unusual for his calm brother.

"Since this letter was sent, Jaime and Cersei are still preparing their things for King's Landing. And Tywin, he has created something that might change the structure of this kingdom."

Tywin paused for a moment, his pale green eyes narrowing.

"What you are holding now is 'paper,'" the letter continued. "Jaime made it himself, with the help of theory from Maester Creylen and the labor of Jon, his sworn sword."

Kevan then explained the details of the paper, about how it was made from cheap cloth, not from expensive animal hides. He explained its potential for mass production. And then, he got to the heart of the matter, to the strategic thinking he knew Tywin would understand.

"Jaime explained that with cheaper paper, information can be spread more easily and more quickly. And perhaps later, when they can create a 'printing press,' a concept he is still developing, House Lannister might be able to hold and control what information is spread throughout the kingdom. He also explained the income that could be generated from the sale of this paper. It would be like a new, endless stream of gold."

Tywin set the letter down, but he did not release the sheet of paper itself. He was silent. Of course, Jaime had mentioned his "project" in the brief letters he sent every fortnight. Tywin had read about what he was doing with the metal blocks. He had dismissed it as the amusement of a clever boy, a way to occupy his restless mind. He had given it his tacit permission, wanting to see where his son's curiosity would lead him. He had not expected this.

He had not expected a tangible result, a result he could hold in his hands.

A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Tywin's lips.

Jaime, at the tender age of nine, was already thinking about information control, mass production, and new revenue streams. The boy was everything Tywin could have wanted in an heir. Sharp, ambitious, and able to see beyond the sword and shield. The proof he now held, this paper, made Tywin trust him even more. The boy wasn't just talking nonsense. He had potential. A real and frightening potential.

Tywin valued brains. He had used his own to drag House Lannister out of the disgrace his father had left it in and return it to the pinnacle of power. But even he had never thought like this. He had never thought of "invention," of creating an entirely new source of wealth and power from nothing. Tywin used his brain to think rationally, to politic with clarity, to look into a man's soul and find his weakness. Jaime… Jaime was thinking of changing the very foundations of that world.

He set Kevan's letter down, but his hand still held the sheet of paper, feeling its new and possibility-filled texture.

Jaime was nine years old. He was still young. But in their world, the sons of great Houses were assets to be managed from an early age. And the most valuable assets had to be secured with the strongest alliances. The people around Tywin, the Lords from various places, had already begun their initial maneuvers, peddling their daughters like the finest horses at a fair.

Until now, Tywin had not given it much thought. But now, with such tangible proof of Jaime's potential in his hands, the thought came to the surface.

There were several potential candidates. He could marry Jaime to a daughter of House Crakehall, or Marbrand, or one of the other powerful Houses in the Westerlands. It would be a safe move, one that would strengthen his grip on his own territory. But Tywin Lannister never played it safe. Playing it safe was for men who were afraid to lose.

Then there were the others, the daughters of the great Lords. Catelyn Tully, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. A match with the Riverlands would be a strategic move, securing the center of the kingdom. Hoster was an ambitious man, and his daughter was said to have her mother's beauty and her father's spirit. A solid asset.

From the North. Lyanna Stark, Rickard Stark's daughter. Uniting Casterly Rock with Winterfell would be an unprecedented move, tying the vast North into Lannister's power.

And then there was Janna Tyrell. Twelve years old, already beginning to blossom. A match with House Tyrell would unite the gold of Casterly Rock with the fertile fields of the Reach. Gold and food. Wealth and population.

His thoughts naturally turned to his other twin. Cersei. His most perfect prize. He had planned her destiny since the day she was born. Cersei would be Queen. She would sit beside Prince Rhaegar on the Iron Throne, and the blood of the lion would merge with the blood of the dragon.

But Aerys… the King was truly unstable now. Every time Tywin carefully suggested the match between Cersei and Rhaegar, the King would just change the subject, or mutter about "thinking about it," his violet eyes flickering with paranoia. As if there were someone better than a Lannister for the Iron Throne. As if his gold and his daughter's intelligence were not enough. The insult felt like a hot coal in Tywin's gut.

He forcibly pushed the thought from his mind, returning it to the steel box in his mind where he kept all his frustrations. He could not control the madness of a King. But he could control his son's future.

Tywin decided to go out. The same walls that usually gave him a sense of power and control now felt suffocating, as if the echoes of the King's growing madness were seeping through the cracks in the stone. He needed to think, and fresh air, even the polluted air of King's Landing, sometimes helped to clear the mind.

He walked down the vast corridors of the Red Keep, his steady footsteps making no echo on the Myrish carpets. The white-cloaked Kingsguard guards bowed respectfully as he passed, their faces expressionless behind their helms. Courtiers and servants moved out of his way, bowing their heads in a mixture of fear and respect. He was the true power in this castle, and everyone knew it.

Everyone, it seemed, except the King himself.

His mind drifted back to the past, to a time that felt simpler, clearer. Aerys, Steffon, and himself. Three young men, bound by ambition, war, and a genuine friendship. Steffon Baratheon, with his booming laugh and his easy strength. Aerys Targaryen, once charming and full of spirit, his violet eyes sparkling with the promise of a golden age. And himself, Tywin, the quiet strategist, the anchor for his more spirited friends. They were an inseparable trio, bound by their shared experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was on the bloody battlefields of the Stepstones that he had truly earned Aerys's trust. That was why, when the throne became his, Aerys had called on him to be his Hand. It wasn't just because Tywin was competent; it was because he was his close friend.

But where was that warmth now? Lately, whenever Aerys looked at him, the King's eyes were different. The warmth of friendship had long since died, replaced by something else. Something flickering, restless, and filled with a poisonous suspicion. Tywin no longer understood what he was thinking. There was only one conclusion his logical mind could draw: madness. The King was going mad.

However, Tywin was not a fool. He understood the root of that madness, at least the part that was directed at him. Aerys might feel threatened. Threatened by him. Tywin had ruled this kingdom in Aerys's name. He had refilled the royal coffers that previous kings had emptied. He had built new roads, suppressed rebellious vassals, and enforced the King's justice with merciless efficiency. The kingdom ran smoothly under his watch.

And that was the problem. People saw it. When it came to this, people spoke of the Hand of the King, not of the King himself. Lords from distant lands came to him first to ask for permission or help. His voice carried more weight in the small council than the King's.

But this was his duty. The duty of a Hand was to rule. Aerys should have been grateful to him for bearing this burden, allowing the King to enjoy his feasts and tourneys. Aerys should have been grateful to him for repaying the crown's debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos, debts that his own father had accumulated.

But instead, Aerys slapped him in the face. Every day, in small, cunning ways. Rejecting his suggestions in public. Making demeaning jokes about lions and gold. And worst of all, the most painful, was the constant stalling regarding the match between Rhaegar and Cersei.

Once, this plan had been a foregone conclusion in Tywin's mind, a logical certainty. The Crown Prince would marry the daughter of his Hand. The blood of the dragon and the blood of the lion would unite, creating a dynasty that would rule for hundreds of years. It was the smartest, most powerful move. Even Aerys, in his saner days, had agreed to it in principle.

His aimless steps had taken him across the inner courtyard and towards the only place in the Red Keep that offered true silence. The Godswood.

He stepped under the shade of the ancient trees. Here, in this small pocket, the noise of the court seemed to vanish. The air felt cooler, smelling of damp earth and wet leaves. He was not a follower of the Old Gods, but he appreciated the silence and the age of this place.

As he stood there, in the silence, he heard it.

The sound of a harp.

The music drifted through the trees, a complex and melancholy melody filled with an indescribable sadness. Each note was played with perfect precision, yet filled with a raw emotion. A harp in the night. There was only one person in the entire Red Keep who could play like that.

Prince Rhaegar.

Tywin did not move. He remained in the shadows, hidden from view. He listened, his usually racing mind now calm, focused only on the music.

In that sad melody, he heard the echo of all his frustrations. He heard the beauty he wanted to claim for his daughter. He heard the dragon's blood he so desperately wanted to unite with his own. He heard the son of the man who stood in his way, the son of the man who had betrayed their friendship. The music was everything he wanted and everything he could not have, all woven into one heartbreaking song.

He felt no anger. Anger was a useless emotion. Instead, he felt something far colder, far harder. Determination.

The music stopped, leaving a silence deeper than before. Tywin did not move. He just stood in the growing darkness, listening to the echo of the last note fading in the air.

Chapter Text

CERSEI

After a long and grueling month's journey, they finally arrived at King's Landing. The cramped, swaying carriage finally came to a halt, and for the first time in weeks, Cersei felt a silence that wasn't accompanied by the creaking of wheels or the whinnying of horses. What first came to Cersei's mind, as she peeked through the small window, was how magnificent the buildings were.

Oh, Casterly Rock was a marvel, certainly. Lannisport was a rich and bustling port city. But the Capital had a uniqueness all its own. The towers of the Red Keep soared into the sky like the petrified fingers of a dragon, the Targaryen banners fluttering majestically in the wind. Even from a distance, she could feel the pulse of this city's power, a wild and untamed energy that the orderly Westerlands lacked.

Perfect. This suited her. This was a stage worthy of a queen. A stage where she would one day rule alongside her prince.

As the carriage door opened and she stepped out, a wave of warmth greeted her. It was a different air from the cool sea breeze of Casterly Rock. This air was thicker, filled with a thousand different scents—spices from other parts of the world, the smell of woodsmoke from a thousand hearths, and beneath it all, the faint, unpleasant odor of too many people living in close quarters. But Cersei did not care. She breathed it in deeply, tasting her new world.

Then, she felt Jaime's gaze on her. She turned and immediately met it with a flat look. She would not show her excitement to Jaime. Not now. She walked towards him, her gown swishing over the stones of the courtyard. There, beside Jaime, stood Addam Marbrand, looking a little overwhelmed by the scale of the place, and the ever-present sworn sword, Jon.

"Don't wander off anywhere. We need to go see Father," Cersei said flatly, her tone sharp and commanding. She deliberately spoke to him as if he were a three-year-old, not her twin brother.

Jaime didn't retort sharply. Instead, there was a weary expression on his face, as if Cersei were just another annoyance on his long journey. "Yes, boss," he said quietly.

Boss? That strange word sounded foreign to Cersei's ears. What did it mean? It sounded like a word a dockworker would use. She wanted to hit him for using strange words she didn't understand, for having changed into someone she no longer recognized.

They were led by a captain of her father's guard, a man with a hard face whose name was unimportant to Cersei. They walked through corridors that felt darker and older than those in Casterly Rock, past tapestries depicting fighting dragons. After a while, they finally arrived at the door to the Tower of the Hand. The captain knocked.

Lord Tywin's deep and unmistakable voice, which always managed to make the hairs on Cersei's neck stand up, echoed from within. "Enter."

Their father was sitting behind a massive desk, looking like a king himself. The room was the embodiment of power: silent, orderly, and intimidating. Cersei and Jaime sat in the chairs before the desk, their backs straight and erect.

Tywin looked at them in a long silence, his pale green eyes assessing every detail of their appearance. Finally, he broke the silence.

"You arrived later than expected."

It was not a question. It was a statement, an accusation.

"The roads were rough and full of disruptions, Father," Cersei frowned, letting a note of complaint enter her voice. "The mud slowed the carriage wheels. I still remember when one of the horses neighed loudly in the blind heat of the day. The atmosphere felt like it wanted to kill me."

Father looked into her eyes for a few moments, then he turned to Jaime, as if Cersei's complaints were unimportant.

Jaime opened his mouth. "It was indeed like that," he agreed, which surprised Cersei. "But it was something interesting, because along the way I could see each village and its inhabitants more clearly."

Cersei almost snorted. Typical Jaime. Of course he would find something "interesting" in suffering. Of course he cared about the "villagers."

"You know why I summoned you here, don't you?" Tywin's tone was flat, ignoring their comments about the journey.

‘To meet Prince Rhaegar,’ Cersei thought instantly, her heart beating a little faster. She nodded gracefully. "Of course, Father. To learn. To socialize and make connections."

"To see how you lead," Jaime added, his tone calm.

"You are both correct," Tywin confirmed, and Cersei felt a wave of satisfaction. She had given the right answer. "All that you have mentioned is useful for a ruler. A solitary ruler will not be respected by their followers, even when they are from a prominent family. They still have to socialize and make connections to keep the sheep in the pasture."

Yes, Cersei thought, pleased. The sheep will continue to eat grass until the lions come and eat them. They exist only for us.

Tywin then did something unexpected. He opened a drawer in his large desk. Cersei leaned forward slightly, thinking he would take out a scroll or perhaps a piece of jewelry. Instead, he took out a stack of sheets of… that thing.

The thin white thing that Jaime had proudly shown off at dinner a month ago, before they left.

Paper!

Cersei's heart sank. The air seemed to be sucked out of her lungs. She knew now. She knew exactly where this conversation was going. Her moment, the discussion of her future, of Prince Rhaegar, had been hijacked. Again, this was all about Jaime and his stupid, dirty invention.

"You made this well."

The words were directed entirely at Jaime. Father didn't even glance at Cersei. It was as if she were just another piece of furniture in the room, a gilded ornament with no purpose other than to be sat upon and be silent. A cold, familiar anger began to creep into her stomach. This was supposed to be her moment, their moment. The moment when Father would see his daughter, his future queen, and begin to lay the plans for her destiny.

Jaime, of course, accepted the praise as if it were his birthright. He nodded, completely unfazed by Father's sharp gaze that could usually make even the most powerful Lords tremble. "After years of theorizing and planning various things, it was finally worth it."

Years? Cersei almost snorted. A few weeks ago you were still playing with a wooden sword and stealing cakes from the kitchen. Don't act like you're the Grand Maester.

"You said you could make tens of thousands in a few weeks?" Father's voice came again, still completely ignoring Cersei. And this time, there was a different note in his voice. Not just approval, but genuine interest.

Cersei hated it.

"Yes. Uncle Kevan has taken care of everything I asked for, Father. The waterwheel is being built. If everything is done correctly, it's not impossible," Jaime said, the calmness in his voice making Cersei even more sick. He spoke as if he were discussing a wheat harvest, not an impossible invention.

"With the price of parchment these days," Father tapped a long, well-manicured finger on the polished wooden desk. It was a sharp, calculating sound. "If we start selling this for just half the price, it will disrupt the market."

Jaime smiled, a small, sly smile that reminded Cersei of a fox. "Not just that, Father. A lot of paper means there will be a lot of useful writings. There we can make people read more. When many people are literate, a kingdom will be more prosperous. Administration more structured, information easier to obtain." He leaned forward, his green eyes sparkling with a strange enthusiasm. "And most importantly, as Lannisters who hold all that, information can be spun solely for our own benefit. Then, Lannisport will get many visitors from many places to get this 'paper.' There, money will flow like the tide."

Cersei listened, and though she hated every word that came out of Jaime's mouth, a small part of her, the cold, calculating Lannister part, understood. Power. This was about power. Not the grand power of a crown or a sword, but a creeping, unseen kind of power, that controlled what people thought and knew. It was a powerful idea. And it was Jaime's idea, not hers.

"You would need many scribes to copy a book," Father said, his voice flat. It was not a refutation, but a test. He was testing the depth of his son's thinking.

Jaime was ready for it. "What if we don't need to copy it by hand?" he asked, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "As I mentioned before, there are the small metal blocks I have hidden in the workshop. The ones with the reversed letters carved on them. Imagine if we arranged those letters to form a page, coated them with ink, and pressed them onto the paper."

He paused, letting the image form. "We could create a printing press, not a worn-out wooden one. This is different, this could make hundreds of copies of the same page in a single day. Thousands in a week. A book that would normally take a maester a year to copy could be finished in a few days."

Cersei stared at him, truly stunned for a moment. The concept was so large, so… impossible.

Father just nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "A printing press," he said. "An ambitious concept. But there are many details to be perfected."

"Of course," Jaime said, not at all intimidated. "And I have already found the next biggest problem. It's not the machine, Father. That's just mechanical, levers and screws, we can handle that. The real problem is the ink."

Cersei saw Father raise an eyebrow slightly, a silent invitation for Jaime to continue.

"The ink we use for quills won't work," Jaime explained, now completely lost in his own explanation. "I've tried it on a small scale. It's too watery. It won't adhere well to the smooth metal surface, and when pressed, it will bleed into the paper fibers, creating an unreadable smudge and ruining the sheet. We need something completely different."

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Something thicker, stickier. Something oil-based, perhaps, that will adhere to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper when pressed. I have already asked Maester Creylen to look for information, to be able to make the ink adhere. That is the next problem to be solved before the printing press can become a reality."

Cersei sat there, trapped in silence, as Father and Jaime continued to talk. No, Jaime talked and Father listened. She saw the way Father looked at her twin brother, and it was a look Cersei had never seen before directed at anyone, not even Uncle Kevan. It was not cold approval or reluctant praise. It was respect. The genuine respect of one strategist for another.

After what felt like an eternity, during which Cersei could only sit in silence while Father and Jaime spoke in a language of invention and profit that she did not understand, the conversation finally ended.

"That is all. You had better go to your respective chambers first." Father's voice came, cutting off the discussion about ink as if it had never happened. His tone was back to being flat, cold, and final. The audience was over. "The guard who brought you here will show you the way. You are dismissed."

"Yes, Father," Cersei said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

She rose gracefully, every movement controlled, hiding the storm of anger and humiliation churning within her. This was shameful. Absolutely shameful. She had traveled for a month, enduring the discomfort of muddy roads and mediocre inns, all with one image in her mind: arriving at King's Landing, facing her father, and taking the first step towards her destiny as Queen. She had come here to talk about Prince Rhaegar, about her future at court, about her role at the center of power.

And all she got was to be a mute spectator to her twin brother's endless rambling about paper and other infuriating things. She had been ignored, dismissed, in front of Father.

As she turned, she glared at Jaime, a sharp look full of a rage that promised retribution. Jaime, who was also rising from his chair, caught her gaze for a moment before subtly looking away, his eyes shifting to the floor as if there were something interesting there.

Good, Cersei thought cruelly. At least he is aware that he has ruined my day. That small awareness gave her a sliver of bitter satisfaction.

The same hard-faced guard was waiting for them outside the door and escorted them in silence through the corridors of the Red Keep. Cersei walked with her head held high, refusing to show how disturbed she was. She didn't glance at Jaime once. The silence between them was heavy and tense. Every step that took them further from Father's solar felt like a step that took them further from each other.

Finally, the guard stopped at a junction in the corridor, pointing in one direction for Jaime and another for her. Their chambers were adjacent, but not connected. A small detail that felt very significant to Cersei at that moment.

She was glad to be separated from the book-eater. The moment she was inside her own chambers and the door was closed behind her, she could finally let out a breath. She was alone. At least she could breathe peacefully, away from Jaime's annoying presence and Father's judging gaze.

Her chambers were luxurious, of course. A large four-poster bed dominated the room, with deep red velvet curtains. A thick carpet covered the floor, and the furniture was made of polished dark wood. But Cersei didn't notice any of it.

She walked straight to the large, arched window that overlooked the city. From this height, the view was magnificent. She could see the red rooftops of King's Landing stretching out to the bay. She could see the grand domes of the Great Sept of Baelor glittering in the afternoon sun. She could see the ships that looked like toys entering and leaving the harbor.

This would all be hers.

A smile slowly returned to Cersei's lips as she gazed at the view. Her anger and humiliation began to recede, replaced by the cold, hard ambition that had always been her core. Father might be distracted by Jaime's little inventions for now, but that was just a diversion. The real game was a marathon, not a sprint. And in that game, she held the trump card.

She turned from the window and looked into the large, gold-framed mirror that leaned against the wall, a mirror that showed her full-length from head to toe.

The girl who looked back at her was stunning. Her hair was molten gold, purer and brighter than any coin ever minted. Her eyes were glittering emeralds, filled with intelligence and fire. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, and her figure, even at nine, already showed the promise of a beauty that would make men kneel.

This was her power. Not some dirty contraption or strange ideas about paper. This was pure, real, and undeniable gold. This was the asset that would win her a crown.

She lifted her chin, looking at her own reflection with cold satisfaction. Father would soon realize his mistake. He would see that true power did not lie in spreading information to the smallfolk, but in uniting the most powerful bloodlines. He would see that his daughter, not his strange son, was the true key to the eternal legacy of House Lannister.

It would all pay off. Her current frustration, the humiliation of being ignored, all of it was just a small obstacle on her path. In the end, she would get what she wanted. She would be Queen. And from upon the Iron Throne, she would look down on everyone, including Jaime.

Chapter Text

RHAEGAR

Breakfast passed in silence. A heavy, dense silence that felt like a physical weight in the room. On the long, polished wooden table, a feast fit for gods was laid out: spiced eggs from Dorne, thick and savory bacon, warm bread fresh from the oven, fruits from the Reach glistening with dew, and silver pitchers filled with milk and sweet wine. The aroma of delicious food filled the air, a cruel contrast to the cold, lifeless atmosphere.

Rhaegar Targaryen stared at his plate, but he didn't see the food. He saw his father, King Aerys Targaryen, sitting at the head of the table, chewing on a piece of bacon with vacant eyes. It had been like this for months, and Rhaegar felt a sense of unease every time he saw it. The emptiness in his father's eyes was frightening. Sometimes, it was the blank stare of a man whose mind was miles away. Other times, like now, it was the deceptive calm of a sleeping dragon, gathering fiery heat within its quiet self.

His father had become more short-tempered lately, more unpredictable. His outbursts could be triggered by the most trivial things: a servant pouring his wine too full, a dog barking in the courtyard, or, most often, a report from the small council. He would snap at everyone, his shrill voice echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Including Mother.

It hadn't come to blows, thank the gods. But words could wound just as deeply. Rhaegar knew that every shout, every unjust accusation, chipped away at his mother, piece by piece.

He glanced at his mother, Queen Rhaella, who sat opposite his father. She was a beautiful woman, with the same silver-gold hair as his own and gentle violet eyes. A soft smile usually graced her face, a smile that could soothe the most restless of lords. But now, that smile was gone, replaced by a mask of forced neutrality. She ate with small, controlled movements, her back straight, a queen to her fingertips, but Rhaegar could see the tension in her shoulders and the way her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup.

Rhaegar thought about laughter. Once, this table was filled with laughter. His mother's melodious laugh, his own, even his father's laugh, which had once been so charming and full of life. That laughter hadn't been here lately. Silence had consumed it, just as a shadow consumes candlelight.

Suddenly, his father put down his knife and fork with a sound that was a little too loud on the porcelain plate.

"I saw the new sewers on the street yesterday," Aerys said suddenly, his voice hollow, but with a hidden undercurrent of bitterness. "So orderly. So efficient. Tywin has always been efficient."

Rhaegar and Rhaella both stopped eating, sensing the sudden shift in the mood.

"The people... they clapped as I passed," the King continued, his violet eyes staring blankly at the wall behind Rhaegar. "But they weren't cheering for their King. They were cheering for the 'Hand's sewers'." He let out a small, dry, humorless laugh. "I wonder if they'll build a statue for him there later, next to a pile of rubbish."

"But that was a task you commanded him to do, Aerys," Queen Rhaella said gently, trying to soothe him. "It is a sign of your successful reign. The city is becoming a better place."

"A successful reign is one where the people love their King, not his subordinate," Aerys retorted sharply, his bitterness now more apparent. "Tywin... my good friend. Sometimes I feel he works too hard for his own good... and for mine." He said the words "my good friend" with a subtle, painful irony. "He shoulders so many burdens that there is nothing left for me."

The tense silence returned to the room. Rhaegar could feel his heart pounding in his chest. This was dangerous territory. Lord Tywin's competence was the surest trigger for his father's rage.

"No one thinks that, Father," Rhaegar said quietly, choosing his words carefully. "Lord Tywin is merely performing his duty as the Hand. Improving the city is part of that duty. He does it in your name."

"In my name?" Aerys turned to him, and for a moment, Rhaegar saw a flash of wild paranoia in his eyes. "Is that so? Or does he do it to show everyone how incompetent their King is without him? He builds roads and sewers, he fills the coffers, while I... I just sit here, looking like a Targaryen." He pointed his fork at Rhaella. "And you! Don't you start defending him! You always think I'm too harsh, too suspicious. You don't see how he is slowly taking over my kingdom, piece by piece, with stones!"

"I only think you shouldn't burden yourself with such details of construction," Rhaella said, her voice still calm, but Rhaegar could see how much effort it took her to remain so.

"Burden myself?" the King exclaimed, rising from his chair with a sudden movement. The chair scraped back with a loud screech. "This is my kingdom! Every stone laid, every sewer dug, is my burden! I am the King! I decide who is loyal and who is a traitor! And I see more and more traitors every day!"

He stood there, towering over them, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his violet eyes wild and unfocused. He stared from Rhaegar to Rhaella, then to the untouched food on the table as if it too had betrayed him.

Then, without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room, his dragon-embroidered cloak swirling behind him.

The door slammed shut.

The returning silence felt a hundred times heavier than before.

Rhaegar let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands, which had been clenched into tight fists under the table, slowly relaxed. He felt a wave of helpless anger on his mother's behalf. This wasn't fair. Mother had done nothing but try to calm him.

He looked at his mother. The Queen's mask of composure had finally cracked. Just for a moment, but Rhaegar saw it. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her hand was trembling slightly.

"Mother..." Rhaegar whispered, reaching a hand across the table.

Queen Rhaella took a deep breath and straightened her back, the remnants of her fragility disappearing as quickly as they had come. She was the Queen again. "I'm fine, Rhaegar," she said, her voice barely trembling. "Finish your breakfast. You need to eat."

The command was so ordinary, so motherly, in the midst of this madness that it almost made Rhaegar laugh bitterly. Finish your breakfast. As if his appetite hadn't turned to ash in his mouth.

He looked down at the plate in front of him. The delicious food, painstakingly prepared, now seemed repulsive. It was a symbol of their lives, a facade of luxury and wealth that hid the rot within.

A breakfast for rulers, he thought bitterly. A feast in a beautiful golden cage.

Rhaegar ate only a little. Every bite felt like a chore, the delicious taste of the food turning bland in his mouth from the bitter morning atmosphere. When he finished, he stood up, bidding a quiet, respectful farewell to his mother, who only replied with a small nod, her eyes still staring blankly at her father's abandoned plate.

He needed to clear his head. The tense silence and the unexpected outburst had left an unpleasant residue in his soul, like a slow-acting poison. There was only one remedy he knew for this kind of ailment. He went to his room and picked up his small harp, a beautiful instrument of light-colored wood with carvings of small dragons coiling around its frame.

Then he walked to the garden, a pocket of peace within the bustling Red Keep. He found a stone bench under the shade of an ancient oak tree, away from the main path. He sat down and placed the harp on his lap. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the warmth of the morning sun touch his face and listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves.

Then, his fingers began to move. Not the sad melodies he often played when contemplating prophecies or the fate of his kingdom. No. This morning, he needed something else. He played a tune, a cheerful melody from the Reach, a song about spring and the dance of maidens in the meadows. Its fast, light notes jumped from the strings, a deliberate rebellion against the darkness he had just left. For a moment, the music worked, washing away the madness that haunted the castle's corridors.

He played with a peaceful touch, letting himself get lost in the simple, happy melody. Then, as the song reached its peak, he slowed his movements, letting the final notes hang in the quiet air before fading into silence. The music was finished.

"You have an impressive skill, Prince."

The voice came from behind him, calm and appreciative. Rhaegar turned. It was Jaime Lannister. The boy had been in King's Landing for two days, but with all the tension at court, Rhaegar hadn't had a chance to speak with him. The boy stood there, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, looking a bit awkward, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to approach.

"I hope the song didn't disturb you," Rhaegar smiled, a genuine smile.

"Disturb me? No, no," Jaime smiled back, and the smile seemed to light up his face. He walked closer and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down on the other end of the stone bench. "It was a hundred times better than the deafening silence around here. When I listened to you play, I could immediately feel the notes in my soul. It was impressive."

Rhaegar was slightly taken aback by the boy's choice of words. Deafening silence. It was a very accurate description of the atmosphere in the Red Keep lately. "You seem to know a lot about music," Rhaegar replied.

"Blah," Jaime laughed, a free and pleasant sound. "No, I'm just an admirer. I'm good at playing a few instruments, but only 'good', not 'skilled' like you. I prefer to sing."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Then try it. Sing something. It's always nice to have someone who shares the same interest."

Jaime looked hesitant, his smile fading slightly. "Are you sure? My voice isn't good, you know? The only one who's ever heard me sing is my little brother, and he's just a baby."

"I've heard worse," Rhaegar laughed, trying to put him at ease. "When I first started learning, my voice sounded like a war hammer."

"At least it was loud and strong," Jaime teased, and Rhaegar saw a flash of sharp intelligence in his eyes.

"Go on," Rhaegar said, his smile widening.

"Alright, alright, but don't laugh." Jaime glanced around quickly, as if he didn't want anyone else to see him do this. He took a deep breath.

Then he sang.

"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me..."

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

"And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me..."

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows. The melody... it was strange. Simple, yet haunting. And the lyrics... he had never heard a song like this before. It wasn't a song about war, or heroes, or lost love. It was something else. He had expected Jaime to sing something he knew, or worse, The Rains of Castamere.

And his voice... Jaime's claim that his voice was "bad" was a blatant lie. His voice lacked the power of a trained singer, but it was melodic, rhythmic, and most surprisingly of all, filled with a genuine emotion. An emotion that felt much older than the nine-year-old boy singing it.

"And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree..."

"There will be an answer, let it be..."

"For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see..."

"There will be an answer, let it be..."

Rhaegar found himself completely drawn into the song. The words resonated within him in an unexpected way. The broken-hearted people living in the world. He thought of his mother, sitting alone at the breakfast table, swallowing her tears along with her food. He thought of his father, trapped in his own paranoia and rage. He thought of himself, burdened by it all. This simple song from a boy from Casterly Rock, somehow, seemed to understand the sorrow of his kingdom.

"You're a very good liar," Rhaegar said after the song was finished, a genuine smile slowly forming on his lips. The tension from the morning seemed to melt away under the warmth of this strange moment. "That was a beautiful song. Where did you get it?"

Jaime looked a little relieved that Rhaegar hadn't laughed at him. He smiled back, a shyer smile than Rhaegar had expected. "I often visit the port in Lannisport," he answered. "There are many people from all over the country. They bring many songs that are not well-known among the nobility. They have many stories and their own meanings... this one? The person who sang this didn't want to tell me his home country."

"A mysterious person then," Rhaegar chuckled, fascinated by the idea. He imagined a bustling port, an anonymous singer bringing songs from an unknown land. It was the kind of romance he usually read about in old books.

"You could say that," Jaime said. "I didn't want to pry too much. He was a good singer, and his privacy should be respected."

Rhaegar nodded, his curiosity growing. This morning, which had started with anger and tears, had suddenly turned into something else. Something interesting. "Well then," he said, leaning a little closer. "Tell me. What other songs do you know."

Jaime smiled, this time his smile was wider, more confident. It was as if he had been invited into his own world, and he was happy to have a guest. And he began to talk.

For Rhaegar, this was an escape. He was used to the songs of the Seven Kingdoms: epic ballads about heroes and kings, mournful songs about lost love, and the rough drinking songs of soldiers. Those songs were part of the fabric of his world, each with its own place and purpose.

But the songs Jaime told him about were different. They were the songs of common folk, sung not in great halls, but on the swaying decks of ships and in dimly lit taverns. Jaime didn't just sing the melodies; he told the stories behind them.

Rhaegar listened, completely captivated. He was a musician. He understood the power of a song to convey emotions that words could not express. And in Jaime Lannister, he had found an unexpected connoisseur of music, a collector of forgotten songs.

This boy was more than just golden hair and a powerful name. There was a depth to him, a rich inner world that Rhaegar had never expected. And Rhaegar felt that, in some ways, they were alike.

Chapter Text

RHAEGAR

The afternoon arrived quickly, bringing with it the suffocating heat so characteristic of King's Landing. Rhaegar walked through the crowded streets, an act that always felt like a performance. Though he wore a simple, unadorned traveling cloak, his silver hair was a curtain that could not be hidden. People moved aside, bowed, and whispered as he passed, their gazes a mixture of awe, curiosity, and fear.

Today, however, Rhaegar barely noticed them. His mind was not filled with the ever-darkening shadow of his father. Instead, he found himself constantly replaying the strange melody from that morning, the song about letting things be, sung in the clear, unexpected voice of a young boy. There was a peace in that memory, a brief respite from the storm that was his life. A faint smile touched his lips without him realizing it.

Beside him, walking with long, easy strides, stood Arthur Dayne. There was an empty space around Arthur, an aura of deadly competence that made even the most audacious pickpockets and merchants keep their distance. His eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning the crowd, the rooftops, and the dark alleyways.

Arthur noticed the smile. "You've been scowling a lot lately," he said, his deep, calm voice cutting clearly through the city's noise. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Rhaegar shrugged, his smile fading slightly at being caught.

Arthur was not fooled. He knew Rhaegar better than anyone, perhaps even better than Rhaegar knew himself. They had grown up together, first as fellow wards at court, and now as friends. "You must have spoken with the Lannister boy, haven't you?" Arthur guessed.

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking at his friend. "How did you know?"

Dayne smirked his typical thin smile, one more often seen in his eyes than on his lips. "Oh, come on, it's not hard to figure out. The boy has only been here for two days, and this morning you came back from the garden with an expression I haven't seen in months, the look of someone who has just discovered something good, not your usual lament." He paused for a moment. "I also heard he's an avid book reader, just like you."

"Jaime... a book reader?" Rhaegar was genuinely surprised to hear this. This morning, he had only thought the boy was merely interested in folk songs, an unusual music enthusiast. He had never imagined him as such. Boys from great Houses were usually more interested in swords and horses, not dusty scrolls.

Arthur chuckled, a low, pleasant laugh. "I was training with his guard, Ser Jon of Clearwater, this morning. He's a capable and skilled knight. I was impressed by his skill. He has an honest strength and perseverance. We talked afterward." Arthur paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "And he spoke of his 'Young Lord' with a passion usually reserved for discussing a new warhorse or a tournament victory. Especially about the prospect of 'paper'."

"Paper?" Rhaegar frowned, the word sounding foreign.

"It's a parchment-like material they've created," Arthur explained. "Jon described it as something born from 'two weeks of suffering in a hell of cloth pulp', but the result, according to him, was worth it. They claim it's thinner and more practical than parchment, and honestly, Rhaegar, it looked quite good." Arthur nodded to himself, as if remembering it. "Jon showed me a sheet his master gave him as a 'bonus'. It was white, smooth... I won't describe much, but when I saw that one sheet, the first thing that came to my mind was, 'Oh, Rhaegar would love this.'"

Rhaegar's mind immediately started racing. A new writing medium? Made not from animal hide, but from... cloth? "Then you should have brought some," Rhaegar said, his curiosity now fully piqued.

Arthur smiled. "It was just his personal 'sample', and I doubt he would part with it; he held it like a sacred relic. If you're interested, you can see it for yourself. He's at your court now, you know that, right? He's not going anywhere."

"I'll try to see it then," Rhaegar nodded, a plan beginning to form in his mind. He wanted to see this thing. He wanted to talk to Jaime again, not just about music, but about this. About ideas. He felt a wave of intellectual excitement he hadn't felt in a long time. "And to be honest," he added, "we just talked about songs this morning."

"Impressive," Arthur joked, his tone light. "One more person in the kingdom has managed to impress the gloomy Prince Rhaegar."

Rhaegar laughed, a free and genuine sound. "It wasn't just that. He sang songs I had never heard before. Strange and beautiful songs. He said he got them from people coming in and out of the port at Lannisport."

"Is he a good singer?" Arthur looked up at the evening sky, as if trying to imagine it.

"Very," Rhaegar affirmed. "His voice is melodious, and the lyrics... the lyrics are moving. I like his taste. It's not like the usual heroic songs we hear. It's more... real."

They walked in silence for a moment, Rhaegar lost in his thoughts. Jaime Lannister. Two days ago, he was just another name on the guest list, the son of his father's Hand, one half of a pair of twins famous for their beauty. Now, he was something else. An enthusiast of folk music. A secret singer. A book reader. And an inventor.

"He seems different from what I've heard," Rhaegar said quietly, more to himself.

"How so?" Arthur asked.

"Everyone talks about the Lannisters as proud, power-hungry lions. They talk about gold and debts and The Rains of Castamere. But this boy..." Rhaegar paused, trying to find the right word. "He feels... older than his years. Calmer. He doesn't have the overflowing arrogance I expected. There's a seriousness to him, but also a strange cheerfulness."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Ser Jon said something similar. He said his master sometimes talks like a maester, and the next moment, he'll be roaring with laughter at a story about a guard slipping in the mud. He said it gives him whiplash."

Rhaegar smiled. He could understand that. This morning, he had seen both sides: the musician and the shy boy.

…

Night fell with the usual noise within the Red Keep. The clinking of armor from the changing of the guard, the echo of hurried footsteps of servants in the stone corridors, and the faint hum of the city below that never truly slept. But inside Prince Rhaegar's private solar, there was a pocket of peace. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden light on the tapestries depicting Targaryen hunts and battles of old.

Jaime Lannister arrived on time, escorted by a servant. He was not alone. His sworn shield, Ser Jon, followed him, standing silently near the door, his sturdy figure a quiet reminder of the dangerous world outside. Rhaegar had invited him and allowed Ser Jon to enter as well; he understood the bond between a young Lord and his protector.

Across the room, in a comfortable armchair near the fire, Ser Arthur Dayne was seated. For a rare moment, he was not standing guard. Instead, he was reading a book, his head bowed, his presence calming. What book he was reading was anyone's guess; Arthur always had an unexpected depth.

"I didn't think you'd actually want to see me again, Prince Rhaegar," Jaime smiled as he approached, the same easy smile as in the garden that morning. "I thought you were just being polite about my voice this morning."

Rhaegar chuckled, motioning for Jaime to sit in the chair opposite him. "I never lie, especially when it comes to that. The songs you brought are so beautiful that I've prepared parchment to memorize the lyrics, if you don't mind?" He pointed to a small table beside him, where a clean scroll of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill had been prepared.

Jaime's eyes widened with surprise and delight. "Not at all." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm genuine. "I'm very flattered you'd want to do that. It means all my efforts to sneak through the port weren't in vain. After all, if I do it again, I can make an excuse. 'Hey, the Prince likes this, these songs will bring peace to the kingdom!'"

Rhaegar burst out laughing, a free and genuine laugh he hadn't felt in a long time. From the corner of his eye, he saw even the usually serious lips of Arthur Dayne twitch into a slight smile.

"Alright, let's begin," Rhaegar said, unrolling the parchment and dipping his quill into the ink.

And so their evening began. Jaime, with an incredible memory, began to sing or recite the songs he knew, one by one. He sang again, and this time, Rhaegar could write down the lyrics, the words feeling just as powerful on parchment as they did when he heard them. He recited another, about a pair of lovers, and Rhaegar wrote quickly, trying to capture the simple sadness in the words.

The scratching of Rhaegar's quill on the parchment became the only rhythm in the room, accompanied by Jaime's clear and rhythmic voice. It was a strange and unexpected situation, a moment of pure creation in the midst of a world filled with destruction.

"With all these songs you know," Rhaegar spoke between verses, without lifting his head from his work, "have you ever thought of creating your own?"

Jaime fell silent for a moment. "I'm not very good at making this kind of thing," he said with a smile. "Every note I compose is always a mess."

"So you have tried?" Rhaegar continued to write, but his ears were now fully focused on Jaime's answer.

"Sometimes when I'm alone, when I'm lying down to sleep," Jaime said. "I always imagine things along the way then. The scenery, the people, the feelings... Then I would turn them into words. The words I create, I have to admit, are quite good. But when it comes to the melody, it's very disappointing. It feels like trying to fit an eagle into a canary's cage."

Rhaegar stopped writing. He put down his quill and looked straight into the boy's eyes across from him. He saw a flicker of frustration there, the frustration of an artist whose vision surpasses his ability. Rhaegar understood that feeling all too well. "Perhaps we could collaborate," he said softly. "You create the lyrics, and I'll create the melody. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

Jaime's eyes lit up, all remnants of doubt vanishing, replaced by pure, boyish excitement. "Really? Of course, I'd love to! It would be an honor."

Rhaegar laughed again, delighted by the genuine enthusiasm. He looked at the half-filled parchment, and it reminded him of his conversation with Arthur. He decided to change the subject. "By the way, I've heard about your 'paper'. Are you really sure it's better than parchment?"

Jaime raised an eyebrow, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He knew exactly what Rhaegar was doing. "Yes. You can try it for yourself, Prince."

He then reached into the small leather pouch that always hung at his waist and took out a few neatly folded sheets of white paper. He handed them to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar took them. The first thing he noticed was how light the paper was. Then, he felt it. The surface was smooth, but not slick like the most expensive parchment. There was a faint texture of fibers underneath. "This is good," he said, his voice filled with sincere admiration.

"Thank the hard work of Ser Jon of Clearwater," Jaime joked, winking at his sworn shield who stood near the door. Ser Jon only gave a small, awkward nod.

Without hesitation, Rhaegar picked up his quill again, dipped it in ink, and began to write on the new medium. The stroke felt different. Easier. The tip of the quill glided over the surface with little resistance, and the ink absorbed quickly, creating sharp, clean lines. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

"You can make a lot of these?" Rhaegar asked, raising his head, his eyes shining with new possibilities.

"It's still in the planning stage, but yes. Are you interested in them, Prince?"

"Of course. This is amazing." Rhaegar placed the sheet down as if it were a jewel. "How many can you produce?"

"When everything is running smoothly, with a water mill and enough workers," Jaime confirmed calmly, "it's not impossible to produce ten to twenty thousand in a month."

Rhaegar was stunned. He put down his quill. Across the room, he saw that even Arthur Dayne had lifted his head from his book, his eyes fixed on Jaime with the same shocked expression.

"That many?" Rhaegar's voice was barely a whisper. The number was almost incomprehensible. The library in the Red Keep, which had been collected over centuries, probably didn't even have that many sheets of parchment.

"Yes," Jaime said simply. "This could change a lot of things, couldn't it?" His smile returned, the smile of a dreamer who had thought about all of this for a long time.

"'Change a lot of things' is an understatement," Rhaegar said slowly, his mind racing. "Jaime, with numbers like that... we could copy every book in the Citadel. We could send royal decrees to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms in an instant."

"And not just that, Prince," Jaime said, leaning forward again, his voice filled with the same passion. "Think about knowledge. Right now, knowledge belongs to the maesters and the great Lords. It's a closely guarded treasure. With cheap and abundant paper, knowledge could become... water. Something accessible to more people. Merchants could learn better accounting. Builders could share new designs. Even farmers might be able to learn to record all their harvests."

Rhaegar listened, mesmerized. This was an echo of his own thoughts, thoughts he often kept to himself. He had always believed that the true strength of a kingdom lay not just in its dragons or its armies, but in its people. An educated people, a prosperous people, a united people. And here, a nine-year-old boy was offering him the tool to achieve that.

"You're talking about a revolution," Rhaegar whispered.

"I'm talking about progress," Jaime corrected gently. "A smarter kingdom is a stronger kingdom. And a stronger kingdom is harder to destroy."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his mind filled with images: new libraries being built in major cities, merchants' children learning to read and write, more accurate maps, better-recorded history. He saw a future, a future he might be able to build himself.

He looked at Jaime Lannister, at the boy who had walked into his life and, in two days, had given him more hope than he had felt in years.

"You're right," Rhaegar said finally, his voice filled with a newfound conviction. "This will change everything."

"But it will take time. A very, very long time," Jaime continued, his expression becoming more serious, more analytical. "To make it happen, paper is just the first step. It's the tool. But a tool is useless if no one knows how to use it. First, we have to make people literate."

"How do you do that?"

The voice was deep and calm, cutting in from the side of the room. It belonged to Arthur. He had put down his book, and he was looking at Jaime with the intensity of a soldier assessing a battle plan. "By having every Maester travel from village to village? The Citadel would never agree. They don't have enough men, and the Lords wouldn't like a maester teaching their peasants to read complaints."

Jaime was slightly surprised by Arthur joining the conversation, but he didn't seem fazed. Instead, he smiled, as if pleased with the challenge. "No, of course not. The Maesters serve the Lords, not the common folk. We'll teach people to read in a different way. We'll build a 'school'. A place of learning." He said the word as if he were introducing a completely new concept. "A school for people who are not just nobles."

"That would require a great deal of capital," Rhaegar said, deliberately pouring a little oil on the fire, wanting to see more of the boy's thinking. He wasn't trying to shoot down the idea; he was testing it, like a blacksmith testing a new blade.

"Yes," Jaime said. "That's why we have to start smart. We have to build these schools in the major cities first. Lannisport and King's Landing, for example. Places where there's already a thriving merchant class, people who already understand the value of numbers and words. They will be the first to see the benefit."

"And who will teach?" Rhaegar asked, continuing his role as the devil's advocate.

"We don't need a Maester to teach children how to write their names," Jaime said. "There are many educated people who need work. Younger sons of minor Lords who will inherit nothing. Septons in the cities who can spare a few hours a day. We will pay them. It will be an honorable job."

"So you're asking House Lannister to fund all of this indefinitely?" Arthur asked. "Even the gold of Casterly Rock has its limits."

"Initially, yes," Jaime admitted. "It's a startup investment. But the long-term goal is for the schools to be self-sustaining. Even better, over time, they will become free."

"Free?" Rhaegar frowned. It was a foreign concept. Nothing was free.

"Think of it as a long-term investment, Prince," Jaime explained, his eyes sparkling as he explained the mechanics. "At first, we'll charge a very small fee to the merchants and craftsmen who send their children. Just enough to help cover the costs. But, over time, what happens when you have a more educated population? Trade becomes more efficient. New businesses emerge. Prosperity increases."

He leaned forward. "The taxes from that increased trade, the revenue from a busier port of Lannisport, all of that will flow back into the coffers. That extra profit will pay for these schools many times over. After a few years, we won't need to charge the students anymore. For the farmers and craftsmen, it will be free. For us, it's a profit. An investment in the people that yields the greatest return..."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his mind spinning. He was thinking about many things.

And he was so engrossed in it

---

AN: Do you think this story is moving slowly or not? Would you like it to stay at this pace, or move faster?

Chapter Text

TYWIN

Tywin Lannister exited the Small Council chamber for the umpteenth time with a sour taste in his stomach. The meeting, like so many before it, had been an exhausting exercise in futility.

Today's problem was the same as last week's: piracy. They had lost another merchant ship, this time a large cargo vessel carrying silks from Myr, swallowed by the pirates who hid like rats among the rocks of the Stepstones. The solution was obvious and tedious: build more warships, order stricter patrols. And of course, it all had to be funded by the royal treasury, a treasury that was steadily dwindling due to the King's reckless spending and endless ambitions.

As if that wasn't enough, there was the problem of King's Landing itself. The construction of sewers for every street in the city was costing an immense fortune, a bottomless pit for the royal coffers. Yet, it was necessary. The stench of human filth and rotting garbage in the streets was overwhelming, especially in the summer. It wasn't just a matter of discomfort; it was an economic issue. The stench and disease would drive away skilled merchants and craftsmen. Disturbing their comfort meant people would leave, and their departure meant the economy would stagnate.

It was astonishing, Tywin thought as he walked down the cold corridor. This city, the base of Aegon the Conqueror, was built on ambition, not planning. King's Landing had no concept; it just grew organically like fungus on rotting wood, becoming the tangled and inefficient mess it was today. Perfect. And he was the one who had to clean it up. Looking at history, the Targaryen kings mostly only knew how to destroy with fire, never learning how to build.

He was lost in his dark thoughts when he saw her. His daughter, Cersei, standing alone in a hall overlooking one of the inner gardens. She wasn't doing anything, just standing by a tall, arched window, staring into the distance. Her eyes were unfocused.

Tywin disliked seeing anyone, especially his own child, daydreaming and lost in thought. Daydreaming was a sign of weakness, a sign of an undisciplined mind. So, he approached his daughter, his silent footsteps on the carpet not announcing his arrival.

"Why are you standing here, Cersei? Do you have nothing else to do?"

Cersei blinked, startled from her reverie. She turned to face him, and for a fleeting moment, Tywin saw something unusual in her eyes: vulnerability. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the mask of composure he had taught her. "Nothing, Father," she replied. "My other activities are finished. I have nothing interesting to do."

"Then try harder," Tywin said, his voice sharp and unsympathetic. "The world will not hand you entertainment. You must take it. Learn whatever you can. Learn the names of the Houses at court, learn their weaknesses, learn who owes whom. Never waste time."

Cersei nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yes, Father." She paused, and Tywin could see she was wrestling with something. Finally, she raised her head again, hesitation clear on her face. "Father," she said, her voice a little softer, "I always cross paths with Prince Rhaegar. In the garden, in the library. But we rarely speak... you are going to do something about that, aren't you?"

Tywin looked at his daughter. He saw the anxiety in her eyes, the impatience of a young girl who wanted her prize now. 'Does she think I've been idle?' he thought. He had been doing 'something' for her since before she was born, since the day he decided that his perfect daughter would be Queen.

"That is my concern," he answered coldly. "You will simply have to wait."

"But," Cersei said, and now her tone was filled with a barely controlled frustration, "he's practically with Jaime constantly! I saw them this morning, walking with Ser Arthur Dayne. I heard they spent the previous evening in the Prince's solar, talking about music. It should be me he's seeing!" She gritted her teeth, an unladylike habit that Tywin detested.

Tywin knew that. Of course, he knew. Jaime reported every interaction with the Prince to him each night, a concise and efficient report. It was good. Jaime was laying the groundwork. He was using their shared interest in books and music as an entry point, a way to gain the Prince's trust and interest. Tywin knew Jaime had planted his initial ideas about 'paper' with Rhaegar, framing it as an intellectual revolution, not just a business venture. Schools... it was a foreign idea. But when he thought about them, House Lannister, being able to control the curriculum, print the books, and subtly shape the minds of the next generation of rulers and merchants... it was tantalizing. It was a form of power far more enduring than that of the sword.

"Jaime is doing his duty," Tywin said flatly, deciding to give his daughter a small fraction of the truth. "He is gaining the Prince's interest. That is a necessary first step. And it will make the match with you easier." Tywin doubted that last sentence. He knew perfectly well that the biggest obstacle wasn't a lack of interest from the Prince, but the madness of the King. Aerys was a wall he could not breach. But Cersei didn't need to know about that doubt. Doubt was poison.

Cersei seemed to think for a moment, her anger subsiding slightly as she processed the logic of her father's words. She no longer saw it as a betrayal from her twin, but as a maneuver in a larger campaign. "Does that mean I should be with Jaime to talk to the Prince?" she asked, her mind already shifting to tactics.

Tywin looked at his beautiful, ambitious daughter. He had given her a goal. Now, he would see if she had the intelligence to achieve it.

"Do what you think is right," Tywin said, his voice sharp, each word both a command and a test. "But do not make a mess of it."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. He left Cersei alone with her thoughts and her burden. He had given her permission, but also full responsibility for the outcome. That was Tywin's way of teaching.

And it was the way the world worked. Results were all that mattered.

Tywin Lannister's footsteps made no sound. He walked alone, his mind then shifting to one thing. The matter of Jaime.

He thought about the conversation in his study. About paper, and about the logical next step his son had conceived: the "printing press". An idea so transformative that at first, it sounded like a fantasy. But Jaime had broken it down into a series of solvable problems, a series of technical challenges. And the first problem, as his son had correctly identified, was the ink.

Jaime had mentioned they were only lacking the right ink. The ink they had now wouldn't work. It was too fluid. It wouldn't adhere to the cold, smooth metal surface of the letter blocks. Under the pressure of a printing press, the ink would spread like a water stain, ruining the paper and making the words illegible.

No, they needed something different. Something Jaime had described with surprising precision, quoting from his research with Maester Creylen. An oil-based ink. Something thicker, stickier, that would cling to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper. The basic formula, according to Jaime, would likely involve oil boiled from flaxseed until it thickened, mixed with fine soot collected from burning oil lamps as the black pigment, and perhaps stabilized with something to aid in drying.

Tywin didn't understand half of that science. That was the business of maesters and craftsmen. But what he did understand was logistics.

If they wanted to produce this printing on a large scale, it meant they needed a large and stable supply of oil-based ink. And to make that ink, they needed its primary raw material: flax plants. A great many flax plants.

His mind immediately turned to the Westerlands. Who had suitable land? Who could be trusted to meet production quotas without asking too many questions? A raven would be sent to Silverhill. Lord Serret was a practical man; he would understand a profitable business order when he saw one. House Serret and other Houses with extensive farmlands would be ordered to significantly increase their flax production. They would be compensated well, of course. Well enough to ensure their compliance and low enough to maximize Lannister profits. The gold of Casterly Rock would turn fields of wheat into waving fields of blue flax.

That was the first problem solved.

Then there was the second problem: the paper itself. The production at Casterly Rock was a good start. The watermill Kevan had ordered would increase the yield dramatically. Lannisport was indeed a bustling market, the perfect place to introduce this new product. But to achieve something greater, to truly dominate the market and, as Jaime had said, "control information," they had to promote this thing throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And beyond.

They needed an emissary. Not a maester who would talk about its technical merits, and not a knight who would look out of place. They needed someone who could speak to the merchant princes of Essos in the language of profit, and to the Lords of Westeros in the language of charm. Someone who would not arouse suspicion, someone whose arrival would be met with a smile, not a raised shield.

Tywin's mind immediately went to his brother. Gerion.

The man had been doing nothing useful lately, other than spending Lannister gold on wine and women in Lannisport. He was the laughing lion, the family joke, a man without purpose. But it was precisely those qualities that made him perfect for this task. His charm and his ability to make people laugh, usually a source of annoyance for Tywin, could now be the perfect tool. He could travel to the major cities: Oldtown, Gulltown, White Harbor. Even across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, Pentos, and Myr. He would go not as an official envoy of the Hand of the King, but as Gerion Lannister who happened to be carrying samples of "an interesting new invention from his nephew."

He would show the paper, let the merchants and scribes feel it, let them see its quality and imagine its lower price. And while he did so, he would also perform another task. He would use his charm to open doors that were normally closed. He would listen to gossip in taverns and in the palaces of merchants. He would seek information about ship movements, commodity prices, political intrigues. Sending Gerion on this journey would give him a purpose, give him a way to finally serve House Lannister in a meaningful way. It was an efficient solution to two problems.

These thoughts, which had been swirling in his mind, had now become a clear plan, a series of logical steps. Flax. Ink. Gerion. Each piece had its place.

Tywin arrived at the door of his own solar, the quiet and secluded tower of the Hand of the King. He had been walking aimlessly, and his feet had brought him back to the center of his power. The fresh air had done its job. His mind was now clear, his actions decided.

He saw the guard standing silently by his door, an unmoving statue.

"Find my son, Jaime," Tywin commanded, his voice flat and emotionless. "Bring him to me."

Entering, Tywin took up a stack of documents, reading and filling them out while waiting for the boy. Fifteen minutes later, he appeared.

"Are you done playing with the prince?"

Tywin's voice cut through the silence of his study as Jaime entered. It was a deliberately dismissive question, an opening test. Tywin observed him, assessing his son's posture, the expression on his face.

Jaime did not seem intimidated. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and walked to the chair in front of his father's desk. "The Prince is truly enthusiastic," Jaime replied, his voice calm. "He remains composed on the surface, but his eyes... you can see it in his eyes, Father. All the songs I sang, all the stories I told, it all captured his interest. It was like giving water to a very thirsty man."

"Spending so much time with the common folk has its uses, apparently," Tywin said flatly, his pale green eyes locking with his son's.

Jaime met his gaze without flinching. "Everything has its use, depending on how and on whom you use it," he said. It was a Lannister's answer. It was the correct answer. "What is it, Father?"

"Here. Help me read these reports." Tywin pushed a stack of parchments across the desk. They were trivial reports he had set aside: harvest yields from a small farm near the Golden Tooth, a petty dispute over grazing rights between two low-ranking knights, cargo manifests from ships carrying wool to Lannisport. It was tedious work, but suitable for training the boy's mind without giving him too much sensitive information.

Jaime nodded, taking the stack without further comment. He pulled his chair closer and began to read, his sharp eyes moving quickly from line to line.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth and the rustle of parchment. Tywin feigned returning to his own work, but he watched his son from the corner of his eye. He saw the way Jaime didn't just read the words, but absorbed the information, a small frown creasing his brow as he processed numbers and facts.

Tywin put down his quill, breaking the silence. "What do you see in those reports?"

Jaime didn't look up immediately. He finished the page he was on, then carefully placed it on top of the stack. "Lord Clark's harvest report is ten percent lower than last year's," he said. "But the land around there should be fertile. The report from Lord Swain, whose lands are adjacent, shows a five percent increase in harvest."

"Continue," Tywin said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Lord Swain mentioned in his report that he built a small dam upstream three months ago to irrigate his new fields," Jaime explained. "The same river flows through Lord Clark's land. It's likely the dam reduced the water flow to his lands, causing his harvest to decline." He paused for a moment. "And in the report, both men are vassals of House Lefford. This should have been settled by them, not brought to Casterly Rock. It shows a weakness in how Lefford manages his own vassals."

Tywin did not smile. He never smiled. But inside, he felt a flicker of cold satisfaction.

"A good lord," Tywin said quietly, "knows his lands not by riding through them, but by reading them. Every report is a window. Never forget that." He paused, letting the lesson sink in. Then, he moved on to the real business. "We will build the 'school' you spoke of."

Jaime lifted his eyes from the parchment, his composed face finally showing a hint of reaction. Tywin could see a quick spark of excitement in his eyes before he managed to control it. "In Lannisport?"

"Yes," Tywin nodded. "We will try it. Build one. Supervise it closely. If it goes as well as you say, if the merchants are truly willing to pay, it's very possible to expand it."

A smile finally broke on Jaime's face, a genuine and triumphant smile. "That's excellent, Father. Knowledge has always been held by the Citadel and the Maesters. If we do this, we can change the game."

"But it will also antagonize the Maesters," Tywin stated the obvious logic. He didn't care for the opinions of those foolish grey-robed maesters. He just wanted to see Jaime's thinking, to see if his son had considered all the angles.

"Let them think what they will," Jaime replied instantly, and there was a steel in his voice that reminded Tywin of himself. "They depend on the Lords for protection and funding. They wouldn't dare oppose us openly. House Lannister will always be at the top." He paused, and added his trump card. "Plus, now Prince Rhaegar shares the same idea. He sees its value."

It was a smart move. Using the Prince's interest as a political shield. Tywin nodded slowly. "We'll just have to wait for him to become king then."

"Yes," Jaime commented, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a thin, cold one. "But that will take time."

----

Final chapter for this week, thank you for reading and commenting, I love it, it motivates me to keep writing. Sorry I can't reply to everyone.

Chapter Text

Not a chapter. Just drew this cover, hope you guys like it, lol. 

Chapter Text

RHAEGAR

"So this is how you meet all sorts of people?" Rhaegar asked, his voice barely audible above the din of the bustling tavern on River Row.

He sat on a rough wooden bench, feeling the stuffy warmth of dozens of bodies around him. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, smoked fish, and something cloyingly sweet from a cold meat pie. The sounds of rough laughter, arguments in various accents, and the clinking of cups created a deafening symphony of common life. To disguise his identity, Rhaegar had covered his conspicuous silver hair with the hood of a simple traveling cloak, an act that felt strange and liberating at the same time.

Across from him, around a sticky table, sat his companions. Arthur Dayne, who even in this crowd seemed calm and alert; Addam Marbrand, who looked deeply uncomfortable, his nose slightly wrinkled; and of course, Jaime Lannister, who looked completely at home, with his sworn shield, Jon, standing silently behind him.

"Places like this usually have a lot of interesting stories," Jaime nodded, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the crowd. "People from all over the country gather here. Sailors, merchants, sellswords... every face has a song."

"And those interesting stories seem to make them forget what 'bathing' is," Addam grumbled, grimacing as a large dockworker passed him, leaving a strong odor in his wake.

Arthur chuckled softly behind his cup. "I've heard some call it the smell of a 'real man'."

"A real man wouldn't make women avoid you," Addam sighed.

Jaime teased him. "Is that why you always wear perfume?"

Rhaegar sniffed the air discreetly. Yes, there was a faint, expensive scent of perfume coming from Addam's direction, a futile attempt to combat the tavern's stench.

"Shut up," Addam said, his face flushing slightly as he quickly drank his ale.

"So," Jaime leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's play a guessing game. Let's guess what the people here have been through."

"Troublesome," Addam muttered after swallowing his drink. "Honestly, I don't care what they've been through, as long as they don't spill their drink on me."

"Now, that's interesting," Arthur countered, joining the game. He lowered his voice and subtly pointed to a middle-aged man standing anxiously near the door. "That man over there. His clothes are good, made of decent wool. His posture is straight, not stooped like a laborer. His face isn't bad. But right now, he looks terrified. Why?"

Rhaegar frowned, whispering along, intrigued by it. He observed the man. Arthur was right. The man looked out of place, his anxiety palpable amidst the casual ruckus. "The first answer that comes to my mind is that he might be a swindler," Rhaegar said. "Clothes, face, and posture are their weapons to gain trust. And someone is about to expose him."

"The second," Rhaegar continued, "is that he's the victim of a swindle. He's lost his money and now doesn't know what to do."

Jaime nodded, considering the possibilities. "Or," he said, "he's just a skilled craftsman from out of town. Maybe a stonemason or a cabinetmaker. He came to King's Landing to meet a Lord who promised him a big project. His nice clothes are his best, worn to make a good impression. But the Lord didn't show up. And now he's alone in a city he doesn't know, his money is running low, and he's afraid of having to go home empty-handed."

Rhaegar fell silent. Jaime's explanation was far more detailed, more... human. He didn't just see a role swindler, victim he saw a life.

"More likely the last one," Addam added flatly. "Waiting for a Lord is the most frightening thing of all."

"What about her?" Arthur pointed again, this time to an old woman sitting alone in a dark corner, sipping a small glass of red wine. She stared into her cup as if the whole world were inside it.

"A widow," Rhaegar said instantly, the image of his mother at the breakfast table flashing through his mind. "Perhaps her husband was a soldier. She comes here every year on the anniversary of his death to remember him."

"Maybe she's just tired," Addam said with a shrug.

"Look at the pendant on her neck," Jaime whispered. "Small and made of silver, worn down. It's shaped like an anchor. Maybe her husband wasn't a soldier. Maybe he was a sailor. Maybe he sailed out of the harbor twenty years ago and never came back. And she still comes here, to the first tavern they ever visited together, hoping that one day the door will open and he'll walk in, smelling of salt and adventure."

A silence fell over their table for a moment. Jaime's story, whether true or not, felt so real. It turned the nameless old woman into a symbol of enduring loyalty and sorrow. Rhaegar felt a pang of ache in his heart for her.

"You read too many fairy tales," Addam muttered, though his words lacked their usual bite.

"And you?" Jaime turned to Rhaegar. "What about the young man near the hearth? The skinny one with the lute on his lap. He hasn't played a single note, just keeps tapping his restless fingers on the strings and staring at the door."

Rhaegar looked at the young man. He recognized that look. The look of desperate hope. "He's a musician," Rhaegar said, feeling a familiar connection. "He's hoping the tavern owner will give him a chance to play for a few copper coins. And he's afraid of being rejected."

"He's not just hoping to play," Jaime corrected gently. "He's hoping for dinner. There's a big difference."

And Rhaegar understood. For Rhaegar, music was an escape, a noble art form. For that young man, music was a tool for survival.

They continued the game for nearly an hour. Every face in the crowd became a story. A sellsword with a scar on his face wasn't just a killer for hire; perhaps he was saving up to bring home a gift for his daughter across the sea. A serving girl who laughed too loudly wasn't just cheap; perhaps she was just trying to forget the ache in her feet and the emptiness in her stomach.

Slowly, Rhaegar began to see. He began to truly see.

He had always viewed the kingdom as an abstract concept. A vast map with the names of Houses and border lines. Its people were a faceless mass, the "smallfolk," a collective entity to be ruled, fed, and controlled.

But here, in this smelly tavern, there were no "smallfolk." There were only individuals. The anxious man, the grieving woman, the hopeful musician. Each with their own fears, dreams, and hungers. Each the center of their own world.

He glanced around his table. Arthur, the embodiment of honor and duty, his unwavering protector. Addam, who behind his posturing just wanted a comfortable life and maybe a smile from a pretty girl. Jon, the knight of common birth, who stood silently, his loyalty an unseen bedrock.

A kingdom is not the Iron Throne, or the Red Keep, or even an army of dragons. A kingdom is the sum of all these stories. All these hopes and fears. To rule them, you cannot just sit on a throne and issue decrees. You must, somehow, understand them. You must see them, not as the "smallfolk," but as people.

It was a frightening and humbling thought. Its weight felt far heavier than that of any crown.

Rhaegar looked at Jaime, who was now laughing at a crude joke he'd overheard from the next table. A lord, he thought to himself, must not only be able to sit on a throne. He must also be able to sit on a sticky wooden bench in a common tavern and, at least for a moment, understand the heartbeat of his kingdom.

Therefore, a lord must also think with utmost clarity so as not to sacrifice them in vain…

For example, in the wars of the past, how many of these people have perished because of greedy and foolish lords?

How many lives, dreams, and stories were extinguished?

So many…

They were all songs, never sung by anyone.

…

Word by word, a verse had formed in Rhaegar's mind. As they left the crowded tavern and returned to the wider streets of King's Landing, a melody began to weave itself around the words. It was a lyric born from his observations, a first verse about the faces in the crowd, about the hope and despair hidden behind a stranger's eyes. He had a lyric, and it was a more exhilarating feeling than anything.

Glancing at his friends walking beside him, he smiled.

They walked home as the sun began to set, painting the sky above the city in soft hues. The afternoon atmosphere felt different now. The noise that had been deafening now sounded like the heartbeat of a living city. The stench that had been overpowering now seemed like the honest smell of life itself. For a moment, Rhaegar forgot all the madness within the walls of the Red Keep. He forgot his volatile father, and his silently grieving mother.

The concept was so pleasant and warm. Friends. Arthur, of course, was more than a friend; he was a part of him, his loyal shadow. But Addam, with his amusing complaints about smells and perfumes, and Jaime, with his strange and unexpected insights... yes, Rhaegar thought he could call them friends. It was a new and welcome feeling.

When they finally reached the gates of the Red Keep, passing the guards who bowed respectfully, reality began to creep back in. The warmth of the streets faded, replaced by the familiar coolness of the long stone corridors. Their relaxed laughter subsided into quieter conversation. The golden cage, however beautiful, was still a cage.

And there he was, standing in the middle of the inner courtyard as if he had been waiting for him. His father.

King Aerys Targaryen stood speaking in a low voice to Ser Barristan Selmy. His father looked immaculate as always, wearing a doublet with the three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest. From a distance, he looked regal, majestic, as a king should. But as they drew closer, Rhaegar could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his violet eyes constantly darted around.

Their small group came to a halt a few paces away. Rhaegar, Arthur, Jaime, Addam, and Jon all gave a slight bow to their king.

"Where have you been, Rhaegar?" His father's voice was deceptively calm, the kind of calm that often preceded a storm.

"Out for a walk, Father," Rhaegar explained, keeping his voice respectful and neutral. "Seeing the people."

"Find anything interesting?" His father's restless eyes moved from Rhaegar, swept over his companions, pausing for a moment on Jaime with a calculated air of indifference, before returning to his son.

"Yes," Rhaegar replied, deciding to be honest. "I've just learned a lesson I believe to be valuable."

His father smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Valuable in what way? Something that will help you rule this kingdom one day? Or something for your pleasures again?"

Rhaegar heard the slight mockery in that last phrase. Your pleasures. His father always referred to his music and his books as "pleasures," as if they were a child's hobbies with no weight in the real world.

"Both, thankfully, this time," Rhaegar answered patiently, refusing to take the bait. "I came to understand some corners of the kingdom that I didn't know before. So small, so narrow that I doubt most Lords would discuss them in the Small Council. And from there I also found an idea for a new song I will write."

"Ah, a song," Aerys said, his bitter tone now more pronounced. "How fortunate for the realm. While my Hand is busy building sewers to prevent a plague, my son is busy composing a song. A perfect balance." He glanced at Jaime again, this time with a hint of scorn. "I'm sure your new friend from the West, with all his songs, is a great inspiration."

Jaime remained silent, his face a mask of neutrality, but Rhaegar could feel the boy tense beside him.

"Understanding the people is not a pleasure, Father," Rhaegar said, his voice still calm but with a slight edge of steel. "It is a duty. Perhaps the most important duty of all."

"Is it?" Aerys raised a thin eyebrow. "I was always under the impression that the most important duty was to ensure the Lords remain obedient and the coffers remain full. But perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps what the kingdom truly needs is more musicians." He paused, letting the insult hang in the air. "Tell me, what valuable lesson did you learn amongst the stench and poverty out there?"

Rhaegar took a deep breath. "I learned that the 'smallfolk' are not a monolith," he said, choosing his words carefully. "They are individuals. Each with their own hopes and fears. A king who does not understand that can never truly rule them. He can only control them."

Aerys stared at him in a long silence. For a brief, fleeting moment, Rhaegar saw something else in his father's eyes. Not paranoia, not anger. Something that looked like... regret? A memory of a young man who once held similar ideals?

But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold cynicism. "A very poetic lesson," the King said. "Very suitable for a song. But songs don't fill hungry bellies or stop rebellions. Gold does. Iron does." He turned to Ser Barristan, as if Rhaegar were no longer there. "It is time for the council meeting. There are reports to be heard."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, bowing.

Without another word to his son, Aerys turned and walked away. He did not look back.

The small group was left in an awkward silence in the middle of the courtyard. The warmth and camaraderie of the afternoon had completely vanished, sucked away by the chill the King had left behind.

Rhaegar watched his father's retreating back, and a familiar weariness settled over him. He had tried. He always tried. But talking to his father was like trying to hold smoke. The more you tried to grasp it, the faster it disappeared.

He felt a gaze on him and turned. Jaime Lannister was looking at him, not with pity, but with a strange, quiet expression of understanding in his green eyes. As if he had seen this kind of performance many times before.

Rhaegar gave a small, tired smile. The new song in his mind was still there, but now the melody felt different. The cheerful notes he had imagined had faded, replaced by a lower, more melancholic tone.

…

That night, Rhaegar could not find peace. He left his warm solar and walked out onto his private balcony, where the cool night air from Blackwater Bay could touch his face. Below him, King's Landing was spread out like a dark tapestry sprinkled with a thousand flickering lights torches, lanterns, and bonfires, each one a sign of a life.

He leaned against the cold stone balustrade, his small harp lying on a nearby bench, untouched. The music wouldn't come to him tonight. His mind was too full of the day's echoes, especially his father's cold gaze.

The soft, steady footsteps behind him did not startle him. There was only one person who would approach him with such familiar silence.

"A beautiful night," Arthur Dayne said, his deep voice a comfort in the midst of Rhaegar's unease. He didn't come close, just stood in the doorway of the balcony, giving him space.

Rhaegar didn't turn. "The stars always seem brighter here than they should be," he replied. "As if they're trying to compete with the city's lights."

A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment, the kind that can only exist between two people who have shared more battles and secrets than can be counted.

"You're going to be a good king, you know that right?" Arthur said suddenly, his voice filled with a simple, unshakeable conviction.

Rhaegar laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh, a bitter sound in the night air. "How so?" he asked, finally turning to look at his friend. "Is it because I anger my father just by stating an obvious truth? Or is it because I write songs while the kingdom slowly rots from within?"

Arthur walked closer, leaning on the balustrade beside him. He didn't look at Rhaegar, but out at the same city. "It's because you have a gentle heart," he said quietly, "and at the same time, you are strong in the convictions you believe are right. That alone is enough to be loved by the people."

Rhaegar shook his head, a familiar frustration rising in him. "Love can't build buildings, Arthur. Love can't defeat enemies, let alone rebels. Love can't fill the royal coffers." He paused, his voice becoming quieter, more bitter. "More importantly, love alone will not bring prosperity."

"No," Arthur agreed, and Rhaegar was slightly surprised by his quick agreement. "But that's why the kingdom has a Small Council. That's why a king has vassals. Even if you are king, you can never handle everything yourself. Aegon the Conqueror had his sisters." He turned to look at Rhaegar, his eyes serious in the moonlight. "You need loyal and skilled vassals in their respective fields. A king's duty is not to know how to build a sewer. His duty is to find the best man in the kingdom who knows how to build a sewer, and then trust him to do his job."

"And what if you choose wrong?" Rhaegar countered, his voice barely a whisper. "The history of our House is filled with betrayal. Trust is a luxury a Targaryen cannot afford."

"Then don't give your trust blindly," Arthur said. "Test them. Observe them. Listen to them. You did that today in that tavern. You looked past their clothes and their accents, you tried to understand who they really were. Do the same with the Lords around you. That gentle heart I spoke of, it's not a weakness, Prince. It's your weapon. It allows you to see into the hearts of others, to understand their motivations. Use it."

Rhaegar was silent, pondering his friend's words. He often possessed a wisdom sharper than any maester's.

"You see that Lannister boy," Arthur continued, as if reading his mind. "He's clever. Perhaps too clever for his own good. But you saw past his Lannister arrogance and found a musician, a thinker. You were drawn to him not because of his gold, but because of his ideas."

"His ideas... his ideas are big," Rhaegar admitted. "Big and dangerous."

"All big ideas are dangerous," Arthur said. "But you also see their value, don't you? A man who thinks about how to make his lands more prosperous through knowledge, not just through conquest. Isn't that the kind of man you'd want by your side?"

"He is Tywin Lannister's son," Rhaegar reminded, more to himself than to Arthur. "His father is a man who burned a House to its roots."

"And his son is a man who wants to build a place of learning," Arthur countered. "Men are not always their fathers. You are proof of that."

Those last words hit Rhaegar with an unexpected force. You are proof of that. He had spent so much of his life trying not to be his father that he'd forgotten it was a choice, a battle he was winning every day.

He looked out at the city again, at those thousands of little lights. They were no longer just nameless dots. They deserved a king who would fight for them.

He couldn't do it alone. Arthur was right. He would need a Master of Ships who could clear the seas of criminals. He would need a Master of Coin who could refill the coffers without squeezing the people dry. He would need a Hand who could advise. He would need men and women who were loyal, who were smart, who were brave.

He would need men like Arthur. And maybe, just maybe, men like Jaime Lannister.

"I will try," Rhaegar whispered, the words more a promise to himself than to Arthur.

Arthur placed a hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "I know you will."

Rhaegar turned from the cityscape and walked to the bench where his harp lay. He picked it up. The wood felt cool and familiar in his hands. He sat, positioning the instrument on his lap.

He didn't play the cheerful song from the Reach. Nor did he play a sad song about destiny. Instead, his fingers found the strings and began to play a new melody, the one that had been forming in his mind that afternoon.

It was a melody of sorrow.

Not much happens in this chapter, but it is necessary to establish the story and the characters in the future. As always, thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

JAIME

Jaime sat in his room as the first dawn began to break. The morning air was cool through the slightly open window, bringing with it the dampness from Blackwater Bay and a thin blanket of mist that still clung to the lower parts of the city.

Sitting on a wooden chair at his writing desk, Jaime unfurled a parchment scroll that displayed the fiery handwriting of Prince Oberyn Martell. This letter had actually arrived last night, but Jaime hadn't opened it. Yesterday had been long, the meeting with Father, the conversation with Prince Rhaegar, and he hadn't had the energy left to deal with Oberyn's typically exaggerated prose.

But now, in the silence of the morning, he felt ready. Reading the letter slowly, a smile began to appear on Jaime's face as the characteristic opening lines came into view.

"King's Landing, ugh, King's Landing," Oberyn wrote. "You are in King's Landing while I am cooped up here? May this letter reach its destination correctly, because the ravens in this cursed place seem as lethargic as the maesters. Oldtown is so stuffy and cramped that I believe it is the true hell on earth."

Jaime chuckled softly. That was so typical of Oberyn.

"I met Baelor Hightower yesterday," the letter continued. "Do you remember him? The tall, awkward one who farted right in front of Elia when we visited? That memory is still so seared into my mind that I still laugh every time I see his serious face. Luckily, I managed to hold it in (this time)."

"Honestly, he's a good man, though dull as a rock. And I feel a bit bad for laughing, well, just a little. He was kind enough to show me around, playing the part of my personal tour guide in this ancient city. It's quite nice when I have a local 'friend' who can show me the interesting places, which means hidden taverns, rather than just spice merchants and the maesters' dusty libraries."

Jaime turned to the next page, shaking his head in amusement. Oberyn's thoughts always made him laugh. The man was so blunt, so unconcerned with propriety, reminding him of some friends from his other life, Steven's life. A world that felt blurrier every day.

"Oh, also, your paper is finished?" The letter's tone shifted to one of more interest. "That's good. You have talent, boy. I will guard this secret as tightly as a maiden's thighs, so that when you actually start selling it, it will be a huge explosion! It will be interesting to see everyone's reaction, the arrogant Maesters, the pious Septons, the greedy Merchants! Haha! Imagine their faces!"

"I honestly wish you could show me that thing sooner, but yes, life sucks and doesn't always go our way, does it? Like that damn Yronwood, for example. How can I be accused of killing Edgar? The man was as weak as a newborn kitten. I wouldn't need poison to kill him if I really wanted to. He'd probably just trip on a stone in the street and die of embarrassment."

"Anyway, enough complaining. See you again, little lion. Next time we meet, you'll have to tell me a lot so I'm not too shocked by what you'll make next. A flying machine? A potion of immortality? I wouldn't be surprised."

Jaime laughed again, a genuine laugh. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the table. He would write his reply tonight, when the time felt right, when he could find the right words to answer Oberyn's mix of mockery, support, and complaints. Their strange friendship, forged through letters across half the kingdom, was one of the most unexpected yet enjoyable things in this new life of his.

He rose from the chair and walked to the window, gazing at the mist that was slowly beginning to thin over the city. Today he had plans with Prince Rhaegar again. The Prince had invited him to discuss "something related to music." Musical instruments... Jaime sighed inwardly. He was completely blank there. As Steven, he had tried to learn the guitar a few times, driven by a fleeting desire to look cool, but his packed work schedule quickly extinguished that spark. He had only managed to master a few basic chords before giving up. He could enjoy music, he could feel it, but he could not create it. That was Rhaegar's territory.

Speaking of Rhaegar, there was something relieving about the Prince at the moment. As far as Jaime could see, Rhaegar had not yet become obsessed with "the prophecy."

A Song of Ice and Fire.

Jaime's memory of the TV show was like scattered shards of glass, sharp in some places, but mostly blurry and incomplete. He only remembered vague parts. Rhaegar and the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised. Rhaegar and the "abduction" of Lyanna Stark at Harrenhal. The war that tore the kingdom apart. Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar's death at the Trident. And then... Jon Snow. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The question of his heritage. Then the Zombie King... did Jon kill him? Steven couldn't remember. It all felt like a forgotten nightmare.

What was certain, if he could stop Rhaegar from obsessing over that prophecy... if he could divert the Prince's attention to more tangible things, like music, or paper, or even actual governance... maybe, just maybe, Robert's Rebellion could be avoided. And if the war could be avoided, fewer people would die. Hundreds of thousands of lives. It was a massive thought, a terrifying burden.

But what about the Mad King? Aerys was a different problem. He couldn't be left on the throne. He was a ticking time bomb. They had to depose him, right? Yes! Of course. Somehow. That was another puzzle for another day.

Jaime pushed those dizzying thoughts aside. Step by step. Right now, the focus is on building a relationship with Rhaegar, planting different ideas, offering another path. And focusing on his own projects.

He smiled as he thought about Father finally agreeing to build a school in Lannisport. That was a huge victory. His first real victory. This was the first step in his larger plan. After years of discussing the history of bookmaking from parchment, and the dissemination of knowledge with Maester Creylen, all under the guise of research for his paper project, this gave him the perfect excuse. A new excuse where he could randomly "rediscover" or "develop" ideas, like the printing press, schools, ink, that a nine-year-old boy in Westeros shouldn't know about.

Yes, Jaime thought as he turned from the window and began to get ready to meet the Prince. Everything is going according to plan. At least, for now.

Jaime opened his chamber door and stepped out into the still-dim corridor. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint scent of extinguished candles and ancient dust. Outside his door, as he had expected, stood Ser Jon, his sworn shield, as steadfast and silent as a rock.

"Quite cold, isn't it?" Jaime said with a smile, rubbing his arms.

"Feels like being in the North," Jon replied, his gruff voice echoing in the quiet. "Not that I've ever actually been to the North."

"One day, Jon," Jaime reassured him lightly, "you'll be leading an army against the undead."

Jon made a face, a comical expression of discomfort flashing across his usually stoic features. "Uh, it's bad enough fighting the living, young master. I'd rather not add the undead to the problem."

Jaime laughed lightly. This was why he liked being with Jon. With him, he didn't have to hide himself as much. He could toss out strange jokes about a future he shouldn't know, and Jon would just chalk it up as another quirk from his eccentric master. It was different from being with Father, where every word had to be calculated, or even with his friends like Addam, where he had to constantly try to sound like a nine-year-old boy.

Well, maybe not try that hard. The original Jaime's memories, the instincts and habits of the boy whose body he inhabited, had helped him blend in well enough. He still enjoyed sword practice, though now with a much deeper tactical understanding, he could still laugh at a crude joke, and he still had a child's characteristic impatience. But sometimes, Steven would surface, in his choice of words, in the way he analyzed a situation, in the strange references he made. And people would definitely look at him strangely.

At least Jon never showed it. Maybe he thought him odd, but he hid it well behind his quiet loyalty. And Jaime was grateful for that.

They walked through the labyrinthine corridors. Jaime, despite only being here for a few days, was already beginning to memorize the route, his sharp mind mapping every turn and tapestry. They arrived at the appointed place, a smaller, more private room near the library, which Jaime knew was where Prince Rhaegar often escaped to play his music.

The door was slightly ajar, and the soft sound of a harp drifted from within. Jaime knocked softly. The music stopped.

"Enter," Prince Rhaegar's voice called out.

Jaime and Jon entered. The room was warm and comfortable, lit by the morning light streaming through a high window and a crackling fire in the hearth. Prince Rhaegar sat near the fire, his small harp resting beside his chair. Across the room, in an armchair, sat Arthur Dayne, though this time he wasn't reading. He was simply observing their arrival with his calm eyes.

"Ah, you found your way," Prince Rhaegar teased, a friendly smile on his face. "I hope you didn't get lost?"

Arthur added in his typical deadpan. "At least he had Jon as an adult to guide him."

Jaime laughed, feeling instantly at ease. The atmosphere here was so different from Father's cold study. "Rest assured," he said. "Jon would have carried me if we were truly lost. He doesn't like to see me tired, you know?"

Jon, behind him, just gave a small, almost inaudible huff.

"A true man. Helping children," Rhaegar laughed as Jaime sat in the plush chair opposite him. On the low table between them, a spread of morning snacks was laid out: small cakes, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of fragrant herbal tea. Rhaegar leaned forward slightly. "I hope you haven't had breakfast, as I told you yesterday. We can finish all of this."

"I could do it with my eyes closed," Jaime said, not hesitating to pick up a small lemon cake. The taste exploded in his mouth, sweet, tart, and incredibly soft. This cake was made with a skill one could only find in the royal kitchens. Something he was grateful for in this current life was this: he could eat good food without having to think about his sometimes-pitiful wallet in his previous life. He savored that simple luxury.

"We've already written the first lyric and its tune, haven't we?" Rhaegar interjected, in between sips of his tea. He seemed excited, his violet eyes shining.

"Yes. Is there anything you want to change, Prince?" Jaime said, putting down his cake.

"Nonsense, the lyrics are quite good," Rhaegar said. "I just need your opinion on the music. I tried a few variations last night. I'm thinking we'll use the harp as the base, of course, but maybe add a bit of flute for the chorus? To give it a lighter, more hopeful feel."

"Opinions, I'm good at giving opinions," Jaime smiled. "But don't expect me to be able to play anything in this matter."

"You can learn," Rhaegar grinned, a challenge in his eyes. "But yes, later. We'll finish the song first."

After they finished eating a few more snacks, feeling a new energy from the sugar and the warmth of the tea, the mood shifted to one of more focus. Jaime watched Rhaegar pick up his harp, the instrument looking so natural in his hands. The prince closed his eyes for a moment, as if summoning the melody from within himself.

Then, he began to pluck the strings. The first notes opened softly, a simple yet beautiful sequence, flowing like a calm river. The rhythm was consistent, melodic, capturing the melancholic yet hopeful mood of the first verse's lyrics they had written together.

Jaime listened intently, not just with the ears of Jaime Lannister, who might only have heard a beautiful melody, but also with the ears of Steven, who had been exposed to thousands of songs from another world, with different structures and harmonies.

Rhaegar finished the opening section and looked at Jaime, waiting.

"It's beautiful," Jaime said honestly. "Very... Targaryen. Majestic yet sad."

Rhaegar smiled faintly. "But?"

"But maybe a little too... polished?" Jaime hesitated, searching for the right word. "The lyrics speak of common people, of their difficult yet hopeful lives. Maybe the music could be a little more... grounded? Perhaps some simpler notes at the beginning, before building to the more complex melody as the lyrics speak of hope?"

Rhaegar frowned, not in offense, but in deep thought. He plucked a few different notes, trying to feel what Jaime meant. "Like this?" he asked.

"Yes!" Jaime said, enthusiastic. "That feels more... honest. Closer to the song's theme."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, absorbing the feedback. He played the opening part again, this time incorporating Jaime's idea. The simpler notes provided a more solid foundation, making the more intricate melody that followed feel more impactful, like a sliver of beauty emerging from a rougher background.

"Better," Rhaegar admitted.

They continued like that for almost an hour. Rhaegar would play a section, then look at Jaime. Jaime would offer his opinion.

And the most amazing thing was, Rhaegar understood. The prince was a true musician, able to translate Jaime's abstract ideas into real notes. He would try different variations, experimenting with rhythm and harmony, until they both felt it was "right."

In the corner of the room, Jaime occasionally glanced towards Arthur and Jon. Dayne was listening intently, his expression calm but clearly interested. Jon, on the other hand, looked a little sleepy, but he remained standing straight, doing his duty with the patience of a saint.

Slowly but surely, the song began to take shape. The first verse now had a strong yet touching melody. They started working on the chorus, where Rhaegar truly incorporated the idea of the flute, playing a light, soaring counter-melody over the harp's foundation, creating a feeling of fragile optimism.

There was a strange synergy between them, a shared joy in the creative process. Jaime felt as if he were helping to paint a beautiful picture, even if he couldn't hold the brush himself. He only could suggest a color or the shape of a shadow.

As the sun began to climb higher in the sky, they had managed to complete the basic framework for the first verse and the chorus. Rhaegar played it all from beginning to end, and this time, it felt complete. It was a sad song, yes, but also a song filled with a quiet beauty and a glimmer of hope.

"This..." Rhaegar paused, searching for the right word, his violet eyes shining. "This feels right."

Jaime smiled widely. "Yes," he said. "It really does."

Chapter Text

Jaime walked with Jon down the long corridors of the Red Keep, a quiet feeling of satisfaction still lingering from his morning music session with Prince Rhaegar. Creating something new felt like an antidote to the often suffocating atmosphere of the court.

Then, he saw her. At the end of the hall, standing like a statue of ice in the afternoon warmth, was Cersei. She was not alone; there was a Lannister guard nearby. Her face was creased in a familiar expression of dissatisfaction. Then, she looked up when she heard their footsteps and immediately approached him, her movements quick and determined.

Jaime's feelings were immediately mixed. He was always resigned when dealing with this child. As Steven, he had met people like Cersei, people whose worlds revolved around themselves, whose belief in their own superiority was so absolute it blinded them to reality. Unstoppable narcissism, coupled with a surging anger if their desires were not met. Usually, Steven believed that children like that tended to be changeable, directable towards better traits, though it would take time, patience, and firm boundaries.

But Cersei… Cersei was very difficult. Her armor of arrogance was so thick. Jaime had tried giving her advice, tried sharing some perspectives he had gained from Steven's life, tried to show her a world beyond her own mirror. But Cersei only saw him as her twin brother, her rival, and, worst of all, just another strange little boy.

She did not take him seriously. Maybe if their Father had done it, if Father was willing to take the time to shape her character as he shaped their House's legacy, Cersei might have turned out better. But Father was too busy with his work, and Cersei was left to grow wild in the garden of her own arrogance.

"Jaime."

Cersei's voice sounded, and there was a hesitant tone in it that was very unusual. Usually, she would immediately attack with accusations or demands.

"Yes?" Jaime replied, keeping his voice neutral. He wanted to add, 'It's not like you to greet me gently,' but he held his tongue. Triggering her anger would achieve nothing.

Then, something changed in Cersei's eyes. The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, steely determination. "Teach me," she said, the words coming out like a command, not a request.

Jaime was completely confused. "Teach you what, do you mean?"

"Everything," Cersei insisted, stepping closer so only he could hear. "The stories you tell the Prince. The strange songs you sing. The knowledge from those books." She stared straight into his eyes, her intensity almost burning.

"Are you sick?" Jaime asked, a little worried despite his annoyance at being interrupted. After all, she was his twin sister, and although their relationship was complicated, he didn't want to see Cersei become truly insane.

A twitch appeared at the corner of Cersei's mouth, a classic sign that she was restraining her anger. "I saw you with Prince Rhaegar," she said, her voice low and hissing. "Talking constantly. Laughing. I want that. I want to be able to talk to him like that. So, teach me the things you know so I can talk to him."

"Ah." Understanding formed in Jaime's mind. So this was not about a sincere desire to learn. This was about Rhaegar. This was about jealousy. This was about her ambition to be Queen. She saw Jaime getting the Prince's attention, and she wanted a shortcut to get the same. She saw Jaime's knowledge not as something valuable in itself, but as another tool to achieve her goal.

Jaime's mind raced. Honestly, he did not want Cersei to be Queen. Remembering what he vaguely recalled from that TV series, her madness, her cruelty, the destruction she brought, the idea of Cersei on the Iron Throne made his skin crawl. He would block her, no matter what. For now, Jaime's power in terms of influence, especially with Father taking a greater interest in him, allowed him to obstruct Cersei's path. Especially knowing Aerys was not interested in the match.

But this request... this was an opportunity. A dangerous opportunity, but an opportunity nonetheless. Would he teach Cersei stories? Maybe. He could choose the stories carefully. Disney stories from his other world, for example. Stories about kindness, sacrifice, and the consequences of arrogance. Stories designed for children, but carrying strong moral messages. Maybe he could instill things that were so human and emotional that it would slightly change Cersei's nature. Maybe he could wear down some of the sharp edges of her character.

Songs too. He could teach her simple folk songs, songs about the lives of ordinary people, not just songs of war and power. Other things as well, basic knowledge of history or geography that was not too strategic.

Yes, he could do that. It was a gamble. But if there was even a small chance he could change her, make her a little more empathetic, a little less cruel... shouldn't he try?

However, even if Cersei's nature changed, even if she became a better person, Jaime knew he would still try to keep her away from the throne. If she remained the same character as in the TV series, putting her near power would be a disaster. No. Changing her was one thing. Letting her rule was another.

"Of course," Jaime said at last, putting on a thin smile. "I will teach you."

Cersei looked a little surprised by his quick agreement, but she quickly hid it behind a mask of satisfaction.

"But," Jaime added, raising a finger, "if you really want this, you must promise to obey everything I say. Every lesson, every reading assignment, every song I choose. You will do it without question and without complaint. If you break this even once, the deal is off."

Cersei thought for a moment, looking hesitant. She hated being ordered around, especially by Jaime. But then Jaime saw the ambition flare up in her eyes again. Her determination to be with 'her Prince', to secure her destiny, was apparently stronger than her pride. "Fine," she said reluctantly. "I break a rule and you'll stop. But you must really teach me what you talk about with Prince Rhaegar."

"I will only teach you the things I think you need to know," Jaime corrected gently but firmly. "And I will not bring you directly to him." He nodded to himself. This was important. "You want a conversation? Find your own opportune time with him. Show him what you have learned."

This was the right thing. He would give her the tools, but he would not open the door for her. He would not let Cersei come with him, using his closeness to Rhaegar for her own advantage.

Cersei frowned, her frustration returning. "Why are you making this difficult for me?"

Jaime smiled, this time a more genuine smile. He decided to use one of the old sayings he often heard. "People say effort does not betray the results," he said. "So if you work hard and are sincere, then you will get it."

Cersei stared at him intently for a few moments, as if trying to read his hidden intentions. Then, she nodded stiffly. "Fine. You get what you want. Teach me a song first then."

Jaime pretended to think for a moment, even though he already knew exactly which song he would start with. He nodded. "Let's find a suitable place," he said. "Like the garden. It fits the song I'm going to teach you."

He motioned for Cersei to follow him, and with Jon behind him, they began to walk towards the garden.

…

"You sing it well."

The words came from Jaime's mouth, and he meant them. They had spent nearly an hour in this secluded corner of the Red Keep's garden. Jon and the other Lannister guard stood far enough away to provide privacy, yet close enough to keep watch. Jaime had chosen a song he remembered from his previous life: "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins. It was a song one of his friends used to play, a soothing melody with lyrics about protection and unconditional love. He thought it was a good start, something that contrasted with the songs of war or intrigue usually sung in Westeros. And honestly, Cersei had a good voice. Clear, strong, and when she concentrated on the melody, she could convey the song's emotion quite well.

Cersei smiled at the compliment, a proud smile that was so typical of her. "Of course," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "It was easy."

Nodding, Jaime decided it was time for the real 'feedback'. This lesson was not just about singing. "Now," he said, keeping his voice calm and neutral, "your goal is to impress Prince Rhaegar, isn't it?"

"Of course," Cersei snorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I will use this to impress him. These strange songs of yours. I've already memorized the famous songs, but I heard the Prince likes 'unusual' songs. That's why he's always talking to you." There was an annoyed tone in that last sentence.

"The Prince is like that," Jaime confirmed, ignoring her annoyed tone. "He values authenticity. He's bored with the same things he hears every day at court." He leaned in slightly. "But do you want to know what he likes besides just unusual songs?"

Cersei's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but her curiosity was piqued. "What?" she moved closer.

"He likes women who are graceful and gentle," Jaime said, observing her reaction carefully. This was the dangerous part.

As expected, Cersei immediately straightened her back, looking offended. "I am graceful and gentle," she said, her voice hissing slightly.

"No, no," Jaime calmly refuted, shaking his head. "You hear yourself just now? That hiss? That's not gentle. You are graceful, yes, no one can deny that. You move like a cat, and you know how to carry yourself. But gentle? Far from it." He decided to be honest, as brutal as it was. Their deal depended on honesty. "I've lived with you my whole life, Cersei. I know how you are. You are stubborn, cynical, and arrogant."

"What did you say?!" Cersei's voice rose, anger flaring in her green eyes. The Lannister guard in the distance seemed to tense up.

"See! You see for yourself, don't you?" Jaime pointed calmly at her reaction. "That. That's what I mean. That burst of anger. That impatience. The contempt in your voice. Prince Rhaegar is a calm and considerate man. He will not be impressed by that. He will be disturbed."

Cersei stared at him, her chest rising and falling with anger, but Jaime's calm argument and the direct evidence of her own behavior left her speechless. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She looked like an angry cat soaked in water, helpless for a moment. Jaime could see the struggle within her, between her wounded pride and her burning ambition.

After a brief silence, where the only sound was the chirping of birds in the trees, Cersei finally turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. "Suppose you are right," she muttered, the words coming out with difficulty. "So what should I do to 'dampen' all this?"

This was progress. An admission, however reluctant, that something needed to be changed. Jaime straightened his voice, adopting the role of the teacher he had set for himself. "First, if you want to erase all that, you must learn to control your mind. Every time your mind churns, with anger, annoyance, contempt, you must try to return to calm. Take a breath. Count to ten if you need to."

He continued, "Second, don't always think that others are beneath you. That thought is toxic. It makes you underestimate others and makes you look arrogant. Try to see other people as... people. Not as pawns in your game or servants for your desires."

"And most importantly," Jaime stressed, "keep thinking good thoughts about everything. Or at least, try. Don't jump to the worst conclusion or see hidden motives in every action."

Cersei listened in silence, her expression unreadable.

"For example?" she finally asked, her voice still flat.

Jaime had expected this question. "For example, right now," he said calmly. "You are talking to me. I am your twin brother, but right now I am also your teacher in this matter. And I know your mind must be spinning. Something like, 'He's so stupid. I can't believe I have to listen to this nonsense. I just need these songs to get closer to the Prince, after that he's completely useless.' At least close to that, right?"

Cersei was silent, but the faint blush creeping up her neck was answer enough.

"Cersei," Jaime said, his voice firm but not judgmental. "I want you to answer honestly. This is part of our deal. If you can't be honest, even about your own thoughts, then our deal is off. Remember?"

Cersei stared at him, the struggle clear in her eyes. Her pride warred against her ambition. Finally, ambition won. "Fine, fine!" she said with frustration, stomping her foot slightly. "Yes! I was thinking you are useless and incredibly arrogant! You are just a little boy acting like you know everything, trying to tell me what to do! Satisfied?"

"Good," Jaime nodded, completely unfazed by her outburst. He almost smiled. "You're honest. I like that. Now, erase that thought. For now, accept me as at least your teacher. What should you do when a teacher is teaching? You don't argue with him. You don't underestimate him. You empty your mind, and you follow him. You listen. You try to understand."

Cersei stared at him, her breathing still a little ragged from anger.

"Try this," Jaime said, his voice softening. "Close your eyes."

Cersei hesitated, looking at him suspiciously.

"Just close them," Jaime urged gently. "No one will see."

Reluctantly, Cersei closed her eyes. Her long, dark eyelashes contrasted starkly with her pale skin.

"Now, take a deep breath through your nose," Jaime instructed. "Feel the air fill your lungs. Hold it for a moment... then exhale slowly through your mouth. Feel the tension in your shoulders relax."

Cersei did it, albeit stiffly at first.

"Again," Jaime said. "Breathe in... hold... exhale. Focus only on your breath. Let those angry thoughts go. Let the annoyance flow out with your breath."

He watched her as she took several more deep breaths. Slowly, he could see the tension in her face ease slightly. The lines between her brows softened. Her jaw was no longer clenched so tightly.

After a few moments, Jaime said, "Alright. Open your eyes."

Cersei opened her eyes. Her expression was still wary, but there was a new calm there, a fragile one. She looked a little confused, as if she had just woken up from a dream.

Then, she tried to smile, a forced smile but an attempt nonetheless.

"Done."

"Good," Jaime agreed, nodding. "Now," he said, taking a breath of his own. "Let's try that song again. This time, focus not just on the notes, but on the feeling behind them. The feeling of protection. The feeling of tenderness. Try to feel it as you sing."

Cersei looked at him for a moment, then she nodded. And they began again.

The lesson with Cersei ended with a fragile promise to meet again the next afternoon. The time was set by Jaime.

As he walked back to his chambers, with Jon following behind, Jaime felt a deep exhaustion seeping into his bones. Not the physical fatigue from sword practice or horse riding. This was a different kind of mental exhaustion, one that came from having to be constantly on guard, constantly analyzing, especially when dealing with his twin sister.

Facing Cersei was truly mentally draining. It was like trying to hold back a storm with a paper umbrella. He had to constantly anticipate her outbursts, deflect her cynicism, and try to plant ideas that contradicted every fiber of her being, all while maintaining a mask of patience.

"You look tired, My Lord," Jon said, his gruff voice breaking the silence of the corridor.

Jaime chuckled softly, a dry laugh. "If you had to face someone like Cersei for a full hour, trying to teach her about patience, this is what would happen."

Just as he said that, a Lannister soldier in a red cloak appeared from a corridor intersection ahead of them. He bowed respectfully to Jaime. "Young Lord," he said. "Lord Lannister summons you to his solar."

'Oh,' thought Jaime, his fatigue instantly mixing with a hint of anxiety. He hoped this conversation would just be a normal one about his progress at court or perhaps about the paper again. He was not in the mood to act, to play the role of the perfect, obedient son, to follow the cold, calculating flow of his Father's thoughts.

Facing his Father always required a different level of mental alertness. Jaime had learned that the best way, the only way, to get Father's approval for his ideas was to frame them in the language of power, profit, and legacy. Like the school, for example. He couldn't just say he wanted the people of the Westerlands to be smarter for their own good.

No. He had to wrap it in the idea of 'printing Lannister propaganda', of creating a more controllable populace because they read the narrative he provided. He had to emphasize how the school would increase economic efficiency, which in turn would increase tax revenue for Casterly Rock. He had to talk about controlling information.

Something always had to be sacrificed. His idealism had to be veiled by profit for that man. He just hoped he could minimize the negative impact, ensure that the ultimate goal, a more educated and prosperous society, was not completely lost in the process.

Jaime took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Alright," he said to the soldier. "I'll be right there."

Arriving there. With Jon waiting outside the Hand's solar. He entered his Father's study without knocking this time; he had been summoned. There, as usual, his Father was sitting behind his large desk, bent over a stack of documents, his quill moving quickly across the parchment. The room was silent, save for the scratching of the quill and the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth.

"You called, Father?" Jaime said.

Tywin did not look up immediately. He finished the sentence he was writing, set down his quill carefully, then raised his head. His pale green eyes met Jaime's, assessing as always. "Sit," he said.

Jaime sat in the chair across the desk, keeping his back straight. He waited. With Father, it was always better to wait.

After a few moments of tense silence, Jaime ventured. "What did you want to talk about?"

Tywin looked straight into his eyes. "You are nine years old," Father said, his voice flat. "And time keeps moving. You are growing bigger."

"That's what happens to living beings," Jaime replied, trying to sound indifferent, though he felt a bad feeling start to creep into his stomach.

Tywin paused for a moment, as if considering his words. "I've been thinking about some things."

"What things?" Jaime asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"It's... about your marriage."

'Shit.' The thought exploded in Jaime's mind with surprising force.

And he rarely ever cursed.

Chapter Text

Tywin watched his son, who looked back at him calmly, but for a moment Tywin could see a brief twitch at the corner of his eye. Yes, this was big news. Tywin knew it. Discussing marriage at the age of nine indeed seemed premature, but this was not about romance or childhood. This was about the future of House Lannister, about securing power for generations to come.

"I have thought of several candidates," said Tywin, placing his interlaced hands on the table. "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, and Janna Tyrell of Highgarden. Who do you think is the most suitable for you?" He was not truly asking for his son's opinion in the sense of seeking approval. He wanted to test his mind, to see if Jaime could see the strategic implications of each choice, beyond just names and titles.

Jaime did not answer immediately. Silence hung for a moment between them, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth. "Isn't this too soon, Father?" he finally asked, his voice quiet and measured.

Tywin frowned. That was an evasion, not an answer. He did not like evasions. "This is a plan," he said sharply, his voice as sharp as a dagger's point. "A well thought out plan takes years before it is executed. Securing an alliance is the foundation of enduring power. The strongest oak takes decades to grow, Jaime. You cannot plant it when the storm has already arrived. Also, I did not ask you to return the question. I asked you to analyze. Do you understand that?"

Thinking for a moment, weighing his words under his father's sharp gaze, Jaime finally nodded.

"Lyanna Stark is a good candidate, Father." For the first time, Tywin saw a slight hesitation in his eyes. "The North is vast and has many resources."

"Timber and wool, you mean?" Tywin interjected, unimpressed. Resources that are difficult to extract and low in value compared to the gold of the West.

"They are part of it," Jaime confirmed, undaunted. "But there are also many regions that may be unexplored due to their vastness. I suspect there might be many undiscovered metal mines there, iron, silver, maybe even gold. That is very important for the future."

"Yes, unexplored," Tywin countered coldly. "And how can you be sure there will be many 'mines'? The North is a harsh and poor land. They are strong in battle, yes, their soldiers are as tough as their winters. But their wealth is insignificant. They have no large cities besides White Harbor, their trade is limited."

"According to my theory, Father..."

"Theories do not fill coffers," Tywin cut in, his impatience beginning to show. "Let us assume your theory is correct. It would require enormous capital just to search for those mines, sending expeditions into that frozen wilderness. And with the North's harsh climate and its small population, scattered across a vast territory, it would take years, even decades, just to start any meaningful production. The return would not be worth the cost, Jaime."

He paused, adding his true assessment of the North. "They are also too backward. Too bound to their ancient traditions of the Old Gods and trees with faces. They are indeed famously loyal, like good hunting dogs, but loyalty alone is not enough to build true power in this world. Blind loyalty is often a sign of a lack of ambition."

He saw Jaime accept his rebuttal without further argument. Good. The boy was learning to distinguish between interesting theories and harsh reality. "What about Tully?" Tywin pressed, moving to the next option.

"House Tully holds a vital strategic position," said Jaime. "Riverrun controls the Trident, the great rivers that flow through the heart of the kingdom. Any significant land and river trade between the North, the Vale, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands must pass through them." He glanced at his father. "If we want to ensure smoother passage for our paper and printed goods when marketing them throughout Westeros, securing the routes through the Riverlands is a good move. An alliance with Tully would give us direct influence over the course of this trade."

"However," Jaime continued, and Tywin listened intently to see if his son could see both sides of the coin. "Compared to the others, the return is smaller in terms of wealth or direct military strength. The Riverlands are often a battlefield. Their lands are fertile, but they do not have gold like us or an army as large as the Reach."

Jaime shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward. "For example, if we were to invest heavily there, building infrastructure to support our trade, but if war breaks out, our investment would be a total loss. As I said before, the Riverlands are the 'heart' of the kingdom itself. And the heart is the first thing stabbed in a fight."

"But that means we would have a bulwark ourselves," Tywin countered. "If the Riverlands are the heart, then controlling them means the enemy must pass through them first. They would become our shield."

Jaime smiled bitterly, a smile too cynical for a nine-year-old boy. "A human bulwark, yes," he said quietly. "When at war, their soldiers would be the first to be spent, absorbing the first attack. And we, with our fresh troops, would come as a hero to save the day. That is indeed a valid strategy, Father."

Tywin stared at his son in silence. The observation was cruel, but strategically correct. Jaime saw the game for what it was: a cold calculation of lives and profit. He was not swayed by naive ideas of honor or inter.House friendship. He saw allies as tools, as shields, as assets. That was the thinking of a Lannister. That was his thinking.

"Lord Hoster is a cunning man," said Tywin, returning to the analysis. "But his ambition is great. He wants to see his family rise. He would see his daughter's match with the heir of Casterly Rock as a great victory."

"And a man like that can be controlled," Jaime added, understanding his father's line of thought. "Their ambition is a leash we can hold."

"Precisely," said Tywin. He considered the Tully alliance. It was solid. Strategic. Not too conspicuous. It would secure vital trade routes and create a useful buffer zone without provoking needless alarm among the other Houses or, more importantly, at the King's court. It was a measured step, a wise step.

Tywin nodded, accepting Jaime's analysis of House Tully. Logical and seeing the potential profits as well as the risks. That was good. Now, it was time to test his understanding of the greatest prize in the South.

"Now, Tyrell," said Tywin, his tone neutral.

Jaime leaned forward a bit more, his eyes now gleaming with a clear appreciation for raw power. "House Tyrell," he began, "possesses immense strength. Perhaps the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms if measured by the number of soldiers and food. The Reach is the breadbasket of Westeros, Father. They can feed an army far larger than any other House, and for much longer."

"Quantity does not always mean quality," Tywin interjected. "The armies of the Reach are famous for their proud, flowery knights, more concerned with tournaments than actual battle."

"That might be true for some of them," Jaime admitted, "but their sheer numbers alone are a force that cannot be underestimated. They 'might' be able to field sixty thousand swords if needed. Sixty thousand, Father. Even if only half of them are competent, that is still a formidable army." He paused for a moment, adding another important detail. "And do not forget Olenna Tyrell. She is a Redwyne."

Tywin nodded again. Of course he had not forgotten. That woman, it was said, was the true brain behind Highgarden. "The Redwyne fleet," he said.

"Exactly," said Jaime. "One of the largest fleets in Westeros. If we ally with Tyrell, we not only get the largest land army, but also easy access to significant naval power through their Redwyne connections. Imagine, Father. Our gold could fund their ships. We could control the sea and the land."

The image was indeed tempting. Very tempting. Nearly limitless power. Total domination. That was a language Tywin understood.

"They are also rich," Jaime continued. "Not as rich as us, of course, but their wealth from the wine, fruit, and grain trade is substantial."

Tywin said coldly. "The Tyrells are known for their boundless ambition. They rose to Lord Paramount after the fall of House Gardener because they knew when to bow to Aegon. They are stewards who became Lords. Their blood is not as ancient or as pure as ours." There was a slight tone of contempt in his voice.

"But their ambition also makes them motivated allies," Jaime countered. "They want to rise higher. They want recognition. An alliance with us would give them that. They would be eager partners."

"Eager partners, or dangerous competitors?" Tywin asked quietly. "Olenna Redwyne is not a woman easily controlled. And her son, Mace Tyrell, while not as clever as his mother, possesses an arrogance just as large."

Jaime was silent for a moment, considering that. "Every alliance has its risks, Father. Great power always comes with great challenges."

Tywin let the silence hang between them. He let his son contemplate the implications. Internally, Tywin had already weighed the pros and cons of the Tyrell alliance long before this conversation.

The Tyrells were indeed strong, yes. Very strong. A combined Lannister. Tyrell force would be like an unmatched giant in Westeros. But it was precisely that strength that was its biggest problem.It would be too conspicuous. Too threatening.

An alliance that large would immediately create opposing blocs. Stark, Arryn, Baratheon, maybe even Martell, they would see it as a blatant attempt to dominate the kingdom, a direct threat to the balance of power. They would unite against it, creating instability, suspicion, and possibly even civil war.

And that would be very disruptive to the paper and printing projects. Those projects required stability, open trade routes, and at least the illusion of cooperation between the great Houses. If the kingdom was split into suspicious factions, how could they sell their paper widely? How could they get supplies of flax from other regions? How could they control the flow of information if every great Lord built walls around their own lands? The Tyrell alliance was too risky for this much more subtle and potentially more powerful long term project.

Besides, the Tyrells are ambitious. Very ambitious. Olenna Tyrell is a masterful player of the game of thrones. They would not be content just being Lannister's partner. They would have their own agenda. Uniting the two most powerful Houses in the kingdom could easily turn into a destructive internal rivalry. They are hard to control.

Whereas the Tullys... they offered almost the same in terms of strategic position, control over the heart of the kingdom. Their military strength and wealth might be only half of the Tyrells, but they were far easier to control. Hoster Tully has dreams, but his dreams are more measured, more predictable. He wants status and security for his family. He can be managed. An alliance with the Tullys would significantly strengthen the Lannisters without making the entire kingdom panic. It was not a reckless move.

And most importantly, there was Aerys. The King was already wary of Tywin's power. If Tywin married his son to a Tyrell, Aerys would see it as a declaration of war. It would be the end of his position as Hand of the King, and the end of any hope of marrying Cersei to Rhaegar. The Tyrell alliance was too costly in terms of political consequences in King's Landing.

Tywin had already made his choice even before this conversation began. This discussion was merely a test for Jaime, a way to ensure his son understood these complexities. And Jaime had passed that test. He saw the strength of the Tyrells, but he also was beginning to understand the risks.

"Tully," Tywin said to his son, his voice flat and final.

He saw confusion flash across Jaime's face. After all the discussion about the unrivaled strength of the Tyrells, this decision must have seemed ridiculous. "Huh?"

"Catelyn Tully," Tywin affirmed, leaving no room for doubt. He had weighed all the variables, all the possibilities, and this was the most logical, the most strategic step for the long term. "She will be your wife."

Honestly, from the start I wanted Jaime to be with Lyanna, but here Tywin is the one who weighs the pros and cons, this would be OOC. At least that's what I think.

Chapter Text

WHISPER IN THE WIND

The sight was so grand, so large, that Gerion himself felt as if this were a dream. The ship loomed before him on the busy docks of Lannisport, its hull gleaming in the morning sun. Its size alone was astonishing, far larger than the usual merchant ships that filled the harbor. Its tall masts pierced the blue sky, its neatly furled sails promising wind and adventure.

Gerion stood among the crowd, the dockworkers, merchants, sailors, who had also paused for a moment to gaze at this newborn masterpiece. Whispers and murmurs of admiration sounded around him. They might see an impressive new ship, another symbol of the limitless wealth of the Lannisters. But Gerion saw something far more personal. He saw freedom.

For these past few months, he had felt as if he were living in a golden cage. Yes, the cage was beautiful, its walls made of the mighty stone of Casterly Rock, its bars coated in pure gold. He had a long chain, allowing him to wander the taverns of Lannisport, flirt with women, and tell his jokes. He could go wherever he wanted within the Westerlands, enjoying all the pleasures that could be bought with his name and fortune. But still, there was a limit. An invisible wall that separated him from the real world, the world of adventure he dreamed of in the quiet of the night.

But now, standing here, on this dock that smelled of salt and fish, looking at the ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea, he realized that the cage had been shattered to pieces. The chain was broken. And he, Gerion Lannister, was finally free.

A ship. Not just any ship, but one designed for long voyages, capable of holding more than  fifty men, crew, guards, and of course, himself and his small retinue. This ship was fast, sturdy, and most importantly, new. He got this because of that funny, strange nephew of his, Jaime. Who would have thought a ten-year-old boy's obsession with rags and paper pulp could lead to this? Whatever invention Jaime was working on might change the world one day, but it started by changing Gerion's world. A world that was once dull and grim, now filled with the promise of new horizons.

With a step lighter than usual, Gerion climbed the wooden gangplank connecting the dock to the ship's deck. The workers bowed respectfully as he passed. He entered the ship, leaving the noise of the harbor behind. The atmosphere inside was damp, filled with the smell of freshly planed pine and oak and the sharp scent of varnish. Sunlight streamed in through the open hatches, illuminating the remaining construction chaos.

The interior was a bit of a mess. Pieces of wood were scattered on the floor, a few nails lay in the corners, coils of rope piled up like sleeping snakes. Sheets of unfolded sailcloth were folded over crates, and there were even a few used drinking glasses and leftover food from the workers left on a barrel. However, Gerion didn't mind. This chaos was the chaos of creation. In a few days, all this would be clean, replaced by crates of supplies, trade goods, a cover for his journey, and of course, the precious samples of his nephew's invention.

He walked down the narrow corridor below deck, imagining how this place would soon be filled with life, the sound of sailors' footsteps, the aroma of cooking from the galley, and perhaps occasionally, the sound of singing at night. This ship would be his home for months, maybe even years. And that thought, instead of scaring him, filled him with overflowing joy.

Tywin's order had come a few weeks after Jaime's return from King's Landing. Returning with stories of Prince Rhaegar being captivated by his ideas. Tywin immediately saw the golden potential in his son's discovery. And he also saw the potential in Gerion.

"You will go to the Free Cities," Tywin had written in the letter. "Bring samples of this paper. Show them to the merchant princes, the magisters, the scribes. Make them want it. And while you are there, keep your ears open. Listen to the gossip. Learn the trade currents. Report back anything of interest."

It was a command, but to Gerion, it felt like a gift. A mission. A purpose. And a new ship to do it on.

The paper production itself had begun in earnest since Jaime's return. The small mill established in one of the old warehouses near the river below Casterly Rock quickly expanded. The initial production was chaotic, of course. Teaching dozens of workers, mostly the sons of farmers or fishermen with no special skills, how to sort used cloth, cut it to the right size, pound it into pulp of the correct consistency, boil it, form thin sheets on molds, press them, and dry them... it was a complicated and tiring process. Gerion himself had visited a few times, and just watching it made his head spin. Cloth dust flew in the air, the strange smell of boiling pulp stung the nose, and the monotonous sound of the pounding hammers echoed relentlessly.

But Jaime, with his patience and good explanations, assisted by Jon who supervised sternly, managed to train them. And then came the waterwheel. Another idea to harness the river's power to move giant pounding hammers had revolutionized everything. Production became much faster, much more efficient.

Now, the 'mill', as people were beginning to call it, not only had twenty workers, but up to a hundred. They worked in rotating 'shifts', keeping the hammers pounding day and night, turning piles of dirty rags into clean white sheets of paper. It was strange how something that might have been born from the random thought of a curious child could create jobs for a hundred people and change the small economic landscape around Casterly Rock.

Of course, Jaime himself was rarely seen there anymore. Since returning from King's Landing, his Father had placed him as a page for Tygett. And a few months later, he was made a squire. It was part of the education of a future great Lord, learning to serve before ruling. So now, most of Jaime's time was spent in the training yard, in the stables, or following Tygett around, doing whatever his moody uncle asked of him to 'learn'. The paper production was established enough that it no longer needed his direct supervision at all times. The older workers could teach the new ones. They ran on their own now, a new living, breathing enterprise in the shadows.

And the paper itself? Very well received. The merchants in Lannisport were the first to adopt it. They never turned down something practical and cheaper. Although the initial price was still quite high, it was still far cheaper than animal skin parchment. Scribes, mapmakers, even some minor Lords began to order it. Over time, as production increased and the process became more efficient, the price stabilized, making it even more affordable. Parchment was still used for important royal documents or luxurious manuscripts, but for everyday notes, correspondence, and bookkeeping, paper quickly became the primary choice.

And then there was the 'school' idea. Another of Jaime's concepts, which he somehow managed to convince Tywin of. A school for common folk. The initial implementation began a few weeks ago in Lannisport. And who did Tywin assign to talk to the stubborn old Septons in the Sept? Gerion, of course. Gerion himself had to go to the sept, sit for hours in rooms that smelled of incense and old books, discussing and chatting with the Leader Septon of Lannisport. He had to frame it carefully, not as an attempt to disrupt the social order, but as a way to increase piety. 'Imagine', he said, 'how wonderful it would be if more children could read The Seven-Pointed Star for themselves, without needing to rely on a Septon to read it to them. Imagine how much stronger their faith would become'. The Septons, after some debate and the assurance of a generous donation to the Sept, finally agreed to provide a few rooms and some young Septons as initial teachers. It was a small step, but it was a start.

Gerion smiled to himself as he stood in the spacious captain's cabin at the ship's stern. He looked out the window at the bustling harbor, at Casterly Rock looming in the distance. He was a part of all this now. Not just a spectator, but a player. He would bring this paper to the world. He would open new markets. He would gather information for Tywin. He would help build the school.

The 'Sept' school itself, the pilot project in Lannisport, was an interesting experiment. The fee had been set: six silver stags per month for each child. A price affordable enough for the more prosperous merchants and craftsmen in the city, but significant enough to ensure they valued the opportunity. In return, each child would receive a ration of paper, the new Lannister paper, worth nine coppers each week for writing and arithmetic practice. Jaime insisted they must use real paper from the start, not just slate, to get them used to the new medium and, of course, to create demand early on.

The learning itself was quite simple. The young Septons used a blackboard, just an ordinary wooden board painted black, and white chalk to teach basic letters and numbers. The children came five days a week, usually in the morning before they were expected to help their parents in the shop or workshop. They learned to read simple words, spell their names, and add basic numbers. Practical skills designed to make them better merchants or craftsmen in the future.

Gerion felt that, even if most of these children were probably just being ordered to learn arithmetic so they could help their fathers cheat customers more efficiently later on, there was an inevitable side benefit. Learning to read in the Sept, with The Seven-Pointed Star as one of their main practice texts... They would be exposed to the faith, whether they liked it or not. They would learn about the Maiden and the Mother, about the Warrior and the Smith, even as they learned how to count copper coins.

That thought made him laugh softly. Tywin might see this school as a way to increase economic efficiency and instill Lannister loyalty or control. But the Septons... the Septons might be inadvertently gaining a small army of new followers who could read their own prayers. A delightful irony.

He, Gerion Lannister, finally had a purpose. And well. The winds of change were blowing.

…

Alan climbed the spiral stairs of the Citadel's tower with a steady pace, his breathing even despite the load in his hands. A steady pace was the key; rushing would only leave him breathless before reaching the top. In his hands, he held a stack of paper, that precious new commodity, which he had obtained with great difficulty from the morning crowd near the merchants' gate. To get this, he had to queue since before dawn, jostling with greedy people who wanted to buy as much as possible to resell at a higher price, servants sent by their masters, and of course, other Citadel acolytes as desperate as himself.

The wealthier acolytes, sons of great Lords or merchants, didn't bother with such indignities. They would just send someone, someone like Alan, who needed a few extra copper coins, to queue for them.

In his hands were a hundred sheets of clean white paper. A very large amount. Meanwhile, he himself could only afford ten sheets with the coins he had managed to scrape together. The remaining ninety sheets belonged to his friends: Bandy, Colin, and Davos. They had pooled their money and given it to Alan last night, along with a wage of a few copper coins in return for his efforts. It was profitable, of course. Extra money was always welcome, even if it meant he had to endure the elbows, shoves, and the sour smell of sweat from people who seemed to have never bathed in their lives. The smell of the crowd at the merchants' gate was something that would haunt him in his sleep.

He finally reached the top of the stairs and pushed the heavy wooden door open. The Citadel's library greeted him, a massive circular room, so vast that the far end seemed to blur in the dim light filtering through the high windows. Bookshelves soared from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, filled with thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of parchment scrolls and leather-bound books. Wheeled wooden ladders leaned against the shelves here and there, allowing access to the higher levels. This room had a distinct smell, a mixture of the fragile aroma of old parchment, melted wax, dust dancing in the beams of light, and something indescribable, the smell of knowledge itself, the accumulation of centuries of wisdom. For Alan, this smell was calming. It was the smell of his purpose.

He stepped inside, his worn shoes making no sound on the cold stone floor. At one of the long wooden tables scattered around the room, he saw his three friends already waiting, their heads bowed over thick books.

"Wow, you got a lot this time, huh?" Bandy's voice was the first to be heard as Alan approached. Bandy, the son of a fishmonger, was a nineteen-name-day-old young man with intelligent black eyes and straw-like blond hair. He was always better dressed than the other three.

"Of course," Alan replied, slightly out of breath now that he had stopped walking. He passed the three of them and carefully placed the stack of paper in the middle of the table. "I arrived there before the sun even rose. I was almost trampled by an angry lard seller."

Colin, who had fiery red hair and freckles, immediately grabbed a few sheets from the top of the pile and, to Alan's surprise, inhaled them deeply. "I love the smell," he said with a wide grin. "Don't know why. It's not perfume."

"Yes, it's very distinct," Alan agreed, taking a sheet for himself and feeling it between his fingers. Smooth yet fibrous. Far different from parchment. "Maybe that's part of its magic. Maybe it was also made as an excuse to dig more coins out of you to buy it."

Davos, the oldest among them, already losing his hair despite being only twenty-five, chuckled softly. He rubbed his finger gently on the paper's surface. "I wouldn't mind if I had a lot of money to buy this," he said. "Especially when it's more affordable than parchment. For the Seven's sake, just to buy one blank parchment scroll, I have to help Maester Moris copy notes for a whole week."

Bandy had already started flipping through the paper quickly, sorting out his share. "Mine should be thirty, right?" he asked, his eyes shining. "With this, I can write down many of my own notes on history. I have to get that chain no matter what. Borrowing books from the library is a real hassle, you have to return them too quickly. And reading here every day makes me feel cooped up."

"Take it. Mine is ten," Alan confirmed, taking his modest share. "The rest belongs to Colin and Davos." He looked at his ten sheets of clean white paper. Ten sheets of possibility. Ten sheets of knowledge he could hold. "I also need to note down which medicinal plants are good for healing internal wounds. I'm terrible at remembering those names. They all sound the same after a while. At least with this, I can look at it anytime, even when I want to go to sleep."

Alan was the youngest son of a Landed Knight in the Reach. A title that sounded good, but didn't mean much when you were the third son and their small plot of land and castle were barely enough to support his eldest brother and his family. He had no inheritance, no brilliant marriage prospects. Here, at least he had a chance. A chance to gain knowledge, to prove himself through intelligence, not bloodline. If he managed to get enough links on his chain, he could become a Maester. And then, perhaps, he could serve a higher Lord. He imagined himself in a magnificent castle, advising a wise Lord, having access to a private library, respected for his knowledge. Maybe he could even serve House Lannister in the Westerlands, the House that had created this paper.

He badly wanted to meet its creator. They said he was still a child, the heir of Casterly Rock himself. Jaime Lannister. How could a boy, who should be busy playing with wooden swords, have an idea like this? An idea that in an instant had changed the small world of the acolytes at the Citadel? This paper wasn't just a convenience; it was a small revolution. It made knowledge slightly more accessible, slightly easier to record and store. It was a powerful tool.

Alan wanted to see with his own eyes and head how that boy thought. How could he see a need and find such an elegant solution? This was interesting. This was amusing. And it was very impressive.

Because of that, ever since hearing news of the Lannister paper a few months ago, Alan had become more motivated to learn. He no longer just studied to escape his fate as a useless youngest son. He studied because he had seen what knowledge, what an idea, could do, right before his eyes. He felt as if he were witnessing history being made, history that one day might be written on the very papers he currently held.

"So, Alan," said Colin, interrupting his daydream as he carefully stacked his share of paper. "Decided which love potion you're going to write down first to impress that milkmaid at the inn?"

Alan laughed with his friends, the warmth of their camaraderie chasing away the last of the chill from the morning queue. "I'm more interested in a potion to cure your stupidity, Colin," he retorted.

He opened the thick herbal book he had borrowed from the library, its leather cover cracked with age. He took a sheet of his new paper, a quill, and a small ink bottle. He dipped the quill, and carefully, he began to note down the complicated names, the descriptions of leaves and roots, and their uses for healing.

…

Harys opened his thick leather-bound book, its thin pages rustling softly in the silence of his small study. This was the fifth day of the week, which meant tomorrow was his day off from teaching the children. He was a septon, newly ordained five years ago, thirty name days old. A simple man from a farming family in Greengrass, a small, forgotten village in the green expanses of the Westerlands.

When the Leader Septon of Lannisport first appointed him as one of the teachers for this new Lannister-funded 'school' a few months ago, Harys's first thought was that he would be very busy. Teaching dozens of restless merchant and artisan children how to read and count was no easy task. However, he accepted the duty without hesitation. Teaching, spreading the light of knowledge and, of course, the wisdom of the Seven, would surely be favored by the Gods themselves. It was a noble job.

Now, he was preparing the lesson for later: basic mathematics. Addition, subtraction, maybe a little simple multiplication if the children seemed ready. This was the foundation for those future little merchants, skills they would need to count their fathers' goods, to weigh copper coins and silver stags.

He took a sheet of paper, the new object that still felt slightly magical in his hands, and a quill. Carefully, he dipped the tip of the quill into the bottle of thick black ink and began to write practice problems on the paper with neatness and precision. His strokes were clear and legible, a skill he had painstakingly trained for years, spending so much ink and borrowed parchment when he was still a student.

Once, he was just a weak farmer's boy. Harys was born smaller than his brothers, his lungs were weak, and he never had the physical strength to work in the fields all day under the hot sun. While other children his age helped their fathers plow or sow seeds, Harys was more often found sitting under a tree, daydreaming or trying to draw the shapes of clouds on the ground with a stick. Most farmer parents might have grumbled, seeing him as a useless burden. But his father did not. His father was a quiet, kind man, who would just give him a tired smile and say, "Everyone has their own path, son." He let him be, loved him unconditionally, and Harys was grateful for that simple kindness every day.

Because of that weakness, he was first drawn to Septon Glenn. The wandering Septon had come to their village one summer, an old man with a long white beard and eyes that had seen many things. While the other children were busy playing, Harys often snuck into Septon Glenn's small tent, captivated by the leather-bound books he owned and the stories he could tell about the world beyond Greengrass. Seeing the curiosity in the pale boy's eyes, Septon Glenn began to teach him. First letters, then words, then sentences. For Harys, it was like a floodgate opening. He absorbed the knowledge like dry earth finding water after a long drought. He was so fascinated by the power of words, by the ability to capture thoughts and stories on a page, by the history of kings and the wisdom of the Seven stored within those books.

Now, years later, he was doing the same thing Septon Glenn had done for him. The old Septon was long gone, continuing his journey to who knows where, but his legacy lived on in Harys. And Harys was determined to do it earnestly, to ignite that same spark of curiosity in these Lannisport children, hoping to change someone's life for the better, just as his life had been changed. Maybe, after all this, this was his destiny. Not to swing a sword or rule lands, but to teach.

After carefully writing several pages of practice problems, double-checking every number and word several times to ensure there were no mistakes, Harys smiled with satisfaction. He cleaned the tip of his quill, closed his ink bottle, and tidied the stack of paper on his desk. He stood up, stretched his slightly stiff back, and returned the basic mathematics book to the small shelf on the wall, careful not to let it fall. His study was small, just a simple nook within the Sept, but it was his place, a place where he could prepare himself for his duty. Then, he left the room, ready to start his day.

The Sept of Lannisport was magnificent. Far more magnificent than the simple wooden sept in his village. This one was made of gleaming white marble, with high stained-glass windows that cast colorful patterns on the polished floor when the sun shone. Its large dome seemed to touch the sky, and its bells rang with a deep, melodious sound. Of course, that was to be expected. This building was right in the heart of the richest city in the Westerlands, under the shadow of House Lannister itself. A noble family whose wealth was so great it had become legend. The gold mines under Casterly Rock, people said, might never run out, and would always be the family's main weapon.

Fortunately, Harys thought as he walked down the quiet corridor, the Lannisters were now using some of their wealth for good things. Like building the school here in the Sept. All the capital came from the Lannisters. The new wooden desks for the children, the large custom-made blackboards, the white chalk, even the small additional buildings that had just been completed in the backyard to house more classes. Lord Tywin Lannister might be a hard man, but at least he understood the value of knowledge.

"You look bright as usual, Harys."

A friendly voice greeted him in the corridor. Harys turned and smiled. It was Ormund, one of the senior Septons. He wore the usual long grey robes, his face neatly shaven, although the top of his head was already beginning to show obvious baldness. His blue eyes were kind and full of quiet wisdom.

"I am grateful to the Seven for that," Harys replied. "They have given me peace during my sleep last night. I had no dreams, just slept in pleasant silence." He paused for a moment, walking side by side with Ormund. "When I woke up, my energy was restored and I didn't have a single ache in my bones. It is a small blessing to be thankful for."

Ormund chuckled softly, a warm sound. "Ah, as you get older, sleep indeed becomes the most beautiful blessing. I sometimes dream of the past," he continued, his gaze becoming slightly distant. "A past where my parents were still alive, in our lands in the Stormlands. But sometimes those dreams quickly turn into nightmares. Things we didn't want to happen, shadows from the war... it always flashes in my head when I wake up." He sighed. "So yes, indeed. I think dreamless sleep is the greatest blessing."

Ormund was ten years older than Harys, around forty. What Harys knew from their previous conversations was that he came from the Stormlands, the son of a minor noble whose name he never mentioned. His parents were killed by a group of bandits when he was young. Ormund himself had participated in the War of the Ninepenny Kings as a young soldier before he took his vows as a Septon, so it was certain that behind his peaceful robes, he was a man who had known violence and battle. That experience gave him a depth and perspective that Harys, the weak farmer's son, did not possess.

"May the Seven bless us all." Harys felt the depth behind the man's words. There was a sadness that had settled into wisdom. "I am sure you will get through it as soon as possible, Ormund."

Ormund laughed again, this time a more relaxed laugh, as if the dark cloud had passed. "Hahaha, the Seven have already given me their blessing, Harys. Now, those dreams are just like shadows in the water that I don't care about." He reassured, his blue eyes clear again. "What will you be teaching the children this time?"

"Arithmetic," Harys showed the sheets of paper with the practice problems he had prepared. "Basic addition, subtraction. Some of them really like this, maybe because they see their own fathers counting coins every night."

Ormund chuckled, stroking his smooth chin. "Who doesn't like money? When I was little, I was once given a dragon coin by my uncle. One whole dragon! It felt like I was the king of the world." He smiled at the memory. "And I spent it all within two weeks. Buying sweets, wooden toys, even tried to buy a small dagger, which of course was immediately confiscated by my father. But it was so satisfying, when every day you felt you could buy anything you wanted."

"True," Harys agreed, smiling at the thought of an enthusiastic young Ormund. "Money isn't everything, the Seven teach us that. Virtue, faith, family, those are far more valuable. However," he added with a practical tone he had learned from teaching the merchant children, "everything in this world requires money. Bread on the table, a roof over your head, even candles for prayer. That is why one must not be lazy and must keep working hard. Not just expect something to fall from the sky like rain."

"Wise words from a young teacher," said Ormund with an agreeable tone. "You know, Harys, the work you do in that school is important. More important than you might realize."

"I am only teaching them to read and count," Harys replied humbly.

"You are giving them tools," Ormund corrected. "Tools to understand the world around them. Tools to improve their lives. Maybe one of those children won't end up just as a fishmonger like his father. Maybe he will read about laws and become a scribe. Maybe he will read about the stars and become a maester." Ormund paused for a moment, his gaze becoming more intense. "Or maybe he will just become a better fishmonger, one who is more successful and not easily cheated."

"Sometimes I wonder," Harys said softly, "if we are doing the right thing. Giving them this knowledge. Will it make them dissatisfied with their lives? Wanting more than what they were fated for?" It was a doubt that sometimes surfaced in his mind at night.

Ormund placed a calming hand on Harys's shoulder. "Fate is not a narrow footpath, Harys," he said gently. "It is a vast landscape with many roads. The Seven give us choices. Knowledge is the light that helps us see those roads more clearly. It is not our job to decide which path they must take, but it is our job to give them as much light as possible." He smiled. "And if that knowledge makes them a little more pious in the process, that is an added bonus."

Harys felt the burden of his doubt lift slightly. Ormund had a way of making complicated things seem simple and right. "Thank you, Ormund. You always know what to say."

"I only say what I believe," the older Septon replied. "Now, go. The children are waiting for you. And I must prepare for morning prayers."

Harys then said goodbye to Ormund, feeling his spirits restored. He walked out of the Sept's cool corridor and onto the streets of Lannisport, which were starting to get busy. The sun was higher now, and the aroma of fresh baked bread from a nearby bakery filled the air. His stomach began to growl.

He headed to a small, simple eatery near the harbor, his favorite place for breakfast. The place was always crowded with morning workers, but the food was good and the price was affordable. He ordered a bowl of warm oat porridge with a little honey and a thick slice of bread. While eating, he observed the people around him, the fishermen just returning from the sea, their faces tired but satisfied; the small merchants discussing the price of fish; the dockworkers taking a short break before starting their heavy labor.

This was the world of his students. A world of calculations, hard work, and simple hopes. And he, Harys, a weak farmer's son, had somehow been given the chance to give them the tools to navigate this world a little better.

As he finished his porridge and felt the warmth spread in his stomach, he felt grateful. Grateful for Septon Glenn, for his father's kindness, for the opportunity given by the Lannisters, and for Ormund's wisdom.

This was a good day. And he was ready to teach.

…

"You received another letter, Cat?"

A smile touched Brynden Tully's lips as he saw his niece, Catelyn, coming out of her room. The little girl, well, not so little anymore, she was already eleven name days old, held a carefully sealed sheet of paper. Her bright auburn hair, a Tully trademark, looked like liquid fire under the flickering candlelight along the somewhat damp corridors of Riverrun.

Catelyn blushed immediately, a pink hue creeping up her cheeks, signaling that Brynden's guess was correct. The letter must be from her distant betrothed, the heir of Casterly Rock. "Jaime said that his day today was the same as a month ago," Catelyn said, her voice a little shy. "It was spent helping his uncle, Ser Tygett, wiping swords, polishing armor, and even taking care of the horses."

Brynden's smile widened. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed. He knew his niece. Catelyn was a serious and responsible child, grown up too fast like most firstborns. She wouldn't blush just from hearing about the boring duties of a squire. "But?" Brynden prompted, it couldn't be just that in the letter.

Catelyn's face turned redder. She hugged the paper a little tighter. "He... he gave me a poem," she whispered. "It was very touching."

"A poem?" Now Brynden was truly interested. A young lion writing poetry? That was an unusual combination. He leaned in a little. "Can you tell me? I always appreciate good words."

Catelyn shook her head quickly, her blue eyes looking at him with an apologetic gaze. "No, Uncle. This is for me. He made it himself, he said as a gift."

"Ah, how romantic," Brynden chuckled, taking a step back. He respected his niece's privacy, even though his curiosity was piqued. "I am very curious, but if you refuse, who am I to force?" He shrugged with a look of mock resignation. He observed Catelyn for a moment, the way the girl held the letter as if it were a treasure. "You like the boy?"

The question was simple, but the answer was complicated. Jaime Lannister and Catelyn Tully had been betrothed for over six months. A match arranged with lightning speed between his brother, Hoster, and the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Brynden still remembered how bright Hoster's face was when that raven from King's Landing arrived. A request from Tywin Lannister himself, offering his son and heir for Hoster's eldest daughter. It was an offer impossible for Hoster to refuse, whose ambition to elevate House Tully was always as great as the Trident river itself. He accepted without a second thought, without much consultation, only seeing the strategic advantage and glory of such an alliance.

But Catelyn and Jaime themselves had never met. Not even once. Jaime was busy with his affairs, first as a page and now as a squire to his own uncle, Tygett Lannister, a rather strange arrangement, Brynden thought, but who could understand the workings of Tywin Lannister's mind? Besides, there were rumors of other projects taking up the boy's time. 'Paper'. That new thing had already become a sensation throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Merchants in Riverrun talked about it, maesters at court ordered it. It was cheaper than parchment, more practical, and came from the richest House in Westeros. And apparently, something even bigger was waiting. Hoster, after his visit to King's Landing to formalize the engagement, returned with other stories, something called a "Printing Press", which he said would allow books to be copied in large numbers.

The point was, this heir of Casterly Rock was no ordinary noble son. He was a very valuable asset. Handsome, as rumored, a Lannister trademark. Smart, the invention of paper and the printing press was proof. And, according to whispers, he was also very skilled with a sword, even at his young age. Everything Hoster wanted in a husband for his beloved daughter.

But all of that was just reputation, reports, and rumors. What about the boy himself? Was he kind? Would he make Cat happy? That's what Brynden worried about.

"Jaime is very nice," Catelyn finally answered, her voice quiet and considered. She looked at the letter in her hand. "He always starts his letters by asking how I am first, about Lysa and Edmure, about my lessons. Then he'll make a joke about something, about Ser Tygett being too serious, or about how bad the food he made was, to make me laugh." Her eyes shone as she spoke. "He also tells me all sorts of things. Sometimes about a book he just read, sometimes about strange people he saw. Whether it's a real story or one made up by his own mind, it's all so impressive. He has a way of storytelling that makes me feel as if I were there."

"That's good," Brynden said gently. "But the question is, do you like him?" He stressed the last word.

Catelyn seemed to think for a moment, biting her lower lip. She gazed down the corridor, as if trying to visualize the boy she only knew through written words. "He's like a man from a song," she said softly. "The golden knight from the West. Handsome, smart, brave, even writes poetry. He sounds so perfect... but seems distant at the same time, because we haven't met at all." She paused, then turned back to Brynden, and a small, sincere smile appeared on her face. "But yes. I think I like him, Uncle."

Brynden felt a wave of relief. It wasn't burning love, of course not. How could it be, when they had never even laid eyes on each other? But it was a good start. An affection, a hope. It was more than many couples had in political matches.

He nodded, placing his large, rough hand on his niece's shoulder. "That's good," he said. "He sounds like a good lad. At least, from what you've told me, he doesn't sound like the type of man who would hurt you."

"Keep your poem safe then," he said with a smile, removing his hand from her shoulder. "And maybe next time, you can read just one verse for your old, curious uncle?"

Catelyn laughed, a melodious laugh. "Maybe, Uncle. Maybe."

He watched his niece walk away down the corridor, the paper still held tightly in her hand, her step a little lighter than before. Brynden leaned back against the wall, his smile fading into a more contemplative expression.

…

Waldon was a patient man. At least, that's what he always told himself. In his fifty years of life in this world, he had learned that patience was the most valuable currency, especially for someone like him. He had experienced many ups and downs, more downs than ups, to be honest. There were faint, happy memories, his wedding day with Ellyn, the birth of his first son Mathis, then Lyra, but more often, his mind was filled with memories of struggle: harsh winters when food supplies dwindled, mounting debts to a cunning wool merchant, his father's failed harvest that almost made them lose their small plot of land. Yes, he had known hardship like he knew the palm of his own hand.

However, these past ten years had been different. These ten years were a good turmoil, a rising tide that finally lifted his rickety boat. The peak of his career in trading had risen rapidly, far beyond his wildest dreams. At first, he was just Waldon the butcher, standing on a corner of Oldtown's busy market, selling cuts of cured meat and sausages he made himself. It was honest work, but the returns were mediocre.

Then, an opportunity came in the form of an old scribe complaining about the sky-high price of parchment. That scribe, the grumpy but sharp-witted Maester Gerold, had given him an idea. Parchment. Sheepskin and calfskin painstakingly processed into a valuable writing medium. The production was complicated, requiring time and skill, but the demand was always there, especially in a city like Oldtown, home to the great Citadel.

Waldon, with his typical patience, learned the craft. He spent his savings to buy some quality skins, learned from an old craftsman who was about to retire, made costly mistakes, but kept learning. He worked tirelessly, his hands becoming calloused and smelling strange, but slowly but surely, he mastered it. His parchment was smooth, strong, and consistent in color. The scribes and acolytes of the Citadel began to recognize it. Orders started coming in.

For ten years, Waldon's parchment business flourished. He moved from a market corner to a proper little workshop. He hired two assistants. He even started getting orders from outside Oldtown, from minor Lords in the Reach who needed parchment to record genealogies or send important letters. He could finally provide a comfortable life for Ellyn and his children. Mathis was now apprenticed to a blacksmith, and Lyra helped her mother at home. They were not wealthy, but they were secure. Their bellies were full, and they had a sturdy roof over their heads. Waldon felt proud. He had built something from scratch, with his own hands and patience.

Sipping his cheap drink that tasted bitter on his tongue tonight, Waldon listened to the chatter around him in "The Melting Candle" tavern. The sound of rough laughter, clinking cups, and drunken arguments was usually a soothing backdrop for him after a hard day's work. But tonight, there was one topic that kept buzzing in his ears, annoying him like a blowfly: paper.

This paper, that paper. The new thing from the Lannisters. People talked about it as if it were the most historic invention in mankind! As if the Seven Gods themselves descended from the sky and gave it to them.

"Cheaper, you know?" said a cloth merchant at the next table. "Half the price of the best parchment, maybe less!"

"And light," chimed in a young, drunk-looking scribe. "I can carry a hundred sheets without feeling like I'm carrying a dead calf!"

"It's whiter, too," added another. "My writing looks clearer on it."

Waldon clenched his fists under the table. Disgusted. He felt disgusted. Who needed this thin, flimsy paper when you had parchment? Parchment was time-tested. Parchment was more durable, classier. It was the medium of kings and great maesters, used for thousands of years! This paper... this was just a fleeting fad, a cheap thing for people who didn't appreciate quality.

Damn it!

With a sudden movement that made a few people turn, Waldon rose from his seat. He slammed a few copper pieces onto the sticky table, enough to pay for his drink and a little more, then walked out of that gathering place of people with no future, leaving the buzz of conversation about 'paper' behind him.

The cool night air of Oldtown felt slightly calming on his face, which was hot with anger and ale. But inside, a storm still raged. This was infuriating. It was so infuriating when the business you had built with hardship over years, drop by drop of sweat, was destroyed overnight by a fancy new invention.

A few months prior, driven by his growing success, Waldon had taken a bold step. He borrowed a large sum of gold, more than he had ever held in his life, from several other wealthier merchants. He used it to expand his workshop, buy more high-quality skins, and even hire two more workers. He dreamed of becoming the main parchment supplier in the entire Reach, perhaps even competing with the producers in King's Landing.

But then, the paper came. Like an invisible plague, it spread quickly. His parchment orders began to decline. Slowly at first, just a few cancellations here and there. But then the decline became drastic. The Citadel acolytes, who used to be his regular customers, now preferred the cheaper paper for their notes. The small merchants, who counted every copper coin, switched to paper for their bookkeeping. Even some scribes, tempted by its practicality and price, began to use it for drafts and less important letters.

Now, his parchment sales had plummeted. His newly expanded workshop felt empty and quiet. His workers sat idle more often than they worked. And his debts... those debts loomed over him like a dark storm cloud. The merchants who had lent him money were starting to ask questions and look at him with cold, assessing gazes. How was he going to handle this?

The thought made him want to hit something, to punch the nearest stone wall until his knuckles bled. He had a wife and children to feed. He had promised Ellyn a better life. He had promised himself that his children would never know hunger as he once had. And now? Would they be destitute instead? Would his good name be tarnished because of his debts? Would they lose their home?

Waldon couldn't bear the thought. A cold despair began to creep into his heart.

Lannister. The name was so bitter on his tongue and in his ears right now. They had been fabulously wealthy for thousands of years, sitting on their mountain of gold. Why? Why did they have to meddle in his small business? Why did they have to create something that destroyed the livelihoods of ordinary people like him? Was their gold not enough? Were they so bored with their wealth that they had to ruin other people's lives just for entertainment?

Waldon gritted his teeth, a burning hatred searing his chest. He walked aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of Oldtown, his mind racing. He turned to his other thoughts, trying to find a way out, a glimmer of hope. He still had a little left from that loan, maybe a thousand golden dragon coins remaining. An amount that sounded large, but with workers still needing to be paid their weekly wages, raw skins still needing to be bought, though he doubted he would need them anymore, and the loan interest continuing to accrue, this money would vanish like morning dew in just a few months.

He knew he was not alone. His fellow parchment merchants in Oldtown were also feeling the impact. Old Man Harlon, whose workshop had been passed down from his grandfather. Matthew Flowers, the bastard who worked hard to prove himself. They all had the same problem. Sales down, the future grim.

They had gathered a few times, speaking in low voices in tavern corners, sharing their grievances and fears. But no solution emerged. How could you compete with a product that was cheaper, more practical, and backed by the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms?

If only... The dark thought emerged unbidden, a wicked whisper in his mind. If only those papers were ashes... If only their mill in Lannisport was put to the torch... If only their supply was choked off.....

Maybe things would go back to how they were. Maybe parchment would be valuable again. Maybe he could save his business, his family, his pride.

If only they could...

Waldon stopped in the middle of the empty street, the darkness of the night seeming to creep into his soul. The thought was terrifying, but also... tempting. He shook his head hard, trying to banish the dangerous whisper. He was Waldon, the patient man. He was an honest craftsman. He was not a criminal.

But as he continued his step towards home, towards Ellyn and his children, the whisper remained, hiding in the dark corner of his mind, waiting. Waiting for the moment when his patience finally ran out.

If you think Gerion's ship doesn't make sense, blame it on me, I don't know anything about ships, lol. 

Chapter Text

Not a chapter.

Since there will be a lot of timeskips, this is the second cover of this fanfic.

Chapter Text

CATELYN

RIVERRUN, 277 AC

Dancing, dancing was the lesson Catelyn loved most. Among all the duties of a Lady, embroidery made her fingers stiff, sums made her head dizzy and sleepy, only dancing felt like freedom.

She had been doing this for as long as she could remember, in this same room, under her mother's gaze and now, her teacher's, Sherra. She was good at it. Unlike Lysa, whose movements were too emotional and sometimes unpredictable, or Edmure, who at seven years old was still as clumsy as a newborn foal, Catelyn had precision. To her, dancing was arithmetic in motion. Every step had its place. Every turn had a purpose. It was easy, it was simple, and most importantly, it allowed her to forget unpleasant things.

Right now, no music was playing. There was only the sound of her soft footsteps on the polished stone floor and the rustle of her practice gown.

She moved to the rhythm of the music in her head, music played by an unseen instrument. The steps had to be steady, unwavering. Perfect. That was what she wanted. Family, Duty, Honor. The words of House Tully. In dancing, her words were: Form, Tempo, Grace.

She closed her eyes. When she spun, her simple blue gown followed her movements, blooming around her as if caught by a wind on a green meadow. In her mind, the heavy stone walls of Riverrun and the tapestries depicting the Trident disappeared. She imagined a vast meadow stretching under a cloudless blue Riverlands sky, just like the one she saw when riding with her father. Wildflowers. blue, pink, and bright yellow blossoms, bloomed around her.

The scent was so fragrant, the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth after a rain. Calming. In this meadow, she wasn't Catelyn Tully, Lord Hoster's eldest daughter, destined for great duties. She wasn't the betrothed of Jaime Lannister. She was just Cat. Free.

She leaped lightly, landing without a sound, then bowed deeply to an unseen sun. Something rose in her chest, a warm, overflowing feeling, so strong she almost laughed. Catelyn knew what it was. It was a feeling, a joyous feeling. A feeling of pure freedom.

The movement ended with her kneeling, one hand outstretched, as if to touch a flower.

Silence.

Then, the movement ended. Catelyn opened her eyes. The green meadow vanished in an instant. She was back in the cold Great Hall, replaced by the large room filled with dusty tapestries and a high, stone ceiling.

The sound of polite applause made her turn her head to the side. There, sitting on a bench near the wall, was her audience. Her middle-aged teacher, Lady Sherra, clapped with a proud smile. Beside her, her sister Lysa, who was nine name days old, two years younger than her, clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm, her braided red hair looking so bright in the afternoon light. And beside Lysa, of course, was Petyr Baelish, her father's ward here. He was clapping too, but not like the others. He wasn't just clapping; he was staring at her.

"Good movements, Lady Catelyn. You did everything well," praised Sherra, her voice hoarse yet friendly echoing in the hall. She smiled as she stepped forward, her posture still as straight as a dancer in her youth. "Even without music, you moved in time. It was as if you were playing the music in your own head."

Lysa followed, like Catelyn's shadow. "I'm sure when the same music for that movement is played again, it will be even more natural! It was so beautiful, Cat!"

"You move like a feather. So light." Petyr's voice sounded, quieter than the others, but more intense. His gaze was so sparkling, so adoring, that it made Catelyn feel uncomfortable.

She averted her gaze from Petyr and smiled at her teacher. "The music was indeed playing in my mind, Sherra," Catelyn explained. "When I close my eyes and concentrate, it all truly feels real."

"You are a true dancer," Sherra praised again, which made Catelyn smile genuinely. She had worked hard at this, practicing for hours every week until her feet were sore. At least it paid off, and she was becoming more and more proficient.

"Now, then." Lady Sherra clapped her hands once to get their attention. "Dancing alone is one thing, it shows discipline and beauty. But for a Lady, dancing with a partner is something you must be able to do. You will do that when attending grand feasts, and special events." Sherra glanced at Catelyn meaningfully. "And you, Lady Catelyn, will be attending many feasts soon."

Catelyn felt a slight blush on her cheeks. She knew what she meant. Feasts to celebrate her betrothal. Feasts to welcome her future husband, whenever he would come.

"Therefore," Sherra continued, "we will now begin to learn again. A partner dance from the Reach. Lord Baelish, could you be Lady Catelyn's partner for a while?"

Catelyn's heart sank at that. Not because she didn't want to learn, but because of the partner. She glanced at Petyr. The nine-year-old boy's grey-green eyes held a slight glint of triumph.

Catelyn knew that Petyr liked her. It wasn't a huge secret in Riverrun. The way he always stared at her during dinner, the way he always found an excuse to sit next to her in the Sept, the way he always offered to carry her books. And it had all become a hundred times worse in the last year, ever since the raven arrived from King's Landing with the betrothal offer from Lord Tywin Lannister.

Since that day, Petyr had become quieter around her father and Brynden, but around Catelyn, his gaze became more intense, more possessive. She was betrothed to Jaime Lannister. The good Jaime. The Golden Knight of the West. The young man who sent her funny letters and beautiful poems on smooth Lannister paper, the man she imagined as tall and strong and brave, like a hero from the songs.

She appreciated Petyr's interest, truly. She should feel flattered. But she didn't. More and more, Petyr would always be following her, or would suddenly be in front of her in the corridor, as if he had been waiting for her. It was truly annoying, unsettling, and made Catelyn very uncomfortable.

Besides, before all this happened, before she became a 'prize' to be married off, she had always thought of Petyr as a brother. He was small for his age, even smaller than Lysa. He was Edmure's playmate, and Catelyn saw him as just that, another little brother who was smart but harmless. Now, his gaze didn't feel like a brother's.

"It would be an honor, Lady Sherra." Petyr bowed slightly as he said it, his voice sounding too mature for his small body. He walked before Catelyn, stood in the middle of the dance floor, and held out his thin arm.

Catelyn hesitated slightly, though she didn't show it. A Lady must be able to hide her feelings and expressions. That was another lesson she had applied long ago. With a stiff, polite smile plastered on her face, she stepped forward.

Taking the hand, she felt how small and slightly damp Petyr's hand was. She suppressed the urge to pull her hand away and wipe it on her gown. They took their positions. Their arms each held the other's, then Catelyn moved forward while Petyr moved back, following an imaginary one-two-three rhythm. Slowly at first, as Lady Sherra called out the steps, then faster as they found the rhythm.

They made a slight bowing motion, spun slowly, then stepped to the side. The tempo was good, smooth, and regular. Catelyn had to admit, Petyr was a good dancer. Much better than Edmure, who would have certainly stepped on her feet by now. Petyr moved with the same precision as her, anticipating her movements, his eyes never leaving Catelyn's face.

Catelyn, on the other hand, focused her gaze slightly over Petyr's shoulder, staring at the tapestry on the wall behind him. She didn't want to see that adoring gaze. She concentrated on the steps, on her duty, turning the dance into just another exercise. She imagined dancing with her father, or Uncle Brynden. Anyone but Petyr. She imagined, for a moment, dancing with a tall, golden knight with brilliant green eyes, but that fantasy was too precious to be wasted on Petyr Baelish.

Then it was over. The music in her head stopped, and they ended the dance with a polite bow.

Catelyn immediately released his hand and took a step back.

"Wonderful, children!" praised Lady Sherra. "Lord Baelish, your footwork is very good! Lady Catelyn, your posture is perfect. You two make a harmonious pair."

Petyr smiled at the praise. Catelyn just nodded politely, feeling relieved that the small torment was over.

"I was just following Cat's movements," Petyr laughed lightly, stepping back as Catelyn released his hand. "She is a natural dancer."

Lady Sherra shook her head, her patient smile still playing on her lips. "You underestimate yourself, Lord Baelish. When two people dance, it requires good cooperation. If one makes a small mistake, or hesitates, then the other will be thrown off. Your movements were both in perfect harmony."

"Sherra is right," Lysa agreed enthusiastically. "You are so clever, Petyr! You must practice with me later!"

Catelyn saw Petyr glance at her briefly, a quick look she couldn't read, before looking back at Lysa with a polite smile. "Of course, Lady Lysa. I could do that all day."

"Amazing!" Lysa beamed, clearly happy with the prospect.

And so the lesson continued for a while longer. Sherra had them repeat some of the more complicated steps, correcting Lysa's posture—"Lift your chin, child, you're not looking for coins on the floor!"—and praising Petyr again for his ability to adapt quickly. Catelyn, as usual, performed her part with near-perfect precision, her mind already beginning to drift far from the dusty hall.

When the lesson finally ended, Catelyn quickly grabbed her shawl and bid a polite farewell to Lady Sherra. She ignored Petyr's gaze following her as she walked away, giving only a brief nod to her sister.

She walked alone through the corridors of Riverrun. The castle felt cool and quiet in the late afternoon. She felt a breeze through the open arched windows, carrying the damp scent of the river below. The sound calmed her.

She then arrived at her room. It was her sanctuary. Her room was neat and well-organized, like everything in her life. There was a Tully tapestry hanging on the wall, a well-carved four-poster bed, and a vanity with a silver comb and a few simple perfume bottles. Everything was beautiful and familiar. Her curtains were open, letting the golden afternoon light flood the room.

Catelyn threw herself onto the mattress, her practice gown rustling around her. She stared at the ceiling of her room, at the sturdy wooden beams, noticing small, unimportant details, a small cobweb in the corner, a fine crack in the wood. Her thoughts returned to Petyr.

What should Catelyn say to the boy? How could she politely tell him to back off without hurting his feelings? Catelyn did not love him, not in the romantic way Petyr clearly felt. She valued his friendship when they were children, but now his adoring gaze felt like a burden.

And most importantly, Catelyn was betrothed. Her engagement to Jaime Lannister was an unshakeable fact, a pillar that would support her future. It was wrong for Petyr to keep staring at her like that. It was disrespectful to her, and disrespectful to her betrothal. Someday, Petyr would have his own betrothed, wouldn't he? His father would surely arrange it. It was impossible that he would just keep thinking about Catelyn forever.

Catelyn then turned on her side, staring at her own palm in silence. The hand Petyr had just held. She rubbed it on the bedsheet.

Jaime. She thought of the name. If Jaime came to Riverrun, and he saw the way Petyr looked at her, what would he say? Would he be upset? Would he challenge Petyr, even though Petyr was just a small boy? Or would he laugh at him, treating it as a joke?

It was possible, but the chances were slim. After all, they had not met. Their entire relationship was built on words written on paper. But the letters she received every three weeks... that was a bond, wasn't it? It felt real.

Catelyn fell silent for a moment, spurred by the thought. She got up from the bed, her posture once again straight and purposeful. She walked to her small writing desk and opened the top drawer. There, stored neatly and tied with a blue silk ribbon, was a pile of "papers." Jaime's papers. They were all his letters since their engagement was announced.

She took the pile, feeling the smooth yet strong texture of the paper in her hands, so different from the rough parchment the Maester usually used. She untied the ribbon and took the top letter, the one she had received last week. She opened it slowly and began to read Jaime's clear and confident handwriting.

Catelyn skipped the first paragraph, where Jaime, as usual, asked how she was, how Lysa, Edmure, and even her Uncle Brynden were. He was always polite, always attentive. She reached the middle part, the part where Jaime always told a story.

“Something interesting happened yesterday, at least to me. Tyrion is only four years old, Cat. But he can already read those thick books. He said he was tired of waiting for me to tell him a new story every night, because I rarely see him myself now (Ser Tygett is a demanding master, but I am learning a lot). So, he snuck into Father's library, an impressive feat, considering how high the shelves are, took one thick book about the history of Valyria, and read it himself.”

Catelyn smiled. She had heard the rumors about Jaime's younger brother, that he was a dwarf, a disappointment to Lord Tywin. But every time Jaime mentioned him in his letters, and he mentioned him often, it was always in a positive tone, full of genuine affection and pride.

“Then when I entered his room at night,” the letter continued, “ready to tell a story about another Knight, he was not ready to listen to my story. Instead, he ordered me to lie down. Of course I obeyed, he is very persuasive.”

“He started playing with my hair, he said my hair is very golden, he likes that, and told me the story he had just read. The story of the Valyrian dragons and the Doom that destroyed them. I had read that book many times, of course. But when I looked into his eyes, which held so much excitement and spirit as he told of fire and blood... I didn't have the heart to tell him. So I just lay there, listening to his slightly jumbled version, until he grew tired from too much excitement and fell asleep himself right in the middle of a story about a dragon named Balerion.”

The letter continued a little more, with a few jokes, and ended with, “Take care of yourself, Cat. I look forward to your next letter. -Jaime.”

Catelyn stared at the letter, the silence in her room feeling peaceful. She held the paper gently and hugged it to her chest.

Jaime and she might have never met. She might just be in love with the image of a man from a song, as she had told Uncle Brynden. But these letters... they were more than just an image. They were a window. A window that showed a young man who was kind to his younger brother, who had a sense of humor, who wrote poetry, and who, despite all his rumored intelligence and talent, was still willing to listen to a bedtime story from a four-year-old.

Jaime might feel distant, but through these words, Catelyn felt she had at least gotten to know a little of him.

And everything she knew so far... was good.

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister sat with Aerys Targaryen beside him, in a relaxed room shrouded in the afternoon silence. Golden light penetrated the windows, dancing on the light dishes of cheese, fruits, and a jug of dark Dornish red wine served on the low table between them. The silence was so thick, so intimate, as if only the two of them existed in the world.

Aerys's purple eyes glinted in the dim light, radiating an almost mad intensity that seemed so bright in the silence that enveloped them. For a brief, strange moment, Tywin felt thrown back to his childhood. Back to the long summer days, to a time when both their dreams were still aligned. A time when the man before him was not the King, but Aerys, his friend. A charming, spirited young man who often threw out ridiculous jests just to break Tywin's eternal seriousness.

The memory was so real, so vivid in his mind, as if it had just happened yesterday.

Yesterday. Yesterday was still fine. Before the crown poisoned Aerys's mind, before jealousy gnawed at their friendship until only a fragile husk remained.

"You're not drinking anymore, Tywin?" Aerys's voice broke Tywin's reverie. The King poured more wine into his own cup, his thin hand seeming to tremble for a moment. He raised the jug towards Tywin. "Come on, don't be shy. We all need something to clear our minds, don't we?"

Tywin's expression did not change. His stone mask was firmly in place. "It is still too early for me to drink, Your Grace."

"My friend, you are too strict," Aerys chuckled, a thin, hoarse sound, unlike the cheerful laugh Tywin once remembered. "What's wrong with drinking in the afternoon? To celebrate... well, the afternoon itself."

Tywin remained silent. He knew where this conversation was headed. This was not a friend's visit. This was a summons, a power play wrapped in false pleasantries. The pleasure of a conversation with the man before him had vanished long ago, buried under a pile of suspicions, small humiliations in front of the Council, and unspoken jealousy over Tywin's efficiency in ruling the kingdom. He had also buried the hope that their former intimacy would ever return.

Aerys sipped his wine, his restless eyes watching Tywin from over the rim of the cup. "I am still considering your daughter for Rhaegar, Ty," Aerys spoke slowly, his tone crafted to sound like a conspirator, a friend sharing a valuable secret.

"I know, Your Grace." Tywin replied, his voice as cold and flat as the highlands of the West.

"She is beautiful." Aerys smiled, a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. "Just like Joanna."

Hearing that made Tywin's mind freeze instantly. The bait had been cast. Of course Aerys would mention Joanna's name. The entire court knew that the young Aerys had wanted Joanna. It was an unhealthy obsession before he finally married his own sister, and even after. Saying Cersei was as beautiful as Joanna was, on one hand, the highest compliment. On the other, it was Aerys's cruel reminder of what he had desired from House Lannister in the past, and what he was considering taking, now. It was the King's way of saying, 'I wanted her mother, and now I hold her daughter's fate in my hands.' It was a small, disgusting power play.

"Yes," Tywin said, forcing himself to remain calm, ignoring the thorn in the compliment. "That is why she is suitable for Rhaegar, Your Grace." He decided to reply, not with emotion, but with facts. "Cersei also has a sharp mind. And, as you may have heard, they have a shared interest. Songs."

Tywin thought of the reports he had received, and the conversations with Cersei herself. His daughter, at Jaime's encouragement and now driven by her own ambition, had begun to change since the day she arrived in King's Landing. She started to pay more attention, to listen, and to learn. She spent time learning the romantic songs that Rhaegar liked, she even visited the Sept regularly to show her piousness. She was trying to become the perfect Queen.

"But that alone cannot sustain a kingdom, Ty." Aerys looked at him, the false warmth gone, replaced by his usual vacant stare. "Songs. A sharp mind. That's good for a Lady. But for a Queen? For dragon's blood? We need something else."

"For example?" Tywin felt a searing anger within him. Cold, not hot. A typical Lannister anger. 'Something else? What is better than my House? The cunning House Martell from Dorne? The overly ambitious House Tyrell? The poor and backward House Stark from the North? Who can offer more than Lannister gold, power, and intelligence?'

Aerys did not answer the question. He smiled again instead, a condescending smile that made Tywin's blood feel like it was freezing.

"You are my friend, Tywin. My good friend," Aerys nodded, as if convincing himself of his own lie. "We do not need a marriage alliance to remain close and on good terms. To keep this kingdom intact. Right?"

And there it was. The rejection wrapped in false nostalgia. Aerys was not just evading; he had thrown the offer away. He had rejected Cersei. He had rejected House Lannister.

Tywin did not let a single muscle in his face move. He refused to give Aerys the satisfaction of seeing his reaction. He had anticipated this as a possibility, of course. Aerys was increasingly erratic. But to hear the rejection spoken so lightly, framed as a continuation of their long-dead friendship, was an insult that went beyond political calculation.

"When our two Houses are united, Your Grace," Tywin replied, his voice remaining low and emotionless, ignoring the King's previous statement as if it were a trivial breeze. "It will be stronger. This alliance will ensure the kingdom remains intact even after we are gone." He let the words hang. We. Placing them on equal footing, as planners of a legacy.

Aerys laughed. Not the cheerful laugh of their youth, but a dry, thin laugh, like dead leaves being dragged by the wind over a tombstone.

"Ah, when we are gone..." Aerys swirled his cup, his eyes staring into the dark red liquid as if searching for answers in its depths. "Our story will still be told, Ty. Of course it will. And it will probably be much easier to spread than before." His purple eyes shifted to Tywin, glinting with a mix of scorn and... something darker. "It's all thanks to that 'clever' son of yours."

He said the word 'clever' as if it were a disease, a kind of disgusting poison. "Have you forgotten his new toy? The printing press?" Aerys snorted. "I hear he has copied The Seven-Pointed Star thousands of times." He waved his thin hand in a dismissive gesture. "That means he can also copy the story of our friendship. How wonderful. The tale of the Dragon and the Lion, bound forever in ink and paper, for everyone to read."

The comment, like a dagger wrapped in silk, landed squarely on target. Of course Aerys would belittle the achievement, twisting it into a mockery of their fractured legacy. Yes, his son Jaime had done that, with his permission, of course.

Tywin suppressed a wave of cold satisfaction. Let Aerys mock. The printing press was a revolution, and Tywin had monopolized it from the beginning. Cooperating with the High Septon, after a 'donation' that was enormous for the Great Sept of Baelor, had provided an invaluable blessing. The printed Seven-Pointed Star, identical and affordable, was now spreading throughout Westeros, carried by merchants and pilgrims.

It was a brilliant political coup. House Lannister was now seen as a pious protector of the faith, a spreader of the holy word. Septons across the kingdom, from the North and South, all praised him. Merchants in Lannisport and Oldtown queued to buy copies, each stamped with an inconspicuous little lion on the last page. It was an unprecedented return. Sure, the cost was enormous. Gold had flowed out of Casterly Rock like a river in spring to fund the press and 'encourage' the Faith's cooperation.

But it was worth it. Every coin was an investment in legitimacy, influence, and soft power. And as he always said, Lannister gold would never run out.

And not just that. Schools. Aerys didn't even know the half of it. While the first 'school' attached to the Sept in Lannisport, funded by the Lannisters, was quickly swarmed by the sons of wealthy merchants and master craftsmen wanting their children to learn to read, a larger blueprint was being laid.

A real school, a secular institution dedicated to teaching numbers, letters, and history, the Lannister version of history, was being built as well. Funded entirely by Casterly Rock. It would produce loyal scribes, and competent officers to manage the mines and ports. Knowledge was power, but controlled knowledge was domination.

"Ah, yes, our friendship," Aerys sighed, feigning sorrow, his thin lips still curved upwards in a false smile that didn't reach his eyes. He put down his cup with a small clink. "A rare gem, isn't it? As rare as... unwavering loyalty." He let the silence hang between them, heavy and accusatory.

The King's eyes narrowed, his focus sharpening on Tywin with an uncomfortable intensity. "You know, Tywin, sometimes I wonder." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wonder, is loyalty like your gold?" He gestured to the cup in front of Tywin, the untouched cup. "The more you have, the more you want to protect." He paused, leaning a little closer, the sour smell of wine wafting from him. "And... the more you want to take."

The threat behind the words was clear: You are too greedy, Tywin. You are taking too much. Aerys saw his Hand's every move not as service to the realm, but as a personal hoarding of power. And perhaps, Tywin thought, he was not entirely wrong.

Tywin met the King's gaze without blinking. "Loyalty, Your Grace," Tywin replied, his voice as cold as ice, as sharp as a sword's edge. "Is the foundation of a kingdom. Without it, nothing can be built." He paused for a moment, choosing his words. "And gold is its mortar. Without the latter, even the strongest foundation will be useless, crumbling under its own weight, and finally turning to dust."

He didn't need to remind Aerys who had been providing that mortar for the past several years. Who had paid the crown's debts, funded tournaments, and rebuilt the fleet.

"True." Aerys agreed, too quickly. He picked up the jug again, his hand trembling more visibly now. Dark red wine spilled a little onto the polished wooden table, spreading like a bloodstain. "Very true." He chuckled, an unpleasant sound. "And that's why you made that 'paper' and 'printing press', isn't it? To make more of your reputation and gold at the same time?"

He pointed at Tywin with a wine-stained, thin finger. "Clever move, my Hand! Always clever!" The praise sounded like a curse, like the hiss of a snake. "But, Tywin..." Aerys leaned forward, his eyes wide in a parody of sincere concern, madness swirling in their depths. "I am warning you. As your friend." He spat the word 'friend' as if it were poison. "You had better be careful."

He took a deep swig of his wine, then slammed the cup on the table. "Your moves might be making some of the great Houses worried." He stared hard at Tywin. "It's too fast. Too... ambitious."

'One of them being yourself, isn't it?' Tywin thought coldly. 'You are the most worried of all. Worried that the Lion is no longer content to just be your shield, but is becoming brighter than you. You cannot match my competence, so you call it ambition.'

"I am only trying to make knowledge more affordable for the people, Your Grace." His voice was flat, a statement of fact, not a defense. "The strength of a kingdom lies in its enlightened people. A craftsman who can read is a good thing. A soldier who can read a map is harder to get lost." He paused, then added deliberately, "If some Lords prefer their people to remain ignorant and illiterate, that is a reflection of their own fear."

He let the implication hang: that a strong Lord is not afraid of an intelligent populace.

There. A twitch.

In Aerys's purple eyes, Tywin could see it, a quick, hot flash of anger, like lightning behind a storm cloud. The King did not like being told that his Lords, and by implication, himself, were backward or afraid. But it vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed by the ever-thickening wine.

"Well," Aerys chuckled, the sound now strained and fragile. "I am just reminding you." He leaned back, raising his cup. "To our friendship, Ty."

'And I am also reminding you,' Tywin thought, his gaze as hard as Valyrian steel, 'not to do anything foolish, Aerys. Do not force me to choose between my loyalty to you or my family's legacy.'

Chapter Text

TYWIN

Night came with a sudden and almost brutal speed, as if a heavy shroud of black velvet had been forcefully drawn across the skies of King's Landing. Within the countless corridors of the Red Keep, servants hurried. Candles were lit one by one, their trembling flames fighting a losing battle, small flickering points of light trying to pierce the thick darkness that now swallowed all form and sound around them. The air felt bitingly cold against the skin, carrying a sticky dampness, and the unmistakable aroma of the capital: a mixture of the spirit of thousands of people still active, sooty smoke from billowing chimneys, the faint smell of horse manure, and the salty, eternal scent of the sea.

Deep in the belly of the keep, in the vast, hot kitchens of the Red Keep, Tywin Lannister sipped his wine. He ignored the clamor of the cooks and kitchen hands in the distance, their hustle and bustle merely an irrelevant background hum. The dark red liquid swirled slowly in his cup, catching the light of the hearth fire. His eyes were fixed on a stone wall before him. He was not truly seeing it, yet his mind traced it with an unnatural intensity. He noted every fine crack that split the mortar, every faint stain from spilled wine or gravy that soiled its surface, and even every tiny speck of soot that seemed to tell silent stories of endless activity.

However, his mind was not in the kitchen. His mind was filled with Aerys. A king now beyond repair, rotten to the core. Every day spent in that man's presence was an extraordinary test of his patience. He had to stand there, listening to endless ramblings about all sorts of ridiculous things. Meanwhile, he himself could only remain silent, as stiff as a stone statue that could not move.

He hated that feeling. He hated it with every fiber of his being. A suffocating feeling of helplessness, as if his fate, his legacy, and his family's future were entirely in the grasp of the foolish man sitting on that monstrous iron throne. He would shed these shackles. He was a Lannister. And a Lannister would never allow such a situation to drag on, allowing his honor and power to be eroded bit by bit by a jealous king.

His thoughts shifted, his focus now turning to other possibilities, to the branches of destiny he would have to force to grow. He had to do something if, or rather, when, the bond between Rhaegar and Cersei could not be realized. Another betrothal had to be considered, an alliance that would benefit House Lannister, a move that would strengthen his position. However, he would not be hasty. Haste was weakness.

Besides, there were still many opportunities.

Time, for him, was a deep, dark river, flowing unpredictably. And at every moment, in every ripple on the surface, new opportunities would always appear for those wise enough to look for them. He just had to be patient a little longer, observe carefully, and then seize it when the opportunity came. Exactly like a master fisherman who patiently prepares the best hook and bait, who studies the currents and the weather, then sits and waits for as long as he can, for hours, for days, until a large, valuable fish takes his bait.

Yes, no matter what one did in life, whether it was forging a sharp sword, fighting on a bloody and muddy battlefield, or ruling a vast kingdom, the core of it all remained the same: patience, strategy, and the ability to see and exploit opportunities.

Feeling enlightened, and a little calmer from his thoughts, Tywin then thought of his son, Jaime. The reports kept coming. His son was performing the tasks ordered by Tygett well, with dedication and skill. This was from Jaime's own reports, written neatly on paper, as well as from Tygett's reports. Jaime was doing the right thing.

And all this time, Jaime had never met his betrothed, Catelyn Tully, in person. Tywin was of the opinion that his son's current duties were far more important. Especially since the engagement itself was already tightly locked, sealed by promises between two Great Houses, and could not be contested.

However, he now felt that this was the right time. Time to let them meet. A connection, a personal bond, was much needed even in a political engagement. It smoothed the alliance. Especially if Jaime, with his charm and intelligence, could make the girl truly fall in love with him. A wife who adored her husband would be far easier to control in the future. Catelyn would become a more obedient tool in the hands of House Lannister.

With that thought, Tywin planned to send a raven to Tygett soon. His orders would be clear: he must go with Jaime to Riverrun. An official visit. The same letter, more polite, would also reach Hoster Tully, Catelyn's father, announcing their arrival.

Tywin sipped his wine again tonight, but did not finish it. He set the cup down with a soft clink on the rough wooden table. He would not allow himself to get drunk, not even slightly. His mind had refocused on the next steps.

Standing slowly, Tywin then walked towards the kitchen exit. His sharp, pale green eyes stared flatly at the people who glanced his way, a dishwasher with red hands, a sweating cook. These lowly people, who immediately turned their gazes back to their work, filled his mind with a single word: weak. That was what was on Tywin's mind. People like them would only ever be in a place like this, mired in nothingness, never able to ascend to the highest peaks of power and influence.

They could not even meet his eyes.

As he walked down the corridor filled with the dim light from the many candles hanging on the walls, Tywin went out a side door, feeling the cool, gentle night breeze hit his face. The air outside felt fresh after the heat of the kitchen. He saw the expanse of countless stars twinkling in the pitch black sky, and thought that they must have been up there for a long time, eternal, never disappearing. And House Lannister, would always be like that.

They would be the brightest star in the sky.

"It is bright and cloudless today, the stars look so beautiful, which makes one want to watch them for a long time, is that not true, Lord Hand?"

That calm voice broke his reverie. Tywin turned, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It was Rhaegar Targaryen, beside him stood the red-haired Jon Connington, loyal as a guard dog. Tywin bowed his head slightly, a stiff and measured gesture of respect.

"Their beauty is indeed worthy of admiration, Prince." Tywin agreed, his voice flat. "But as a man with much work, it is a pity I do not have much time to simply gaze at the sky."

"I would have expected as much, being Hand is difficult." Rhaegar smiled faintly, a smile full of understanding. At least this boy appreciated his efforts more than his father did.

Tywin nodded lightly. "When one wants this kingdom to run as it should, they must bear all of it." He then changed the subject, his eyes glancing briefly at the small harp Rhaegar was carrying. "What do you intend to do on a night like this, Prince?"

Tywin already knew what the prince wanted to do, of course. The prince and his obsession with music.

"I spent today practicing with my sword constantly on the training ground," Rhaegar explained. "So my whole body is sore. I thought of singing, it calms my mind. I have a great many songs, and your son, Lord Hand, has given me some of them."

"Jaime does enjoy singing songs," Tywin confirmed, his voice remaining flat. It was a small lie, or rather, an assumption stated as fact. He had personally never heard the boy sing; he had no time for such frivolities. "He also likes to practice with Cersei." This fact he knew.

"Ah, Lady Cersei." Rhaegar's smile widened slightly, his indigo eyes softening for a moment in memory. "Yes, she has a fine voice. I have played the harp for her."

Tywin knew that. Cersei's effort to learn with Jaime, apparently, was not in vain. There was a small, cold satisfaction within him. At least the girl was beginning to think that different skills were needed to bind different people. She was starting to understand that beauty alone was not enough, especially in this court, which was filled with dozens of beautiful women from every corner of the kingdom. Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince, must have been bored of it. He craved something more, and Cersei, it seemed, was beginning to learn how to provide it.

Behind Rhaegar, Tywin noticed Jon Connington make an almost invisible bored face. His brow furrowed slightly and his lips thinned. His devotion to the prince was already common knowledge.

"What song do you wish to play today, Prince?" Tywin said, bringing the conversation back on track. He had other things to do, not stand in the cold and discuss music.

Rhaegar laughed softly. "This is a song your son told me of, Lord Hand. A haunting melody. I am sure you have heard it often at Casterly Rock." The prince hugged his harp a little tighter. "Would you care to join me and hear me sing my version?"

No, Rhaegar was very wrong. Tywin never knew what songs Jaime had, nor did he care, as long as the hobby did not interfere with more important duties. The invitation was clearly extended half in jest, a formal politeness that was expected to be formally declined.

However, Tywin, in an instant, decided to see where this would lead.

"Certainly," Tywin said.

He even allowed a small smile, a stiff and rarely shown muscle movement, to touch his lips.

The reaction was exactly as he had expected. The answer seemed to leave Rhaegar and, even more so, Connington, completely stunned. Rhaegar's eyes widened slightly in confusion before he managed to control himself, while Connington looked as if Tywin had just announced he would dance naked under the moonlight.

"Very well," Rhaegar said. His voice, usually full of calm confidence, now sounded a little hesitant. The prince clearly had not expected his offer to be accepted, and now seemed a bit unsure what to do. "Let us go to a quieter place then. Over there, near the small tower."

They walked in heavy silence. Tywin followed behind him, his steps measured and soundless. Connington walked at Rhaegar's side, his posture stiff and protective, his wary eyes glancing briefly at Tywin before staring straight ahead again. The night wind rustled softly through the trees.

They found an isolated bench in the shadow of an old tower, far from the main path and hidden from most of the castle windows. There were not many people here; in fact, there was no one. The place was deserted, silent, lit only by the cold starlight and the dim light from the moon.

Rhaegar sat on the bench, placing his harp on his lap. Jon Connington remained standing behind him. Tywin did not sit next to the prince; instead, he remained standing for a moment, observing, before finally sitting on the other end of the cold bench. The stone felt hard and uncomfortable beneath him, a familiar and almost calming sensation.

Rhaegar's long, slender fingers hovered over the harp strings, but he did not play yet. He looked at Tywin, a thin, nervous smile playing on his lips.

"Well, Lord Hand, since you are willing to see me play this time, I feel I must at least try to make you enjoy it."

It was an attempt to be polite, to ease the awkwardness between them. Tywin simply looked at him, his face unreadable in the gloom.

"I have often heard you play music and sing," Tywin said, his voice flat. "Though only in passing, when walking through the halls or gardens, Prince. And it is very good."

It was the truth. The prince's music was one of the few things in King's Landing that did not sicken him. It was structured, precise, and executed with a technical skill that Tywin could appreciate.

Before Rhaegar could respond to the unexpected compliment, Connington spoke up for the first time. His tone was sharp, as if defending the prince from an unspoken criticism.

"Yes, your singing is good, Rhaegar," he said quickly. "You do not need to be modest every time. Just play."

Rhaegar's eyes met Tywin's for a final moment, as if seeking confirmation. Tywin just gave a slight nod, once. It was enough.

Then Rhaegar played his harp.

The melody was foreign. Not like the grand melodies of Westeros or the lewd songs from the taverns. The notes were simple, clean, and filled with a deep melancholy. Then, the singing came. Rhaegar's voice was clear and strong, carrying a sadness that seemed to surpass his age.

"Yesterday,"

That one word hung in the cold night air. Yesterday.

"All my troubles seemed so far away."

The song began strongly, and suddenly, without his permission, Tywin's mind was thrown back. Not to last year, or a decade ago, but to a past that felt like only yesterday. An image so clear it hurt appeared in his mind: Joanna. Not the pale, sick Joanna on her childbed, but Joanna alive. She was smiling at him on the balcony of Casterly Rock, her golden hair gleaming in the sunset, her green eyes, the same green as Cersei's, but full of warmth, crinkling at the corners with laughter. Yesterday.

"Now it looks as though they're here to stay."

The thought shifted, like a cloud covering the sun. Joanna was gone. And those troubles were indeed here to stay. Much further back, he remembered Aerys. Not the tense king on the throne, but the young Aerys, Prince Aerys. Handsome, charming, cheerful. The two of them, like two inseparable people, planning the renewal of the kingdom in these very halls. They were going to bring unprecedented prosperity.

"Oh, I believe in yesterday."

Yes, he believed in yesterday. Yesterday was where things made sense. Now they were still physically close, Aerys on the Iron Throne, he in the Tower of the Hand, yet the distance between them felt greater than the stretch from Dorne to the Wall.

Rhaegar took a breath, his eyes closed, completely immersed in the music.

"Suddenly,"

"I'm not half the man I used to be."

"There's a shadow hangin' over me."

"Oh, yesterday came suddenly."

Everything had changed. Joanna's death was a sudden storm, ripping away his anchor. And Aerys's corruption... was that sudden too?

Rhaegar's fingers moved across the strings, the notes becoming more urgent, more questioning.

"Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say."

"I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday."

The song softened again, returning to the heart-wrenching initial melody.

"Yesterday."

"Love was such an easy game to play."

"Now I need a place to hide away."

"Oh, I believe in yesterday."

The final string vibrated in the air, its note holding for a long time before finally fading into total silence.

Rhaegar let his hands rest on the harp. The silence seemed thicker than before. Jon Connington looked at his prince, then at Tywin, his face tense. Rhaegar himself looked emotionally drained, but he watched Tywin with curious eyes, awaiting judgment.

Tywin did not move. He sat petrified on the cold bench. The enlightenment came, not as a storm, but as a cold, absolute clarity.

Ah, Tywin understood it. He finally understood.

The song, that song had given him the key. The Aerys who was here, in the Red Keep, was not the Aerys of yesterday. He was not his lost friend.

He was the shell of that man, a man possessed by a gnawing stress. He was just someone wearing his friend's skin.

The Aerys he knew was dead, as surely as Joanna, killed not by poison or dagger, but by his own burdens and by Tywin's success. And this man sitting on the Iron Throne, he should not be there, it was because he was weak. He did not deserve to wear that crown.

The thought freed him. The loyalty that had bound him for so many years, the sense of responsibility that had weighed him down, it all vanished. He owed no loyalty to this fragile, jealous man, who cared more for his wounded ego than the prosperity of the kingdom.

Slowly, Tywin turned his head to look at the prince.

"You played it well, Prince," Tywin said. His voice was calm.

Rhaegar looked slightly relieved, though he clearly did not understand the depth behind those words. "I am glad you liked it, Lord Hand."

Tywin liked it very much. The song had given him more than just a moment's entertainment. It had given him clarity. His mind was clearer now than ever before. The fog of frustration had lifted. He knew what he had to do. Not now, not tomorrow, but the path was clear.

Glancing at Rhaegar again for a little longer. Tywin felt free.

And then... the butterfly flies :'p

Chapter Text

GERION

"The red house yonder," Oberyn Martell suddenly spoke up, his smooth voice carrying clearly over the market din. He pointed with his chin toward a three-story building painted a striking wine-red, from within drifted the sounds of flirtatious music and the high, shrill laughter of women. "I hear it is a place of some passion, Gerion," Oberyn grinned, his hot, Dornish smile playing on his thin lips.

"Their lovely women," he continued, his dark eyes glittering with mischief, "are rumored to be as spirited as mares. They can keep a man company from dusk until the dawn breaks again, without pause. Ah, if only our own vigor could match theirs, life would be far more pleasant, would it not?"

Gerion Lannister gave a small laugh and shook his head, his thick golden mane swaying slightly. He was well accustomed to the Dornish Prince's ribald jests. "Such affairs are better savored no more than once a sennight, Oberyn. Consider it. You can gather your strength, build the anticipation, and then spend it all in one memorable night. It makes the prize far sweeter. It is a boon for patience, like a fine wine, cellared for years before it is uncorked."

"I suppose our paths diverge, Gerion," Oberyn said with dramatic flourish, as if his heart had just been broken. "I find no burning passion in you. You think too much, too much strategy even for the bedchamber. And that is a great pity, for I have greatly enjoyed our travels together of late. Perhaps... perhaps it is time we parted ways."

Gerion knew it was only a jest.

They had been traveling together for the better part of a year, a friendship forged in dust and bargaining. Gerion had found Oberyn in Oldtown. The young prince had sought Gerion out as soon as he heard the rumors of his nephew's wondrous paper.

Oberyn had wanted to see and hear about Jaime's paper from Gerion's own mouth. With a burning intensity, he had asked how it was made, its raw materials, the process. Of course, Gerion had only answered vaguely; it was a valuable Lannister trade secret, not something to be shared, not even with Jaime's friend.

Oberyn was 'studying' at the Citadel at the time. He was mastering the art of poisons, at least that's what he proudly claimed. He said that if the world was going to insist on calling him the 'Red Viper'—a nickname he had earned from the rumored killing of Lord Yronwood, he might as well master it fully. He would wear the moniker with pride, make it a weapon, rather than be like a sniveling child whining about slander.

But Gerion knew that Oberyn bored quickly. So, when the prince heard that Gerion was planning a trade journey to Essos for House Lannister, Oberyn immediately volunteered to come along. Gerion, who always appreciated a clever and slightly dangerous drinking companion, had readily agreed. Of course, Gerion told no one about his infamous traveling partner, especially not Tywin in his reports. As far as Westeros knew, Prince Oberyn Martell was still safely buried in the Citadel's libraries in Oldtown.

"I thought our friendship ran deeper than that?" Gerion acted in kind, placing a hand on his chest. "But if it is your deepest wish, Oberyn, I cannot stop you. But know this, you will always be in my deepest heart."

Oberyn truly clutched his own chest, his eyes welling with mock tears. "Your words wound me, Gerion. So poetic. Perhaps I will stay with you a while longer. Just to see if you are still worth fighting for."

"I will prove it tonight," Gerion smiled, amused. "With the finest wine gold can buy."

They continued on their way, their laughter fading. Behind them, a dozen Lannister guards followed quietly, their hands ready on the hilts of their swords, their eyes warily scanning the foreign crowd. They were a stark contrast to the thin silk garments and olive skin of the local populace.

Currently, Gerion was in Myr on official business, representing the trade interests of House Lannister. He was scheduled to discuss the price and export volume of paper with one of the wealthiest Magisters in the city, a man named Lorras.

As they moved deeper into the heart of the city, the sights began to change. Gerion's laughter and jests slowly faded, replaced by a discomfort that gnawed at his stomach. In Myr, as in many of the Free Cities, there were slaves. It was a sight that made Gerion deeply uncomfortable every time he saw these human beings, marched through the streets with their necks bound by iron collars, and given only tattered rags to cover their bodies.

They were treated like filthy animals. No, Gerion corrected himself internally, even animals were treated with more respect. Horses, for example. His guards' horses were well cared for; their coats had to be brushed regularly, their hooves needed to be trimmed and shod, and they were also fed plentifully to keep them healthy and strong. Horses were an investment.

But these slaves? They were thin, their eyes dull and empty. They received none of that. All the basic things that even the poorest man should have, freedom, dignity, they could not have. It was a sickening sight.

They finally arrived at the gates of Magister Lorras's complex. The contrast with the squalid streets they had just passed was striking. The building was large, magnificent, and had an admirable architecture, a private palace built from expensive, yellowish-brown stone. A high, sturdy wall surrounded the property to protect the wealth within. At the main gate, stood two gate guards. They wore brightly polished armor and featureless masks, making them look like lifeless metal statues. They were as still as stone, not even blinking as the Lannister party approached.

"We come here at the invitation of Magister Lorras," Gerion said, his voice clear and firm. "We have some business to discuss."

One of the masked guards looked at him for a moment, then gave a single, wordless nod, and the gate began to open, granting them entry.

Inside, there was a courtyard so perfect it seemed unreal. It was something isolated from the chaos and suffering of the city outside. The courtyard was vast, and the grass was trimmed with impossible precision, its color a deep emerald green. A large pool in the center reflected the blue sky, its water so clear that Gerion could see the intricate stonework bottom beneath.

And the smell. The scent in the air was so fragrant, a soft aroma like the most expensive perfume made from rare flowers. It was subtle, it was calming... and to Gerion, it felt nauseating. This paradise, he thought bitterly, was bought with the suffering of the slaves he had just seen.

When they stepped into the manse itself, a coolness immediately enveloped them, a welcome contrast from the heat outside. Magister Lorras greeted them in a marble-lined atrium. He stood there with his arms open wide, a smile blooming on his well-groomed face, which was slightly wrinkled around the eyes and featured a neatly trimmed mustache.

He wore clothing clearly designed to display wealth without looking garish; the finest black silk robes, embroidered with fine gold and silver thread in intricate geometric patterns. Behind him stood several masked guards identical to the ones at the gate, and several serving women who kept their eyes downcast, almost invisible.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Lord Gerion Lannister. I hope your journey was pleasant," Lorras said, his voice smooth and practiced. He bowed slightly for a moment, a calculated gesture of respect.

Gerion returned the smile, the smile of a Lannister trained in diplomacy. "My journey was indeed pleasant, Magister. I saw many sights that do not exist in Westeros, and it was very entertaining."

'No,' his mind whispered sharply, 'seeing men chained like hounds is not entertaining in the slightest.'

"Ah, yes!" Lorras gave a small laugh, as if Gerion had shared a private joke. "Because of the efforts of many Magisters to build this city, the sights have indeed become very beautiful, have they not? Everything is made with care, from every stone that is laid, the artisans who carve them, and even the placement of the gardens. We all think about it very carefully."

Lorras proudly led them into a larger room, a luxurious receiving room filled with plush sofas and silk cushions. A low table sat in the center. "Sit, my lords, do not be shy. It is rude to start a conversation without a drink to smooth the throat, is it not?" He gestured to the sofas. "What do you prefer? Tea? Fresh fruit juice? Or perhaps Dornish wine? I have a very fine vintage."

"Orange juice, if you have it," Gerion said, choosing something simple. "It is quite hot today, and I think that would be very refreshing." He and Oberyn sat on the sofa opposite the Magister.

"And your friend...?" Lorras gestured to Oberyn, his sharp eyes observing the quiet prince.

"Marwyn," Oberyn lied smoothly, his voice flat. "Of course I want wine. Who refuses wine at this hour?"

"Ah! A connoisseur. I like that!" Lorras agreed with a laugh. He then clapped his hands twice. "You heard them! Prepare drinks for our polite guests. And do not forget the honey cakes!"

Several serving women who had been standing silently in the corner of the room immediately moved, their steps soundless on the thick carpet, then left to the back, following the order.

A brief silence fell as the servants disappeared. Lorras leaned forward slightly, his friendly smile fading, replaced by a sharp business expression.

"So," he said, getting straight to the point, no more pleasantries. "What about this 'paper'?"

Gerion felt the small adrenaline rush of negotiation begin. He shifted on the cushion, his relaxed demeanor hardening into a merchant's focus. Beside him, he could feel Oberyn just watching with amusement behind his calm gaze.

"As you might expect, Magister, business is very good," Gerion began, his voice confident. "We have a plentiful supply. As you know, the paper has already spread throughout Westeros with surprising speed. We have just completed the construction of two more mills in Lannisport to meet the demand."

"Good, good. Seizing an opportunity," Lorras nodded, his fingers tapping on the armrest of his chair.

"Not just seizing, Magister. We are dominating," Gerion corrected him subtly. "Currently, we are the only known maker of quality paper. Of course, we guard that secret closely." Then he thought. 'Jaime and Kevan assume that some worker might be bribed and the recipe will leak, but for now, it has not. And we will crush anyone who tries.'

"So yes," Gerion continued, "as it stands, paper has almost replaced parchment at the Citadel and among the maesters in a single stroke. This is something rarely seen in centuries. When something comes and changes life so quickly, is it not?"

"Precisely. That is why I am interested in this," Lorras admitted, his eyes glittering with undisguised greed. "It has great potential. Very great. And I want to be the one to maximize that in Essos."

"In that case, let us discuss the price first," Gerion said, just as the drinks arrived on an engraved silver tray, served by the same silent servants. He took his cold, dewy glass of orange juice. "As you know, the price of paper has decreased and become more affordable over time as more mills have been built. The retail price of paper per sheet today in Lannisport is 8 coppers. One ream, containing 500 sheets, costs 65 Silver Stags."

Gerion sipped his juice. Sweet and tart, very refreshing. "Of course, if you truly intend to be our main distributor in Myr, the price will be much lower. Let's say... 55 Stags per ream."

Magister Lorras gave a small, dry, hoarse laugh. "55?" He shook his head slowly, while Oberyn sipped his wine leisurely, his eyes dancing between the two negotiators. "That is too expensive, Lord Gerion. Far too expensive."

"Expensive?" Gerion raised an eyebrow. "Magister, this is a product that is revolutionizing the way men record history. 55 Silver is a very low price for a monopoly."

"It may be cheap in Westeros," Lorras countered sharply. "But here, I am the one bearing all the risk. The cost of shipping across the Narrow Sea, the risk of pirates, harbor tariffs, and I have to create a new market to compete with cheap parchment. I offer 35 Stags."

Now it was Gerion's turn to laugh. "35? Magister, at that price, I would be better off burning it to warm my castle in winter. I will not sell it below 50. That is already a very generous offer."

"40," Lorras said quickly. "And I will guarantee a minimum purchase of 1000 reams every two months. That is a very large volume, Lord Gerion. Guaranteed cash for your new mills."

Gerion pretended to think hard. 1000 reams was a very large amount. It would stabilize production and secure a large, consistent profit. Tywin would be pleased with such a contract.

"You drive a hard bargain, Magister," Gerion said, letting out a false sigh. "Very well. But not 40. We meet in the middle. 45 Stags per ream. That is my final price. Take it or leave it."

Lorras stared at him for a long time, his sharp eyes calculating the numbers in his head. Gerion stared back, not blinking, maintaining his calm smile.

Finally, the Magister broke into a wide grin, showing his slightly wine-stained teeth. "Lord Gerion, you are a formidable negotiator, just like your brother, I hear." He held out his hand. "45 Stags per ream, for 1000 reams, first shipment to begin in two months."

Gerion shook the well-manicured hand firmly. "You have a deal, Magister Lorras."

After leaving the Magister's stuffy manse, Oberyn finally spoke after a long silence, the fresh air in the street feeling like a gift. Gerion, who had been holding his breath inside the room, felt the same relief.

"That conversation was so dull I could not bring myself to interfere," said Oberyn, waving his hand as if to brush off the lingering remnants of boredom. A cynical smile played on his lips. "I almost fell asleep in that chair, and that would have been an unforgivable insult to the honorable Magister."

Gerion laughed crisply, his voice echoing between the dense stone buildings of the Free City. He glanced at Oberyn, admiring the man's audacity in speaking such blunt truths. "You were right not to interfere, Prince," Gerion replied, clapping Oberyn on the shoulder. "That was a dance I had to perform myself. You know, the dance of merchants and politicians."

Oberyn nodded, his sharp gaze sweeping the street crowd, observing the busy merchants and locals. "As luck would have it, I would rather clean a stable than continue staring at him," he said, his expression turning to amusement. "At least there is a more honest smell there, and more genuine filth than the horseshit we just heard." Gerion could only shake his head, a smile still playing on his lips. Oberyn always had a way of lightening the mood, even after the most exhausting of meetings.

Chapter Text

JAIME

"This journey will take more time than we thought."

Tygett Lannister's voice, low and heavy as stone, cut through the silence of the dimly lit room. Outside, the rain that had been only a drizzle had now turned into a fierce, raging storm. It no longer fell; it was poured from the bruised gray sky. The trees on the edge of the muddy road howled, their bare branches thrashing about like desperate hands, blown by the fierce, shrieking wind. Leaves and small broken twigs flew everywhere, slapping against the inn's windows with a panicked sound.

They were at an inn in the middle of nowhere, on their long journey to Riverrun. The air here was freezing. It was not the kind of cold that bites; this was a damp, seeping cold, that seemed to stick to the skin and creep into the bones. It made a man shiver slightly, no matter how close he sat to the weakly burning hearth in the corner of the room.

The inn was quiet at present. There was only them, a few of their guards eating at another table with soft voices, and the bored-looking innkeep behind his counter. Jaime was standing looking out the window, observing the chaos outside. In his hand, he held a warm cup of milk mixed with honey. It was sweet, tasted smooth, and its warmth was the only thing that felt calming at the moment.

"The weather is indeed something we can never predict," Jaime added, his voice flat, his eyes still fixed on the raindrops.

They had been traveling for more or less ten days to Riverrun, and on almost every day, a storm would come at an unexpected time. This was one small fortune; they had managed to find the nearest inn just before the sky truly opened up. But there were times they were not so lucky, trapped in the middle of the wilderness, crammed inside a narrow and musty carriage, listening to the creak of the wheels and the unavoidable drip of water from the slightly leaky roof.

Riverrun. Jaime was already eleven, yet he had never been there at all. From what he had read and heard, he knew the scenery around the place was beautiful. Many lush green trees and wide meadows, ancient castles towering high, and of course, the rivers that were the lifeblood of the Riverlands.

However, he was not going there now to enjoy all of that. He was not going as a tourist; he was going to meet his 'betrothed'.

The word felt very bitter when he thought of it, like ash in his mouth.

He was Steven. A man in his thirties, who was now somehow trapped in the body of a boy. Indeed, that meant he was a child now. This was his second life, and honestly, his past memories were beginning to fade a little in parts, replaced by the current reality.

But still, he had something weighing on his heart. The remnants of Steven screamed that this was all wrong.

Lately, since Tywin had unilaterally announced the betrothal, he had been exchanging letters with Catelyn Tully. Ignoring her was completely impossible; it would be a cruel thing to do, especially while the girl herself sent her letters so carefully, written in a neat hand and full of a noble lady's courtesies.

Jaime, every day since then, thought about what he would write in his own letters. At first, he was completely stuck. Finally, after much exhausting internal debate, he gave in to the pretense.

He would just be honest... well, partially. He told of his daily life as a squire for his Uncle Tygett. About cleaning armor until it shone, brushing smelly horse coats, and exhausting sword practice under the sun. But because Jaime knew that might be very boring, he added spice. He included stories he thought were interesting, which he took directly from novels and films in his previous life. He told tales of knights fighting dragons, of sorcerers, and of kingdoms filled with creatures like elves and dwarves.

Poetry? Of course, poetry too. He wrote poems about the beauty of Casterly Rock facing the sunset, about the hustle and bustle of King's Landing, or about anything else he could think of to fill the sheets of paper.

Now, he was going to meet the girl. And Jaime found that he did not know what to say. This, somehow, felt far more difficult than facing his father directly.

"We should have been very close if only the weather had been able to be friendly." Tygett's voice was heard again, low and grim as usual. This uncle of Jaime's was the most serious of the three. Far different from the dutiful Kevan or the cheerful Gerion. Tygett was a soldier, straightforward and without ceremony. But beneath it all, Jaime knew he was very kind and cared for him in his own way.

"Well, the clouds seem to be raging. A pity we do not know the cause of their anger," Jaime joked, trying to lighten his own mood a little.

"Even if we knew, we could never overcome it," Tygett replied, ignoring the jest completely. He sipped his drink. "Are you thinking about something?"

Jaime turned from the window. "What do you mean?" he asked, a little confused by the sudden change of topic.

"Your face. Your face has been so different since we left Casterly Rock."

"My face is always like this," Jaime denied, a weak lie.

"No," Tygett said, his sharp eyes staring fixedly at Jaime. There was no judgment there, just pure observation. "Your face is usually calm. You are always smiling at your own jokes that no one else understands. But, lately, you have been quieter. And your brows are always furrowed."

"Really?" Jaime knew it was true, but he still tried to deflect the conversation.

"Jaime," Tygett's voice softened, something that very rarely happened. "If you need someone to talk to, I am here. We do not have to keep everything to ourselves. Sometimes those thoughts must be released so they do not become a heavier burden."

Jaime fell silent. 'My burden right now is perhaps something you cannot understand, uncle,' he thought to himself.

Jaime stopped himself from letting out a long sigh. However, the sincere kindness in his uncle's voice, something so different from his father's cold calculations, finally made him relent.

He thought, his cup of milk now cooling in his hands. "It is about Catelyn."

Tygett raised an eyebrow slightly, a barely visible movement on his stiff face. It was the equivalent of anyone else gaping in shock. He looked at his nephew for a moment, as if making sure he had not misheard.

Then, a strange, hoarse sound escaped his throat, which Jaime only then realized was a suppressed laugh.

"Catelyn?" Tygett shook his head. "By the Seven Hells, lad. I swore I thought you were thinking about something to do with paper, business, or how to make that printing press work faster. I thought you were vexed about how to turn lead into gold or some such."

He looked at Jaime again, this time with an unmistakable expression of amusement. "And it turns out, all this... all those furrows on your brow... are just because of a girl? I cannot believe you are vexed over a girl."

"It is not like that," Jaime argued. His uncle had misunderstood. "I just feel that this is all too fast. We are both still children." It was a weak reason, but it was the only one he could give without sounding mad.

"It is natural for a highborn to be betrothed at a young age," Tygett informed him, his amused tone vanishing. "We have been doing this for... who knows how long. It has just always been that way."

"Besides, it is not as if you are getting married now. You are only going to meet her. The wedding itself will, at best, not happen until you are fourteen or fifteen name days."

'That does not make me feel any better,' Jaime thought, looking back at his uncle flatly.

After chatting for a little while longer, the topic shifting back to more superficial things, the journey, the terrible weather, the quality of the ale at the inn, Jaime finally finished the rest of his honeyed milk, which had now gone cold. It no longer felt comforting.

"I am going upstairs," he muttered.

Jaime shook his head once more, as if to clear the remnants of the awkward conversation, and he then climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the upper floor. He entered his own inn room. The room was small, cold, and smelled of damp wood and the faint smoke from the hearth downstairs. The rain was still lashing against the window, and its sound now seemed even heavier, like thousands of small drums being beaten relentlessly.

Deciding to spend his time on more important things than pondering his betrothal dilemma, Jaime knelt beside his narrow bed. He reached into his travel bag and pulled out a notebook he had bound himself.

The cover of this book was made of simple black leather, and the paper inside was some of the first sheets of high quality linen paper that he and Jon had managed to make. This book was filled with his random thoughts when he was bored, rough sketches of mechanisms, song lyrics he remembered, but there was also something more important. There were notes on his progress, his fears, and his plans.

He opened it carefully. The pages felt smooth beneath his fingers. He began to read what he had written a year ago, his own handwriting, slightly slanted and neat.

"27th of March, 276 AC."

"I have started the paper production and so far it is going well. Uncle Gerion has already set off across the sea. This was Father's order. I did not expect him to act so quickly, even before I had time to make a complete suggestion about trade routes. No wonder he is the Hand of the King. He never wastes time."

"Paper is good, it is the foundation. However, this is something new and is a direct replacement for parchment. Because of that, it will also bring some unavoidable negative impacts. I have created something that will destroy the livelihood of thousands of people involved in that business. And it is the same for the printing press; the writers and copyists whose job is only to copy books, will be affected too."

"But the latter is still fewer than the former. For now. Because the printing press itself, as far as we will go at present, is only printing 'The Seven-Pointed Star' periodically. And in the future, approved Lannister histories. Therefore, for other books sold by merchants or kept in the Citadel, they will still have to rely on scribes to copy them. Unless, of course, this printing press technology leaks and spreads faster than I anticipated. That is a constant worry."

"Input has been given to Uncle Gerion that it would be best for him to first offer these paper contracts to the large parchment merchants. Besides them having existing connections and distribution networks, this will also make them less destroyed by the economic shift. They can switch from selling parchment to selling paper. It is the best solution I could think of."

"The school in Lannisport quickly became popular, which I did not expect. I thought this would go more slowly, requiring more persuasion. This is unexpected, but at least it is not a bad thing. The wealthy merchants and skilled craftsmen seem to have immediately seen the opportunity for their children to become more educated. But what is more important? I realized this is not just about reading. It is about Environment."

"Yes, all who can enter the school so far, because of the cost, are the upper-middle class. This means their own children will befriend children of the same status sooner. They are not learning mathematics; they are learning who to know. This builds connections. This builds networks. They will be able to adapt to the world of trade more quickly. I wanted to create enlightenment, but instead I created the first exclusive networking club in Lannisport."

Reading that again, a year later, Jaime scratched his hair slowly. The irony of it still made him chuckle softly.

It had been over a year since that entry. And everything had progressed faster than he had imagined. They had managed to build, or were in the process of building, mills in fifteen different locations throughout the Westerlands. Fifteen. Uncle Kevan, with his quiet, relentless efficiency, did not jest when he saw the potential for profit. Sure, some of those mills were currently still just newly laid stone foundations, but it was still an enormous number. The Lannister industrial machine had begun.

Jon himself, his loyal sworn shield, now spent more time on the road, overseeing those new locations, acting as Jaime's personal eyes and ears. In return, Jon had earned a small plot of land and a simple towerhouse on land not too far from Lannisport, a direct gift from Tywin for his "invaluable assistance" on the paper project. His mother and father were living there, enjoying a life they had never dreamed of. Meanwhile Jon, still roaming Casterly Rock and Lannisport, was more loyal to Jaime than ever.

Closing his book with a soft sound, Jaime slipped it back into his bag. He felt a little calmer, his mind diverted by larger, more tangible problems.

He then walked to the thin mattress and lay down on his back, still wearing his boots. He stared at the dark wooden ceiling above him. There, right above his face, was a small dark stain, and every few seconds, a cold drop of water formed, hung for a moment, then fell to the floor beside his bed.

Plip.

Jaime closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the roaring rain outside and the steady drip of water inside his room.

Chapter Text

CATELYN

The entire Keep of Riverrun had been bustling for the past two days, as if a giant hive had been kicked.

Servants scurried to and fro like quickened shadows, the sound of their footsteps echoing on the stone floors. They cleared dust from the crevices of the wood carvings in the great hall, polishing the old shields on the walls until the Tully trout emblem gleamed under the candlelight. The heavy draperies were taken down, replaced with fresher ones that smelled of lavender and fresh spring air, even as the rain fell relentlessly outside. In every wall sconce, fat new candles were placed, all cut to the exact same length, ready to be lit.

They were all so concentrated, so focused on their tasks, not missing a single thing that Catelyn could see. Every surface had to shine, every corner had to be clean. It was a level of activity usually reserved for the visit of great lords.

Catelyn observed all this from the doorway, smoothing the folds of her skirt. Her heart beat a little faster than usual. All this, she thought, as if a king were coming to visit, not just Jaime Lannister, an eleven-year-old boy who happened to be her betrothed. But she knew it was not just Jaime Lannister. He was the heir to Casterly Rock. He was Tywin Lannister's son. And that name alone was enough to make all of Riverrun stand at attention.

"You look beautiful, Cat."

Catelyn turned. Her father, Hoster Tully, stood behind her, a proud smile spreading across his usually stern face.

"You do not look so bad yourself, Father," Catelyn joked, trying to sound lighter than she felt. Her father's face was indeed brighter today than on most days. There was a new energy in him. Like he had just seen the light for the first time in a long while. But on reflection, Catelyn mused, perhaps that was not wrong. Lannister gold could indeed cast a light, could it not?

"Do not be too nervous when Jaime arrives," Hoster continued, patting her shoulder gently. "Just be as you always are. Remain calm and dignified. Otherwise, you might trip over your own gown." He smiled again, trying to ease the tension.

"I am never nervous for things like this," Catelyn lied, or at least, lied in part. "It is just Jaime. We have exchanged many words, even if only on paper. It feels... it feels as if we already know each other's nature."

That was what Catelyn said, and a part of her believed it. In truth, she was quite nervous. A little. Yes. Perhaps very. Her heart hammered in her ribs like a trapped bird. She was afraid. Not afraid of Jaime, but afraid of what judgment he would pass on her in person.

"Of course," Hoster agreed. "But words in writing are always different from words spoken aloud. Writing can be planned, changed, perfected. This time, you must look each other in the eye. And for some people," he paused, "that is the hardest thing."

Catelyn was silent for a moment, absorbing the truth of those words. She took a slow breath. "I am just afraid he will be disappointed when he meets me, Father."

Hoster frowned deeply, his proud expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. "Disappointed? How could he possibly be disappointed to see you? You are my daughter. You are beautiful. Your hair is lovely, even from a distance."

"Jaime must have his own image of me in his head, just as I have an image of him in mine," Catelyn said softly, her voice almost a whisper. "He is a Lannister of Casterly Rock. They... they are surrounded by gold and beauty. I hear his twin sister is the most beautiful girl in the Seven Kingdoms. And it makes me worry... that he will think I am not what he imagined. That I am too... plain."

"And what else would someone think?" Her father grunted, dismissing her worries. "You are Catelyn Tully, of Riverrun. You are perfect. I do not think there is any image in any boy's head that could match the reality."

Her father was always excessive in praising his daughters. So Catelyn just nodded, not arguing further, though her anxiety did not disappear.

A moment later, the sound of small, hurried footsteps was heard in the corridor, and Lysa and Edmure ran up to them, their faces flushed from running.

"Father! Father!" Edmure practically shouted, breaking all rules of decency within the keep. "I saw them! I saw their banners! The Golden Lion! They are at the gate!"

Lysa stood beside him, catching her breath, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Come, prepare yourselves," Hoster said, his voice now stern and full of authority again. He patted Edmure's head.

Her father, Edmure, Lysa, and Catelyn herself walked together to their positions in the great hall for the welcome. Their uncle, Brynden Tully, was not here; he was away somewhere, and Catelyn suddenly missed his calming presence.

They stood in a line on the low dais where Lord Tully's high seat was. Catelyn's chest pounded slightly, so hard she was afraid others could hear it. She watched the great doors at the end of the hall, thick wooden doors that were now wide open. There was no one there yet save for two Riverrun guards standing stiffly on either side, their spears held bolt upright. Yet, Catelyn could not tear her gaze from it.

Then, the sound came. The sound of rhythmic footsteps on stone. Not hurried steps, but a constant, confident pace. There were several people, a small party, slightly damp from the rain.

There, leading them, was a tall, impressive man, even in his slightly damp state. He wore shining lion-crested armor, reflecting the candlelight in the hall. His helm was tucked into the crook of his arm. His dark blond hair was quite long, clinging to his cheeks, and his face was stern and slightly wrinkled with fatigue. That must be Tygett Lannister.

And beside him...

Beside him, a little shorter, walked a boy. His hair was shorter than his uncle's, golden-blond. He still looked like a child, of course, he was only eleven. But his face... his face was calm. Very calm. Jaime Lannister.

"Welcome to Riverrun, Lord Tygett Lannister." Her father immediately stepped forward, greeting them with open arms and a host's smile.

"Thank you for receiving us with such hospitality, Lord Tully," Tygett replied, his voice hoarse from the journey. He gave a short nod, a gesture of respect from one soldier to another. "We come as has been discussed."

"Your journey was smooth, I hope?" Hoster asked, a polite pleasantry. Catelyn knew the rain had been pouring heavily lately, so it could not have been smooth.

Tygett shook his head, wasting no time on niceties. "Unfortunately, no. We had to delay and spend the night in several less than pleasant places." He then shifted his gaze from her father, his sharp eyes sweeping over Lysa and Edmure, before finally stopping.

He placed his hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"This is Jaime Lannister," Tygett's voice rang out clearly in the quiet hall. "Son of Lord Tywin Lannister, Heir to Casterly Rock, my nephew, and the betrothed of Lady Catelyn."

The boy, Jaime, stepped forward slightly. He bowed his body a little, a polite and practiced movement. He then raised his head, and his eyes scanned the room, past Hoster, glancing at Edmure, then Lysa.

Then, their gazes met.

His eyes stopped on her. Catelyn held her breath. She saw the most brilliant green eyes she had ever seen, sparkling like diamonds under the candlelight. They were not the eyes of a nervous or shy child. They were calm, sharp eyes.

Hoster Tully nodded, his smile wide and genuine, his eyes shifting from one Lannister face to the other. "This is my daughter, Catelyn," his eyes paused on Cat for a meaningful moment, "this one is Lysa, and my son, Edmure." He gestured to each of his children in turn.

Lysa gave a small, shy nod, while Edmure tried to look as stern as possible, as if he were a guardsman on duty.

Hoster then shook his head, his tone changing to one of sincere sympathy. "It is most unfortunate you experienced such things. The weather has been fickle of late. You must be tired and cold. We will let you rest, then. Rooms have been prepared."

"Gerald, show our guests to their respective rooms." Her father pointed to their steward, a thin old man with a neat white beard. Gerald bowed deeply.

"This way, My Lords," Gerald said, his voice smooth.

Tygett nodded once more to Hoster, a brief acknowledgment of the hospitality. As the small Lannister party turned to follow Gerald, Catelyn noticed Jaime pause for a moment. He looked back, towards the three of them: Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure. A small smile, not a wide grin, but a calm, genuine smile, touched his lips. He gave a small wave.

It was an unexpected gesture, the gesture of a normal boy. Lysa immediately waved back, and even Edmure, who had been stiff, returned it with an awkward nod. Catelyn could only return it with a small smile of her own, her heart, which had been pounding, now a little calmer.

As soon as they disappeared around the corridor's bend, Lysa immediately shifted closer to Catelyn.

"He is quite fetching, Cat," Lysa whispered, her eyes sparkling. "His hair... And his eyes! Did you see his eyes?"

"I heard he is good with a sword," Edmure added. "Far better than other boys his age. I am going to ask him to train in the yard tomorrow."

"Edmure!" Lysa disagreed, her voice squeaking. "He just arrived, and he is tired! You must let him rest first, it is rude."

"A true knight should be able to fight at any time," Edmure whispered stubbornly.

"But he is not a knight," Catelyn cut in, her voice calm, ending their argument.

Both her siblings looked at her.

"Not yet," she added softly.

...

The feast that night was the most lavish held at Riverrun in many months this year. The room, which usually felt a bit drafty, now felt warm and comfortable, shielded from the storm that still howled outside. Hundreds of candles burned brightly, their light reflecting off silver plates and goblets. Musicians played cheerful tunes in the gallery, though Catelyn barely heard the music.

Roast chicken was served while still hot on the high table, its skin golden-brown and crisp. Thin wisps of steam rose from the meat, visible even among the candlelight. There was also seasoned fish, venison pie, and large bowls filled with vegetables.

Catelyn sat straight, her back erect. She took a piece of beef drizzled with melted butter and mushroom sauce. She cut it slightly, a small, neat piece, and then ate it. She chewed slowly, unhurriedly. The meat was tender, smooth, and tasted very good on her tongue. Every movement was measured. This was not just dinner; it was a performance. She had to show that Riverrun, while perhaps not as wealthy as Casterly Rock, did not lack for good food like this.

Jaime, sitting across the table next to her, close enough to talk, but far enough to feel formal, seemed completely at ease. He had changed into a dark green velvet doublet.

"I saw the rivers flowing all along the way on the journey," Jaime said, his voice clear and audible amidst the din. He was not speaking to Catelyn specifically, but to the table in general. "They are beautiful and radiate warmth, even though the weather is cold. The fish can be seen, even the smallest ones."

"You must try to catch them!" Edmure exclaimed, unable to hold back any longer.

Jaime looked at her brother, and Catelyn saw something in his eyes, not annoyance, but genuine amusement. "Fishing? I enjoy fishing at Casterly Rock with my friends," Jaime replied in a light tone. "But fishing requires fair preparation and takes time. I suppose a hurried journey, chased by a storm, is not the right time to stop and cast a line."

Edmure nodded seriously, as if listening to a lesson from a master strategist. "Makes sense, makes sense. Later then, when the weather is better. You can come fishing with me. I know the best spots."

"Edmure," Hoster laughed from the end of the table, his laughter booming. "My apologies, Lord Jaime. My son is indeed very enthusiastic when he meets new people."

"It is no matter, Lord Tully," Jaime laughed in return, his voice smooth and sounding mature for his age. "To be honest, I am also interested in fishing here. The rivers look much more alive than at our home. Perhaps if there is free time later, Edmure can guide me."

Edmure practically beamed with pride, but he managed to stop himself from cheering, perhaps remembering he had just been interrupted by his father. He just nodded enthusiastically.

The conversation then turned to more serious matters, shifting to the men at the table: Jaime, his father, and Lord Tygett.

"You are right about the weather, Lord Tully," Tygett said, his voice hoarse. He was clearing a plate of pork. "The road in the north... it is more like a swamp than a road. We lost one supply wagon because its wheel broke in the mud."

"Ill news," Hoster frowned. "I will send men to see to it after the storm abates. The rain this year has been very heavy."

"Your nephew seems to have borne the journey well," Hoster continued, turning his gaze to Jaime with a friendly, appraising look. "A squire's training at Casterly Rock under you must be hard, Lord Tygett."

Tygett gave a short nod, his expression remaining hard as stone. "He learns quickly. His tasks for me are handled without complaint." He glanced at his nephew briefly. "He will be a good knight."

Catelyn watched Jaime just give a small smile at the praise, not looking arrogant at all.

"That is good to hear," Hoster said sincerely. "And how fares your twin sister, Lady Cersei, Lord Jaime? And your youngest brother, young master Tyrion?" It was a polite question, the kind expected of a host to his guest.

Jaime replied. "Cersei is well, Lord Hoster." There was a brief, almost invisible pause. "And Tyrion grows strong. He has started walking everywhere within the Rock, keeping the nurses busy."

Hoster smiled wider. "Children are like that. Edmure here was the same, always running before he could properly walk."

Her father then turned to Catelyn, and suddenly all eyes were on her. "And I must say, Catelyn has greatly enjoyed your correspondence, Lord Jaime. She says you tell very interesting stories."

Catelyn felt her cheeks flush. She had not expected to be pulled into the conversation like this, especially after the topic of his siblings. She looked down at her plate, wishing she could disappear.

Jaime turned to her, his brilliant green eyes looking directly into hers, just as in the welcoming hall. "And Lady Catelyn writes beautifully, Lord Hoster," Jaime said calmly, his voice not faltering in the slightest. "She described Riverrun so well, the rivers and the gardens within... I feel as though I already knew this castle even before I arrived here."

Catelyn's cheeks, which had only been warm, now felt scorching hot. It was a very specific, very personal compliment, yet spoken with such confidence in front of everyone. She looked down at her plate again, not knowing what to say, but her heart was pounding for a reason entirely different from nerves.

It was not just a pleasantry. He had listened, or rather, read, what she had written.

She glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes. Jaime was already back to listening to her father and Lord Tygett, who were now discussing the price of timber and patrol routes on the border. But Catelyn could not stop thinking about his words. They kept echoing in her mind.

...

The supper finished quickly, the servants clearing the plates and leftover food with a quiet, commendable efficiency, as if they were ghosts gliding between the tables.

Once the last wine goblet was lifted, her father stood.

"Lord Tygett, there are some border maps I wish to show you," Hoster said, his voice sounding overly casual. "About those patrol routes we discussed earlier."

"Of course, Lord Hoster," Tygett Lannister agreed, his expression remaining stern.

Then her father turned to his younger children. "Edmure, Lysa. Petyr must be lonely in the Maester's tower all day. Why do you not go and see him?"

Lysa immediately brightened. "A splendid idea, Father! Come on, Edmure!" Edmure, who would have preferred to stay and listen to the soldiers' chatter, just grumbled but still followed Lysa, who was already running lightly out of the hall.

And then... silence.

The hall that had been bustling now felt empty and vast. There was only Catelyn and Jaime.

Yes, they had been left alone. This was her father's arrangement, Cat knew it. As subtle as a warhammer. He wanted them to have time alone, to 'connect'. And now, under the gazes of the guards pretending not to watch at the end of the hall, Catelyn had to be a hostess to her betrothed.

"Would you... care for a short walk, My Lord?" she asked, her voice sounding more formal than she intended.

Jaime turned to her, that small, polite smile returning. "A fine idea, My Lady. The feast was warm, a little fresh air would be a relief."

They began to walk, side by side, down the wide corridors. Catelyn stood beside Jaime, and she realized with some surprise that they were almost the same height. She was two name days older than him, a small fact that felt ridiculous, and she knew in the future she would be overtaken. A boy's growth was always like that. It was inevitable.

Up close, Jaime smelled pleasant. Not a sharp perfume, but something clean and fresh, like wildflowers in summer after rain. He walked with a straight back, like a soldier, a legacy of his uncle's training. However, Catelyn could see the tension in his shoulders, and the way he occasionally glanced at the walls instead of at her. He was nervous.

Strangely, that realization made Catelyn herself calmer. At least she was not feeling it alone.

"This is the solar," Catelyn explained, her voice now more confident. They passed a room with an open door, inside which were looms and several plush chairs facing a cold hearth. "We ladies, usually sit here in the afternoons. Whether to embroider, share a laugh, or... well, talk about gowns and feasts."

"That is good," Jaime nodded, this time he glanced into the room, not at the wall. He was not looking at Catelyn's eyes, but he was listening. "Everyone should have a room like this, a place to... lower their defenses. We men, we usually do more in the training yard."

"Training to be a knight," Catelyn said, trying to make conversation as they continued down a quieter corridor. "Is it pleasant?"

She expected a short answer, yes or no. But Jaime smiled. "Pleasant? Yes, I suppose. Of course, it is loud there. My friends are always shouting, either from landing a blow or from being hit. It makes the atmosphere lively and not boring. There is always something happening."

"And you, Lady Catelyn," he asked in return, "do you truly enjoy embroidery? Or is it just something you do because... it is expected?"

Catelyn was surprised by the question. It was a sharp question. She thought for a moment. "I like it," she said honestly. "It is like painting, I suppose. We can form something we want there, create an image from nothing. But the difference is," she paused, searching for the right word, "we can hold it. The thread, the cloth. It feels more real to me. More... permanent."

"Like a sculptor," Jaime agreed quickly, and this time he turned to her. "A sculptor takes a formless block of stone and sees something inside it. It takes focus. Patience. Just like your needle."

They walked in silence for a moment, Catelyn thinking about that comparison.

"You, what do you enjoy, besides the sword, Lord Jaime?" Catelyn asked.

"As you may already know from my letters, My Lady, I enjoy reading." He gave a soft chuckle. "A lot, actually. It broadens one's horizons. Makes the world feel larger."

"The stories you tell are indeed interesting," Catelyn nodded, remembering the strange tales of sailors and islands inhabited only by children. They reached a stone archway that led to a rather large balcony, overlooking one of the rivers. "This is one of my favorite places."

They stepped out. The night air immediately hit them, cold and damp. "Usually, we can see the stars here. A pity the clouds are blocking them tonight."

"But the air feels fresher," Jaime said. He walked to the stone railing and took a deep breath, as if he had just come out of a stuffy room.

"Indeed. It is calming here," Catelyn agreed, standing beside him, keeping a polite distance. "That is one of its advantages, too. You can hear the sound of the river."

Silence enveloped them for a moment, filled only by the sound of the rushing water below in the darkness. They both held onto the cold stone railing, damp with mist.

Catelyn swallowed. This was her chance. Now or never.

She looked at Jaime. His figure was visible in the torchlight from the corridor behind them. He looked older than his age.

"Lord Jaime?" her voice sounded hesitant.

He turned to her.

"Am I... am I as you imagined?"

Jaime raised an eyebrow, genuine confusion clear on his face. "Pardon. I do not understand. What do you mean?"

Catelyn took a deep breath, gathering her courage. She would be honest. "I will be honest, I was worried... you know, My Lord. Your letters... your stories... they are incredible. And your reputation... You are a person who seems destined for great things and has everything. The face, the skill in combat, the cleverness... it is already famous throughout the kingdom thanks to your 'paper'."

She looked down at her hands gripping the stone. "Compared to me, who just stays here in Riverrun, playing with my siblings and learning to embroider... it feels like heaven and earth."

Jaime looked thoughtful, very serious, and hesitated for a moment. He did not immediately laugh or deny it, which made Catelyn even more nervous.

Then, he shook his head. Slowly.

"In truth," he said softly, his voice nearly lost to the sound of the river, "you are far beyond what I imagined."

Catelyn raised her head, looking at him. "What?"

"From the letters," Jaime continued, his eyes now looking straight into hers, and Catelyn felt she could not look away. "I already knew that you were a good woman. I knew you cared for your family. You often told stories of Edmure and Lysa."

"But," he paused, "when I saw you tonight... in the hall, at the feast... I saw it with my own eyes. You do not just care for them. You love them. I saw the way you calmed Edmure when he was too excited, and the way you smiled at Lysa. And that... in my opinion... is the most important thing in a Lady. Far more important than 'paper' or cleverness."

Catelyn was stunned. It was not the answer she expected. "Is that... so rare? Is that not what family is supposed to do?" House Tully's words are Family, Duty, Honor, Catelyn thought. It was a natural thing.

Jaime looked into the distance for a moment, at the darkness over the river. A bitter, ironic smile.

"You know my brother, Tyrion, do you not?"

"You mention him often in your letters," Catelyn nodded softly.

"Family is supposed to love and protect each other," Jaime said, his voice quieter now. "But when someone looks inside you and finds an imperfection... or something they did not expect... it becomes very hard to do that. No matter if it is family or not."

He turned back to Catelyn. "To be honest, My Lady. My father and my twin sister, they despise Tyrion. Even if Cersei has begun to tolerate him lately, the hatred is still there. So yes, in my opinion, loving family for what they are... that is the most important, and rarest, thing in the world."

He smiled at her, but this time the smile was a little sad. "But that means, you must be strong, too. Be prepared. And do not be disappointed when you begin to see the worst parts of them."

Catelyn nodded slowly, digesting his words. The night wind blew her hair, making her shiver slightly in the darkness.

Chapter Text

The morning came with a palpable relief. The sky, which yesterday was grey and gloomy, had now changed to a brilliant, unblemished blue. The sun shone brightly, its light feeling warm on the skin, and the menacing grey clouds seemed to have poured out all their rain and departed.

The air felt so fresh, as if the storm had cleansed the entire world. When Catelyn took a breath, she could smell the scent of damp earth, freshly cut grass, and the fragrance of flowers from the garden. It felt pleasant and satisfying.

After a light breakfast filled with polite conversation, Catelyn resumed her duties as hostess. "Last night we only explored the interior of the castle," she said. "Now, I will show you something far more beautiful."

She brought Jaime to her mother's private garden, Catelyn's favorite place.

It was here that life truly burst forth. Last night's raindrops still clung to the flower petals like tiny diamonds.

"The roses are in bloom," Catelyn said, her voice softening. She approached her favorite rose bush, the one with deep red blossoms. "After being pelted by the rain for so long... are they not very strong, My Lord?"

She observed the flowers in every detail, touching their dark green leaves gently, careful not to be pricked by the thorns.

Jaime stood beside her, observing. "Roses are indeed strong, I think," he nodded, his voice sounding contemplative. "They are also often used as an example for a woman."

"Because of their beautiful color and shape?" Catelyn asked, still looking at the flower.

"Because of their beautiful color and shape," Jaime agreed. "Their bright red color... it stands out. It makes a person unconsciously shift their gaze to it, because it is the most striking thing amidst the green of the garden."

He paused for a moment, then continued. "And once they do, they look deeper. They see the intricate shape of each petal, layer upon layer. It represents... well, I suppose some call it love, or affection, and tenderness."

Jaime reached out a hand, his own finger tracing the edge of a petal without touching it. "And then," he added, his voice a little softer, "the thorns. They symbolize that besides being beautiful and complex, a woman is also capable and has the strength to defend herself. To protect her own honor."

Catelyn turned to him. She had heard a similar expression from a book, but not exactly like that. Hearing it spoken aloud, with such conviction, felt different.

She nodded. "You know a great deal about flowers, it seems, Lord Jaime."

Jaime chuckled, a light sound that made Catelyn smile. "I observe often. This world is full of things worth noticing, if only we are willing to take the time to see them. Even the smallest things can hold deep meaning."

Suddenly, he moved. With a quick and careful motion, he took hold of the rose stem, deftly avoiding its thorns, and plucked the most fully bloomed red rose.

"Like this flower," he said. "Many see it only as a fleeting beauty, something that will wilt. But it is proof of resilience, is it not? After the storm that tried to tear it apart, it still blooms this morning."

He offered the flower to Catelyn.

Their fingers touched for a moment as Catelyn took it. The stem was still slightly damp. "And every petal, every thorn, tells a story," Jaime continued, his eyes on Catelyn, not the flower. "A story of survival, of growing, of becoming something beautiful despite the challenges." He smiled faintly. "I think that is a lesson we can take from many things around us."

Catelyn held the rose carefully, its sweet fragrance wafting up. Her heart beat a little faster.

"Speaking of lessons," Catelyn said, changing the subject before her cheeks could blush. "Why did you build a school? It is a very... new idea. I imagine it will be opposed by some lords."

The wistful expression on Jaime's face disappeared, replaced by a sharpness.

"They can try," Jaime said flatly, his tone cold.

Catelyn was a little surprised by the change.

Jaime then continued, answering Catelyn's first question. "People think I build them for charity. For enlightenment. That is... partly true. But the main reason? I build them to build loyalty."

"Loyalty?" The answer surprised Catelyn. It sounded so... calculated. From their previous conversations, Jaime had sounded poetic and kind-hearted.

"Loyalty is the most valuable currency, Lady Catelyn," Jaime explained. "Right now, those in the school are the children of prosperous merchants and artisans. Merchants are the ones who will drive the kingdom's economy."

He looked into Catelyn's eyes, as if explaining a war strategy. "There, when they learn and become more successful... they will always remember who gave them that opportunity. They will remember the service of House Lannister. Their loyalty will be ours."

He paused for a moment. "Moreover... in the school itself, we ensure they learn history. Our history. A very long history... and of course," a faint smile touched his lips, a smile that did not reach his eyes, "a little bloody."

A cold shiver ran down Catelyn's spine, even though the sun was shining warmly.

'The Rains of Castamere...' Catelyn remembered.

It was not just a history lesson. It was a warning.

They walked in a slightly awkward silence after that. Catelyn was still thinking about his words. Jaime's explanation about the school... so cold, so calculated, coming from the mouth of a boy who had just spoken so poetically about a rose. It was a confusing mixture. The rose in her hand suddenly felt a little heavier.

As they arrived at a crossing, they saw Lysa and also Petyr Baelish.

Lysa smiled brightly upon seeing them, waving enthusiastically. "Cat! Lord Jaime!"

Petyr, standing beside her, also smiled. But the smile did not reach his eyes. It was a sharp, assessing smile, and Catelyn saw his eyes go straight to the rose in her hand, then shift to Jaime, before finally landing on Catelyn.

"Cat, you are carrying a beautiful rose," Lysa said, her eyes sparkling.

"Lord Jaime plucked it for me," Catelyn said, feeling her cheeks grow slightly warm.

Petyr raised his eyebrows slightly, his smile not wavering. "A very courteous gesture, My Lord."

Lysa giggled, her eyes shifting between Catelyn and then Jaime. There was a clear, playful smile on her lips. "How romantic... Lord Jaime, perhaps you should also sing a song for Cat. She adores music."

Jaime's cheeks, which had been pale and calm, visibly reddened. He gave a small cough, averting his gaze for a moment. "Uh... truthfully, My Lady, I also just plucked that flower on reflex. And believe me, my voice is not good enough to be heard."

"I doubt that," Lysa said disbelievingly, still teasing him. "A man from the Westerlands ought to be able to sing."

"A man like Lord Jaime prefers to play with his sword, Lysa," Petyr spoke up, his voice smooth and calm, cutting off Lysa's teasing. "Is that not right, Lord Jaime? Practice in the yard is more interesting than harp strings."

Jaime looked relieved that the topic of conversation had shifted. "Right! Absolutely right. A sword is far more understandable."

"Then you really must train with Edmure!" Lysa clapped her hands once. "He was talking about you all last night, 'Jaime the master swordsman', 'Jaime this, Jaime that'. Petyr, meanwhile, prefers to be in the library, reading large, dusty books."

"Reading is a good thing," Petyr said lightly.

"About Edmure. Perhaps later," Jaime said. "After... after I am more settled in."

"Yes, at the moment I am showing Riverrun to Lord Jaime, Lysa," Catelyn said gently, trying to take back control of her tour.

"In that case, let us walk together!" Lysa immediately agreed. "Honestly, this weather makes me so spirited after being inside for so long because of the rain. I was bored!"

Without waiting for an answer, Lysa pulled Petyr's arm and began to walk beside Catelyn and Jaime. The previously quiet tour now became much livelier. Catelyn showed the way, pointing to several watchtowers and explaining their history, and every so often Lysa would interrupt with a silly story about a guard who fell asleep or the time Edmure tried to climb that wall and fell.

"Here," Catelyn said, guiding them to another wide garden, this one more open than her mother's rose garden. "This is where we spend time when we are bored inside."

She pointed to a stone bench under a large oak tree. "Sometimes we will just sit on that bench, looking around or into the distance where there are mountains and the blue sky. Sometimes, that alone is enough to calm the mind."

"True," Petyr said suddenly.

His quiet voice made Cat turn to him. He was staring at the bench with a wistful expression.

"I still remember when we sat there," he said, his eyes shifting to Catelyn, "just the two of us. Perhaps two years ago? You looked so sad that day, and did not want to talk about it, Cat. I did not know why, but when I cheered you up with a silly song about a frog, you seemed to get better."

Catelyn immediately remembered the incident. Of course she remembered. It was the anniversary of her mother's death. She was so emotional that she did not want to talk about it with anyone. That was why she was not playing with Lysa and Petyr as usual.

But Petyr had approached her. 'It is lonely without you, Cat,' he had said. And Petyr then told childish jokes and sang in his out-of-tune voice until Catelyn finally laughed through her tears.

Catelyn nodded slowly, suddenly feeling very awkward. She did not want to discuss it further, especially in front of Jaime. Why would Petyr bring that up again, here, now? They came here often. Together. With Lysa and Edmure too, even her father and Uncle Brynden! To talk about it as if it were just the two of them... it felt like there was a specific intention. It was Petyr's way of saying, 'I know her better than you do.'

"Why did you never mention that incident?" Lysa frowned, looking confused and a little jealous at being left out.

"Because at the time, Catelyn looked like she wanted to cry," Petyr answered casually. "It would have been embarrassing to talk about."

"So why are you talking about it now?" Lysa looked confused.

Petyr smiled, his typical small smile. "It slipped out."

Catelyn knew it had not slipped out.

They then continued the tour, and although Jaime and Catelyn kept chatting until midday, discussing horses and falcons, it felt as if something had changed. The conversation no longer felt easy and private. Petyr Baelish, with his one small story, had stepped between them.

...

Catelyn walked the familiar stone corridors alone. The tour had ended, and Jaime had gone to his uncle's chambers, Ser Tygett, to discuss something "important". Petyr and Lysa had also gone in another direction.

This silence gave Catelyn time to think. Her hand still held that single red rose. She lifted it, inhaling its fragrance again. Sweet.

She thought of her betrothed again. Since last night, she felt she had gotten to know him better, but surprisingly, at the same time, she felt as if she did not know him deeply at all. He was like a book written in two different languages.

On one hand, there was the poetic Jaime, who could see resilience in a single rose and speak of beauty in a way that made her heart flutter. There was the protective Jaime, who spoke of his brother, Tyrion, with such sincere sadness and love.

Yet on the other hand, there was the heir to Casterly Rock. The cold emotion as he described the school was still clear in her mind. 'Building loyalty'. 'A history that is a little bloody', spoken with full conviction.

Then their conversation about family last night, on the balcony. His warning... "be prepared, and do not be disappointed when you begin to see the worst parts of them."

Jaime and she would become family if they were truly to marry.

Was that why he spoke of it last night? As a warning? Was he warning her about Tywin, or Cersei? Or... Catelyn stopped walking for a moment. Was he warning her about himself? Everyone had their own worst parts, and he, the golden lion, surely had them too.

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought, and resumed her stride. She turned a corner...

"Petyr!"

Catelyn startled, her hand clutching the rose so tightly that a small thorn pricked her finger. She had not heard him approach. Petyr stepped out from where the shadows gathered.

The hall here was quiet, illuminated only by pillars of light from the high windows. The midday sun created a sharp contrast between light and dark.

"Cat." Petyr's face was partially obscured by shadows, making it hard to read.

"Petyr, by the seven, do not do that again! You startled me!" Catelyn took a breath, trying to calm her pounding heart. "What is it?"

Petyr looked at her, and on his face was a complicated emotion. A mixture of sadness, jealousy, and something sharper. His eyes were fixed on the rose in Catelyn's hand.

"You... you have felt distant lately," he said.

"What do you mean? I am always near you," Catelyn frowned, confused. "We live under the same roof."

"Not that." Petyr's voice trembled slightly, the tone he always used, like a sad little boy in need of comfort. "Since you were betrothed to... him... to Jaime Lannister. You are always gone. You rarely spend time with me, or Lysa, and Edmure."

"It is because I have many lessons," Catelyn said honestly, though it felt like an excuse. Her lessons as a Lady had indeed doubled since the betrothal was announced. "I am not a child anymore, Petyr. There are things I must prepare for."

"But, can you not spare some time? Even just a little?" Petyr stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the light. "You always avoid me whenever I approach you. Every time I try to speak with you alone, you are always... busy."

Catelyn reflexively took a step back. "I am not avoiding..."

"See?" Petyr said, his voice now full of hurt. "You are doing it again."

He stopped, his hands clenched at his sides. "I... I miss you, Cat. I miss when we used to play together, share stories, or even when I sang silly songs for you."

Guilt pricked Catelyn. She had been avoiding him a little. Their conversations felt different lately. Petyr always tried to bring up the past, while Catelyn had to think of her future.

"Petyr, we are still friends," she said softly. "We can do those things another time. But now..."

Catelyn then changed the subject. She could not handle this right now. She could not handle Petyr's emotions on top of her own confusion about Jaime. "So if you will excuse me, I would like to go to my chambers. I am... tired."

She did not wait for an answer. She walked past him, her skirts rustling on the stone floor.

Catelyn did not look back, but she could feel it. She was leaving Petyr behind, standing stock-still and alone in the middle of the empty hall, trapped between the pillars of light and shadow.

----

We will move to King's Landing in the next chapter. :'p

Also, thank you for the likes and comments :'D 

Chapter Text

​RHAEGAR

"Look, he is laughing!"

Rhaegar's voice sounded proud, a sincere tone rarely heard in this court. He was sitting in a comfortable armchair in his mother's chambers, holding Viserys, who was just eight months old. While making a silly face, hiding his face behind the curtain of his silver hair before reappearing with wide eyes and a broad smile.

Viserys, in response, let out a pure, bubbling shriek of laughter. It was the purest sound of life, and for Rhaegar, it was the sweetest music.

His mother, Queen Rhaella, was sitting beside her bed, watching him. His father was not here. Rhaella smiled, a sincere yet weary smile that adorned her lips these days. Viserys was a healthy baby, a small miracle after so many tragedies had befallen the royal nursery. His eyes were bright violet, his cheeks were plump and smooth to the touch, and he was a cheerful child like any other babe, not yet aware of the burden of the name he carried or the court he had been born into.

"Of course he is laughing," Rhaella shook her head, that amused smile still on her lips. "You are doing something very silly, Rhaegar. Unbefitting of a prince."

The soft morning light flooded the room through the high windows, falling on her face and silver hair, making her look delicate, almost like porcelain.

"A sacrifice must be made to entertain a babe, Mother," Rhaegar smiled back, turning his attention for a moment from Viserys to look at Rhaella. A sacrifice. He would gladly look foolish a thousand times over if it could keep this laughter going, if it could keep the smile on his mother's face.

It was then that he truly noticed her. Again.

The smile was there, but it did not fully reach her eyes. She looked a little thin these days. It was not something a stranger would notice; to them, she was still the Queen, graceful and beautiful. But as her son, Rhaegar saw it very clearly.

It was in her cheeks, which were a little more drawn than they should be. And it was in her wrists. Her slender wrists looked too fragile.

A familiar cold lump settled in Rhaegar's stomach. He did not need to ask the cause. He knew.

'Father... what have you done?' He thought, the bitterness feeling like bile in his throat.

His mother was a good person. She was the definition of patience and grace. She always faced everything with patience. Rhaella never complained or even showed anger in public. She bore it all with the dignity of a queen. She was always very close, and accompanied them, Rhaegar, and now Viserys, whenever they faced a problem.

"Be careful," Rhaella joked, her voice pulling Rhaegar back from his dark thoughts. "Soon he will demand more. Babes are very clever at making us bend to their will."

Rhaegar laughed, a sound forced to be light. "Then what should I do but obey him? He is my brother."

"You will be king one day, yes," his mother replied, her tone still light, but there was another layer beneath it, something Rhaegar recognized as weariness. "But a king cannot always grant every request of the people, not even the smallest."

If only Mother knew.

'If I were king now,' Rhaegar looked at his mother, at that so well-hidden fragility, 'I would not let you suffer. Not for a second.'

He shifted his gaze back to Viserys. "But Viserys here is the Prince, Mother. He is not common folk."

This time, his mother's smile faded slightly, replaced by a meaningful expression. Her gaze met Rhaegar's, and in that silence, a painful understanding passed between them.

"Princes," Rhaella said softly, "also do not always get what they want."

Rhaegar's heart felt heavy.

He knew. Of course he knew. He was the Dragon Prince, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and he was powerless.

He could not get what he wanted. He desperately wanted to make this kingdom more prosperous than it was. After his enlightening encounter with Jaime Lannister, he had begun to think of new ideas. Ideas about schools, about new ways to make the smallfolk more prosperous, believing that true strength came from a happy populace, not a feared one.

He had made plans, careful and sensible plans. And he had even dared to tell his father one of those plans.

But his father always refused. He did not even listen. He just laughed, that dry laugh, and said it was 'nonsensical'. He called Rhaegar a naive dreamer. Rhaegar was certain his father had not even heard half of what he had said.

Princes do not always get what they want. No.

Rhaegar swallowed his frustration, forcing a smile for his mother. The room suddenly felt too stuffy.

"Are you not going out for a walk, Mother?" Rhaegar changed the subject. "The weather is so fine this morning. The sky is clear. I think it would make your face glow."

Rhaella chuckled softly at the slightly awkward compliment. "Oh. So my face is not glowing now?" Rhaella teased.

"That is not what I meant," Rhaegar chuckled along, feeling a little relieved. "It is just... it would be good to bask in the morning sun. Would it not? The air is fresh."

Rhaella's smile softened, but she shook her head. "True, but lately, I prefer it here." She smiled faintly, looking around her spacious yet simple bedchamber. "It is peaceful. And calming."

Rhaegar looked at her. He understood. Peaceful and calming... because Father was not here. Outside, under the bright sun, were the castle gardens, the halls, and the throne room. Places where the King was. This room was the only place where Queen Rhaella could remove her mask and breathe.

Rhaegar nodded, his love for the woman mixing with a helpless anger.

"Then I will not press it."

The door flew open with a sudden slam, hitting the wooden wall, making Rhaegar startle so much he jumped in his chair. In his arms, Viserys's eyes were now wide with shock, his lower lip trembling. The peaceful air in the room evaporated instantly, replaced by a piercing chill.

Their father immediately entered without saying anything, striding into the room like a storm made human. He did not knock. He did not announce his arrival. He just appeared.

His face was filled with a burning rage that he did not hide, or perhaps could no longer hide. It was a mask of pure fury. His skin was flushed, his teeth bared in an unpleasant snarl, and his hands were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white. His brows were truly furrowed, his violet eyes blazed with a mad, unfocused energy.

He did not see Rhaegar. He did not see the Queen. He did not see the babe in his son's arms. He just paced on the Myrish carpet, from the window to the door, his chest heaving with heavy, ragged breaths.

"What is it, Father?" Rhaegar asked, his voice sounding more hesitant than he wanted. He instinctively pulled Viserys closer to his chest.

His father did not answer. He just kept walking, his boots slamming against the wooden floor beneath the carpet.

"Tywin..." his father finally spoke, but he was not speaking to anyone in the room. He was speaking to the ghosts in his head. His voice was low, hoarse with fury. "He... he dared... he suggested I remain quiet."

Rhaegar felt his mother tense beside him. "Quiet... why, Aerys?" His mother looked at her husband with worry, her gentle eyes now filled with a familiar fear.

Rhaegar began to pat Viserys's back gently, a calming rhythm. The child, sensing the tension in the room, began to fuss, letting out a soft whimper, as if about to cry.

"He seems to belittle me so!" Aerys spun around, his eyes finally finding them, but his gaze was wild. "He thinks that I perhaps cannot handle a small matter like this. He thinks I am incompetent in my own rooms!"

Aerys was still talking to himself, raving.

Rhaegar and his mother looked at each other. A glance, just a fraction of a second, but filled with painful understanding. Say nothing. They did not try to dig any further. It was useless when Aerys was like this. Asking would only turn his anger upon them. They had to wait for the storm to find its own direction.

And the storm found it.

"Darklyn!" Aerys spat the name as if it were poison. "Darklyn of Duskendale! He does not want to pay his taxes! How dare he!"

He stopped pacing and pointed to the window, as if he could see Duskendale from here. "And not just that! He also asks for the same privileges as Dorne for Duskendale! Something ridiculous! They are mad! There is something wrong with their thinking. Who do they think they are?"

He laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound. "So," he continued, his tone now shifting to sharp sarcasm, "he invites me. He invites me to go there. To speak of it."

Rhaegar frowned. This... this was dangerous. Far more dangerous than just a usual fit of anger. "That makes no sense, Father," he said softly, trying to sound reasonable. "A King should not answer such a summons. It is beneath your dignity."

"I will go!" Aerys roared, refuting Rhaegar directly. "I will go, and I will show Tywin Lannister how a king handles a trivial matter like this! I will look Darklyn in the eye and remind him who sits the Iron Throne!"

He began to pace again, now with a new purpose. "I will show that Lion that my vassals are all men who hold loyalty to their king, not to his Hand! And with me going myself, I guarantee that this matter will be finished quickly. They will kneel!"

"You do not need to do that, Aerys," Rhaella suggested, her voice soft, trying to calm him. She finally stood, her hand outstretched as if to touch her husband's arm. "Lord Tywin is right. This is an insult. Simply summon Lord Darklyn here if he truly wishes to speak. Let him come to you."

It was a fatal mistake.

"QUIET!"

The shout was so loud, thundering in the quiet room, bouncing off the stone walls. It was so sudden and full of malice that it made Rhaegar flinch.

Viserys, who had only been whimpering, now choked on a sob of shock, his small face turning red with fear.

Aerys turned on his wife, his eyes narrowing to purple slits full of rage. "You!" he hissed, pointing at Rhaella with a trembling finger. "Do you also belittle me like Tywin? You think I cannot handle things like this? Why do you always have the same thoughts as him? Hah, Rhaella? Are you fond of that man?! Do you prefer to listen to him rather than your husband, rather than your King?!"

The accusation hung in the air, vile and venomous.

"Aerys, this is ridiculous," his mother defended herself, her voice wavering but she did not back down. "What I suggest is the thought of any sane person."

"SO YOU MEAN I AM MAD?!" Aerys screamed again, his voice breaking with rage.

And that was the breaking point. Viserys could not hold it in any longer. The fear was too great. The babe finally cried. Not a small cry, but a loud, shrieking wail, full of pure terror, filling the tense silence after the King's scream.

All eyes, Rhaegar's frightened eyes, Rhaella's wounded eyes, and Aerys's furious eyes, turned to the crying babe.

Aerys's anger, which had been aimed at Tywin and Rhaella, now found a new reason.

"See?!" he snapped, now at Rhaella. "This is your fault! You made him cry with your mad talk! Always opposing me!" He covered his ears as if the crying physically pained him. "Quiet him before the realm collapses from his noise! Quiet him!"

And with that, King Aerys II Targaryen turned. He strode out of the room, slamming the door hard behind him. The sound of the slam echoed, leaving a deafening silence.

Rhaegar and Rhaella were left alone in the once-peaceful room. The only remaining sound was the desperate, unending cry of Viserys.

...

Viserys's crying finally subsided, his shrieks changing to pitiful little sobs, muffled against his mother's shoulder. Queen Rhaella swayed with a desperate, rhythmic motion, patting the babe's back, her eyes closed as if she were trying to block out not just the sound, but the reality of what had just happened. The silence Aerys left behind felt louder than his screams.

Rhaegar stood stiffly. The air in the room felt thick. He felt suffocated.

"I...I..." his own voice sounded hoarse, foreign to his own ears. "I am going out, Mother." He had to get out. He had to breathe. I need fresh air, he thought, an almost desperate thought. I must get away from this room before these walls collapse on me.

Rhaella did not open her eyes, but she nodded slowly. "Yes, Rhaegar. Go." Her voice sounded incredibly tired, as thin as a silk thread. "I will put Viserys to sleep. He... he must be tired."

Tired. Yes. We are all tired.

Nodding without further questions, Rhaegar turned. He spoke no words of comfort. What words were there? Everything had been said. He walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him, a courtesy that felt absurd after the violent slam his father had made.

The corridor outside felt cold. He walked deep in thought, barely seeing where he was going. This was the same as before. A dreadful pattern. Rhaegar had seen this time and time again, his father's explosive anger without provocation and the wild accusations. He was used to it.

And yet, his heart still felt heavy. Each time, it felt a little heavier, another piece of him chipped away.

He walked, ignoring the soldiers standing at their posts. He saw them glance at him from the corners of their eyes, seeing their disheveled Prince emerge from the Queen's chambers after the King had left in a rage. They must have heard the screaming. The entire Red Keep must have heard it. Shame mixed with his anger.

He did not know where he was going. The gardens? His chambers? Perhaps to the training yard, to hit something with a sword until his hands bled. He just needed to keep moving.

And then, there, at the intersection of the corridor that led to the royal quarters and the Tower of the Hand, he saw him.

Tywin Lannister.

The man was walking alone, without guards, his stride steady and purposeful. He wore a rich yet severe black and gold doublet. He seemed to be walking back toward the Tower of the Hand, his lair, the place from which he truly ruled the kingdom.

Rhaegar stopped. Part of him wanted to turn, to avoid this man, to avoid any conversation. But another part, a desperate part, held him in place.

"Lord Hand." Rhaegar's voice was formal, strained. He gave a slight bow, a stiff movement.

Tywin Lannister stopped. He turned to face the Prince, the calm on his face a perfect mirror to the chaos Rhaegar had just witnessed. He did not seem surprised to see Rhaegar here. He nodded, a brief acknowledgment of Rhaegar's station.

Then, those pale green eyes assessed him. Tywin looked at Rhaegar's face unabashedly, his gaze sharp and analytical, as if observing every angle and fissure in the Prince's face. Looking for cracks.

"A difficult day, my Prince?"

Tywin's voice was low and flat. It was still morning, the sun had not even reached its zenith, and Tywin spoke thus. As usual, it felt as if the person before Rhaegar knew everything. He knew what had happened. He knew why Rhaegar's day was difficult. Of course he knew. He was the one who started it by suggesting the King remain quiet.

Rhaegar did not answer the question. It did not need an answer. Instead, another question, a much heavier one, escaped his lips before he could stop it.

"My father cannot be stopped, can he?"

It sounded almost like a statement, an admission of defeat.

Lord Tywin did not answer immediately. He looked into the distance, down the corridor, as if considering his words. Then, he began to walk again, slowly, and Rhaegar instinctively found himself walking beside him, moving together toward the Tower of the Hand.

"Know this, Prince," Tywin said, his voice still low, intended only for Rhaegar's ears. "That I have already tried to advise him. I offered the most logical counsel. However, it seems to never work. As before."

"Was he like this, before?" Rhaegar asked, his voice soft. He knew the answer. Of course he knew his father was not like this before, this had only emerged two years ago. But he wanted to hear it directly from his father's childhood friend. From the man who had ruled beside his father for so many years.

Tywin seemed to think for a moment, his hard face showing no emotion. "No," he said finally. "Before, he was ambitious. He was bold. He... listened. He used to listen more to the opinions of others, especially mine. Now... that mind is like... more closed."

"He has many thoughts," Rhaegar said, trying, for one last time, to offer some justification on his father's behalf.

"We all have many thoughts," Tywin nodded, dismissing the justification with cold logic. "But the King seems to have fallen too deep into his own thoughts, such that it makes him... a little tired."

Tired. That word again. Rhaegar felt a bitter laugh rise. "He relieves his tiredness with rather unusual things, it seems." Like shouting at Mother until she cried. Like terrorizing his own children.

Tywin ignored the bitterness in Rhaegar's tone.

"I think," Tywin then looked directly into Rhaegar's eyes, that pale green gaze locking him in, "that he does indeed need..." The man paused, letting the words hang between them.

"...A brief rest."

Tywin stared at him, unblinking. "Is that not so?"

Rhaegar slowed his pace slightly. His breath caught. Suddenly, he could not breathe. The air in the corridor felt as thin as on the highest mountain peak. His chest pounded a little harder.

He knew what had just been said. He knew what those words meant. A brief rest. This was not an invitation for a summer holiday to Dragonstone. This was not a suggestion to get more sleep.

This was a border. A line drawn on the stone floor.

He looked into the eyes of his father's Hand, the second most powerful man in the kingdom, and he saw a cold understanding there. This was dangerous. This was treason. These were words that could cost them both their heads.

Tywin Lannister was offering him a choice. An alliance.

Rhaegar thought of his mother, sitting alone in a dark room, holding a frightened babe. He thought of his father, gone to destroy himself and perhaps the kingdom with him.

He made a decision.

"Yes." Rhaegar's voice was steady, steadier than he expected. He met Tywin's gaze, Prince meeting Hand. "He does indeed need to rest for a while."

Tywin already knows Rhaegar well enough to know that he also 'hates' his father, so he dares to speak like that and is very sure Rhaegar will agree. Besides, it is not like they are planning to kill the king... right?

​

Chapter Text

Father was gone.

Rhaegar watched from the high window of his chambers. Down below, in the dusty courtyard, the small retinue looked pitiful for a King. Only Ser Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard, a few sworn swords, and King Aerys himself. No pomp, no great banners. Only the arrogance of a man convinced that his mere presence was enough to make Lord Darklyn kneel in terror.

Rhaegar said nothing. He just watched them leave in silence, his hands gripping the cold stone of the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. He saw his father's hunched back atop his horse, his tangled silver hair blowing in the wind. It was a pitiful sight, yet also terrifying.

His mind spun, returning to the brief, yet monumental conversation he had with Lord Tywin Lannister on the walk to the tower.

'A brief rest.'

The words felt heavy on his tongue, even just in thought. It was a polite word for a coup. A soft takeover of power. Treason.

They had not spoken since that day. Rhaegar had purposefully avoided him. He needed time to steady himself, to let the reality of what he had agreed to seep into his bones. This was momentous. If they failed, their heads would adorn spikes above the gates of the Red Keep before the new moon.

He turned from the window, leaving the sight of his king riding toward potential disaster. He had to move now. It was time to stop being an observer and start being a player.

Rhaegar walked out of his chambers. The corridors of the Red Keep felt quiet, as if the castle itself was holding its breath. He passed the door to his mother's chambers. He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the polished wood. He could hear faint sounds from within, perhaps his Mother singing softly to Viserys, or perhaps she was just weeping again.

A sharp pang of guilt pierced his chest. 'What would she think if she knew?' Rhaegar asked himself. Would she see this as salvation, or as the ultimate betrayal of a son against his father? He dared not knock. He could not look his mother in the eye right now, not with such dark plans swirling in his head.

He squared his shoulders and walked on.

The Tower of the Hand loomed before him, a sturdy and efficient structure, much like its occupant. Rhaegar nodded to the Lannister guards stationed at the door; they wore crimson and gold, not the white of the Kingsguard, a reminder of who truly held power here.

He knocked on the thick oak door.

"Enter." The voice from within was calm, flat, and full of authority.

Rhaegar opened the door. Lord Tywin Lannister was seated behind his massive desk, surrounded by neat stacks of parchment and paper. He was writing a letter, his quill moving with precise, sharp strokes. He did not immediately look up when Rhaegar entered, finishing his sentence first before carefully placing the quill into its inkwell.

"Lord Hand," Rhaegar greeted, taking the chair opposite the desk without being asked.

Tywin looked at him, his pale green eyes flecked with gold showing no emotion whatsoever. "Prince Rhaegar."

"He is gone," Rhaegar said, needing no explanation of who 'he' was.

"Yes. A mistake, as I suspected. Darklyn is a stubborn and proud man. He will not respond well to empty threats."

"So how do we handle this?" Rhaegar cut straight to the point. He had no patience for word games today.

"It requires time," Tywin replied calmly, leaning back in his chair. "And many people we need to convince. We cannot just move in the shadows. We need the support, or at least, the indifference of the great Lords."

"Yes, but how?" Rhaegar pressed, frustration beginning to seep into his voice.

Tywin looked at him for a moment, assessing his impatience. "Your role here is more vital than mine, Prince. As his son, as his heir... your words carry the most weight. Your reputation, the melancholic and noble Dragon Prince, makes you far more believable than I, whom they see only as a politician."

Rhaegar gave a cynical smile, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "A dutiful and poetic son, you mean? You want me to play the role of the concerned son while we plot his downfall?"

Tywin's face did not change. He ignored the sarcasm as if it were a small, annoying fly. "First, we must wait. Let Aerys deal with Duskendale."

He leaned forward slightly. "His temper is already an open secret among the small council, but we need to provoke him further. We need to show the world, the Lords Paramount, that the King is indeed unstable. That he is dangerous to himself and the realm."

"We do not need to provoke him," Rhaegar said flatly, remembering the scene in his mother's chambers. "We just need to look at him, and he will be emotional. He sees treachery in every shadow."

"Good," Tywin said coldly. "Then our task is easy. We just need to ensure there are enough important witnesses when he next explodes. We let him make poor decisions in public." He paused for a moment, as if calculating costs in his head. "Of course, not so poor as to destroy the realm. At most a few hundred thousand gold dragons. Damage that can be repaired."

Rhaegar stared at him in disbelief. "You want to waste all that gold just for this? For a show?"

"It is worth it," Tywin replied without hesitation. "Rather than letting the kingdom slowly crumble from within due to one man's madness. Gold can be replaced. Stability cannot."

Rhaegar fell silent. He saw the logic behind it. It was ruthless, but effective. "Fine. The coins will be borne by you, I assume."

Tywin gave a small nod.

"And now," Rhaegar continued, "how are we to convince the other great Lords? The Lords Paramount will not come to King's Landing just because we ask them to. They need a reason."

"As before," Tywin said, his eyes refocusing on Rhaegar, "your brother will be the reason."

"Huh?" Rhaegar frowned, confused. "Viserys? He is still a babe. How can he..."

"He will have a name day soon," Tywin cut in. "Therefore, a great feast will occur, as befitting his birth. Aerys always demands grandeur, does he not? He wants to show his power, his wealth. This time, I will grant it. I will give him the feast he dreams of."

Tywin adjusted his seat, his tone shifting to something almost resembling the satisfaction of a thinker seeing his plans materialize. "We will hold a tourney. The most prestigious tourney this realm has seen in recent years. The prizes will be vast, enough to attract every knight from Dorne to The Wall."

He looked at Rhaegar sharply. "The feast will be so grand that it would be considered an insult if the Lords Paramount did not come. They would not dare refuse an invitation to honor the new Prince. They certainly would not want to upset the King with their absence."

Rhaegar understood now. It was brilliant. And cunning. Using Viserys's innocence as bait to draw political sharks into one pool.

"Sending ravens for business like this is foolish," Rhaegar muttered, fully realizing the plan. "But a tourney... it is the perfect excuse to gather without arousing suspicion."

"Precisely."

Rhaegar felt a fresh wave of guilt. He was using his own brother, an unwitting babe, as a pawn in this dangerous game. But he brushed it aside. 'This is the price to pay to save them all,' he thought.

He looked at Tywin Lannister, the man sitting across from him with terrifying calm. This man was willing to spend unimaginable wealth just to bring down his king.

"You seem very eager for my father to rest, yes?" Rhaegar finally voiced his deepening suspicion. "What exactly has he done to you, personally? This is more than just politics, is it not?"

For the first time, Tywin's mask cracked slightly. A flash of emotion, something dark, hot, and full of hatred, crossed his green eyes before disappearing again.

"Do not feign ignorance, Prince," he said, his voice slightly sharper than before. "I deal with his insults every day. In open court, before the council. Aerys seems intent on destroying me, degrading me at every opportunity. Perhaps he truly does want to."

He took a slow breath, steadying himself back into an efficient ice statue. "But beyond all that, I also want this realm to continue functioning in the future. I have spent too much of my time, too much of my energy, building this stability. I will not let him burn it just because he is in a foul mood."

Rhaegar knew that was true. He had seen the insults himself. But that last sentence... there was something hanging there. Tywin's ambition was never just about serving the realm. It was always about House Lannister.

"I doubt you wish to spend your precious resources just to see me ascend the Iron Throne out of the goodness of your heart," Rhaegar said, leaning forward, challenging the lion in his own den. "So, Lord Hand, tell me. What is the price? What do you want once I sit the Throne?"

Tywin stared at him. Silence stretched between them, heavy and calculating.

"It is simple," Tywin replied. His voice was heavy, full of non-negotiable certainty. "I want only one thing. When you become King... I want you to make my daughter a queen."

Rhaegar fell silent. He should have guessed. Cersei Lannister.

He thought for a moment. Marrying the daughter of the most powerful man in the realm, a beautiful and from the wealthiest family. Politically, it was the most sensible move. It would bind the Lannisters to the Throne forever.

And compared to the risks they were taking, it was a cheap price.

Rhaegar looked into Tywin's eyes, seeing the naked ambition there. "Just that?"

Tywin did not blink. "Just that."

...

It was suffocating, Jaime thought, loosening the collar of his doublet which felt a little too tight. He could feel it, that gaze. Sharp, small, and full of disproportionate hatred for someone barely chest-high.

Petyr Baelish was glaring at him from across the hall of Riverrun as if Jaime had just stolen his favorite toy and burned it in front of him. Since the first day of his arrival, since Catelyn introduced them, those sly little eyes had scrutinized Jaime a hundred times, weighing him, measuring him, and clearly finding him severely lacking, or perhaps too excessive.

Jaime knew, with his strange and cursed future knowledge, that the boy was a ticking time bomb. In that television show, Littlefinger was an architect of chaos, a man who would burn the world just to be king of the ashes. But here, now? He was just a scrawny boy from The Fingers, overly obsessed with the daughter of the Lord who fostered him.

He hadn't done anything yet. He was still innocent, technically.

Jaime sighed softly. What approach should he take? Kill him in his sleep? Too extreme, even by Westerosi standards. Lecture him? Ridiculous. He could imagine the flat, condescending look the boy would give if he tried to offer life advice. Jaime, the golden heir of Casterly Rock, trying to tell a poor boy about life? It would only add fuel to the fire of his hatred.

He shook his head, feeling dizzy. Children were harder to predict than politicians. He would think about it later. Right now, he had a more pressing problem.

Dancing.

They were in the great hall which had been converted into a makeshift ballroom. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the corner. Jaime felt ridiculous in his bright red Lannister garb, complete with flashy gold lion embroidery. His father insisted he wear it to "show the pride of our House," but Jaime just felt like a walking target.

"Are you ready?" Sherra's voice, soft yet firm, broke his reverie.

Jaime fought the strong urge to snort. 'No, I'm absolutely not ready. I would rather fight three men at once than do this.' But he smiled politely.

He faced Catelyn Tully. The girl was beautiful, with auburn hair that gleamed under the torchlight and clear blue eyes. They were nearly of a height now, making eye contact unavoidable. Jaime stiffly took her arm as instructed, feeling like a wooden doll.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petyr paired with Lysa. Lysa's face was beaming, a stark contrast to Petyr's expression hidden behind a mask of politeness.

"Are you well, my Lord?" Catelyn's voice was soft, drawing his attention back. There was a hint of worry in her eyes.

"I was just thinking that I am likely to step on your feet," Jaime replied, deciding that honesty, or at least some of it, was the best policy.

Catelyn giggled, a light and pleasant sound. "How could someone like you do that?"

"You do not know the half of it, My Lady," Jaime said with a wry grin. "I am terrible at dancing, clumsy and awkward. I might embarrass you in front of everyone."

Catelyn laughed again, more freely this time. "Then just relax, follow me, let me lead."

"Good," Jaime said, feeling a little relieved. "That will save us all."

The music began, a slow and graceful tune designed not to be too difficult for beginners. Jaime let Catelyn guide him. He emptied his mind, focusing only on the steps, one-two-three, one-two-three. It was... not as bad as he feared. He wasn't good, far from it, but he wasn't tripping over his own feet either.

He was normal. And in this situation, normal was a major victory.

When the music stopped, Sherra offered polite praise and a few gentle corrections about his posture. Jaime nodded obediently, then quickly escaped to the refreshments table at the side of the room.

He poured himself some plain water and drank it slowly, feeling the cold sweat on his back begin to dry.

"This is exhausting," he muttered as Catelyn joined him.

"More exhausting than sword training?" Catelyn asked, taking a glass for herself.

"Yes, sword training doesn't drain your mental energy," Jaime asserted. "Must be hard doing this every day, yes?"

Catelyn looked up from her glass, slightly surprised. "No, actually I like it, dancing is easier than anything else I usually do."

"Oh? The reason?"

"With dancing," she said, her eyes sparkling slightly, "you just have to follow the rhythm of the music while maintaining the tempo."

"You certainly seem good at it," Jaime admitted. He then glanced toward the dance floor, where Petyr was talking to Lysa who looked disappointed that the dance had ended. "And him too."

Catelyn followed his gaze. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a small frown on her forehead. "Petyr, he is good at things like this, he is also great at sums."

"You seem to know him well," Jaime said, his tone neutral.

"I suppose, he is like my own little brother."

Jaime gave a faint smile, seeing the sad irony there. "A little brother who doesn't want his big sister to leave, it seems."

Catelyn turned to him sharply, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, Lord Jaime?"

Jaime drank the rest of his water again. "I see him constantly staring at you, Cat. Then at me, that look so piercing as if he wants to tear me apart."

Catelyn's face paled slightly. "Petyr doesn't mean to do it." Her voice sounded weak.

"Does he always do that?" Jaime decided to dig deeper, his voice soft but urgent.

Catelyn bit her lip gently, looking uncomfortable. "He has been strange lately, he always surprises me and appears suddenly."

"And...?" Jaime motioned for her to continue. And honestly, it did sound creepy. Petyr's obsession seemed to have already begun.

"And, and he seems to not like you. He said that, when we spoke earlier."

"Does all that bother you? I mean when he surprises you?" Jaime asked, looking directly into her eyes.

"Honestly..." Catelyn took a breath, grappling with her own feelings. "Yes. But I do not know what to do."

"We must speak of this with your father," Jaime said firmly. This was also to neutralize future problems, Petyr was still a child, he didn't deserve to be humiliated.

Catelyn looked surprised, but she nodded slowly.

As always. Thank you for reading. :)

Chapter Text

The next day, the afternoon air felt pleasant to breathe in Lord Hoster Tully's private solar. The room smelled of fresh flowers and beeswax, with warm sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

They were currently not seated behind a massive desk cluttered with parchment and paper, a symbol of formal power. Instead, they were on a set of comfortable sofas arranged around a low table. Here, it seemed Hoster wanted to show that they would soon be family, which meant rigid formalities could be relaxed a little.

At least, that was what Jaime thought.

"So your main goal right now is just the spread of... this paper?" Hoster asked, leaning forward. His brown hair, beginning to gray at the temples, was neatly trimmed, and he looked relaxed yet still attentive.

"Yes, for now. Production takes time, and raw materials are key," Jaime nodded, sipping the water that had been served. They were making small talk as if they were a favorite uncle and nephew having a reunion, not two people negotiating the economic future of two major regions. "The Riverlands' soil is fertile and wet, perfect for growing flax in large quantities. If you could play a role in facilitating this with your bannermen, Lord Tully, this would be achieved much faster. We can ensure the supply never breaks for the new mills we are planning."

Hoster nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming at the potential profit. "That is easily arranged. There is plenty of unused, underutilized land. My lords will be happy with the prospect of a profitable new cash crop."

Jaime smiled, adjusting his seat, Tygett next to him. Business concluded. Now, the hard part.

He glanced at Catelyn, who was sitting beside her father. The girl had been quiet since earlier, her hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to the men's talk with the politeness she had been taught.

"By the way, Lord Hoster," Jaime began. "There is something else I wish to discuss. Something a little more... personal."

Hoster's eyebrows raised. "If it is about another business plan, just say it, lad. I am listening."

Jaime shook his head gently. "No, it is not about coin. It is about your ward. Petyr Baelish."

A momentary silence blanketed the room. Hoster and Tygett looked slightly surprised by this sharp change of topic.

"Petyr?" Hoster frowned, confused. "What has the boy done? Has he offended you somehow?"

"I enjoy being here, truly. Riverrun's hospitality is wonderful," Jaime began with honesty. "But Baelish... he seems very uncomfortable with my presence. I have felt his gaze everywhere since I arrived. It is not the curious gaze of a child, My Lord. It is sharp, piercing, as if he is assessing me, and finding me a threat."

Hoster looked skeptical. "He is just a small boy from The Fingers, Jaime. Perhaps he is just intimidated by the heir to Casterly Rock."

"I thought so at first," Jaime continued, pressing slightly. "But I asked Lady Catelyn if this behavior was normal for him. It turns out it is not. He seems to dislike anyone else standing too close to your daughter."

Hoster's expression changed in an instant. From confused to alert. He turned sharply to his daughter. "So... Petyr likes Cat? In that sense?"

"More like he dislikes that someone else is playing with his friend," Jaime corrected quickly. "It is possessive behavior that might be normal for children who grew up together, but Baelish... is a bit excessive. Catelyn can explain it better than I."

All eyes were now on Catelyn. The girl seemed to shrink a little under the sudden spotlight. She bit her lip, her eyes darting from her father to Jaime, then back to her wringing hands. She was clearly struggling between loyalty to her childhood friend and the discomfort she had just realized.

Finally, she let out a soft sigh, relenting. "Petyr... he has been a little strange lately, Father."

Hoster's jaw tightened. "What do you mean 'strange', Cat? What has he done to you?"

"Oh, he has never hurt me, never," Catelyn hastily added, fearing her father's anger. "It is just that... he is always there. Everywhere. He appears suddenly when I am alone in the garden, or waits for me outside my chambers just to 'chat'. He will ask to play games we played when we were small, or ask me to sing along, even when I say I must go."

Uncle Tygett, in his deep voice, finally spoke up. "That is excessive behavior for a boy his age, Hoster. Especially considering their difference in status. The daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident should not be stalked by a minor lord's son, no matter how long they have known each other."

"True," Jaime agreed, locking eyes with Hoster. "If we allow this, rumors could start. one servant misspeaking could see him 'appearing' where he should not be when Lady Catelyn is alone... it could harm her reputation."

Hoster's face reddened. Jaime knew he was a proud man, and the protection of his children, especially his eldest daughter, was paramount. "I will send him home," he growled, his hands clenching on his knees. "Tomorrow. I will send him back to his father's miserable pile of rocks."

'Don't be too eager, uncle.' Jaime thought. He didn't want to destroy the boy's life completely; he just wanted to tame him. Sending him home now might only accelerate his transformation into a vengeful monster.

"That is too hasty, Lord Hoster," Jaime cut in gently.

Hoster looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean? You brought this matter to me yourself."

"True, but so far Petyr has done nothing but be a creepy nuisance. He hasn't crossed any unforgivable physical lines," Jaime assured him, using his most reasonable tone of voice. "Destroying his future over a childish crush... that might be too harsh. He is still a child, he cannot think clearly about the consequences of his actions yet."

'A bit ironic,' Jaime thought, 'considering I am technically also still a 'child' in their eyes.'

"Children are indeed careless and foolish. It is our duty as their elders to remind them of their place," Tygett added. "What about a more mundane solution? Give Lady Catelyn a personal guard. Someone who is always with her outside her chambers. That will stop Baelish from inappropriate behavior without needing to make a huge fuss."

Hoster's shoulders relaxed slightly, though anger still smoldered in his eyes. He considered the proposal for a moment. "A guard... yes. That makes sense. It sends a clear message without needing to publicly shame House Baelish."

He nodded firmly. "I will do it. Not just for Cat. Lysa will also get her own personal guard starting today. I do not want to take any chances."

Lysa too? Jaime thought that was an unexpected development, but very welcome.

...

"Is this wise?" Catelyn asked as they both walked side-by-side down the cold stone halls of Riverrun. Her voice echoed softly off the walls, full of doubt.

Jaime walked beside her, adjusting his pace to match hers. Inwardly, another part of him, his darker part, the part that had seen this world burn, thought that if Petyr were older, removing him permanently would be much easier. He wouldn't feel a shred of guilt to prevent future chaos.

Well... maybe. At most, he would just vomit.

But right now? He was just facing a heartbroken little boy. Jaime had no better path that didn't involve unnecessary cruelty. At least now Hoster Tully was aware and would keep an eye on the boy. And if Baelish still dared to try anything... well, Jaime wasn't helpless. He was a Lannister. He had far more important problems, like preventing an ice apocalypse and perhaps a civil war, than just dealing with obsessive childhood romances.

It was a rather cold thought, Jaime admitted, but that was the bitter reality he had to accept in this second life.

"It is very wise, Cat," Jaime assured her in a gentle but firm tone. "With supervision, at least Petyr can truly focus on his studies here, instead of being distracted by... other things. We are helping him, in our own way."

Catelyn bit her lower lip, looking unsure. "Petyr is clever. He might soon know what really happened and who suggested it. He will hold a grudge against you," she whispered, as if afraid Petyr would pop out from behind a pillar's shadow.

That made sense. Jaime had already calculated this. He came to Riverrun, and suddenly Catelyn and Lysa had personal guards blocking Petyr's access? Only a fool wouldn't be able to connect the dots, and Petyr Baelish was no fool.

If Petyr grew up to have the same power as in that TV show, certainly Jaime had just created a troublesome new enemy. But Jaime had the advantage of time, power, and nearly unlimited money. He could handle one angry little boy.

Jaime shook his head and chuckled softly, trying to melt Catelyn's tension. "Let him. I have experienced worse things than the angry stare of a boy."

'Far worse,' he thought. In his past life, he had faced hysterical parents, a deadly education system, and a salary barely enough to live on. This beta version of Littlefinger's grudge was nothing yet. Besides, being a Lannister meant half the realm already hated you out of envy; one more wouldn't make a difference.

They walked in silence for a while, until Catelyn spoke again, new determination in her voice. "I will try to speak to Petyr again. Perhaps if I explain it well, I can open his mind so he does not misunderstand."

Jaime stopped abruptly.

'You are so kind, Cat,' Jaime thought, feeling a mix of pity and frustration. 'Even after he made you uncomfortable, you still think of his feelings.'

He turned to face Catelyn, looking into her clear blue eyes full of good intentions. A vague memory from that TV show flashed in his mind, Catelyn Stark freeing Jaime Lannister in the naive hope that it would save her daughters, an act based on a mother's love but fatal to her son's war effort. It was a dangerous pattern: good intentions backfiring due to a lack of foresight.

He had to stop that habit now, before it started.

"Listen, Cat," Jaime said, his voice serious. "Sometimes... sometimes it is better for someone to just stay quiet than to do something. Do you understand what I mean?"

Catelyn blinked, confused. "But he is my friend... I do not want him to have bad thoughts about you, or about us."

"I know," Jaime sighed. "But if you go to him now, when he is angry and feeling left out, you will only give him false hope or make him even angrier. Sometimes, people need space to calm down on their own. You cannot 'fix' everyone's feelings just by talking to them."

"That hatred, if it exists, will only be temporary," Jaime continued, trying to sound convinced even though he knew Baelish was an extremely vengeful type. "Everything will be fine. Let your father and time handle it now. You have done your part honestly."

Catelyn looked at him for a long time, searching for reassurance in his face. Finally, she nodded slowly in silence, though doubt still lingered in her eyes.

Jaime could only hope that advice was enough for now.

----

We will see what happens in King's Landing in the next chapter. As always. Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

TYWIN

Fifteen days later. The Small Council chamber was tense, the air as heavy as hot iron. It was as if everyone was holding a deep breath, and no one dared to exhale it. On the large table in the center of the room, a map of Duskendale and the coastal regions of the Crownlands lay unfurled, untouched cups standing like forgotten cyvasse pieces.

This was a dire situation, an emergency, a crisis that had never entered their considerations before. And yet, if Tywin Lannister were to be honest in the silence of his own mind, this chaos... was deeply satisfying.

For years he had endured Aerys's escalating madness. And now, Aerys, in his infinite foolishness, had decided to walk alone into the viper's nest, ignoring his Hand's counsel. Aerys had wanted to prove he was still in charge, that he did not need Tywin Lannister.

The result? He was now a captive. It was poetic justice that almost made Tywin smile.

"We must act immediately. This is an unforgivable violation." Lord Chelsted, the Master of Coin, finally broke the suffocating silence. "Who would have thought that a refusal to pay taxes could push Lord Darklyn to such a reckless decision?"

"Men can do foolish things when faced with money problems," said Edward Rambton, the Master of Whisperers. He was a middle-aged man with brown hair that was beginning to turn white.

"Darklyn has killed a Kingsguard." Gerold Hightower's voice, the Lord Commander, sounded like grinding gravel. His jaw was clenched tight with rage, his white cloak seeming stiff on his broad shoulders. "He spilled sacred blood. If he steps any further than this, House Darklyn will pay."

Ser Gwayne Gaunt was dead. Stabbed in the castle courtyard, according to whispers that managed to escape Duskendale's walls. Darklyn had not mentioned that in his letter of demands, of course. But this was information that could be confirmed, as the source was reliable. The King's small retinue, Aerys, Ser Gwayne, a few soldiers, and several servants, were immediately ambushed upon entering the main gate by Darklyn's men. They didn't even have a chance to defend themselves.

Aerys had insisted on going with only one Kingsguard, wanting to show "royal courage" and settle this tax issue personally. Tywin had advised him against it, saying it was beneath a King's dignity to haggle with a petty lord over taxes. But Aerys, wanting to prove he didn't need Tywin's protection, departed nonetheless.

And now Aerys was there, perhaps in a damp dungeon, chained like a common criminal, or in a high tower. Tywin did not care where exactly.

But for now, he had to play his role as the loyal and competent Hand of the King.

Tywin finally spoke. His voice was flat, cold, yet instantly dominated the room, cutting through all the anxiety. "Darklyn demands that Duskendale be granted a new city charter. He demands privileges identical to Dorne, freedom from crown taxes, the right to administer his own justice, and full control over his port. Utterly unreasonable demands."

He paused, letting the absurdity of the request sink in. "In his letter, he states he will release the King if his terms are met. And also," he added, with a faint, almost imperceptible note of sarcasm, "if the King and the entire Council swear not to raise banners in retaliation."

"As if he believes he can walk out of this alive after killing a Kingsguard and taking the King hostage." The voice came from Rhaegar Targaryen. The Prince was beside Gerold Hightower, his posture stiff. His face was pale, but his purple eyes were sharp. "If we actually grant his wishes, even partially, a terrible precedent will be set. Other dissatisfied Houses will do the same every time they want something. It would be the end of the Seven Kingdoms."

Silence fell over them again as they contemplated the implications of Rhaegar's words.

Then Lord Chelsted nodded, "Then... then the only way is to demand Darklyn surrender unconditionally. Or we storm the castle if they refuse."

"It is my father who is hostage, Lord Chelsted!" Rhaegar raised his voice, a sharp tone rarely heard from the usually melancholic prince. "A reckless assault will only guarantee the executioner puts his sword to my father's neck before our first soldier reaches the walls!"

Tywin nodded slowly, his face a stone mask. "The Prince is correct. We cannot rush into a decision. The King's safety is paramount."

It was the sentence he had to say. If they stormed the castle now, Aerys would certainly be harmed or, even better, dead. Darklyn would be executed, and Rhaegar would be king.

Tywin also knew the other game. If they just sat here, negotiating endlessly, time would also run thin. The patience of both sides, especially the cornered Darklyn, would erode bit by bit. There, Darklyn's fear that he would not get what he wanted would escalate.

When fear takes over, harming Aerys might be seen by Darklyn as the only way to make his demands truly heard. And for Tywin, both scenarios, a failed assault or deteriorating negotiations, both held the same potential for a favorable outcome: The King could be killed.

Tywin dearly wanted to just sit still, but that was impossible, so he took the middle path. A siege.

"We will try sending another raven to Darklyn," Tywin said sharply, deciding the course of the discussion. His voice was steel. "We will refuse all his demands. We do not negotiate with traitors. We will demand the King's immediate and unconditional release."

"While he contemplates our refusal, we will gather the full strength of the Crownlands' soldiers and summon levies from other regions. We will assemble at the gates of Duskendale. We will besiege him tightly. We will give him immense psychological pressure to surrender." Tywin continued, his eyes locking with the Prince's. "A siege gives us time. Time to find an opening, time to make Darklyn think about his actions."

'And during that time,' Tywin thought, 'I myself will lead that siege. I will be there every day. I will ensure the situation becomes chaotic enough, desperate enough, that an 'accident' could happen. It must be done efficiently... Or, I just need to drag this out as long as possible, so that Aerys is killed on his own...'

'Sometimes the simplest way is the most effective.'

...

The entire Red Keep was shrouded in a tense bustle. The echo of hurried footsteps bounced off the stone walls. Lords, Maesters, and servants moved with purpose, but smiles and laughter had vanished from the place, as if they too had been imprisoned with King Aerys behind the walls of Duskendale. The music had stopped. All that remained were quiet whispers in corners and the creak of armor from the guards.

The Small Council meeting had just finished, leaving behind a heavy air and the promise of inevitable conflict.

Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, walked across the cold stone floor. His stride was calm, measured, and authoritative. He was the calm in the swirling chaos.

Behind him, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, like a restless silver shadow, followed. His usually dreamy purple eyes now radiated uncertainty and pent-up energy.

"When will the army march?" Rhaegar asked, his voice quiet but filled with a tone of suppressed demand. He had to quicken his pace slightly to match Tywin's long strides.

Tywin did not stop, did not even turn his head. "In five days," he replied, his tone as flat as a steel plate. "Ships and men cannot be readied in the blink of an eye. Gathering soldiers, securing provisions, assembling siege weapons—it all takes time. Darklyn will not dare do anything to the King for now. He still thinks he is negotiating."

'Five days is actually too fast,' Tywin thought.

Rhaegar nodded stiffly, his chin lifting slightly. "He certainly won't dare do anything right now. But the more time passes, the greater the risk we face. We are talking about a man who abducted his own king and killed a Kingsguard. The longer we delay, the less we know what that mad and desperate man will do."

"Darklyn sealed his own fate the moment his blade touched Ser Gwayne," Tywin paused for a moment near an engraved stone column, his gaze sweeping the busy hall. "He will face the wrath of the entire realm."

'But he will not get that wrath from me,' a thought flashed through Tywin's mind, a veiled promise he never spoke. 'He will get my calculation. And if my calculation says Aerys must die for this realm to survive... then Darklyn is a useful tool.'

As they continued toward the Tower of the Hand, they saw the figure of Ser Barristan Selmy. His cloak and armor seemed dull beneath the hall's torchlight. The Kingsguard's eyes were red from lack of sleep, but he stood tall, shouldering the weight of his armor and his failure with the honor of a true soldier. Exhaustion was plain on him, but his spine remained straight as steel. Tywin gave him a brief appreciation, not for his feelings, but for his unwavering strength.

"Ser Barristan," Tywin greeted with a short nod. Rhaegar nodded in kind.

"Lord Hand. Prince." Barristan's voice was hoarse. "What is the decision?"

Tywin glanced at him, assessing the man. Loyal, brave, and utterly unimaginative. A perfect soldier. "We are in unanimous agreement," Tywin said, his voice leaving no room for debate. "We will refuse all of Darklyn's offers. We will send an army to besiege Duskendale. No negotiations. Everyone must be ready in five days, and then we will march."

Barristan let out a long breath, the weight of the world seeming to lift slightly from his shoulders, replaced by the certainty of action. "Good, Lord Hand. That is the right decision. This event is most unfortunate. We have been at peace for so many years... yet it seems someone did not want that to last."

Rhaegar snorted, a cynical laugh devoid of joy escaping his lips. "Oh, Darklyn wants peace, Ser Barristan. He has stated it very clearly in those letters. Peace at the price of a city charter and full authority."

"Greed brings ruin," Barristan said, sighing again. He looked at Rhaegar, then Tywin, guilt etched on his face. "I had my doubts when His Grace said he would go alone with just his small retinue, Prince. I offered to accompany him and bring more soldiers. I insisted. But it was all flatly refused by the King."

'If it hadn't been refused, you would be dead with your sworn brother,' Tywin silently rebuked. 'Aerys's paranoia has saved the life of another loyal fool, apparently.'

"Nothing could have convinced my father once he'd made such a decision," Rhaegar shook his head in resignation. "He has many of his own thoughts lately. Thoughts that others cannot understand."

"For now, we can only pray he remains safe until we arrive," Barristan agreed, then bowed politely, his heavy armor creaking slightly. "I will go help gather the soldiers, then, Lord Hand, Prince."

After Barristan left, Tywin and Rhaegar turned, taking a quieter corridor toward the Tower of the Hand. Their footsteps echoed in the empty passage. They stopped in Tywin's private solar, a place where they could speak without fear of being overheard. The smell of parchment, old oak, and ink greeted them. Tywin closed the heavy wooden door. The castle's sounds were immediately muffled, leaving a heavy silence.

Rhaegar did not waste time. He did not wait to be offered a seat but went straight to one of the heavy armchairs in front of the desk, nearly collapsing into it. He stared at Tywin, a purple fire burning in his tired eyes.

"I want you to be honest with me, Lord Tywin. On your honor, by the Seven. Do you want to save my father... or not?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and dangerous.

Tywin moved to his chair behind the massive desk, sitting slowly, deliberately. He felt a cold draft from the slightly open high window brush his golden hair. He stared at the Prince.

"I am an old friend of your father's, Prince," Tywin said, his voice calm. "We grew up together. I have served him my entire life."

'I would love to see him die,' Tywin thought, the shadow of Aerys laughing mockingly at him flashing in his mind. 'Slowly, if necessary.'

But the words that came from his mouth were spoken with the caution of a hunter.

"Although he has insulted me much in public," he continued, his green eyes radiating calm. "It does not mean I wish to see him die at the hands of a petty, greedy rebel. I just want to resolve this mess, Prince."

Rhaegar looked at him for a long time, searching for a crack in that stone mask. Finally, he let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumped. He looked like a young man shouldering a burden too heavy.

"With Father as a hostage, our own plans... are in chaos," Rhaegar sighed, his eyes looking weary as he spoke again. His voice was barely a whisper. "I do hate my father, Lord Hand. Seven forgive me, I hate him. I desperately want to replace him as king and carry out all the plans I have thought of for this realm. But..."

He hesitated, as if ashamed to admit his weakness. "But I am not so cruel as to wish him to die like this. After all, he is still my father. And once... long ago... he was a good father."

Tywin just stared, letting the silence fill the room.

'Emotional ties,' he thought to himself, almost feeling pity. 'It's what forms men, and at the same time, it's their greatest inhibitor.'

Prince Rhaegar had just handed over his most potent weapon: his confession. He was bound by love and hate, a paralyzing combination.

And Tywin could use it at any time.

Chapter Text

RHAEGAR

Rhaegar stared at his sword. The blade lay on his desk, looking incredibly dull, as if the ancient steel absorbed any light that dared to touch it, even in the darkness of his chambers.

He felt tired. Not the physical exhaustion from lack of sleep, though there was that too, but a deeper exhaustion, one that seeped into his bones. There was also confusion, and beneath that, a cold anger churned. His grip on the hilt trembled slightly with restrained emotion. He clenched his jaw, so hard he felt his teeth might break.

Standing in the darkness of his room, Rhaegar closed his eyes. The image of his father, foolish and reckless, flashed in his mind. He wanted to curse the man. He wanted to scream in his face for causing the entire kingdom to panic, for letting the situation get to this point, and worst of all, for letting his mother worry herself to death.

His mother had barely slept lately. Rhaegar often saw her at the highest window of her chamber, just standing, staring towards the heavens as if she could will Aerys back with the sheer force of her gaze. And Viserys... his infant brother was quiet in his mother's arms, as if the babe instinctively sensed that something terrible was happening and decided not to be a further burden. A tragic maturity for an infant.

With a suppressed growl, Rhaegar sheathed his sword in one slow movement. He placed it back on the table, right near the window where the first gray sliver of morning light was beginning to enter. He would leave it there and take it when he departed for Duskendale. It would be his reminder for the next four days—no longer the harp, but steel—that he must be ready to use it if things turned chaotic.

And he desperately hoped they wouldn't. Every part of his soul rejected violence, yet every inch of his dragon blood told him it was inevitable.

Turning from his weapon, Rhaegar opened his chamber door. The air in the corridor outside felt richer, fuller with the scents of the waking castle, baking bread, old dust, and the remnants of last night's torch smoke. It filled his lungs, calming him slightly.

He would have breakfast. Breakfast would give him energy, and with energy, he could think more clearly. He had to think for everyone now.

He walked down the quiet corridor. The guard named Orick, standing watch at his door, nodded silently, his eyes beneath the helm full of unspoken worry. Rhaegar nodded briefly in return.

He arrived at his mother and father's chambers. A Kingsguard stood watch here, Ser Jonothor Darry. He saluted. "Prince."

Rhaegar just knocked softly on the thick wooden door. After hearing a quiet answer from within, he entered.

The room was bright. The morning sun flooded the chamber through the large open windows. And there, in the light, stood his mother, Queen Rhaella. Her back was to him, holding Viserys wrapped in a blanket. The scene was so peaceful and serene, a fragile bubble of tranquility in the midst of the storm. As if their troubles beyond these walls never existed.

"Mother?" Rhaegar called softly.

"Hmmm?" His mother didn't turn. Her voice sounded distant, light as the wind. "What is it, Rhaegar? Look. Viserys is enjoying the view outside. There are so many birds flying out there, gracing the sky. You can come closer to see, too. It's very beautiful."

Rhaegar's throat tightened. He swallowed what felt like coarse sand. He moved forward slowly, his footsteps nearly silent on the carpet, until he was beside his mother.

He looked where his mother was staring. There, in the bright morning sky, there were indeed hundreds of birds, crows, perhaps, or sparrows, flying to and fro in large flocks. They flew beautifully, orderly, and strong. They wheeled and turned as one, never colliding, as if they all knew what the others were thinking.

'If only men could be like that,' Rhaegar thought bitterly. 'If only Father could...'

"Where are they going?" Rhaegar whispered, more to himself.

"To someplace that makes them comfortable," his mother replied just as softly. "A place that is warm, and safe."

There was a longing in her voice that made Rhaegar's heart ache. He nodded, then gently changed the subject. "Mother. It's time for breakfast."

"I know," his mother said, still staring outside. "You go ahead and eat, Rhaegar. I'll follow. Viserys and I still want to watch the birds."

Frowning, Rhaegar shook his head. There was no way he would eat breakfast alone in that quiet, silent hall, accompanied only by the stares of frightened servants. Especially when he knew his mother was running on fumes. She had barely eaten anything yesterday.

"Don't jest, Mother," he said, more firmly than he intended. "Are you still thinking about Father?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Rhaella's eyes dimmed instantly, her faint smile vanishing. The light in them died. When he mentioned Aerys, Rhaegar knew it was a painful subject, a constant exhaustion, even when his father was still here, in this castle, terrorizing her at night.

"Aerys?" Rhaella whispered, her voice returning to earth. "Of course I'm thinking of him. Everyone in this kingdom is thinking of him."

Rhaegar sighed, smelling the faint scent of dried flowers that filled the room. "We will save him, Mother. Lord Tywin is gathering the army. Everyone is trying. You don't have to torture yourself with these thoughts, by not eating."

Queen Rhaella finally turned from the window, looking at Rhaegar. Her purple eyes, so much like his own, were weary and ringed with dark circles. But she forced a thin smile for her son. A smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I know," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You are very persuasive, my son. Far more persuasive than your father." She sighed. "If you insist... very well. Let's go have breakfast."

...

"It's very crowded, isn't it? They answered the call quickly," Jon Connington said beside Rhaegar.

The three of them, Rhaegar, Jon, and Ser Arthur Dayne, stood atop the highest tower of the Red Keep, looking down on Blackwater Bay. The sight was incredible. Dozens of sailing ships crowded the harbor, while many more were visible on the horizon, their sails like flecks of chalk on the dark blue water.

On the docks, the situation was more like organized chaos. Thousands of men poured from transport ships, carrying crates, horses, and the banners of the Crownlands Lords. They immediately sought places to eat and drink before this siege would begin. King's Landing, usually busy, now felt like it was overflowing.

"Look at all those ships," Jon continued, his voice tinged with his typical cynicism. "They all look like ants from up here. Ants very interested in honey."

"Honey, or blood," Arthur Dayne commented quietly on Rhaegar's other side. The Sword of the Morning stood still, his white Kingsguard cloak fluttering softly. "It will be like this for the next few days."

"The more the better," Rhaegar finally spoke, his eyes sweeping the fleet. He didn't see 'ants'. He saw strength. "We need many ships to blockade Duskendale's port completely. Nothing must be allowed in or out."

"If Darklyn doesn't surrender immediately after seeing a force this large, he must be the stupidest man in Westeros," said Jon Connington. "This will clearly crush him in a single day."

"If he didn't have the King right now, I'm sure that's what would happen," Arthur added flatly, bringing the harsh reality back to the surface. "But he does have the King. That changes everything from an assault to a hostage rescue."

Rhaegar nodded, feeling the weight in his chest grow heavier. Arthur was right. This was not a normal war.

"Let's go see the other soldiers," Rhaegar decided suddenly, turning from the view. The view from the tower made him feel too detached, like a god looking down. He needed to come down to earth. "Let's hope they don't all wilt like leaves blown by the wind."

He descended the narrow spiral staircase, Jon and Arthur following behind. The sounds from below grew louder, replacing the whistle of the wind at the tower's peak. As they stepped out into the main castle courtyard, Rhaegar was greeted by the true sights and sounds of war.

In the courtyard, scores of soldiers were already lined up, perhaps hundreds, organized into companies by their Lord's banner. The air was filled with the smell of sweat, oiled steel, and horse dung. The sounds of captains shouting orders, the clang of hammers from the smithy, and the restless whinnying of horses mixed into a deafening symphony.

Rhaegar saw Ser Barristan Selmy in the thick of it, his armor already complete even though the battle was still days away. His usually calm face now looked hard and tired. He saw Rhaegar and nodded curtly, a shared acknowledgment of duty between them.

Rhaegar, Jon, and Arthur walked past the lines of soldiers. Rhaegar observed them carefully. Many of them were green youths, their eyes shining at the thought of saving the king, not yet fully understanding what a siege meant.

"They look ready," Jon said, clapping a startled soldier on the shoulder as he passed.

"They look green," Rhaegar whispered. He then turned toward the smithy, where the most intense activity was happening.

Dozens of blacksmiths and their apprentices worked tirelessly. Forges blazed hot, hammers rang on anvils, scattering sparks. They weren't just making swords or repairing armor; they were preparing siege equipment. Piles of newly made arrowheads mounted in a corner.

Lord Tywin had ordered all this. Rhaegar had to admit the Hand's efficiency. The Red Keep had transformed from a peaceful palace into a true military fortress in less than a day.

"So much preparation," Jon muttered, wiping sweat from his brow even though he was just standing near the entrance. "Lord Tywin seems intent on leveling Duskendale stone by stone."

"He intends to win," Arthur said.

"But how long?" Rhaegar asked quietly, more to himself. "All these preparations... this is for a long siege."

Rhaegar felt a coldness in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wind. Tywin was preparing for a methodical, inevitable war. He would surround Duskendale, cut off its supplies, and wait. Waiting for Darklyn to starve. Waiting for Darklyn to become desperate.

But what will happen to my Father while Tywin waits?

"Prince?" Arthur's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

Rhaegar blinked, tearing his gaze from the flames. "It's nothing, Ser Arthur. I was just... thinking."

They left the noisy smithy and returned to the slightly quieter courtyard. Rhaegar stopped, staring at the high walls in the distance.

"Jon," Rhaegar said. "What do you think we should do?"

Jon Connington looked surprised by the direct question. "Do, Prince? We gather the army, we march to Duskendale, we show our strength. If Darklyn doesn't hand over the King, we break down his gate and take him."

"And if he kills my Father while we're breaking down his gate?" Rhaegar's voice was sharp.

Jon fell silent, his cynicism fading in the face of that reality. "Then... he dies, you will be King. And your first act will be to take revenge in the most terrible way."

Rhaegar closed his eyes. That was the problem. Jon saw the end result, the throne. Arthur saw duty, protecting the King. But only Rhaegar seemed to be trapped in the middle, thinking of the morality and the blood that would be spilled.

"I do not want to be King over a pile of corpses, Jon," Rhaegar said quietly. "Especially not my father's."

He turned and began to walk away, not to the tower, not to the throne room, but towards the castle sept.

"Prince, where are you going?" Arthur asked, confused.

"Seeking solace before the madness begins," Rhaegar replied without turning. "You two, keep an eye on the preparations. Make sure the soldiers are well-fed. I want them strong, not just numerous."

Jon and Arthur exchanged a look, then bowed. "As you command."

Rhaegar pushed open the heavy door of the sept. Inside, it was cool and silent, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. There were only a few serving women praying, and the colored light from the stained-glass windows danced on the stone floor.

He walked to the altar, but he did not kneel. He just stood there, staring at the stone-carved faces. He hadn't come to pray for victory. He hadn't come to pray for his father's safety.

He came because this was the one place in the Red Keep where no one expected anything of him. Here, he was not the Dragon Prince, not the son of the King. He was just a tired man, trapped between duty and emotion, listening to the silence and hoping, for once, that the silence would speak back.

Chapter Text

TYWIN

"You have done very well, Lord Velaryon."

Tywin Lannister's voice was flat, nearly swallowed by the roar of the salty wind and the frenetic bustle of Blackwater Bay. They walked along the wet, moss-slicked wooden docks, Tywin's footsteps maintaining a steady rhythm amidst the organized chaos surrounding them.

Everywhere, men moved like insects whose hive had just been kicked. Sailors scrambled up thick rigging, shouting coarse orders to stevedores whose backs bowed under the weight of supply crates. Salt pork, barrels of cheap ale, and sacks of grain were rolled into the gaping maws of transport ships. Amidst them, soldiers stood tall, overseeing the loading of weapons.

Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, walked beside him with a gait that was slightly limping as he tried to match Tywin's long strides. The man wore a proud smile—a wide, wet smile that did not reach his eyes.

"There are a few ships currently inoperable, Lord Hand," Lucerys reported, his voice carrying an annoying, high-pitched timbre. "Six at the moment; it seems their hulls suffered minor leaks during last week's storm. They should be repaired quickly, mere basic damage. My carpenters are working day and night. They may not depart at our designated time, but they will catch up swiftly. I guarantee it."

Lucerys replied with a feigned enthusiasm, his face beaming as he reported the minor failure as if it were an achievement. Tywin did not stop walking, offering only a flat, unblinking side-glance in return.

Tywin knew exactly who this man beside him was. Lucerys was Aerys's most loyal lackey, the kind of spineless creature who would laugh the loudest at the King's witless jokes, and nod the fastest at Aerys's whims. Tywin knew that Lucerys Velaryon often insulted him behind his back, whispering in Aerys's ear about the 'Lion who had grown too large for his cage' or how Tywin had forgotten his place.

Yet, Tywin harbored little grudge... at least not for this man. Hatred required energy, and Lucerys Velaryon was not worth that energy. Tywin's hatred was a deep, cold ocean, reserved entirely for Aerys. The man before him was but an ant compared to the King. House Velaryon, who once rode dragons and wed Targaryens, had lost its glory long ago. They were merely a dim shadow of past power, rotting on their damp island. Later, when the dust settled and the new order was established, Tywin could easily flick this louse from the Small Council with a snap of his fingers.

"As long as they catch up within the expected timeframe, it matters not," Tywin finally said. His green eyes fixed on the shapes of the royal ships bobbing in the water.

The timber was good, he had to admit. Pitch-black hulls, their upper decks gleaming under the sunlight. They were well-maintained, at least on the surface.

"We are not sailing there to fight a great naval battle, Lord Velaryon," Tywin continued. "We are going there to catch a mouse that thinks it is a cat."

The sentence carried a dual meaning, a double layer Tywin often employed.

The first meaning, which the shrimp-brained Lucerys likely understood, was a calming message: 'No need to rush, we have plenty of time. Lord Darklyn in Duskendale isn't going anywhere. This is a standard siege, not open warfare.'

The second meaning, understood only by Tywin himself, was far darker: 'Bring however many ships you have, I do not care. Six, sixty, it is irrelevant. The naval blockade is a formality. All of this is merely a cover for what I will do on land.'

"Ah, yes, of course, Lord Hand! The poor mouse," Lucerys chuckled, agreeing too quickly, his nervous laugh sounding like a choked seagull. "Lord Darklyn must have gone mad. We shall show him the Dragon's fangs... and the Lion's claws, of course!"

Tywin stopped walking. He turned his body slowly and looked Lucerys dead in the eye. The gaze was void of emotion, yet it held a crushing weight. Lucerys's laughter died instantly in his throat, freezing into an awkward grimace.

"Just ensure those ships are ready," Tywin said softly, yet every syllable was distinct. "I want no further distractions. No excuses. No further delays."

"Yes, Lord Hand. Of course. I will oversee the repairs myself."

They parted ways at the end of the pier. Lucerys hurried back toward the shipyard, starting to shout orders at his subordinates with a voice raised louder than before, attempting to project the authority that had just been stripped away.

Tywin did not look back. He walked toward his waiting horse, a black destrier guarded by four Lannister household guards. He mounted the saddle with efficient movement.

The ride back to the Red Keep was a journey through the belly of a sick dragon. King's Landing smelled as it always did—a mixture of human waste, woodsmoke, and rotting fish—but today there was an additional scent: fear. The common folk scattered from his path as if he were a plague. Their eyes were cast down, but Tywin could feel their stares. He ignored them.

Upon arriving at the Red Keep courtyard, he handed his horse to a stable boy and headed straight for the Tower of the Hand. He passed lesser lords trying to catch his attention, dismissing their greetings with cold silence.

Inside his solar, silence finally greeted him. The room was spacious, dominated by dark wood and tapestries. Tywin sat, feeling the stiffness in his back ease slightly. With the King taken hostage, Tywin had been increasingly busy of late. He was practically the King in all but name. He arranged troop movements, ensured grain supplies were sufficient for a winter that might come at any moment, and kept the Seven Kingdoms from collapsing due to Aerys's folly. This was the price of power.

However, amidst the pile of royal duties, Tywin never forgot his primary purpose in King's Landing: the glory of House Lannister.

His large hand picked up a neatly wrapped letter sealed with the wax of Casterly Rock. It was from Kevan.

He broke the seal and began to read. The letter was written in Kevan's hand. Tywin skipped the opening, the formal pleasantries, the condolences for the King's situation—which Tywin knew Kevan wrote just in case the letter was intercepted—the harvest reports, and minor complaints about dissatisfied bannermen.

Tywin's eyes stopped at the final section, the most critical paragraph.

"...It is unfortunate that just as our paper enterprise has begun to flourish, the realm faces such trouble. The crisis in Duskendale was certainly unforeseen, and with this, perhaps some trade routes to the Crownlands will be temporarily hampered. However, Gerion has done his task well in Essos. What we possess now has spread by word of mouth further than we anticipated.

"Thanks to his promotion, there are more merchants from the Free Cities, Braavos, Pentos, even Myr, continuing to visit Lannisport. They no longer come just for gold, but for paper. They favor its texture and practicality. It seems we did not waste our coin 'squandering money' to build those mills. The schools we established are also constantly full; for now, they can accept no more students and must wait until next year. Or we must accelerate the construction of others.

"This signifies that behind all the flaws and massive initial costs, this project is succeeding. Little by little, we are shifting the dependency on learning away from Oldtown. We will reap the true benefits, not just in coin, but in control."

Tywin nodded slowly, a rare satisfaction touching his heart. A knock at the door broke his concentration. Three times. Firm, but polite.

Tywin folded the letter and stored it in a locked drawer. "Enter."

The door opened. A man stepped in with calm but wary movements. He had red hair and a beard that was beginning to whiten, a face forged by sea wind and sun. His clothes were of good quality, made of fine wool but unobtrusive. He looked like a successful middle-class merchant, the type one would see a thousand times in the market and forget in a second.

Luke. A fish merchant from the Westerlands, or so his cover went.

"Good afternoon, Lord Hand." The man bowed, a friendly smile etched onto his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, yet his movements were still agile. "An honor to see you again."

"Sit," Tywin said, wasting no pleasantries. He pointed to a hard wooden chair across his desk. Tywin disliked wasting time in situations like this, especially with hired men.

Luke's eyes practically sparkled. Of course. Tywin was the man who had saved him from ruin ten years ago. Luke was just a poor fisherman with mounting debts when Tywin saw potential in his cunning and his network of contacts in the Lannisport harbor. Tywin paid his debts, gave him ships, and invested. In return, Luke gave his soul.

"How do you fare?" Tywin asked, his tone flat, though the question itself was a boon for a man of Luke's station.

"My business has flourished since last time, My Lord. Truly flourished," Luke answered enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of the chair. "This time I am not only shipping salt fish and shellfish to Oldtown or Dorne, but also Gulltown, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and of course, King's Landing. My merchant fleet grows larger thanks to your aid. And naturally, I have capable crews... men willing to do hard work and ask few questions."

He clasped his hands together at the end of the sentence, his rough fingers interlocking. He fell silent, his eyes on Tywin, waiting for instructions. He knew he wasn't summoned to the Tower of the Hand just to discuss fish prices.

"Good," Tywin said, leaning forward slightly. The afternoon sunlight cast sharp shadows across his face. "I need your men in Duskendale. Not for trade."

Luke's face turned serious in an instant. The mask of the friendly merchant cracked. "Duskendale is in trouble, My Lord. Lord Darklyn has closed his gates."

"Gates are closed for armies, not for food merchants bringing supplies in a time of crisis," Tywin interrupted. "Make sure to choose the men you can control most. Those who have something they value that we can hold as collateral... or simply, those who desire gold the most and do not fear blood."

The Tower of the Hand was Tywin's absolute domain. These walls were thick, and the guards outside were deaf to anything but his commands. There was no need for him to use excessive metaphors. He had to be careful, yes, but being paranoid was not Tywin's nature.

"I have many such men, My Lord," Luke said quietly. His fingers began tapping his knee, an old habit. "They are loyal as mongrels fed meat. They will listen to whatever I desire, and they have never disappointed so far. They know who truly feeds their families."

Luke paused, weighing how far he could ask. "If I may know, My Lord... what is it you want with them inside?"

Tywin did not answer immediately. He stared at Luke, measuring the man once more.

"I need someone to slip in there. As you already know, we will lay siege. We will cut off their access from land and sea. The city will go hungry. And when a city hungers, the people become restless."

"So..." Luke smiled crookedly, a guess forming in his head. "You want my men to sneak in, find where the King is held, and rescue him? To be heroes in the shadows?"

Tywin suppressed a harsh scoff. He leaned back in his chair, shadows obscuring his eyes.

"Do not jest," Tywin's voice was ice cold. "Aerys is surely guarded heavily by Darklyn's best soldiers. It would be difficult, even impossible, to rescue him in such a manner. The risk of failure is too high."

Tywin stared straight into Luke's eyes. "Furthermore, this is not a rescue mission. Quite the opposite."

Luke's fingers stopped tapping his knee instantly.

His eyes widened slightly, his pupils contracting. He stared at Tywin rigidly. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Luke was a smart man; he understood the implications of those words. Quite the opposite.

This was high treason. This was kingslaying, even if done with a passive hand.

But Tywin was his master. Tywin was the god who plucked him from the mud. And more importantly, Tywin was the man who could crush him back into dust before the sun set.

Luke's lips twitched. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Slowly, his large fingers began to play again, kneading the fabric of his trousers. He exhaled a long breath.

"You shall have exactly what you desire, My Lord," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse but firm. "I will ensure it is provided."

Tywin nodded, satisfied. No hesitation, no moral questions. Only business.

"I want you in the vicinity of Duskendale. Use your identity as a merchant trapped or trying to profit from the war. Send your three best men to sneak into the city, through the sewers, through the sea wall, I do not care how."

Tywin picked up a blank piece of paper, as if inspecting its quality, but his eyes remained on Luke.

"Their task is not to approach the King. Their task is to hear everything. And then... to speak." Tywin set the paper down. "I want them to spread fear."

"You want to corner Darklyn," Luke concluded.

"I want to create chaos," Tywin corrected. "I want the situation inside to be so heated, so desperate, that Darklyn makes a fatal error. Or better yet... in the midst of that chaos, if the King's guards panic, or if a riot reaches the holding cells..."

Tywin let the sentence hang. 'If Aerys is killed in that chaos, then it is a regrettable tragedy. A tragedy that puts Rhaegar on the throne and puts me back in full control without the interference of a madman.'

"We will squeeze them little by little, for as long as possible," Tywin continued. "Until we find an opening to end it all. Do you understand, Luke?"

Luke stood, bowing deeply. His merchant's smile had returned, but now there was a dangerous glint within it.

"Yes, yes. Of course, My Lord. Chaos and despair. That is an expensive commodity, but I can deliver it."

"Go," Tywin commanded. "Do not disappoint me."

As the door closed behind Luke, Tywin Lannister picked up his quill once more. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper, paper made in Lannisport, and began to write orders for the vanguard.

Outside the window, the sun began to set on King's Landing, casting a blood-red shadow over the entire city. The Siege of Duskendale had only just begun, and Tywin intended to win it, without a living King at the story's end.

Chapter Text

The leaves in the gardens of Riverrun rustled softly, following the morning breeze that blew gently toward the east. The gust carried a few yellowing leaves, sending them spinning through the air in a slow dance before landing on the surface of the tranquil pond. The atmosphere was peaceful, wrapped in the warm embrace of the morning sun. It was the kind of warmth that invited one to stop and stand still, simply to feel the serenity seep into their bones.

However, that peace felt wrong, a thin facade that failed to mask the cold new reality. The atmosphere felt entirely incongruous with the news that had just arrived from King's Landing. The news had stopped the laughter in the hall, frozen conversations, and cancelled whatever joy nature and the morning flora had provided.

The King had been taken captive.

The words seemed to swirl in everyone's mind within the castle, from Lord Hoster Tully in his solar to the servants whispering in the kitchens. The words also echoed in Jaime Lannister's mind.

Jaime sat alone in his room, in a chair by the open window. In his hands, he clasped a simple porcelain cup filled with warm water. He did not look at the garden below; instead, he gazed up at the bright blue sky and the clean white clouds drifting slowly by. His green eyes, usually so sharp and lively, shimmering under the morning light, looked slightly dim, as if a shadow had passed over them.

Jaime—Steven, knew this would happen. At least, the broad strokes. In what he remembered of the original story, Duskendale was a pivotal moment. He didn't know what to do in a situation like this. He was hundreds of miles away, trapped in Riverrun, while the great events that would shape the future began to move. All of this was beyond his control.

And that was what frightened him. He feared that this was the inevitable turning point. This was the event that, in the story he remembered, truly broke Aerys's mind. The King would not just be rescued; he would return as a monster. He would become the 'Mad King' as portrayed in that TV show. This was the end of the road for the man. If that happened, when that happened, the great war he feared, the war that would destroy so many, the war that would put Robert on the throne, would have a much higher probability than before.

Moving his right finger slowly, Jaime lifted the porcelain cup. He felt the faint warmth of the cup spreading through his fingers, a strange contrast to the cold knot in his stomach. It was perfect to accompany the cool morning air. He sipped slowly, letting the soothing sensation of the warm water fill his mouth. He swallowed, feeling the water go down, falling into his throat and warming his chest.

Holding the cup in silence, he steeled his resolve. He could do nothing. Not right now. He was an eleven-year-old boy. He was not Ser Jaime the Kingsguard, he wasn't even the heir in command. At this moment, he was merely a political guest in his betrothed's castle.

His role now was what he had been in his previous life: a spectator. He would only observe, take notes, and then think of a way to prevent things from worsening in the future. His focus had to remain here.

He stared at his faint reflection in the water in the cup. The face of a boy stared back. Instantly, his thoughts shifted to another family that would soon be destroyed by the King's madness. Eddard Stark.

A good man. Too good to survive in King's Landing.

And his father and brother... if he wasn't mistaken, Eddard's father and brother, Brandon, were burned alive by the Mad King. Brandon went to King's Landing to seek Lyanna, who was 'kidnapped' by Rhaegar. Jaime didn't remember the exact details, when exactly it happened, but he knew, that was when the real war began.

Jaime felt like laughing bitterly. Before, this was all just a story on a screen, evening entertainment after a day of teaching. Now, that story was his life, his brutal reality, and he was the only one in this entire world who knew what was coming. It truly sucked. It was like someone had placed a thousand weights on his shoulders, and then left him just like that to bear it alone.

He shook his head, banishing those dark thoughts. Father. His father should be marching with his army toward Duskendale by now, leading the siege. Lord Darklyn was truly brave, or foolish. Who knew what entered the man's mind to do such a thing. Jaime mused, the line between brave and crazy seemed to lie on a very thin wire indeed.

Deciding that there was no point in dwelling on problems hundreds of miles away and completely out of his control, Jaime stood up. He was currently wearing casual black attire, a soft cotton tunic and comfortable trousers. He had to focus on what was in front of him. He would go out of his room. Perhaps practice swords with Uncle Tygett. Or maybe sit with Lord Hoster and pretend to be deeply interested in river politics. Or, most likely, he would share adventure stories with Edmure as he had always done lately.

The boy, so eager when Jaime explained the world of Middle-earth, about Hobbits and rings. Edmure even made up his own theories. That was good. Imagination was something children should have; it was something to be protected.

Walking out of his room, Jaime found the castle corridor deserted. He looked up at the high arched ceilings above him, supported by thick ancient oak beams. As Steven, a modern man, even after years in Jaime's body, he still felt a deep awe for the castle architecture he constantly encountered. They were so grand, built with hands and sweat, not machines. Every castle had its own uniqueness, all crafted with care like an artist who would not be satisfied if the result did not match their imagination.

"Jaime!"

A voice called out, full of unrestrained energy. Jaime turned just in time to see Edmure Tully running toward him down the corridor. Of course, the kid was always energetic. He ran very fast, ignoring the servants who were dusting the tapestries or carrying dirty linens to be washed. Edmure's fiery red hair looked like moving embers.

"Are you going to tell another story this time?" Edmure asked with a wide grin, his breath slightly panting as he stopped in front of Jaime.

Jaime chuckled softly, looking at the boy who was clearly the heart of Riverrun. "Maybe later, Edmure," he said. "How about we focus on the reality of this morning? And you shouldn't run indoors like that. Look, you startled that servant."

"That's easy," Edmure nodded quickly, looking not at all remorseful. "But reality is boring. Stories are much better! Except for swords! When are we going to practice swords?"

"Yes. We can go to the training yard."

"Great!" Edmure exclaimed. "And after that?"

"After that," Jaime said as he started walking side-by-side with Edmure, "you have lessons with Maester Vyman, right? About the various Houses of the Crownlands."

Edmure immediately rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ugh, yes," he groaned. "Just hearing it makes me tired. He just lists names and castles. There are so many of them they look like ants gathering in my head. Who cares about Lord Stokeworth or whoever Rosby is?"

"You should care," Jaime said. "You should be excited, you will lead Riverrun one day."

Edmure's eyes immediately lit up at the prospect. "And fight on the front lines?"

'Oh, don't be too eager for that,' Jaime thought to himself, remembering the war that might soon occur. He kept smiling on the outside. "That's one part of it. But the bigger part of leading is knowing who your neighbors are. That's why those lessons are important."

"How can a list of names be important?" Edmure asked, genuinely confused.

"Because those names own land," Jaime explained. "That land grows wheat, or raises sheep, or controls roads. You have to know who your neighbors are, what they need, and what you have to trade. Knowing that can stop a war before it starts."

Edmure seemed to ponder this for a moment, as if he had never thought of it from that perspective. "That sounds... that sounds like a lesson on managing a kitchen and a granary."

Jaime chuckled. "Exactly. Managing a region is like managing the world's biggest kitchen. You have to make sure everyone has enough food and isn't fighting over the last scrap of meat."

"Huh. I guess that makes sense," Edmure said, though he was clearly still more interested in the war part. "Alright! But we train first. I want to try that disarming move you showed me the other day! I bet I can beat you this time!"

"We shall see," Jaime said with a smile. They continued walking down the corridor, Edmure now enthusiastically explaining his strategy for their practice fight, while Jaime's mind was still divided between the spirited boy beside him and the shadows gathering in Duskendale.

As the two of them continued their steps, descending the wide spiral staircase toward the main courtyard, another boy emerged from an adjacent hallway. He walked with a calm, unhurried gait. He wore simple but neat black clothes and was carrying a stack of books clamped tightly against his chest. Petyr Baelish.

"Petyr!" Edmure called out cheerfully, waving.

The small, slender boy stopped and turned. A thin, polite smile immediately formed on his lips. "Edmure. Good morning."

His eyes then shifted to Jaime. His polite expression didn't change a bit, but Jaime felt a barely perceptible shift in the air. Something assessing, observing.

"Lord Jaime." Petyr Baelish gave a small nod, a sign of respect perfectly calculated.

"We're both going to the training yard to practice swords," Edmure said, his wide grin returning. "You want to come?" He then glanced at the books Petyr was carrying with a hint of scorn. "Come on, forget those boring books. We can spar together. Three is more fun."

Petyr chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded too mature for a child his age. He shook his head. "I cannot, Edmure. I have financial records I've been studying all week, and it's time to see if the lessons have soaked into my brain. Maester Vyman will test me by having me rewrite them."

"Bleh, you can do that anytime," Edmure urged, clearly not understanding.

"Perhaps," Petyr agreed amiably, unaffected by Edmure's insistence. "But I prefer to finish it now. Besides, you have Lord Jaime here." He glanced at Jaime again, his smile unwavering. "He is surely a far better sparring partner than I am."

Edmure pouted. "Of course I know that," he grumbled, his tone clearly deflating. "But it would be more fun with more people... fine, if that's what you want."

The Tully heir then turned and resumed walking, his steps stomping slightly in annoyance. Jaime paused for a moment, smiling at Petyr. "Good luck with your records," he said, sincere.

"You as well, Lord Jaime," Petyr replied, his eyes holding Jaime's gaze a moment longer than necessary. "I hope your sword practice is enjoyable."

The two of them parted ways. Petyr continued his journey toward the library, while Jaime caught up with Edmure, who was now walking faster down the stairs.

"He's never excited to practice swords," Edmure whispered when Jaime was beside him. "At all. How can he fight bandits if he leaves the castle later?"

Jaime chuckled softly at Edmure's simple logic. "Everyone has their own interests, Edmure. Petyr, for instance, he likes numbers and counting. That is very useful for managing many things in a castle or a kingdom. Far more useful than you think."

"But what about bandits?" Edmure insisted.

"For bandits," Jaime shrugged, "he can go with a dozen armed guards. Not too difficult, right? Some men fight with brains, others with steel."

"But still..." Edmure shook his head quickly, unconvinced. "Never mind. Come on, hurry, I want to hit the practice shield!"

Jaime laughed, freer this time. Edmure's overflowing energy was contagious.

...

The wind blew fiercely over the command ship's deck as the small fleet cut through the waves toward Duskendale. The sharp scent of salt rose from the sea, mixed with the faint smell of tar and wet rope. The air felt crisp, full of the promise of life, or death, depending on which side the sword fell. Seagulls circled above the ship's masts, their cries piercing the wind as if guiding them north.

Tywin Lannister stood at the prow, his crimson cloak billowing violently behind him, yet his body remained still as a stone statue. He watched the birds intently, not out of admiration for nature, but out of a sailor's instinct. The weather would hold; he could feel it in his bones. Their journey today would be logistically smooth. That was the only thing he cared about.

"Nature seems just as eager as we are to save the King, Lord Hand."

The voice came from beside him. Ser Barristan Selmy. The man stood tall in his brilliant white Kingsguard armor, his face glowing with holy determination. There was a fire in his eyes, the fire of a knight who believed in songs of heroism.

'Just your imagination,' Tywin commented silently, suppressing the urge to scoff at such naivety. To Tywin, nature cared for neither kings nor beggars. The wind blew where it willed.

However, he did not voice that. "Let us hope that enthusiasm is sufficient to make Darklyn surrender immediately," he said flatly, without turning. His eyes remained fixed on the hazy northern horizon.

"It still takes time to reach Duskendale, Lord Hand," Barristan said, his tone dropping slightly, realizing the reality of the situation. "Do you have another plan if Darklyn truly refuses to yield? If he uses... his hostage as a shield?"

"For now, we simply must cut off the food supply," Tywin replied. "Hungry men are more likely to lose their minds quickly. An empty belly is a poor counselor, but a master agitator."

In his mind, Tywin calculated. This was a delicate situation. A situation that could derail his plans if he wasn't careful. If Darklyn surrendered too quickly, fearing the sight of this fleet, then Aerys would return to the throne unharmed, and his madness would continue to rot within. That would destroy the golden opportunity Tywin was trying to create. He needed time. He needed pressure.

Luke, the fish merchant, had left for Duskendale the same day they met. That meant, if Tywin's calculations were correct, he should be near there by now. Luke's men would be poison in the well.

By the time Tywin's fleet cut off the sea lanes and his army besieged the land, Luke's men would begin to whisper. They would create chaos, spreading rumors that Tywin Lannister came not to negotiate, but to raze the city to the ground. That even surrendering would not save them.

Tywin wanted Darklyn to feel cornered. He wanted the Lord of Duskendale to know the risks, that he would not get out of this alive unless he did something drastic.

"He lost his mind the moment he dared to take the King captive and kill a Kingsguard," Barristan gritted his teeth as he said it. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. The death of his sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, at the hands of Darklyn's soldiers evidently still haunted the knight. "That is a stain that must be cleansed with blood."

Tywin glanced briefly at Barristan. Honor. It was a heavy chain.

"Your vengeance will be paid, Ser Barristan. You simply must be patient," Tywin explained, his tone slightly sharper. "We do not fight to satisfy your anger. We fight to restore order."

"Justice, Lord Tywin," Barristan corrected, his eyes staring sharply. "Justice is what I shall uphold. For my King, and for my brother."

Tywin did not answer. He returned his gaze to the sea. He had no energy to entertain such nonsense. Justice was a word small men used to feel better about the cruelty of the world. Tywin knew the truth: there was only power, and those who held it.

'As you will, Barristan. As you will.'

By the way, I made a new story, maybe you guys want to read it. The Sound of Silence - (Viserys SI)

Chapter Text

"So in the end, the Prince succeeded in finding Cinderella and taking her to wife?" Catelyn asked, a soft smile blossoming upon her youthful face. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the glint of sunlight that pierced through the leaves of the great tree sheltering them.

"It was so romantic and magical," Lysa added quickly, her hands cupping cheeks that were slightly flushed from the heat. She giggled, the sound of a young maiden full of dreams. "I was most satisfied to hear that Cinderella's stepsisters were shamed before the Prince whilst trying to force their great feet into that glass slipper. They were so wicked; they deserved their fate!"

Jaime Lannister sat at ease in a carved wooden chair within the Tully's private gardens. All around him, summer blooms were in full flower, red roses, bluebells, and towering sunflowers. The sun above shone fiercely, the azure sky stretching cloudless as far as the eye could see. The heat bit at the skin slightly, yet the breeze from the river made Jaime feel alive. He stretched his arms slightly across the back of the chair, savoring the warmth.

Nearby, Edmure sat with legs crossed, looking slightly skeptical yet listening intently. In a corner far enough away to be unobtrusive but close enough for propriety, Catelyn and Lysa's guards stood tall, their armor gleaming intermittently, watching over their young lord and ladies with quiet vigilance.

"But the Prince ought not to have wed a commoner," Edmure finally voiced his protest, his red brows furrowing in amusing disapproval. "It makes no sense, Jaime. His bannermen would be wroth. A Prince must wed a daughter of a Great House, or at the very least a powerful Lord's daughter for an alliance."

Jaime smiled in amusement. Little Edmure was already thinking like a feudal politician. Hoster Tully's nature had clearly trickled down to him, raw though it still was. 'He has a point,' Jaime admitted, nodding to Catelyn who looked ready to scold her brother.

But Lysa huffed, waving her hand as if swatting a fly. "Why does it make no sense? True love cares naught for castles or family names, Edmure. Look at history! Prince Duncan Targaryen did just that with Jenny of Oldstones. He gave up everything for love."

"And look what came to pass," Edmure retorted stubbornly, pointing a finger. "He lost his claim to the throne, and King Aegon was furious! It caused a great many troubles. Father always says we must put duty before desire."

"Even so, he wed her still. And they were happy, for a time at least," Lysa insisted, shaking her head until her hair swayed. "Besides, this is a tale of Jaime's making! Tales need not make sense! In tales, mice can turn into horses and pumpkins into carriages. Why cannot a maidservant become a princess?"

"Aye," Catelyn interjected with a soothing voice, acting as the wise eldest sister. "Tales are made to comfort, Edmure. That is why there is much magic in them. Our world may be harsh and full of rules, but in stories, we may dream of something sweeter."

Jaime chuckled softly. It felt strange to debate the logistics of a fictional Disney royal wedding in the middle of Westeros, but it was refreshing. "True," he said, then added a small white lie to maintain his image lest he seem too childish. "These stories I actually crafted only to tell Tyrion."

"You tell girls' tales to your brother?" Edmure widened his eyes in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape.

"Tyrion likes stories," Jaime replied casually, picturing his brother. A sudden pang of longing surged within him. "It matters not if it is about knights or princesses with glass slippers, so long as it entertains him and keeps him from weeping at night. He is a clever lad; he fancies the magical."

"That is truly sweet," Catelyn said, her gaze upon Jaime softening.

"We women often hear tales meant for boys about wars and dragons," Lysa defended, still unwilling to lose to Edmure. "Do not be surprised if boys also hear of such romantic tales."

"Uh, aye. Very well. I suppose you have the right of it," Edmure yielded, raising both hands in defeat. He then looked up at the sky, his expression turning slightly dreamy. "Lysa… if there were magic in this world, magic like that fairy godmother, it would be exciting indeed. I would wish for magic that could make me a master swordsman overnight."

Jaime smiled at that. "There are no shortcuts for the sword, Edmure. Only calluses and sweat."

Silence reigned for a moment, filled only by the sound of bees buzzing around the roses. Then, Edmure leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes squinting childishly as if he were sharing a state secret.

"And perhaps… hark, do you think the King will be freed?"

The question burst their bubble of fantasy sharply. The harsh political reality of Westeros came rushing back into the small garden.

"I heard," Edmure continued in a low voice, "that Lord Darklyn has gone mad. The servants say he might turn into a demon later for daring to defy the dragon. That he drinks blood for strength."

"From whence did you hear that?" Lysa was clearly astounded, her eyes round with fear. Her hands reflexively clutched her dress.

Jaime was no less surprised, though for different reasons. Demons? Drinking blood? Rumors in Westeros truly worked like an extreme game of broken telephone. The imagination of the smallfolk was always wild when it concerned things they did not understand. Yet, behind the ridiculous rumors, there was real danger. Fear created monsters.

Edmure seemed to think, trying to recall his source. "When I walked through the kitchens this morning seeking lemon cakes, I overheard the servants whispering whilst scrubbing the plates. That is what they said. That Duskendale is cursed."

Catelyn shook her head, clearly feeling both amusement and pity for her brother's naivety. She smoothed her dress gracefully. "You need not listen seriously to whisperings in the wind, Edmure, especially ones so wild. Servants love to dramatize matters to chase away boredom. Lord Darklyn is a rebel, aye, but he is a man, not a demon."

She looked at Jaime and her brother in turn with a firm yet gentle gaze. "Let us pray that the King will be freed as soon as possible and peace restored. That is the best thing we can do at this moment. Leave the matters of war for the Lords to ponder."

Jaime nodded in agreement, though his mind was in turmoil. 'Aye, let us pray he is freed,' he thought cynically. 'And let us pray that once freed, he does not decide that burning people is his new favorite hobby.' Jaime knew that prayer was likely in vain. The Aerys who walked out of Duskendale would not be the same Aerys who walked in. The Steven inside him knew this history too well. That madness was like a slow-burning fire, and Duskendale was the oil.

Heeding his sister's words, Edmure nodded, looking slightly relieved that no actual demons would be crawling out of Duskendale. Then he looked at Jaime, his spirit reigniting, forgetting politics and demons in an instant.

"Very well, enough about demons and glass slippers. 'Tis better we go fishing now! You promised, Jaime!" Edmure stood, patting his trousers which were slightly sullied by grass. "After all, you leave on the morrow, do you not? This is our last chance."

Ah, yes. That reality hit Jaime again. He had been at Riverrun for a month. Thirty days spent far from Casterly Rock. His father, Tywin, had done this with the aim of drawing him closer to Catelyn to build the foundation for a future marriage.

And it must be admitted, it worked. At least the Catelyn part. Their interactions this time were not truly awkward. They could speak as friends, not strangers forced into a match. Catelyn was no longer just a tragic character or a face on a screen; she was a real girl, intelligent, caring, and possessing a warm laugh. Jaime found himself quite enjoying this company as a friend, a peaceful feeling he rarely felt.

"Of course," Jaime said, rising from his chair and stretching. His muscles felt comfortable after resting; he spoke with a hint of wryness. "I could never break a promise to my future good-brother, could I?"

Catelyn's face reddened slightly at the title, but she did not look away. She smiled politely. "Go on. But be careful by the riverbank; the current can be swift after the rains upstream yesterday."

They walked away from the garden, passing through the sturdy stone gates toward the riverbank accompanied by a few guards. Riverrun was a unique castle, a triangular fortress built at the confluence of two great rivers: the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. Water was their natural defense, as well as the vein of life here.

The river flowed calmly, the water clear and cold; they chose a spot where willow trees dipped their branches into the water.

Jaime sat on the edge, his legs dangling over the water. In his hand was a simple fishing rod. Beside him, Edmure was busy with his hook, his face scrunched in concentration.

After several minutes of waiting in comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of rippling water and chirping birds, Edmure pointed into the distance.

"Look at that," he said, pointing to a boat moving slowly in the distance. It was heavily laden, perhaps with grain or wool. "They must be heading to Saltpans."

Jaime squinted, shielding his gaze from the sun. "A calm journey," he commented.

"Aye," Edmure complained. "Uncle Brynden says river travel is easy, but sea travel is the vexing part. He once told tales of how hard it is for ships from Lannisport to sail around past Dorne if they wish to go to King's Landing or the Free Cities. The winds in the Stepstones are perilous, and there are many pirates."

"The sea is cruel indeed," Jaime murmured. "And sailors are blind at night without stars."

"True!" Edmure exclaimed. "Uncle says if a storm comes and covers the stars, they can only guess or try to sight the coastline. Imagine being lost in the middle of the sea, seeing only water as far as the eye can see. It is terrifying."

Edmure's words, simple and innocent, suddenly triggered something inside Jaime's brain. Like a light switch flipped in a dark room.

'Guessing. Sighting the coastline.'

Steven, the modern soul inhabiting Jaime's frame, was suddenly struck by a realization most fundamental. Something that in his former world was a trifle, a child's toy, yet here... in Westeros, it could be a revolution.

Navigation in this world was still somewhat primitive. They sailed hugging the coastlines, or depended upon the stars and sun. If clouds covered the sky, or fog descended, a fleet could be crippled entirely or lost.

'A Compass.' Yes, he had thought of this once, but being too busy with papers and other matters, he had done nothing.

The principle was simple. Magnetism. He knew of lodestone—natural magnetic rock. He remembered seeing Maester Creylen at Casterly Rock possessing several stones that could attract iron. The people of Westeros knew of magnets as curiosities, toys for Maesters, but none had applied them for maritime navigation en masse.

Jaime stared at the river barge again, but his mind had already drifted far to Lannisport.

If the Lannisters possessed the compass...

Imagine the advantage. Lannister ships would no longer need to hug the treacherous coastlines. They could cut directly across the open sea, saving weeks of time. They could sail when it was overcast, during storms, during starless nights, whilst their enemies had to drop anchor and wait for the weather to clear.

In war? It was a priceless strategic advantage. The Lannisport fleet could appear from unexpected directions, maneuvering in thick fog to ambush.

In trade? It was a monopoly. They could chart new trade routes that were safer and faster to the Free Cities, perhaps even further.

A needle that points North.

Jaime began to construct the schematic in his head. He needed an iron needle, which would then be rubbed against a lodestone to magnetize it. He could ask the best smiths at Casterly Rock to forge a perfectly balanced needle, and glassblowers to enclose it so it would not be disturbed by the wind. He would add a compass rose beneath it—North, South, East, West.

"Jaime?" Edmure's call jolted him back to the present.

"Huh?" Jaime turned, blinking.

"You were dreaming. Your bait is taken," Edmure said, pointing at Jaime's rod which was bending slightly.

Jaime quickly pulled up his rod, feeling a small resistance. A medium-sized silver fish thrashed at the end of the line. He pulled it in with practiced movements, but his mind was still half-left on the design of the compass.

"A fine catch!" Edmure praised.

"Aye," Jaime muttered, unhooking the fish and tossing it into the woven basket. "A very fine catch."

He stared at the flowing water. He would try to realize this idea to distract his mind from the problems at hand. This must become another secret project of House Lannister. Something he would present to his father one day.

"You are smiling strangely," Edmure commented, looking at him suspiciously.

Jaime laughed, genuine this time.

"I was just thinking about... direction," Jaime replied. "About how we know where we are going."

Edmure frowned, not understanding. "We go downstream, of course. Or that way if you wish to go home."

"Precisely," said Jaime, casting his hook back into the water. "Sometimes it is that simple."

"Hey, Jaime," Edmure spoke again, his voice slightly hesitant. "If you leave on the morrow... will you write letters?"

Jaime turned, seeing the boy's slightly sad expression. Edmure, the youngest child in a great castle, clearly enjoyed having a new 'big brother' for this past month.

"Of course," Jaime promised. "I shall send a raven. Perhaps I shall slip a new story or two inside. About a pirate who could find his way home in the darkest storm."

Edmure's eyes lit up. "That sounds grand. Tell me later!"

"I shall."

The sun began to dip, touching the horizon, turning the river's surface into a sheet of shimmering copper. The afternoon wind began to blow colder.

Jaime packed up his fishing gear. "Come," he said, clapping Edmure on the shoulder. "Before your Lord Father scolds us for being late to supper."

…

The wharves beyond the walls of Duskendale were a living, breathing entity, wrought of wood, rope, and organized despair. The place was bustling and clamorous, a sickening contrast to the deadly silence that hung over the Dun Fort itself. Cask upon cask was stacked in every available corner; inside them lay salted fish still smelling of the sea, fruits beginning to rot under the heat, wilted vegetables, and of course, cheap wine and ale to drown the soldiers' fears.

Men moved on foot hauling these goods, their backs bowed under the burden of siege logistics. They scurried to and fro like ants whose hill had been disturbed, and every so often, their weary eyes would glance toward the royal retinue atop the deck of a great ship flying the three-headed dragon.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the prow of the command ship. He observed them from above with scrutiny, his violet eyes sweeping over the scene below. The atmosphere here seemed business as usual, trade continued to flow, bellies had to be filled, but there was a tension creeping through the air like the breeze before a storm.

Lord Tywin Lannister did not play games. The Hand of the King had already ordered every soldier to board the merchant vessels, inspecting every hold and crate, restricting existing supplies with brutal efficiency. Access to the Dun Fort had been severed completely. No grain went in, no messages came out. The town was being slowly strangled, and Tywin was the hand holding the rope, tightening it inch by inch without emotion. All were guarded with rigorous precision.

The royal soldiers, in armor reflecting the sunlight with a blinding glare, walked with steady steps down the gangplank. The company traveling by land had not fully arrived, hindered by mud on the Kingsroad, so there were few horses on the docks. Yet, the sound of every stomp of their boots upon the wooden wharf was loud, rhythmic, and merciless, as if they would shake the earth and bring down the city walls with their steps alone. Their faces were flat, expressionless, disciplined to show no doubt; their bodies stood rigid as pikes ready to thrust.

Firm footsteps, heavier than a common soldier's, sounded from behind Rhaegar. Without needing to look, he knew who it was. He turned to find Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, walking toward him. His white armor was stained by the dust of travel, but his white cloak still hung with undeniable authority. The old bull's face looked harder than stone.

"How stands the situation, Ser?" asked Rhaegar, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of unspoken worry.

Gerold wore a serious countenance, the only expression to be found on any face Rhaegar had seen of late, on the faces of lords, knights, and he was certain if he looked in a mirror, he would find the same shadow upon his own visage.

"It is secured, my Prince," Gerold reported, his voice gruff and low. "No man shall approach the Dun Fort within the designated perimeter. Archers have been stationed on the rooftops. Merchants have been warned with threats of asset seizure should they breach the blockade, let alone the locals. And if any rat attempts to scurry out of that castle, we shall catch it, alive or dead."

"No word of the King?" Rhaegar asked, his eyes shifting back to the grim stone fortress looming in the distance, where his father was held.

Gerold shook his head, an expression of frustration crossing his weary eyes. "None. Lord Tywin has already sent an envoy to deliver the ultimatum. We must only wait for Darklyn's response now. There is naught else we can do. Time and patience are the only path, so says the Lord Hand."

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the shouts of ship captains barking orders. Rhaegar felt estranged. He was the Prince, the heir to the throne, yet here, in this slaughterhouse being prepared, he felt like a spectator. Tywin Lannister was the master of this siege, and Rhaegar was merely a royal ornament required to be present.

"They say Darklyn has gone mad to dare this," Rhaegar murmured, more to himself than to Gerold. "But what drives a loyal Lord to this point? Fear? Or desperation?"

"Greed and folly, my Prince," Gerold answered firmly. "There is no reason that justifies touching a King."

Suddenly, a commotion below drew their attention. They saw the figure of Lord Tywin Lannister, in armor of crimson and gold, standing amidst a throng of soldiers. He looked like a living golden statue, unaffected by the chaos around him. Then, a horse ridden hard approached him, mud splashing everywhere. It was the envoy they had sent.

The man dismounted in haste, nearly falling from exhaustion or fear. He offered a trembling salute and began to speak to Tywin. The distance was too great for Rhaegar to hear the words, but he needed not hear to understand. He saw the envoy's expression—pale as a sheet, eyes wide, cold sweat drenching his brow. And he saw Tywin's reaction, or rather, the absence of one. The Lord of Lannister's face did not change in the slightest.

"Come," said Rhaegar, urgency suddenly gripping him. He and Gerold hurried off the ship, their steps quick across the wooden planks toward the docks.

They approached the circle of commanders. The smell of horses and sweat assaulted them. Tywin turned as he saw the Prince approaching, his gaze calm and analytical.

"What is it, Lord Hand?" Rhaegar asked, his voice slightly demanding, though he already knew the answer from the aura of darkness shrouding the group.

Tywin looked straight into Rhaegar's eyes. There was no sympathy there, no fear.

"Darklyn refuses to yield," Tywin said sharply, every word cut with precision. "He refused the offer of pardon for his family should he surrender himself. His mind remains unchanged; he will only agree to hand over the King if we accede to all his demands."

"So... He threatens Father's life?" Rhaegar felt his blood run cold.

"He seems to still possess the nerve," Tywin continued, his tone flat, as if discussing the rising price of wheat.

"Then what is our plan?" Rhaegar pressed.

Tywin's pale green eyes flashed, a glint that sent a shiver down Rhaegar's spine. "We shall not retreat, my Prince. We shall wait. And if Darklyn believes he can use the King as a shield forever, he shall learn that the Lion does not treat with rebels."

Nodding, Rhaegar thought that this would be a very long day indeed...

What else should Jaime make besides a compass? Any ideas?

Chapter Text

JAIME | RHAEGAR

Dawn at Riverrun brought a thin mist creeping over the surface of the water, enveloping the sandstone fortress in a cold, wet embrace. The morning sunlight had just begun to peek from behind the eastern hills, turning the mist into shimmering pale gold.

Jaime and Catelyn walked side by side down the open stone corridor, their footsteps echoing softly on the cold floor. The morning air felt fresh, carrying the scent of river water and freshly baked bread from the castle kitchens.

"I have grown accustomed to your presence, so it will feel lonely when you leave, Lord Jaime."

Catelyn's voice broke the morning silence. Jaime turned, looking at the girl. Her face was calm, her hands folded politely in front of her green gown, but there was sincerity in her eyes. Jaime only nodded slowly in response. Whether Catelyn was just making small talk for the sake of politeness or not, Jaime found himself believing her.

And to his own surprise, Jaime realized that he felt it too. He would miss Riverrun.

He would miss the way this castle seemed to grow from the water, not perched arrogantly above it like Casterly Rock. He would miss the endless expanse of green grass, a contrast to the rocky cliffs of his home. He would miss the sound of the rushing rivers, flowing ceaselessly, singing like eternal music in his ears. It was a living place, a breathing place.

"I am indeed often missed by someone," Jaime replied with a light teasing tone, trying to banish the melancholy of parting. He grinned the typical Lannister grin. "That is my skill, apparently. Leaving an unforgettable impression."

Catelyn chuckled, a light and pleasant sound. "Do not be too confident, My Lord. Perhaps it is not you personally that we will miss." She glanced at him with a playful glint. "It is your stories that will be missed. Edmure might be sad for a few days when you depart. There will be no one to sit with him in the garden anymore and tell tales of princes, giants, and glass slippers."

Catelyn's face softened at the mention of her brother. "Our old servants only know stories about ghosts and scary warnings so children won't be naughty. Edmure often complained about that before because their stories were bland and caused nightmares."

"They should learn from the expert," Jaime responded, puffing out his chest with mock arrogance. "I might have to build a school dedicated to bedtime stories, yes? Ser Jaime's Academy of Tales."

Catelyn giggled again, this time more freely. "You are not a 'Ser' yet. But it is indeed worth a try. Imagining you, the heir of Casterly Rock, standing in front of old nannies and teaching them how to dramatize a witch's voice... that is a moment worth capturing in a painting."

"Oh, believe me, My Lady. When that happens, they would surely interrupt me halfway," Jaime said while rolling his eyes. "They would lecture me about real life, about how wolves do not speak, and in a few minutes, I would be the one sitting listening to their scolding. Everything would be reversed."

Jaime pretended to let out a long sigh, tightening his grip on the strap of the small leather bag slung over his shoulder. He had packed two nights before, efficient and neat as Uncle Tygett had taught him. His main belongings were already loaded onto the wagons; all he carried now were personal necessities.

They continued walking, passing high windows that now let the morning sunlight in, creating patterns of light on the floor.

"My father is very impressed with you, you know," Catelyn said suddenly, her voice more serious. "He said you possess a patience rarely found in young men your age, especially when dealing with Edmure. My uncle, Ser Brynden, is often not that patient."

Jaime smiled faintly. "Edmure is a good lad. He just wants to be heard."

They finally arrived at the double doors leading to the Great Hall of Riverrun. The sound of departure preparations could already be heard from the courtyard outside, but inside the Hall, the atmosphere was more formal.

Hoster Tully stood, wearing a thick velvet doublet with a silver trout motif on his chest. He looked gallant and authoritative, the Lord Paramount of the Trident in every aspect. Beside him, Edmure stood with an undisguised gloomy face, his eyes slightly red. Lysa stood on the other side, looking sad but remaining graceful.

And of course, Uncle Tygett.

Tygett Lannister stood with a calmness radiating from every line of his body. He was already wearing his traveling armor, helm under his armpit, looking like a lion ready to pounce if they did not move soon.

"Ready, Jaime?" Tygett's voice echoed in the hall, sharp and direct.

Jaime nodded to his uncle, then bowed respectfully to Hoster Tully. "Lord Hoster. Thank you for your hospitality. Riverrun has been a second home to me this month."

"You are always welcome here, Jaime," Hoster replied with his warm, deep voice. He patted Jaime's shoulder. "Send my regards to your father. Tell him that the Trout and the Lion swim in the same current."

Edmure stepped forward, holding out his small hand. Jaime shook it firmly. "Do not forget about that sword technique, Edmure. Focus is the key."

"I won't forget," Edmure promised, his voice trembling slightly. "You have to come back and tell the rest of the story about the boy who could fly."

"I promise."

After a series of formal farewells, the Lannister party finally moved out into the courtyard. The horses were already prepared, their breath steaming in the morning air.

Jaime looked back. He saw Catelyn, a blue figure in the middle of the window, raising her hand in a graceful wave of farewell. Jaime returned it, then turned his horse to face the gate. The drawbridge had been lowered, the road open ahead.

The holiday was over.

…

A month. It had been a full month of them rotting in this place.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the end of the damp wooden dock, his black and red cloak fluttering gently in the salty sea breeze. Before him, towering over a rocky hill jutting into the sea, stood the Dun Fort. The ancient fortress of House Darklyn looked like a sleeping stone giant, dark and silent, yet harboring a deadly threat in its belly.

They could only stare at it. Standing still staring at those stone walls as if their gaze alone could crumble them. But they could not get close. They could not storm it. The area around the fortress had turned into forbidden ground, an invisible death zone. Because Lord Denys Darklyn had made his rules clear: not a single step.

Rhaegar ground his teeth, a harsh grating sound echoing inside his own skull. His jaw ached from the constant tension. He did not know how many times he had done that tonight, holding back a scream of frustration that wanted to explode from his chest.

The night was bright, a stark contrast to the mood of the besieging army. Stars twinkled in the cloudless sky, thousands of cold eyes staring down at their failure. Behind him, booted footsteps approached, heavy and familiar.

Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington stood there, flanking their prince like two supporting pillars. Arthur's face, usually calm and stoic, was now shadowed by deep anxiety. Jon, with his red hair flaming even in the darkness, looked restless, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword. It was a day without progress, just like yesterday, and the day before.

"Darklyn's food supplies are running low, that is certain," Jon's voice broke the silence, rough and sharp. "We have blockaded the harbor and the land roads. Not even a rat can get in or out."

It was true. They had found signs. Three days ago, one of their archers managed to shoot down a raven flying out of the maester's tower. The message tied to its leg was a desperate plea to a merchant to send grain via smugglers. And yesterday, they caught two servants trying to sneak out through the sewers, shivering, ordered by their mad Lord to find anything edible.

"It is pathetic," Rhaegar said, his voice low and full of venom, his eyes not leaving the dark windows of the Dun Fort. "We have the largest army in the kingdom. We have all the equipment to crush that castle into dust. Yet we can only stand quietly here, on this dock, counting the waves while my father rots inside there."

"They have started to worry, Rhaegar," Jon tried to reassure, stepping forward slightly. "They know they must ration food to stay alive in there. Their morale is crumbling. When the food truly runs out, it should be easy enough to conquer. History proves that hunger is more terrifying than any sword cut. An empty stomach makes even the most loyal man a traitor."

"I know the theory, Jon," Rhaegar cut in, a humorless laugh escaping his lips, sounding dry like tree bark. "But time is not our ally. Every day that passes..." He paused, swallowing saliva that tasted bitter. "According to rumors from the servants we caught, my father is in a dungeon cell. Dark, damp, and cold. I do not know if he is treated as a human or not. I do not know if he is still... himself."

Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, shook his head slowly. The light reflected grimly on the hilt of the great white sword.

"He is the King, my Prince," Arthur said with firm conviction, the conviction of a knight who believed in the rules of war. "That is all they have besides walls for defense. King Aerys is Darklyn's only bargaining chip. It would be foolish if they harmed him. If the King is harmed, there will be no mercy for Darklyn, not for his family, not for anyone within those walls. Lord Denys might be a rebel, but he is not a fool, at least not a complete one."

Rhaegar turned slowly, looking at Arthur. His violet eyes were dark, piercing the knight's mask of calm. Arthur was a good man, a noble man. He lived by a code of honor, where even the enemy had common sense and boundaries.

But Rhaegar knew something Arthur might not have fully grasped.

"Madmen do not think with common sense, Arthur," Rhaegar whispered, his voice almost lost in the crashing of the waves. "You speak of logic. Of strategy. But Denys Darklyn has taken his own King hostage. He crossed the line of 'foolishness' on the first day."

Rhaegar looked back at the fortress, the shadow of the Dun Fort seemingly gripping his heart.

"A man who has jumped into the abyss does not care how deep the bottom is," he continued softly. "He only cares about dragging others down with him."

…

The air inside the blacksmith's workshop was thick with the scent of sulfur, sweat, and burning metal. The sound of hammers striking hot iron created a deafening rhythm, a rough yet captivating industrial symphony to Jaime Lannister's ears.

"You can do it, Pete?"

Jaime handed over a sheet of paper on which he had drawn with charcoal. The lines were firm and precise. The drawing showed the basic shape of a compass needle: a flat metal bar, pointed at both ends like an elongated diamond, and as light as a feather. In the center, there was a crucial pivot point.

Pete, a blacksmith only in his thirties but already with a head as smooth as a boiled egg, squinted at the sketch. He wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of a soot-stained hand.

"Easy, Young Lord," Pete snorted, his tone full of confidence gained from years of conquering the famous Lannisport steel. "I have made things far more complicated than this. Those little letters for your printing press? That was a nightmare. But something like this? This is like cutting butter with a hot knife!"

Jaime laughed, a crisp sound amidst the rumble of the workshop. He patted the man's shoulder, indifferent to the ash stains that might stick to his expensive silk tunic.

"That is what I call spirit! I like people who don't make many excuses," exclaimed Jaime. "I will rely on you, Pete. Make ten of them, yes? And remember, the balance must be perfect. If it is even slightly lopsided, the thing will be useless to me."

"I will finish it quickly, Young Lord. Tomorrow afternoon it might be ready," Pete nodded, his face serious as he began to visualize his work.

"No, no, no need to rush." Jaime raised a hand, smiling relaxedly. "We have plenty of time. Quality over speed. I don't want you working on it while half asleep."

Pete nodded again, putting the paper on his cluttered workbench. However, his curiosity, usually buried under piles of orders for horseshoes and nails for the city garrison, finally surfaced.

"If I may ask..." Pete hesitated for a moment, twirling his hammer. "What is this actually for, Young Lord? The shape is strange. Too small for a throwing knife, too blunt for a nail."

Jaime's green eyes glinted mischievously. "To sew the fabrics of my clothes," he joked with a perfect poker face.

Pete gaped for a moment, before Jaime chuckled.

"No, of course not," Jaime continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if the walls of the workshop had ears. He brought his face a little closer. "But you don't need to know, Pete. It's a secret. The kind of secret that keeps Lannisport rich."

"Oh, alright, sorry. I didn't mean to be presumptuous," Pete said quickly, hurriedly returning to his hearth, clearly not wanting to get involved in the complicated affairs of Lords.

Jaime smiled with satisfaction, then turned and stepped out, leaving the heat of that artificial hell.

As he stepped out of the dark workshop, the sunlight hit him, bright but cooled by a strong wind from the sea. Jon of Clearwater, the loyal guard assigned to him, was leaning against the stone wall outside, looking bored.

"You have only been back three days, and you are already very busy making things, My Lord," Jon commented, straightening up as he saw his master exit. There was a note of admiration mixed with weariness in his voice.

"There isn't much else to do, Jon," Jaime replied, putting his gloves back on. "Plus, this is one of the 'breaks' Uncle Tygett gave me. He said I needed a rest from sword practice after the long journey from Riverrun. So I will use it as best as I can."

"By making ten iron needles?" Jon joked, raising an eyebrow. "Are we going to switch professions to become Lannisport tailors if your career fails?"

Jaime grinned.

"That needle will shake the seas, Jon," he said, his eyes gazing towards the distant docks, where merchant ships sailed in and out, bringing the world's wealth to his doorstep.

"Somehow I believe that," Jon sighed, nodding resignedly. "Whatever you say, My Lord."

Jaime began to walk down the wide cobbled street into Lannisport, his step light. His mind spun. He had already ordered a carpenter to make small round wooden cases for those compasses. The cases had to be precise, with a small brass pivot in the center. For the glass cover, he would have to go to the glassblower tomorrow. He was already exhausted today.

He had to admit, Riverrun had changed him a little. The peace there, the constant sound of the flowing river, Catelyn's conversation and Edmure's innocence... it all made him a little soft. Or lazy. Maybe both. But returning to Casterly Rock with its shameless energy and wealth woke him up again.

However, he knew his limits. He could enjoy a rest, but he must not stop moving. The world would not wait for Jaime Lannister to finish sunbathing.

His stomach growled, a loud sound of protest that broke his reverie.

"You said there was a newly opened eating place near the harbor, Jon?" Jaime asked, turning to his guard. A sudden hunger attacked him, sharp and demanding.

Jon's eyes lit up instantly. The topic of food was clearly more interesting to him than needles.

"Yes, My Lord! Near the east dock. The place is small," Jon explained with fiery enthusiasm, his hands moving to paint the taste. "They have a fish menu... oh, by the Seven Gods. Fresh sea fish caught just this morning, fried with flour until very crispy on the outside, but the meat remains soft and steamy on the inside."

Jon swallowed, clearly imagining the taste. "They smother it in a bright red sauce. Thick, savory, sweet, and there is a kick of sourness that makes your eyes open wide. That taste... I have never forgotten that taste since I first tried it last week."

Jaime laughed seeing that pure enthusiasm. It was rare to see Jon so excited about something that wasn't swords or wages.

"Don't eat too much, Jon," Jaime warned in a playful tone, patting his guard's stomach. "I don't want to be guarded by someone who can't even run later because they are too full of that sweet sauce. If an assassin attacks, I need you to be an agile meat shield, not a stationary sack of potatoes."

"Very rude to say that to your loyal friend, Lord Jaime," Jon held his chest, pretending to be severely wounded by the comment, though his lips curled into a wide smile. "I eat to maintain strength, solely to protect you."

"Of course," Jaime snorted with amusement. "Come on, show the way. If the fish is not good, you pay."

"Deal," Jon answered confidently.

The two of them walked faster, cutting through the vibrant crowd. Lannisport today felt more crowded, more alive, and noisier than Jaime remembered. As they walked towards the east dock, cutting through the sea of humans packing the wide cobbled streets, Jaime realized something different. There was a new energy in the air, a pulse accelerated by his own invention.

This city had always been a center of trade, of course. Casterly Rock's gold always attracted merchants like honey attracted flies. But now? Now there was something else besides gold attracting them.

Paper.

Jaime saw it everywhere. On street corners, in market stalls that usually only sold spices or cloth. He saw a merchant with a forked beard bargaining the price of a stack of thin books with great spirit. He saw a cloth merchant from Braavos, wearing striking colorful clothes, examining the quality of sheets of clean white paper with his ring-filled fingers, nodding in satisfaction before ordering his men to load wooden crates containing the paper onto a cart.

Even book merchants from Oldtown, who were usually arrogant and only cared for Citadel parchment, were now seen sweating and jostling, fighting for a quota of the latest print of The Seven-Pointed Star.

"Very crowded," Jon muttered, using his broad shoulders to part the crowd so Jaime could pass comfortably. "Half of Essos seems to have decided to stop by Lannisport this week."

"This is a good thing, Jon," Jaime said, his eyes sweeping the scene with deep satisfaction. He saw wooden crates stamped with the Golden Lion sigil, ready to be shipped across the sea. "At least everything I did was not in vain. Paper and ink... no one thought something so fragile could be as strong as gold, did they?"

"Lighter to carry, that's for sure," Jon agreed.

They passed a group of sailors sitting on wine barrels outside a tavern. They were laughing loudly and swapping dirty stories. There was no shadow of fear on their faces. No shadow of any fear whatsoever... as if they didn't care about the captive king.

Jaime slowed his steps slightly, listening. He heard conversations about the price of wool, about storms, also new whores in the brothel.

But not a single word about Aerys Targaryen.

The King was being held captive in Duskendale, his life threatened every second. There his father and Rhaegar as well as thousands of others were experiencing hardship. But here?

People seemed completely unaffected.

To them, the King was just a name in the wind. A distant concept, unreal, and irrelevant to their daily lives. Aerys could die tomorrow, and the Lannisport market would stay open. Fish would still be sold. Gold would still flow. As long as there was no war, they were safe. And Tywin Lannister provided protection here.

"There, My Lord!" Jon exclaimed, breaking Jaime's reverie.

They arrived at a simple wooden building wedged between a salt storage warehouse and a ship rope shop. There was no grand signboard, only a bell hanging above the door, swaying gently in the sea breeze. The aroma wafting from inside, however, was something completely foreign and tempting. The smell of vinegar, burnt sugar, garlic, and ginger mixed together, creating a scent that made Jaime's saliva accumulate instantly.

Jon led the way in with the confidence of a general entering territory he had conquered. The inside was small, dimly lit, and filled with steam. Rough wooden tables were full of sailors and merchants of various nations.

An old man with a long thin white beard welcomed them. He wore a silk robe that was worn but clean. Seeing Jon, his face broke into a wide smile displaying sparse teeth.

"Ah! Big Master Jon!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "And bring friend! Good, good! Sit, sit!"

They took a spot in the corner. Jon ordered without looking at the menu, or rather, because there was no menu. "Two portions of Red Fish, Uncle!"

Not long after, the dish arrived. And by the Seven Gods, it was a beautiful sight.

A whole red snapper, fried so expertly that its shape curved like a dragon leaping from the water, mouth open, fins blooming crisply. The fish was bathed, no, baptized, in a thick reddish-orange sauce that glistened under the candlelight, billowing hot steam that carried the promise of delight.

Jaime looked around once more before picking up his cutlery. The people around them ate ravenously, laughing, their faces red from heat and satisfaction. The kingdom's problems felt a million miles away from this sticky wooden table.

Jaime cut a piece of the fish meat. The skin made a satisfying crack sound as his spoon pierced the crispy flour layer, revealing soft and juicy white meat inside. He scooped it up along with the thick sauce and put it into his mouth.

Explosion.

That was the only word that could describe it.

Sweetness hit his tongue first, followed quickly by a sharp kick of vinegar sourness that made his salivary glands work hard. Then came the savoriness of garlic and a spicy touch of ginger that warmed the throat. The texture of the fish was perfect, the contrast between the crispy skin and the melt-in-the-mouth meat was a culinary miracle.

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, letting the flavors dance on his tongue. This was not complicated court food often bland due to too many rules. This was honest food. Bold food.

"How is it, My Lord?" Jon asked with a full mouth, his eyes shining expectantly.

Jaime swallowed, feeling warmth spread throughout his body. He grinned, then took a second, larger bite.

"Jon," Jaime said seriously, pointing at the fish with his spoon. "If you ever get bored of being a guard, remind me to appoint you as the Official Castle Taster. This... this is extraordinary."

Jon laughed, his face beaming at the validation. "I told you! This sauce... I think they use magic in it."

"Good magic," Jaime muttered. He continued his meal.

The Duskendale arc will end in probably 8 more chapters, I want to speed it up... Really.  

As always. Thank you for reading. Sorry I can't reply to all comments, I'm so busy, but I read them all, that's the reason I continue this story haha :'p

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating the wooden breakfast table. On the table, various sweet dishes were laid out, lemon cakes, fresh fruits, and honey, yet Cersei's appetite was slightly disturbed.

"Cersei, do you know where Jaime is?"

The voice was shrill and slightly hoarse. Cersei lowered her porcelain cup slowly, her emerald-cold eyes shifting to stare at the source of the sound. Tyrion. Her four-year-old brother sat there, perched atop a stack of cushions so his chin could reach the edge of the table. His deformed face, with a protruding forehead and mismatched eyes, made this bright morning feel as if it had lost a little of its light.

Every time she saw him, Cersei felt an instinctive urge to turn her face away. This little creature was the reason her mother was gone. However, Cersei restrained herself. She took a deep breath, reminding herself of a greater purpose.

To be a graceful Queen by Rhaegar's side later, she had to possess steely fortitude. She had to be able to tolerate unpleasant things, even the worst of them. If she could face the dirty and smelly smallfolk without wrinkling her nose, then she should be able to face her own brother. This was practice. Practice in patience for her future on the throne.

Also, on second thought, it was not entirely the boy's fault that mother was gone.

"He is Uncle Tygett's squire, Tyrion," Cersei replied in a flat tone, her pitch perfectly controlled. "He is very busy. Cleaning swords, polishing armor until it shines, tending horses, and doing whatever Uncle Tygett tasks him with. That is a man's duty."

Cersei shook her head slightly, her golden hair glistening in the sunlight, then sipped more of her orange juice to rinse the annoyance from her tongue.

"He only just arrived five days ago, and he is already gone again," Tyrion said with a childish bitterness, his lips pouting. His small, chubby hands played with breadcrumbs on his plate. "He didn't even have time to finish reading the story. Even though I just made up my own story, and this is the best one..."

Cersei raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. Stories.

Jaime indeed had strange habits. He liked telling fairy tales to the deformed child. And of course, as part of Jaime's strange 'curriculum', he also told those stories to Cersei. Jaime said those stories would help her understand 'human nature' to captivate Prince Rhaegar.

Cersei knew the story of the girl named Cinderella who got a prince with only a glass slipper, about the naive Snow White who ate a poisoned apple, then the Beast loved by a beautiful girl. The women in those stories were so weak, so dependent on magic, that Cersei often had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes every time Jaime told them.

However, she had to admit, there was a pattern there. Jaime did not create those stories without reason. Behind the naivety of the characters, there were lessons about emotional manipulation, about how kindness, or at least the image of kindness, could be a potent weapon.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment to Duskendale. Prince Rhaegar and her Father were still there, besieging the rebellious town. It had been over a month. The news coming to Casterly Rock was minimal. Cersei tapped her finger on the table. She did not care about King Aerys's fate. In fact, in her heart of hearts, she hoped the King would die soon at the hands of Lord Darklyn. Aerys's death would smooth Rhaegar's path to the throne, and accelerate her own coronation as Queen.

The sound of rustling paper broke her reverie. Tyrion was shifting a stack of papers on his lap, trying to tidy them with his clumsy hands.

"You are noisy, Tyrion," Cersei said sharply, pointing to an empty chair across the table closer to her. A safe distance, yet close enough to hear without shouting. "Sit there. Tidy those papers."

"What is it?" Tyrion looked at Cersei in confusion, his eyes blinking. White papers were in the boy's arms, looking too large for his tiny body.

"Just sit," Cersei ordered while rolling her eyes, having no intention of explaining that she was bored to death and needed a distraction.

Tyrion nodded obediently. He climbed down from his chair with difficulty, waddled carrying his load of paper, then climbed onto the chair opposite Cersei. He sat quietly, looking at his sister with a mixture of fear and hope. Waiting for her to speak.

Cersei looked at him for a moment, assessing. "What story did you make?" she asked finally.

Tyrion looked surprised. His mouth opened slightly. Yes, this was the first time Cersei, his older sister, was willing to indulge the boy's hobby. Honestly, Cersei just wanted to test him. Jaime and Maester Creylen always praised Tyrion's intelligence, saying that behind his deformed body lay a sharp mind. Cersei wanted to prove it herself. If he was indeed as clever as they said, at least this conversation would not be too torturous.

Puffing out his small chest, Tyrion placed the papers on the table, flattening them with his palms. His handwriting was still messy, large and untidy ink scrawls, but Cersei could see he was trying hard.

"It is a story about a man who will become king," Tyrion said, his eyes shining with a spirit that did not match his physical form.

"Will?" Cersei raised an eyebrow, a skeptical tone coloring her voice. "So he is not yet a king? Is he a prince waiting for his father to die? Or a usurper gathering an army?"

"No! Neither!" Tyrion shook his head vigorously, his voice almost shouting with enthusiasm. "He is not an ordinary noble. He is an ancient human. He fell asleep for thousands of years in the past, buried in ice or a crystal cave. He slept because he had absorbed pure dragon magic into his body, so much magic that it took centuries for him to digest the power."

Cersei fell silent for a moment. Ancient human. Dragon magic. It sounded like one of Jaime's tales, but with a darker twist. "Then?" she asked, signaling for Tyrion to continue. She had never heard of such a thing before.

"Then when he woke up," Tyrion continued, his hands moving to form explosive gestures, "he found that the world had gone on without him. The times had changed. In this future, magic no longer exists like in our world. The dragons are dead."

Tyrion's face turned serious, seemingly mimicking the grim expression he often saw on adults' faces. "But war is happening everywhere. Kingdoms are destroying each other. The people are suffering. So he comes, not as a conqueror, but as a savior. He uses his dragon magic power to heal the common folk who are victims of war. He repairs their burned houses, heals their wounds."

Cersei frowned deeply. She placed her cup gently on the saucer. The plot of the story sounded ridiculous to her. Politically nonsensical.

"Why save the common folk?" Cersei asked, her tone full of genuine incomprehension. "They are just sheep, Tyrion. They exist to be herded, sheared, or slaughtered if necessary. Your hero is wasting energy. With power that great, he could help one side, the strongest side, and work with them to end the war quickly. That way he could get a high position, wealth, or even a crown for himself."

Tyrion shook his head hard, his pale blonde hair swaying. "No, Cersei. You don't understand. I haven't thought it through to the end, but..." He looked at his paper, as if searching for an answer there. "Those warring sides, they have their own evil interests. One King wants land, the second King wants gold. It is impossible for them to make peace without destroying each other."

Tyrion looked at Cersei with a sharp gaze that was strange for a child his age. "They are also 'evil' in their own way. They don't care who gets trampled. So the hero of this story doesn't want to side with anyone. He becomes a Third Party. He is stronger than those kings."

"A lone third party will be crushed by the other two united by fear," Cersei countered coldly, channeling the wisdom she often heard from her Father. "Power without alliances is arrogance, Tyrion. Your hero is a fool. If he keeps healing the common folk, who will fund his army? Who will feed him? The common folk have no gold."

"He doesn't need gold!" Tyrion insisted. "He has magic!"

"Magic cannot be eaten," Cersei scoffed. "And the common folk he saves? As soon as they are healed, they will turn and betray him if offered a silver piece by the ruling king. That is basic human nature."

Tyrion fell silent. His small shoulders slumped slightly. Cersei's logic seemed to penetrate the fortress of his imagination. He looked to be thinking hard, his thick brows knitting together.

"Then..." Tyrion muttered softly, "what should he do?"

Cersei smiled thinly. "He must be firm. He cannot just be a healer. He must be a terrifying protector. He must make the people and other kings fear him, not just admire him."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, looking into her brother's eyes. "Listen, Tyrion. In the real world, or in this story of yours, kindness is a weakness if not accompanied by absolute power. If your hero wants to survive, he must stop being a traveling healer and start being a God."

Tyrion stared at Cersei, his mouth slightly open. He looked horrified yet fascinated by his sister's suggestion. He immediately grabbed the quill lying on the table, dipped it into the ink clumsily, and began to scribble something on his paper.

"Become a God..." Tyrion muttered. "He can make them stop fighting with the threat of destroying them with his magic."

"Exactly," Cersei said, leaning back in her chair with satisfaction. "Fear is more effective than gratitude."

They continued to talk for the rest of the morning. Tyrion told of the monsters his hero faced, and Cersei, in her haughty yet sharp way, offered critiques on how the monsters should be defeated, not with silly bravery, but with deceit and strategy. And more importantly, with absolute power.

For a moment, at that breakfast table, under the shadow of the war happening in Duskendale, Cersei forgot her annoyance at her brother's physique. She saw the seed of Lannister intelligence there, though still raw and covered by naive idealism that Jaime might have planted.

…

The sun had crept down from its peak, bathing the stone walls of Casterly Rock in warm golden light. Cersei sat in the spacious central solar, a room with high vaulted ceilings and thick rugs that muffled footsteps. She was reading a history book about Aegon's conquest, but her eyes more often watched the entrance. There was the sound of footsteps there.

When the heavy wooden door finally opened, Cersei closed her book with a satisfying thud.

"Good, look who's back," Cersei said, her voice breaking the silence of the room.

Jaime stepped inside. He wore a simple dark red tunic with a small golden lion embroidered on the left chest. His golden hair was a bit messy, blown by the sea breeze, but the most striking thing was the expression on his face. There was a silly smile playing on his lips, a smile that made his green eyes squint.

"Good afternoon, Cersei," Jaime greeted lightly, giving a casual nod far from court formalities.

Cersei did not return the smile. She straightened her back in the high-backed chair, looking at her twin with an appraising gaze. "Tyrion was looking for you all morning," she said, her tone full of accusation. "He was so annoying because he kept whining to see you. 'Where is Jaime? When is Jaime coming home?'. Truly, you spoil him until he cannot stay still."

Jaime stopped in the middle of the room, his smile fading slightly replaced by a patient expression. "Don't be too harsh on him, Cersei. He is just a child. It is natural if he wants to play." His eyes narrowed slightly, looking at Cersei suspiciously. "You didn't snap at him, did you?"

Cersei snorted, a sound that was unladylike but very expressive. "Do you think I have the energy to raise my voice at him? You overestimate his importance in my life. I just told him to sit still."

Jaime seemed to accept the answer, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Cersei then tilted her head, observing her brother's face again. "Then," she asked, curiosity finally defeating her pride, "Why was there a smile on your face just now? You walked in like someone who just got a new toy. Is there happy news from Duskendale? Is the King finally dead? Or have you gone mad because your training helm hit a rock?"

"Duskendale?" Jaime shook his head, his face turning flat for a moment. "I know nothing of Duskendale. Uncle Tygett didn't get a new raven today. As far as I know, they are still stuck there. Father is still waiting."

Jaime then walked to the velvet sofa near Cersei and threw himself onto it with a long sigh. He stretched his legs, looking very comfortable.

"I just feel that today my plans all went smoothly," he said, staring at the painted ceiling. "And I am very happy. Sometimes, small things go your way and that is enough to make a good day."

Cersei raised one neat eyebrow. "Plans? What else are you doing anyway?"

She had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that Jaime's strange projects had results. His paper was everywhere now, on Father's desk, in the library, even in Tyrion's hands. It brought gold into Casterly Rock's coffers, and gold was power. So, if Jaime was planning something new, Cersei wanted to know. Knowledge was a weapon.

Jaime turned to her, and the smile turned into a mysterious grin. He winked one eye.

"Secret."

Cersei's blood boiled instantly. She hated it when Jaime did that. Hiding something from her, as if Cersei wasn't smart enough to understand.

"I won't tell you," Jaime continued with a light teasing tone. "Besides, this isn't something very important to you. Just... a new toy. A navigation aid."

"Navigation aid?" Cersei sneered. "You want to be a sailor now? You really are strange."

"Who knows," Jaime shrugged. "The world is vast, Cersei."

Cersei snorted again, losing interest because the topic sounded boring and technical. "Keep it to yourself then, do as you please with your new toy."

She picked up her book again, intending to ignore Jaime, but a memory flashed in her mind. "And one more thing," she said sharply, pointing at Jaime with her book. "Finish your story for Tyrion. Don't leave before it's done, or he will whine to me again about heroes and dragons. He makes up his own stories and my ears hurt hearing them."

Jaime's face turned a little guilty. He scratched the back of his head. "Ah, yes. I was just tired at the time." He smiled awkwardly. "How about you? Why don't you try telling him something before he sleeps? That is something a good older sister would do. You have a fine voice, Cersei."

Cersei looked at him as if Jaime had just suggested she throw herself into the sea. 'Why would I want to do that?' she thought with disgust. 'Spending precious time entertaining that creature?'

"No, thank you," Cersei replied coldly and firmly. "He is entirely yours. You are the one who spoils him, you take care of him."

"You are too"

"JAIME!"

Jaime's sentence was cut off by a loud shout echoing through the room. The sound of small footsteps running hurriedly was heard on the stone floor, fast and irregular.

Before Jaime could stand, a small figure darted into the room. Tyrion. He ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, his face beaming with pure joy. He didn't stop when he reached the sofa; he jumped, headbutting into Jaime's embrace like an overly excited puppy.

"Oof!" Jaime grunted as Tyrion's large head hit his stomach.

"Oh, Tyrion," Jaime laughed, a warm and sincere laugh, as he caught his brother and lifted him onto his lap. Jaime's hand ruffled Tyrion's fine pale blonde hair. "You better not be too excited, little buddy. My chest hurts, and I just had lunch."

Tyrion giggled, his voice no longer annoying shrill like this morning, but full of happiness. "You're home! You're home!" he exclaimed, hugging Jaime's neck with his chubby arms. "Cersei said you went away again!"

Cersei just rolled her eyes and went back to pretending to read, though her ears remained alert. She observed the interaction from behind her book cover.

"I didn't go away, I was just doing something important," Jaime said gently, adjusting Tyrion's sitting position. "So, I heard you made your own story? Cersei said your story is about heroes and dragons?"

Tyrion's eyes widened. He glanced at Cersei with amazement. Then he looked back at Jaime with fiery spirit.

"Yes! He is an Ancient Man!" Tyrion began to tell the story, words tumbling out fast, tripping over each other with enthusiasm. "He woke up and the world was broken. War everywhere! So he used his magic. At first he healed people, but Cersei said that was stupid."

Jaime raised an eyebrow, glancing at Cersei again. Cersei did not react, her face as cold as ice.

"Oh? What did Cersei say?" Jaime asked, his tone interested.

"Cersei said," Tyrion mimicked his sister's haughty tone quite accurately, "that kindness without power is weakness. That people will betray him. So my hero must become a feared God! He will force those evil kings to stop fighting with threats!"

Jaime fell silent for a moment. He looked at Cersei with a gaze that was hard to interpret.

"A very... realistic suggestion," Jaime commented softly. He turned back to Tyrion. "And you agree?"

"Yes!" Tyrion nodded firmly. "Those kings won't listen if just asked nicely. They have to be afraid. So my hero will build a fortress of dragon crystal and anyone who breaks the peace will be... will be frozen. And he himself will become king!"

Jaime laughed. "Frozen? How cruel."

"But effective!" Tyrion exclaimed.

Cersei, from behind her book, felt the corner of her lips twitch forming a thin smile. 'At least he learns,' she thought.

"Alright, alright," Jaime said, patting Tyrion's back. "That sounds like a great story. Much better than mine. You must write it until it's finished."

"I ran out of paper," Tyrion admitted sadly.

"I will get you more. As much as you want," Jaime promised. "But now, how about I tell you the continuation of the Pinocchio story? About how he was swallowed by a whale?"

"A giant whale?!"

"Very big. As big as Casterly Rock!"

Cersei watched them in silence. She saw how Jaime patiently entertained every one of Tyrion's silly questions, how he made funny noises to mimic a whale, how he made the deformed child feel like the most important person in the world.

There was a weakness in Jaime, Cersei thought. A sentimental weakness. He was too soft. Too caring. In this harsh world, such softness could kill him.

However, seeing the laughter on Jaime's face, a laugh rarely seen when he was with Father or Uncle Tygett, Cersei felt a strange prick in her chest. Not jealousy, she convinced herself. She was not jealous of Tyrion. That was ridiculous. They were no longer soulmates anyway.

Maybe it was loneliness.

"I'm going back to my room," Cersei announced coldly, cutting off their laughter. "My head hurts hearing your noise."

Jaime turned, the smile still there. "Rest, Cersei. See you at dinner."

"See you, Cersei!" Tyrion exclaimed innocently.

I guess we'll have to see how this woman develops :'p, and at the same time calm down the atmosphere.

Chapter Text

The object was small, perfectly round, and felt cold in his palm. Under the scorching sun of Lannisport, the wooden casing looked beautiful and its glass layer reflected light that dazzled the eyes. However, the real magic was not on the outside, but what lay beneath.

A thin iron needle, balanced on a very fine pivot, floating in a sealed container.

Compass.

To Steven Evans in his old life, this thing was a cheap trinket one could get at a souvenir shop. But here? In Westeros? It was a marvel of engineering. It was the key to conquering the seas without having to act like a child afraid to let go of his mother's skirts.

Jaime spun it in his hand, smiling with satisfaction as he watched the needle sway gently before stubbornly returning to point in one direction. North.

It only took two weeks. Two weeks to make it. Of course, "make" was too grand a word for what Jaime actually did. He didn't forge the needle himself, he didn't blow the glass, he was merely the person who stroked the needle against a lodestone.

He drew a rough sketch, a blueprint that might have been laughed at by modern engineers, and handed it to the best craftsman in Lannisport along with a pouch of Gold Dragons.

Being rich was indeed pleasant, Jaime thought with a hint of irony. In his past life as a teacher with a meager salary, realizing an idea required funding proposals, bureaucracy, and months of time. Here? He only had to snap his fingers, and people would run to make his imagination a reality for a piece of gold. Power was the best lubricant for the wheels of innovation.

"Take a look," Jaime said, breaking his own reverie. They were walking down the bustling streets of Lannisport, amidst the scent of spices and salted fish. He held the object out to Jon who walked beside him. "What do you think?"

Jon, who usually held a sword or shield with the confidence of a veteran, accepted the small object with an almost amusing caution. As if he were holding a dragon egg ready to hatch. His large hands made the compass look very tiny.

Jon brought the object close to his face, squinting under the sunlight. He stared at the quivering needle in detail. Then, he turned his body to the left, then to the right.

His eyes widened as he saw the needle did not turn with him, but remained pointing in the same direction. Towards the North.

"This..." Jon mumbled, then shook it slightly, trying to confuse the mechanism inside. The needle settled again, pointing north once more. His face looked amazed, a mixture of superstitious fear and pure awe.

"It seems to work well, Lord Jaime," Jon said, his voice low. "This thing... it indeed always points north. No matter where I turn. If this is not magic, then I do not know what is. Did you trap a small spirit inside?"

Jaime chuckled, taking the compass back before Jon dropped it out of fear. "Not a spirit, Jon. And not magic. It is called knowledge."

"Knowledge acting like magic," Jon muttered, still staring at Jaime's pocket where the object had disappeared.

"Lodestone has a natural affinity with the north," Jaime explained with immense simplification. He wasn't going to start explaining about the earth's magnetic field or poles. That would make Jon's head explode. "I only utilized that property of nature."

His thoughts drifted to the next plan. This little object had to be kept secret. At least for now. He planned to tell Uncle Kevan about this. They could then try it at sea, and then the man could see its value.

In trade, time was money. In war, time was victory.

And war... Jaime felt a chill on the back of his neck even though the air was warm. War might erupt soon. The situation in Duskendale was still unclear, and Aerys's madness was a ticking time bomb. If, or when, chaos occurred, House Lannister had to possess every possible advantage to survive. Mastery of the sea was one of them.

His thoughts drifted to other possibilities. Science in his old world was full of things that could change the course of history. If he wanted... he could just go find sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Mix them in the right ratio.

Gunpowder.

He could create explosives. He could make cannons that would crumble castle walls in a matter of hours. He could make muskets that would make armored knights obsolete overnight.

But Jaime immediately brushed the thought away. No. That was too dangerous. Too chaotic. This world was already brutal enough with swords and dragonfire. Giving gunpowder to people like Aerys Targaryen or Tywin Lannister? That was akin to handing a match to a child in a dynamite warehouse. He didn't want to be the Oppenheimer of Westeros.

Compass was safe enough. Paper was safe enough. Gunpowder... let that remain Steven's secret.

"We will try it later on a ship," Jaime said, bringing his mind back to the present. "I will speak to Uncle Kevan. Come to think of it, it would indeed be nice to be at sea. I want to breathe the air there, far from book dust and furnace smoke."

Jon sighed in relief, seemingly glad the topic shifted from the 'magic' object. "To sea? As long as you do not intend to sail all the way to Valyria, I am with you. I prefer solid ground beneath my feet, but sea air is indeed good for the lungs."

"Just around the coast, Jon. We need to ensure this needle stays stable when waves hit," Jaime assured. "And maybe fish a little. Who knows, I might be luckier than in the Riverrun river."

"As long as I don't have to clean them afterwards," Jon grumbled, but there was a smile on his face. "Last time fishing with you, the fishy smell stuck to my armor for three days."

"That is called natural perfume, Jon. The ladies might like it," Jaime teased.

"Cat women, maybe," Jon replied.

They laughed, walking side by side up the ascending road to Casterly Rock. The road was wide and winding, carved directly into the living rock of the giant cliff.

Jaime looked up, towards the peak that dominated the sky. This was his home now. A fortress of power built on gold and pride. Sometimes, the weight of the Lannister name felt as heavy as the rock above him.

"By the way, Lord Jaime," Jon said as they passed the gate. "Does that thing... have a name?"

Jaime smiled, touching the pocket where the object was stored.

"I call it 'Pathfinder'," Jaime answered. "Or maybe 'Sailor's Eye'. I haven't decided. Tyrion surely has a better name idea later."

"As long as it's not 'Jaime's Magic Toy'," said Jon.

"That works too."

…

The sea wind blew hard at the Lannisport docks, bringing with it the sharp scent of salt and the cries of hungry seagulls. There was a small merchant ship, bobbing gently at the edge, as if impatient to cut through the waves.

"You really are something, nephew," Uncle Kevan chuckled as they walked down the creaking wooden pier. His voice was deep and calm, a contrast to the noise of the harbor around them. Behind him, several red-cloaked guards followed along with Jon, their eyes watching every dockworker who passed too close.

On Kevan's other side walked a middle-aged man with a sturdy posture like a wooden barrel. Captain Colin. His face was like an old map etched by wind and sun, and his thick hair that might have once been black had now turned completely gray, like sea foam in a winter storm.

"So far since we walked from the castle," Kevan continued, his eyes on the compass he held, "this 'compass' thing indeed hasn't lost its north direction. Even when we turned on the winding roads earlier." He shook his head slightly, a thin smile playing on his lips. "This is something that truly makes no sense."

Jaime chuckled, his steps light on the wooden planks of the pier, accepting the compass back. "Everything there makes sense, Uncle. There are causes for how it happens, it is not magic. Just like water always flows down, this needle always flows north."

They boarded the ship in front of them. The ship was not big, just a coastal merchant vessel with a single mast, but the deck was clean and the ropes were coiled neatly, the sign of a disciplined captain.

"Welcome to the Single Sail, Ser Kevan, Lord Jaime," Captain Colin greeted with a hoarse voice that sounded like grinding stones. He didn't bow too deeply; the sea made everyone a little more equal. It seemed. "The wind is good today. We can reach open water quickly."

"Good," said Kevan. "Take us there, Captain. My nephew wants to show his new toy, and I want to see if it can withstand seasickness."

The ship began to move, the sail unfurled with a loud snap as it caught the wind. Slowly, Lannisport began to shrink behind them. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the crashing of waves hitting the hull and the hiss of parting water.

Jaime stood near the helm, feeling the ship sway beneath his feet. This sensation... he missed it. In his past life, he had taken a ferry a few times, but nothing could compare to being on a wooden sailing ship, feeling the power of nature pushing you forward.

As the land began to become a thin line in the distance, and they were surrounded by an endless expanse of blue, Jaime took out his compass.

"Captain Colin," Jaime called. "Can you tell me where North is right now? Without looking at the sun."

Colin narrowed his eyes, looking at the sky, then the waves, then back at Jaime. "Without the sun, a sailor uses his experience, My Lord. The wind today blows from the Southwest. The waves move to the Northeast. So North is there," he pointed with a calloused hand towards the port bow.

Jaime opened the compass lid. The iron needle inside wobbled wildly for a moment due to the ship's swaying, then stabilized. The tip of the needle painted red pointed... exactly where Colin pointed.

"Precisely," Jaime said with a smile, showing the compass to Kevan and Colin.

Colin's eyes widened when he saw the small needle. He leaned in, staring at it as if the thing could bite. "By the Seven," he muttered. "That little thing knows the wind direction?"

"It knows the direction of North, Captain," Jaime corrected. "Try turning the ship. Make a full circle."

Colin looked at Kevan for confirmation. Kevan gave a curt nod. "Do it."

Captain Colin shouted orders to his crew. The ship began to turn slowly, its hull tilting as it cut through the waves. The scenery around them shifted, blue sea, then the faint silhouette of Casterly Rock in the distance, then sea again.

But that needle... that needle remained still.

When the ship turned East, the needle pointed to the ship's left. When the ship faced South, the needle pointed to the back of the ship. As if there were an invisible rope tying the tip of the needle to the end of the world.

"Impossible," whispered Colin. He was a man who had spent thirty years at sea, who navigated by stars and instinct. Seeing an inanimate object possess a better directional 'instinct' than him was something that shook his world.

"Imagine, Captain," Jaime said, his voice full of spirit yet controlled. He didn't want to sound arrogant. "Imagine a stormy night. Stars covered by thick clouds. No moon. You are in the middle of the open sea, no land visible. How do you know the way home?"

Colin fell silent. His face turned grim. "We pray, My Lord. And we guess. And often... we are wrong."

"With this," Jaime lifted the compass slightly, "you do not need to guess anymore. You can sail in fog, in storms, in total darkness. You can cut a straight path across the ocean."

Uncle Kevan, who had been observing silently, finally spoke up. He took the compass from Jaime's hand, holding it with respect. His sharp and calculating eyes stared at the object, then stared at the horizon.

"This is not a toy," Kevan said softly, more to himself. "This is a weapon." He looked at Jaime, a glint of recognition in his eyes. "Our ships can appear from places the enemy does not expect. We can attack when they are anchored for fear of storms."

"Exactly, Uncle," Jaime replied. "The Ironborn think they are kings of the seas because they do not fear death. But with this, we become kings of the seas because we will not get lost."

Kevan nodded slowly, a thin smile appearing on his face. "Your father must see this. He will be very... impressed."

"I hope so," said Jaime.

The ship continued to sail, cutting through increasingly high waves. Jaime walked to the bow of the ship, leaving Kevan and Colin now involved in a serious discussion about logistics and navigation, with Colin occasionally glancing at the compass in Kevan's hand with a hungry gaze.

Jaime stood there, his hands gripping the wooden railing wet with salty spray. The sea wind hit him, fluttering his golden hair and his cloak. It felt cold, fresh, and liberating.

Here, in the middle of the sea, far from the intrigues of Westeros, far from his Father's judgmental gaze, he felt... alive. He felt like Steven again, but a better version. A version that could make a difference.

He looked at the endless horizon. There, across this ocean, were other places. Essos. Braavos. Valyria. The world was so vast. And he had just given the key to open that world a little wider.

Paper to spread knowledge. Compass to spread men. Even though the latter would not spread that quickly.

"Lord Jaime!" Jon called from behind, his voice having to compete with the wind. His loyal guard looked a little green in the face, holding tightly to the mast. "Can we go home already? I think my stomach does not agree with this 'knowledge'."

Jaime laughed, a free laugh carried by the wind. He looked back, staring at poor Jon.

"Soon, Jon! Enjoy the view!" Jaime exclaimed.

He turned back to stare at the sea. The sun began to descend, reflecting golden light on the surface of the water, turning the ocean into a field of liquid gold. Yes, fields of gold.

The next four or five chapters are the final part of Duskendale, we won't see Jaime for a while :'p

Chapter Text

That afternoon, the sun shone with a brightness that felt almost mocking. The sky above Duskendale stretched out in a flawless blue, adorned by white clouds drifting lazily. A gentle breeze blew softly, dancing past the stone walls of the Dun Fort, scattering dry leaves across the courtyard and caressing the faces of the soldiers standing guard with tension in their eyes.

It was the kind of day that should have been celebrated with a hunt in the woods or a feast in the gardens. But for Denys Darklyn, the sunlight felt blinding and painful.

He stood in the highest tower, his hands gripping the rough stone. Denys possessed none of the spark of life a man should have when welcoming the sun. His face was haggard, as if he had slept in his clothes for a full week, and perhaps he had. The wrinkles on his face had grown more numerous and deeper than a month ago, carving a map of anxiety onto his paling skin. His body, once broad and proud, now seemed to shrink beneath his black velvet doublet; he was growing thinner despite eating enough, as if fear itself were eating the flesh from his bones.

His mind was in turmoil, a storm that refused to subside. Sometimes empty, void of ideas, other times full of screaming voices of doubt. What have I done? The whisper came when he slept, when he ate, when he relieved himself. I am holding the King. I killed a Kingsguard.

However, every time panic began to choke him, another voice emerged. The soft, sweet, and confident voice of his wife, Serala.

'They are only bluffing, Denys. Tywin Lannister is a calculating man, not a madman. As long as we have him, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it.'

It was that voice that kept him standing upright. It was that voice that convinced him this was all just a complex game of cyvasse.

Denys shifted his gaze to the harbor below. From this height, he could see the sight he had always dreamed of. The sea was filled with ships. Sails fluttered everywhere, masts like a wooden forest growing upon the water.

Once, he had always hoped that Duskendale would be like this. He wanted his city to rival King's Landing, to be a center of trade where ships fought for space to dock, bringing silk and spices, enriching House Darklyn beyond his ancestors' wildest dreams.

Now his wish was granted. His harbor was full.

But in a strange and terrible way.

They were not merchant ships. They were warships. Ships of the Royal Fleet, ships flying the banners of dragons and lions. They did not come bearing gold. They all came here to blockade his port, to starve his people, and ultimately, to take his head.

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

Denys snorted roughly, combing his long, greasy black hair back with trembling fingers. He banished all those dark thoughts. 'No. They won't attack. They are afraid. Just look, it's been a month and they are just sitting there.'

"Yes, they will wait," he muttered to the wind. "And we will wait too. Until they realize my demands are worthy."

Turning away from the painful view, Denys decided he had seen enough of his grim 'glory'. His throat was dry. He needed a cup of ale, strong ale, one that could burn away the fear in his gut, and he needed the daily report from Maester Reggan, though he knew the report would bring no good news.

He began to descend the tower stairs. Step by step he took, the spiral stones winding down into the belly of the fortress seeming endless. The further down he went, the fresh summer air vanished, replaced by a cold and damp chill seeping from the walls. The smell of moss and wet stone filled his nose; the smell of a prison, not a palace.

In the corridor leading to his solar, he met a young guard. The boy looked tense, his hands gripping his spear too tightly until his knuckles turned white. The boy's eyes went wide upon seeing his Lord, full of questions he dared not speak: 'Are we going to die?'

"Summon Maester Reggan to my solar," Denys ordered, his voice hoarse. He did not look the guard in the eye. He couldn't.

"Y-yes, My Lord," the guard stammered, rushing away, his armor clanking in the quiet hallway.

Denys pushed open the door to his solar and entered.

Inside, the atmosphere was slightly different. The room smelled of floral scents and perfumed oils from Myr, thanks to his wife's touch. Serala always tried to make this gloomy fortress feel like her home in Essos. Once, Denys loved this scent. Now, the sweet fragrance mixed with the smell of dust and stale ale, creating a nauseating aroma.

Denys walked to the side table, pouring dark brown ale from a silver flagon into a goblet. He didn't bother to sit. He downed the contents in one long gulp, letting the liquid burn his throat, hoping it could drown out the voices in his head.

Just as he placed the goblet back on the table, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Enter," Denys growled.

The door opened, and Maester Reggan stepped inside. He was a man in his early fifties, his grey robes looking somewhat dull in the dim room light. His hair, perhaps once pitch black, had now begun to whiten at the temples, giving him an aura of weary wisdom. His face was serious, with deep lines around his mouth showing he rarely smiled. He was the type of man who didn't speak much unless ordered, a trait very fitting for a grim situation like now.

"My Lord." The Maester bowed low, the chain at his neck clinking softly.

Denys threw himself into the chair behind his large desk and signaled for him to sit.

"How is our food situation, Maester?" Denys asked the most important thing first, his voice heavy. This was a matter of life and death, more urgent than the swords out there.

Reggan frowned, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He didn't answer immediately, as if weighing how much truth his master could handle today. However, he was a Maester, and his duty was truth.

"Worrying, Lord Darklyn," he answered honestly. "We had prepared to ration even before the army arrived, hoarding what we could. But it is not enough. The grain in the granaries will eventually run out, and with the humidity of this season, the vegetables we stored are starting to rot faster than expected."

Denys felt his stomach churn. "How much longer before we run out? Give me a number, Reggan. Not vague estimates."

Reggan took a deep breath. "Three months. Maybe four, if we are truly frugal and take drastic measures. We must cut supplies for soldiers and servants starting today."

"You mean? We have to take their rations?" Denys frowned, imagining the hungry faces of his people.

"Cut, My Lord," the Maester corrected in a clinical tone. "Half rations. If they only eat once a day, thin porridge in the morning, a bit of hard bread at night, these supplies will last that long. We must prioritize the archers on the walls and the elite guards."

Denys fell silent, thinking about it. He twirled his empty goblet. Three months. Four months. He didn't know how long Tywin Lannister would endure out there with his legendary patience. It felt like a very long time, an eternity in a siege.

His head felt dizzy, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Was there no other way? What could he do to make them, Tywin, Rhaegar, the lords besieging him, listen to him more? He didn't want the people in this castle to starve and die slowly for his ambition. He wanted them alive to see the glory of the new Duskendale he promised.

"If we do that, our people will become weak," Denys said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "Hungry soldiers cannot draw bowstrings strongly. Hungry servants will be slow. And at that time... disease will strike more easily. It will kill them before Lannister swords have the chance."

Reggan nodded, agreeing with the assessment. He was silent for a moment, then replied in a flat but piercing voice. "There is always a price to pay, My Lord. For anything. The freedom of Duskendale, the city charter you desire... the price is paid with the empty bellies of these people."

Those words hit Denys harder than a physical blow. He stared at the Maester, looking for signs of judgment, but Reggan's face remained neutral.

"And the King?" Denys asked suddenly, shifting the topic from his guilt. "Is he eating?"

"King Aerys refuses most of the food we bring, My Lord," Reggan reported. "He... He is convinced we are trying to poison him. He will only eat bread he sees cut from the whole loaf himself, and drink water that we drink first. His condition... is not good. He is getting thinner, and he talks to himself."

"Let him talk to himself all he likes, as long as he stays alive," Denys grumbled. "He is the only reason these walls haven't crumbled onto our heads."

"There is one more thing, My Lord," Reggan said hesitantly.

"Speak."

"The soldiers... they are starting to whisper. They see the tents out there. They see the smoke from the royal army's camp fires that seem endless. Their morale... is wavering."

"Tell them to shut up and do their duty!" Denys snapped, his anger exploding to mask his own fear. "Tywin will give in! We just need to hold on a little longer!"

Reggan bowed obediently, but his eyes betrayed deep doubt. "As you command, My Lord."

The Maester stood, bowed once more, and left the room with heavy steps.

Denys was alone again. He poured more ale, his hand shaking so violently that some liquid spilled onto the table. He stared at the spill, spreading like dark blood on the wood.

Three months. He had three months before hunger turned his castle into a graveyard. He had to think of something. Or perhaps, he had to start praying. But... pray to whom?

…

Denys lay in his large, luxurious bed, the silk sheets feeling cold against his skin. The moon had replaced the scorching sun, and the sounds of fortress activity had subsided into an oppressive silence.

His eyes were closed, trying to summon sleep that wouldn't come, when he felt movement beside him. A cold and trembling hand wrapped around his body, clutching his sleeping tunic with fragile desperation.

Serala.

Denys turned slowly. In the dim moonlight entering through the window slit, he saw his wife. The woman was staring at him, her dark eyes wide open, reflecting a nameless fear. Her face looked soft, fragile, and her black hair lay messy on the pillow.

"Can't sleep?" Denys asked, his voice hoarse. He lifted his rough hand, stroking his wife's cheek with a gentleness he rarely showed lately.

"No," whispered Serala. "They are all too noisy, Denys."

Denys closed his eyes for a moment, sharpening his ears. He felt the chill seeping in from the stone cracks, bringing the salty smell of the sea. There was no sound. No whispers. Only the gentle breeze passing through the tower window slit.

"You are hallucinating, My Lady," Denys said softly, "There is no one there."

"But it feels real," Serala's voice broke, her eyes tearing up. She pulled the fur blanket higher, covering her body up to her chin as if the fabric could protect her from ghosts.

"Shhh." Denys pulled his wife into his embrace, holding her head to his chest. He could feel Serala's heartbeat racing like a trapped bird.

"They are just hallucinations, Serala," Denys whispered into her fragrant hair. "Tywin Lannister is trying to do that to us, to make us chaotic. As long as we have the King, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it."

Serala clutched the chest of Denys's tunic tightly, her breathing slowly becoming regular, matching the rhythm of her husband's breath. Those words, their protective mantra, seemed to work. Slowly, the tension in his wife's body loosened.

Denys's eyes slowly closed, exhaustion finally pulling him into a restless and dreamless sleep.

...

"FIRE!"

The scream tore through Denys's sleep like a hot knife cutting butter.

He jolted awake, his heart pounding against his ribs. Serala jumped beside him, shrieking in surprise.

"What...?" Denys gasped, his consciousness still foggy.

The scream was heard again, this time more numerous, more frantic. "FIRE! WATER! BRING WATER!"

Denys immediately stood up, ignoring the dizziness hitting his head. He ran to the window, pushing the shutters wide open.

The view outside froze him.

Down there, in the fortress courtyard that should have been dark, a bright orange light danced wildly. Tongues of fire licked the night sky, spewing thick black smoke that began to cover the stars. The source was the main stables, a large wooden building full of dry hay and valuable livestock.

Denys's breath hitched. Not just the stables. The granary was right next to it.

His mind raced wildly, faster than the fire itself. How could it be? Tonight was calm. There was no lightning storm.

'Did Tywin Lannister manage to send infiltrators?' The thought exploded in his mind. 'Is this an attack? Are they burning us alive?'

"My Lord? D-Denys? What is it?!" Serala was already by his side, clutching her husband's arm. She looked out, and her eyes widened in horror. Her hand covered her mouth to stifle a scream. "Oh Gods..."

"I will check it," Denys said, his voice hard and sharp. He turned, grabbing his robe and the sword that was always beside the bed.

He left the room quickly, his footsteps thumping on the stone floor. Serala followed him, her face deathly pale.

They passed corridors now starting to fill with thin smoke smelling acrid. In the main hall, they crossed paths with Maester Reggan running with a limp, his face full of soot.

"My Lord!" Reggan exclaimed, his breath ragged. "The fire... the fire is spreading fast! The sea wind is blowing it towards the storage sheds!"

"We must extinguish it immediately! Mobilize everyone!" Denys barked, continuing to walk fast down the stairs.

When Denys and Serala burst through the main doors of the fortress and stepped out into the courtyard, the heat slapped their faces instantly.

It was total chaos.

Soldiers ran without clear direction, some still in their undergarments, carrying buckets of water that looked pitiful compared to the fire giant raging in front of them. Horses that managed to escape ran in panic, neighing in terror, adding to the confusion.

The starry night sky was now covered by smoke and sparks flying like hellish fireflies. The cold wind that whispered earlier now roared, feeding the fire, making it grow taller, hungrier.

Denys stood frozen for a moment. He watched the fire devour the old wood of the stables with a terrifying sound. The heat was felt even from this distance, drying his skin.

And within the dancing flames, reflected in his widened eyes, Denys did not see an accident. He saw the end.

…

Deep beneath the foundation of the Dun Fort, where sunlight never touched and the sound of waves only sounded like the earth's weak heartbeat, the air felt heavy and still.

Denys Darklyn stepped down the narrow stone corridor, followed by two of his loyal guards carrying torches. The flickering firelight cast long shadows dancing on the mossy walls, as if the ghosts of Darklyn ancestors were watching in silence.

Denys could still smell the smoke on his clothes, remnants of the stable fire that had just been extinguished. The charred scent stuck to his skin, a constant reminder that time was burning away his chances. Tywin Lannister was not just sitting idly out there; he sent fire. He sent a message.

And now, Denys had to reply to that message.

He stopped in front of a heavy iron cell door. The guard on duty there immediately straightened up, his face pale under his iron helm. Without a word, Denys nodded, and the guard turned the large key in silence.

Denys stepped inside.

The room was damp and cold, smelling of rotting straw and human waste not properly cleaned. In the corner of the room, on a pile of dirty straw, sat the figure who held the fate of all Duskendale in his hands.

Aerys Targaryen.

The sight was pathetic. The King, once known for his looks and charm, now looked like a mad beggar. His long silver hair was matted, greasy and filled with filth. His beard grew wild, covering part of his face. His nails, nails that should hold a scepter, had grown long like animal claws, yellow and dirty.

On the floor, a tray containing hard bread and cold meat lay barely touched.

'How dare he,' Denys thought, cold anger creeping into his veins. 'My people out there are starting to starve, rationing their food, while he wastes food at times like these?'

"Your Grace," Denys greeted, his voice flat, emotionless, echoing in the narrow space.

Aerys, who seemed to be asleep or daydreaming in the darkness of his own mind, jerked. His violet eyes widened, pupils shrinking upon seeing the torchlight. He crawled back until his back hit the stone wall, like a cornered animal.

Then, recognition came.

Aerys lunged forward, gripping the iron bars with his thin hands, shaking them with the strength of a madman.

"You!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and broken. "You will die! You will burn! I see my dragons coming! They will burn you alive until your flesh melts from your bones!"

Denys did not flinch. He stood tall, staring at the king with a gaze he hoped looked stronger than he actually felt.

"No dragons are coming, Your Grace," Denys said coldly. "There is only Tywin Lannister out there. And he does not care about you."

"Liar! He is my friend! He is my Hand!" Aerys spat, saliva dripping from his dirty chin.

"If he is your friend, why does he let you rot here for a month?" Denys pressed. "I only ask for a condition, Aerys. A simple condition. A city charter for Duskendale. Freedom from strangling taxes. It is a thing you could easily do with words. Is it so hard? Just one signature, and you can return to the Red Keep, sleep in a silk bed, and eat warm food."

Aerys laughed, a high-pitched sound that hurt the ears.

"You think I am a fool?" he hissed, bringing his face close to the bars until Denys could smell his foul breath. "You lowly bastard! You traitor! Your blood is dirty! You are sick if you think you can command a dragon! I will give you nothing but fire and blood!"

Denys felt his patience, already as thin as paper, finally snap. The fire earlier, the fear in Serala's eyes, the looming starvation... everything peaked into a boiling point. He had no time for this. He had no time to listen to the ravings of the man before him while his city burned.

Without warning, Denys stepped forward. His large, rough hand reached through the gap in the bars, gripping Aerys's jaw tightly. He squeezed the king's face, forcing him to silence.

Aerys struggled, his eyes wild. He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat right into Denys's face.

The warm, filthy liquid hit Denys's cheek and eye.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment.

Denys released his grip slowly. He took a step back, closing his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath, trying to control the rumble in his chest, then wiped the spit away with his sleeve. The action was slow, methodical, and terrifying.

When he opened his eyes again, there was no more respect or hesitation there.

"Bring him out," Denys ordered the two guards. His voice was calm, too calm. "Do not let him struggle."

The guards hesitated for a moment, after all, this was the King, but Denys's glare made them move. The key turned. The cell door opened.

They dragged Aerys out. The King raged, kicking and scratching, shouting curses and threats of burning. His weak body was no match for two trained soldiers.

Denys watched them struggle. He thought of the fire that had just been extinguished up there. He thought of the smoke still billowing. He needed momentum. He needed something to silence the besiegers outside, something to prove he was serious. If Tywin Lannister wanted to play with fire, then Denys would show that he was not afraid to burn himself.

"Make him kneel!" Denys raised his voice, his tone cracking like a whip.

The guards kicked the back of Aerys's knees, forcing him to fall onto the cold, dirty stone floor. The King shouted in protest, but strong hands held him there.

"Hold his right hand," Denys ordered again. "Spread it on the floor. Before me."

One of the guards looked pale, his eyes widening in horror at what was about to happen, but he did not argue. He gripped Aerys's thin wrist, forcing the king's palm open on the damp stone. Aerys tried to pull it back, but his strength was far inferior.

Denys stepped forward. His hand moved to his waist, drawing a sharp hunting dagger. The metal glinted gloomily under the torchlight.

This had to be done. This was the only language understood by men in this world.

He crouched in front of his King. He said nothing more. No threats, no negotiations.

With a swift movement, Denys drove the dagger downward.

The steel blade embedded itself between Aerys's fingers, cutting the thin skin between the ring finger and the middle finger, and then Denys sliced it upward.

Aerys screamed.

As always. Thank you for reading. :'D

Chapter Text

RHAEGAR

The waves slapped against the hull of the command ship with a monotonous rhythm, a restless lullaby for the troops who had been stalled there for over a month. Morning came with a deceptive brightness; a pale blue sky stretched out cloudless, and the sea breeze blew fresh, carrying the sharp, slightly fishy scent of salt.

Inside the ship's main cabin, the air felt far heavier than outside.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat on one side of a long wooden table bolted to the floor to keep it from shifting when the waves struck. Before him lay a breakfast simple yet well-cooked, considering the kitchen's limitations.

"Let me go in, Lord Hand."

Ser Barristan Selmy's voice broke the silence, firm and urgent. The knight stood, his food untouched. His usually calm face was now filled with deep lines of frustration. The fresh morning air seemed to fan the flames of his impatience rather than cool them.

"I can sneak in," Barristan continued, his eyes staring sharply at Tywin Lannister who sat at the head of the table. "I can disguise myself as a beggar or a lost merchant. I know cracks in the Dun Fort walls that may not be guarded. I can get in, find where the King is held, and bring him out of there before Darklyn realizes what happened."

Tywin Lannister did not answer immediately. He was cutting a sausage on his plate. His face, as always, was a mask devoid of emotion.

"Too risky," Tywin said finally, without lifting his face from his plate. His voice was flat, killing every argument before it could bloom.

"Risk is part of my duty, Lord Tywin," Barristan retorted, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword.

"There is a difference between bravery and folly, Ser Barristan," Tywin looked at him now, a gaze of pale green eyes that made many lords in Westeros tremble. "Even if you could get in, a very large assumption considering Darklyn must have doubled the guard, then what? You are alone. You are just one sword against a full garrison. You would die before you could touch the door of the King's cell, let alone bring him out."

Barristan fell silent for a moment, his jaw hardening. Rhaegar could see the inner conflict in the old knight's eyes, between Tywin's irrefutable logic and the sacred vows that bound his soul.

Rhaegar turned his attention to his own plate. A piece of grilled fish lay there, its white, tender flesh still steaming faintly. Atop it, the ship's cook had sprinkled bright red tomato chunks and slices of onion sautéed until caramelized.

He cut the fish, bringing it to his mouth. The flavor exploded on his tongue, the savoriness of fresh fish, the fresh acidity of tomato, and the sweetness of onion. It was fragrant, delicious, and ironically, the only good thing here right now. Amidst this boring and uncertain siege, this simple breakfast felt like an inappropriate luxury.

He chewed slowly, letting the taste distract his mind for a moment from the image of his father who might be starving in a cold stone cell.

"At least that means I would have tried," Barristan said again, his voice quieter but no less intense. "As a Kingsguard, my honor demands action. I cannot just sit here all day, eating and drinking on this comfortable ship, while my King... my King is not far from here, perhaps being tortured, and is in mortal danger every second."

Tywin placed his knife down gently. He looked at Barristan, a long and heavy gaze. To Rhaegar, that look had the power to break the spirit of a common man, crushing their resolve into dust. But Barristan Selmy was no common man. He was Barristan the Bold. He was the capable knight who had cut through enemy lines alone in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He returned Tywin's gaze with the same fire.

The situation had reached a stalemate. The tension in the room thickened, suffocating.

Then, Tywin's gaze shifted slowly, sliding from Barristan and landing on Rhaegar.

Rhaegar knew the meaning of that look. It was a signal. Tywin had said his part. Now it was Rhaegar's turn to say the emotional part, the part that could be accepted by a knight's heart.

Rhaegar swallowed his food, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and looked at Barristan. He, too, actually wanted to do something. He felt the same urge to storm the gates, to end this nightmare. However, logic held him back.

"We still need you here, Ser Barristan," Rhaegar said softly, his voice calm yet authoritative.

Barristan turned to him, his brows furrowed. "Prince?"

"The soldiers," Rhaegar continued, gesturing toward the cabin window, toward the thousands of tents spread across the shore. "They are tired. They are bored. This month has made some of them waver. They whisper around the campfires, wondering if we will ever go home, if the King is dead, if Darklyn possesses magic. They are unsure of the future."

Rhaegar stood, walking closer to Barristan. "They need a symbol. They need a respected man, a living legend, to walk among them and raise their spirits. If Ser Barristan Selmy stands tall, then they too will stand tall. If you go and die foolishly in there... the morale of this army will shatter instantly."

Barristan seemed shaken by those words.

"The Prince is right," Tywin added, picking up a glass and sipping the water within. "This war is no longer about swords, Ser. It is about endurance. Who blinks first."

Tywin leaned his body slightly forward. "If it wavers here, it is no different in there. Our spy reports say their supplies are running low. If our morale is strong, it will pressure them. It means Darklyn's forces will diminish one by one due to desertion or despair, and we won't even have to do anything but wait."

Tywin placed his glass back down. "When that happens, when hunger starts to bite and hope fades, and if Darklyn indeed still has even a little brain in that hard head of his, he will soon realize his position. He will surrender."

Barristan sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of his armor had suddenly increased. He knew he had lost the argument. Rhaegar's logic about troop morale was something he could not refute as a commander.

"Very well," Barristan said finally, his voice heavy. "I will remain here. I will check the guard posts and ensure discipline is maintained."

"Thank you, Ser," Rhaegar said sincerely.

"But," Barristan added, his finger pointing toward the Dun Fort visible faintly from the window, "if there is a chance... however small... I want to take it, Lord Hand."

Tywin did not answer, only returning to cut his sausage. It was a silent agreement, or perhaps indifference.

The conversation continued for a while longer, discussing the logistics of food shipments from King's Landing and the rotation of blockade ships, but the main tension had subsided. Rhaegar went back to finishing his fish, though it no longer tasted as delicious as before.

Meal finished, the servants began clearing the table. Rhaegar rose. He needed a conversation that did not involve siege strategies or his father's grim fate.

"I will step out," said Rhaegar.

Tywin only nodded without looking.

Rhaegar stepped out of the cabin onto the ship's deck. The sea wind immediately hit his face, fluttering his silver hair. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with clean salty air. Around him, naval activity was running well. Sailors shouted, rigging was pulled, and seagulls circled looking for scraps.

He walked toward the gangplank that would take him to land. He had another destination. Arthur.

…

Rhaegar walked along the main thoroughfare, his simple cloak hiding his princely raiment, yet his stride still carried an elegance difficult to conceal. He walked deeper into civilization.

He found Ser Arthur Dayne speaking with a captain of the guard. The knight looked striking amidst the crowd, his pure white armor reflecting the sunlight like a mirror.

Arthur saw him approaching, gave a brief nod to the captain to dismiss him, then approached Rhaegar.

"Prince," greeted Ser Arthur, his voice calm as always. "Bored of being on the ship?"

'I am bored of being here. I am bored with this uncertainty,' Rhaegar thought.

He opened his mouth, letting a thin, weary smile appear on his lips. "You could say that. The ship is starting to feel like a swaying prison. And my father..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Arthur knew. Everyone knew.

"A siege is a boring business, Prince," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the passing crowd with vigilance. "Waiting is the hardest part of war. It is easier to fight against an enemy you can see than against time."

"And Tywin seems to enjoy this time," Rhaegar murmured.

"He wants to ensure victory without much spilled blood," Arthur commented. "It is efficient."

They walked side by side, two of the most respected figures in the realm, yet currently feeling the most powerless. Their conversation flowed from siege strategies to lighter things like Rhaegar's songs, sword practice, or archery. It was a rare normal moment, a pause in the middle of the storm.

However, that peace shattered instantly.

SWOOSH!

The sound was sharp and distinct, the sound of a bowstring released at full force. Followed by the hiss of splitting air.

Rhaegar and Arthur reacted instinctively. Arthur was halfway to drawing Dawn, his body spinning to find the threat. Rhaegar looked up.

In the blue sky above them, a black crow fell, spiraling down. The bird did not fly; it dropped like a stone, an arrow piercing its chest.

Thud.

The carcass of the bird landed on the dusty ground, just a few steps from them, kicking up a small puff of dust. Its black wings lay broken and spread.

People around them screamed in surprise and backed away, creating an empty circle around the bird's carcass.

Arthur and Rhaegar looked at each other, then gave a brief nod. They stepped forward, approaching the poor bird.

"A messenger raven," Arthur said, pointing to something small tied to the bird's leg.

He knelt beside the raven. Usually, this was a desperate attempt by Darklyn to ask for help, a letter begging to other lords, or perhaps another empty negotiation. Rhaegar had seen dozens of such letters intercepted.

However, there was something strange about this raven.

Its beak was tied with rough twine, preventing it from making a sound. And on its leg, it was not the usual scroll of parchment tied neatly.

It was a bundle. A small bundle made of dirty linen cloth tied with a leather cord. The cloth was stained dark.

And the smell...

The wind carried the scent to Rhaegar's nose. The sharp smell of metal. The smell of copper. The fishy scent he recognized so well from the training grounds and hunts.

An archer approached, breathing heavily, bow in hand. "Forgive me, Prince! I saw it flying low from the castle, I thought..."

"Quiet," Arthur ordered sharply.

Rhaegar reached out, his slender, pale fingers hesitating for a moment over the bundle. He had a bad feeling. A cold feeling creeping up his spine like an ice snake.

He untied the leather cord slowly. The linen cloth was wet and sticky.

The folds of the cloth opened.

Rhaegar's eyes widened. His breath hitched in his throat, caught on a lump of horror that suddenly appeared. His chest pounded hard, beating against his ribs with a painful rhythm.

The world around him seemed to tilt. The sound of the crowd became a distant hum.

There, lying on the blood-soaked cloth that was beginning to dry, was a small object. Long, pale, with a long, yellow nail curving at the tip.

It was a finger.

Chapter Text

Tonight, the air upon the Duskendale docks carried not only the scent of salt and woodsmoke, but a far more perilous reek: the smell of blood and panic.

The sky above was pitch black, but down here, in the midst of a camp that had turned into a hive of angry hornets, torches burned with a terrifying intensity. Flickering orange light cast long, distorted shadows across the faces of the gathered lords and knights.

Fury. The night was filled with a fury pure and unstoppable.

Shouts were hurled everywhere, shattering the silence of the night usually filled only by the lapping of waves. Insults, slurs, curses, all merged to form a tumult as hot as a blacksmith's forge.

"We need his head!"

The scream came from Lord Rosby, a man who usually trembled at a gentle breeze, yet now his face was flushed red with wrath. Spittle flew from his mouth as he pointed a shaking finger toward the dark silhouette of the Dun Fort.

"Behead him!" cried Lord Coldwater, his sword half-drawn, the steel blade gleaming under the torchlight.

"Flay him alive! Let him feel the pain he gave the King!"

Tywin Lannister stood in the eye of this storm, silent and immovable as a rock amidst crashing waves. He wore a crimson doublet embroidered with a golden lion on the chest, his pale green eyes sweeping over the hysterical crowd of lords with a boredom that was nearly unbearable.

They were at the docks as usual, the place where strategy was typically discussed in hushed, calculating tones. Only tonight, this place was alive—too alive—because of something Darklyn had done. Something so unexpected, so mad, that it shook the foundations of logic Tywin had built.

Tywin had not expected the man to do this.

On the rough wooden table in the center of the circle lay the opened bundle of dirty cloth. And upon it, a pale finger rested.

A King's finger. Severed just like that, as a butcher cuts a sausage, and sent via raven simply so his demands would be heard.

'Desperate,' Tywin thought. 'He is truly desperate.'

Was it because of the fire? Reports said Darklyn's stables had burned down just last night. Did Darklyn think it was Tywin who ordered the arson?

Truthfully, Tywin had done nothing. Not yet. He was still enjoying the silence from before, enjoying the game of stalling, letting hunger and fear grow naturally like mold in a damp place. His plan was slow strangulation, not brutal mutilation.

But in the letter they found along with the finger, Darklyn indeed accused them of it. The rough handwriting, stained with blood, screamed of 'Lannister fire'.

A joke. Tywin was accused of something he had not actually done.

"Enough!"

The voice of Ser Barristan Selmy cut through the commotion like a sharp blade. The Kingsguard stepped forward, his face pale as death but his eyes burning with holy fire.

"If we continue this debate any longer, the King will truly be gone!" Barristan gritted his teeth, his hands clenched at his sides. "He cut off a finger today. What will he cut off tomorrow if we do not act?"

"The more time passes, the greater the risk," Lord Lucerys Velaryon agreed quickly, his voice trembling. The Master of Ships looked as if he wanted to vomit at the sight of the finger on the table. "If today it is a finger, what is it tomorrow? A hand? A foot? A head? Darklyn is confirmed mad. We cannot speak to a madman with logic!"

"And what is your suggestion, Lord Velaryon?" Tywin asked, his voice instantly silencing the murmurs around him. "Storm it now? In the dead of night? With the King in the hands of a madman holding a knife?"

"Better than letting him rot piece by piece!" Rhaegar exclaimed. The young Prince stood beside Gerold Hightower, his face looking ten years older tonight. His violet eyes were dark with sorrow and suppressed rage. "We must do something, Lord Hand. We cannot just... wait."

"A direct assault is suicide for the hostage," Tywin countered. "Darklyn will kill him the moment the first battering ram hits the gate."

"Then let us die trying to save him!" Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, bellowed, his voice booming. "The honor of the Kingsguard is at stake! Better the King dies in a noble rescue attempt than be mutilated like cattle in a slaughterhouse while his knights watch from afar!"

"Honor does not raise the dead, Ser Gerold," Tywin replied flatly. "I need a living King."

"I would rather die than let him end like this!" Barristan snapped.

The Lords behind began to shout again, supporting violence. "Attack! Burn the fort!" someone yelled. "Blood pays for blood!"

The Lords screamed demanding Darklyn's blood, no matter the method.

Tywin listened to it all without expression. Inside his head, his thoughts spun fast. This situation... it was messy. Darklyn's chaos had accelerated his schedule. He wanted Aerys dead. Now, with the situation shifting so drastically, he might actually survive.

He tried to delay this longer. He raised arguments about preparation, about the risk of traps, about the need for final negotiations. But he could see it in the eyes of the men around him. Fear had turned into panic. And panic demanded immediate action.

If he continued to delay, they would start suspecting his motives. They would start wondering if the Hand indeed wanted his King dead.

Tywin looked toward Rhaegar. The Prince stared at him, a silent plea in his eyes. 'Do something. End this.'

Tywin exhaled a long breath, very slowly, barely audible. He knew he had lost this game of time. He had to give something to these howling dogs before they bit his own hand.

"Two days," Tywin said finally.

His voice was not loud, but it held the weight of absolute authority. All eyes turned to him.

"Two days?" repeated Barristan, in disbelief. "You ask us to wait two more days while the King bleeds?"

"We give a final warning to Darklyn," Tywin continued, ignoring Barristan's tone of protest. "A final action. Unconditional surrender within two days, or we raze the Dun Fort to the ground and not a single soul will be left alive, including babes in the cradle."

"That is absurd!" Barristan stepped forward, his courage fueled by desperation. "Now is the time! Every hour is precious! Do you... do you not care for the King?"

Tywin's eyes narrowed. The temperature on the docks seemed to drop rapidly.

"Aerys is the King," Tywin said coldly, every word spoken with lethal precision. "And he is also my childhood friend. Do you, Ser Barristan Selmy, dare to say before these Lords that I wish him dead?"

The question hung in the air heavily.

Barristan fell silent, his face flushing red, then turning pale. Accusing the Hand of the King of treason in public was a death sentence, even for a Kingsguard. He lowered his head, taking a step back. "No, My Lord. Forgive my insolence."

The atmosphere was total silence. Only the sound of waves and the crackling of torch fire could be heard. Tywin had asserted his dominance once again.

"It is decided," Tywin said. "Two days. We prepare the siege engines. We prepare the army. And if in two days Darklyn is still stubborn... we will storm."

He turned, his crimson cloak swirling, leaving the lords still muttering in dissatisfaction and fear.

Tywin walked back to his command tent. His face remained flat, but in his heart, he felt disappointment. His plan for a long, exhausting siege had failed. Now, he had to prepare himself for a messy bloodbath.

But two days... two days was a long time in war. Many things could happen in two days. Perhaps a miracle would happen, but, unfortunately, he did not believe in miracles themselves.

…

The night wind outside the tent blew hard, shaking the thick canvas fabric with a rhythmic sound, like the heartbeat of a dying giant. Inside, Ser Barristan Selmy stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the torch flame dancing wildly in the intruding draft. His shadow stretched long on the tent wall, distorted and swaying, as if mocking his hesitation.

'A joke,' Barristan thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ground together. 'Tywin calls this strategy? Yes, the strategy of a coward.'

The Lord Hand's words echoed in his ears, cold and emotionless: "We will wait."

Wait? The King was surely dying in that accursed pit right now. The King was wounded, and that man said they must wait two days? Two days staying here longer was tantamount to letting infection climb, gnawing at the blood until only a rotting corpse remained. Such a wound, in a filthy place like the Dun Fort, was an open invitation for death to come collecting.

The King needed a Maester. Not just some village healer or a quack doctor, but someone most capable, who could cure even the deadliest poison or clean a wound already festering.

And certainly, Aerys did not need a Maester who was on Darklyn's side.

Barristan turned from the torch, his steps heavy on the worn rug covering the ground. He stared at his armor arranged neatly on the stand; it gleamed holy, a symbol of the vow he had sworn. To protect the King. To give my life for him.

Honor. It was a heavy word. Tonight, that honor felt like a noose wrapping around his neck. If Aerys died while he sat quietly here polishing his sword, Barristan knew he would never be able to look at his own reflection again. He would be a failed Kingsguard. One who let his King rot.

"No," he whispered to the emptiness of the tent.

The resolve came like a tidal wave, cold and unstoppable. This had to be done. Whether with Tywin Lannister's permission or not. Damn politics. Damn the siege. This was the duty of a Knight.

He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist. The metal felt cold, sending a piercing sensation through his bones but simultaneously steadying his racing heart.

He walked slowly toward a wooden chest in the corner of the tent, where he kept personal items rarely touched. Its hinges creaked softly as it opened. At the very bottom, buried under spare tunics, was a coarse brown cloth. A beggar's cloak, or perhaps a poor pilgrim's. Age had eaten at its fibers, making it thin and faded.

Perfect.

Snatching the cloth, Barristan put it on without hesitation. He removed his magnificent white cloak, folded it respectfully, and placed it on the bed. In its stead, the brown cloth covered his muscular frame, hiding the gleam of his sword. He pulled the hood deep, covering his graying hair and a face known throughout the realm.

Tonight, Ser Barristan the Bold dies. Tonight, there is only a nameless ghost.

He stepped out of the tent, slipping into the darkness of the night like smoke. He evaded patrols with frightening ease, moving between the shadows of tents, utilizing every second when guards looked away to fix a fire or yawn.

Duskendale loomed before him, a giant black silhouette against the moonless night sky. The Dun Fort, the fortress within the city, was his target. During this month of siege, Barristan had not just sat idle. His eyes had studied every inch of those walls. He knew where the stones had crumbled, where the moss grew thickest making it slippery, and where the forgotten cracks lay.

The night chill pierced through his thin cloak, but cold sweat soaked his back. He reached the base of the wall on the eastern side, the part facing the sea, where steep cliffs made the guard looser. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below became his sound camouflage.

Barristan looked up. The wall was high, black, and unforgiving. Up there, points of torchlight signaled the positions of guards.

'Now or never.'

He began to climb.

His fingers, accustomed to holding a sword hilt, now gripped rough wet stone. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled his body up inch by inch. The sea wind slapped his face, trying to pry his grip loose, but Barristan clung like a spider. His breathing was steady, his focus narrowed until there was only the next stone, the next crevice.

He reached the top after what felt like an eternity. Carefully, he peeked over. A guard was leaning on his spear, looking bored toward the sea.

Barristan waited. One heartbeat. Two. The guard turned, walking away.

In one motion, Barristan vaulted over and descended slowly, landing soundlessly on the stone walkway. He moved fast, merging with the shadows of the tower.

His knowledge of the Dun Fort led him through cold stone corridors. He avoided two patrols, holding his breath in dark alcoves as heavy boots stomped past him. His destination was the dungeon. Rumors, and logic, placed the King there.

He found the entrance to the dungeon. A heavy ironwood door, guarded by an oppressive silence. He slipped inside.

The smell down there was terrible, a mixture of human filth, rotting straw, and dried blood. Torches on the walls burned dimly, casting long, eerie shadows.

Barristan held his breath as he turned a corner. There.

At the end of the corridor, in front of a large iron cell, were four guards. They sat on a wooden bench, their spears leaning against the wall. They were relaxed, too confident inside their own fortress.

Barristan knew he could not sneak past them. This had to be quick. And bloody.

He picked up a small stone from the floor and kicked it toward a dark corner.

One guard looked up, frowning. "What was that? Rats again?" He stood, walking lazily toward the sound.

As he moved away from his friends, Barristan charged.

He moved like a storm unleashed. His sword left its scabbard with a lethal hiss. The standing guard died before he could scream, his throat opened in one precise slash.

The other three jumped in shock, fumbling for their weapons. Too late. Barristan was already among them. He parried a clumsy spear thrust, spun his body, and buried his sword into the second guard's chest. He pulled it out, spun, and cut the third guard's thigh, then finished him with a thrust to the heart.

The last guard managed to draw his sword, eyes wide with terror. "You—"

Barristan did not let him speak. He lunged forward, knocking aside the opponent's sword, and smashed his sword pommel into the man's temple. Bone cracked. The man fell like a sack of grain.

Silence returned to cloak the dungeon, broken only by Barristan's slightly labored breathing and the dripping of blood from his blade.

He searched the bodies, his bloody hands finding a heavy iron key ring. With hands trembling from adrenaline, he unlocked the cell door.

The hinges screamed in protest. Barristan stepped inside.

The sight before him made his blood boil.

Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, lay upon a pile of filthy straw. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in pale skin. His clothes were in tatters, and there was a dirty bandage binding his hand.

And beside him stood a man in grey robes, a Maester, with a chain clinking softly. There was a bowl of murky liquid in his hand. The Maester turned, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the figure in a brown cloak with a bloody sword.

"Who are you?" the Maester's voice was hoarse, trembling. "What are you—"

Barristan's eyes widened, his instincts taking over. No questions. No hesitation. This man was a threat.

Barristan stepped forward and thrust his sword.

It was a quick and brutal stab, piercing right through the Maester's chest. The man gasped, the bowl in his hand falling, shattering on the stone floor. He opened his mouth to scream, but only bloody froth came out. Barristan pulled his sword, and the body collapsed beside Aerys.

"Your Grace?" whispered Barristan, kneeling beside his King.

Aerys opened his eyes. Those violet eyes were clouded with fever and pain, wild with fear. At first, he flinched away, as if ready to thrash, perhaps thinking Barristan was someone else.

"Keep that dagger away! Keep it away!" Aerys shrieked weakly.

"It is me, Your Grace. Barristan," he said softly, lowering his hood.

Recognition slowly dawned on Aerys's face. Tears welled in the corners of his sunken eyes. His thin hand, missing a finger and wrapped in cloth, clutched Barristan's arm with the strength of a desperate man. "You... you. Barristan. You came." His voice cracked. "Get me out. Quick! They... they want to cut me again. Take me away!"

"I will take you home, Your Grace," Barristan promised.

He sheathed his sword and carefully lifted Aerys's body. The King was very light, too light, as if part of his soul had been eroded along with his flesh. Barristan carried him on his back, feeling Aerys's hot, feverish breath on his neck.

Barristan exited the cell, his steps quick. He had to get out before the guards' bodies were discovered.

He managed to reach the stairs. However, as he opened the door leading to the upper floor, bad luck greeted him.

A serving woman was passing by, carrying a tray of food. Her eyes met Barristan's, then dropped to the dead guards visible behind the open door, and then to the limp figure of the King on his back.

She screamed.

The scream was shrill, high, and echoed through the stone corridors, shattering the night's silence like breaking glass.

"INTRUDERS! THEY'RE STEALING THE KING! GUARDS!"

"Damn," cursed Barristan.

He ran. No more sneaking. Now it was a race against death.

The hallways came alive. Shouts were heard from all directions. Footsteps stomped, approaching fast. Barristan spurred his legs, the weight of Aerys on his back feeling heavier every second.

He turned a corner, and two guards appeared before him. Barristan did not stop. He drew his sword with one hand, the other holding Aerys. He crashed into them like a bull. His sword sliced, his shoulder bashed. They fell, but more were coming.

Barristan burst through a side door, out into the cold night air of the inner courtyard. Chaos had broken out. Torches were popping up everywhere like hellish fireflies.

"There! Catch him!"

Arrows began to whiz through the air. One stuck in the ground near his feet. Another bounced off the stone wall.

Aerys had fainted some time ago, his body limp like a broken doll on Barristan's back. It made movement difficult. Barristan slashed a soldier trying to block him, blood splattering his face.

He had to reach the gate. Just a little more.

But they were too many. Dozens of Darklyn soldiers flooded the courtyard, forming a wall of steel and spears.

Barristan roared, attacking with desperation. He fought like a demon, his sword a flash of death. One man fell. Two men fell. But for every man he killed, two more took their place.

He gasped for breath, his lungs burning. His legs felt like lead.

Then, he heard it. The sound of bowstrings released.

Not one, but many.

An arrow struck his shoulder, piercing through cloth and flesh. The pain exploded, hot and stinging. He staggered, but stayed standing.

However, the second arrow did not miss.

It came from the darkness, unseen, unavoidable. The iron tip struck the side of his head, just below the temple, tearing skin and hitting bone.

Barristan's world exploded into blinding white light, then instantly turned pitch black.

The sounds of battle, the clash of steel, the shouts of rage, the stomp of boots, suddenly receded, as if he were sinking to the bottom of a deep sea. His strength vanished instantly, pulled from his body like a snuffed candle wick.

His legs gave way.

He fell forward, his knees hitting the cold courtyard stones. His grip on Aerys loosened.

In the last second of his fading consciousness, Barristan felt the weight on his back slide off. He watched, in agonizing slow motion, the thin body of his King thrown from his back, rolling on the stones with a harsh sound.

Aerys's body stopped rolling a few feet away, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, his open eyes staring blankly at the starless night sky. No breath. No movement. Only eternal stillness.

Darkness swallowed Barristan's vision completely.

The King fell. And as his consciousness was lost, Barristan Selmy's final thought was not of pain or his own death, but of his own emptiness.

If only he had waited two more days…

The king is dead, long live the king!

New chapter in less than a day? I won't be uploading anything for the next few days because it's going to be pretty busy. :'p 

Chapter Text

Inside the dimly lit tent, the air felt suffocating, as if it had been sucked out by the news of that death.

Rhaegar's eyes felt hot, stinging not from the torch smoke, but from tears forced back from falling. His breath came in gasps, short and shallow, as if an invisible hand were squeezing his lungs. His heart beat far faster than it should, a frantic rhythm that battered his ribs with a dull ache.

This should not have happened. By the Seven, this was not in any plan.

They did not ask for this. They did not want blood. They had discussed, debated, and finally agreed, two days. Two days for an end. Two days to let fear creep up Darklyn's neck. It was a sensible plan, a cold but safe plan.

But one man, a knight sworn to protect, had destroyed all that with one act of foolish heroism.

"The King is dead!"

That cry... that cry echoed from within the Dun Fort moments ago, crossing the stone walls, passing the moat, and reaching their camp with unnatural speed, like a plague carried by the wind. The sound was not a cheer of victory, but a howl of despair from those who knew they had just invited their own deaths.

Now, outside the tent, the world was collapsing. Trumpets sounded one after another, captains shouting to gather troops, the thunder of hooves breaking the ground, and the clashing of sharpened steel. It was chaotic. Far more chaotic than before. The Lords' anger exploded into an unstoppable bloodlust.

But Rhaegar paid them no heed. The voices sounded distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.

His mind drifted, dragged by the current of memory far back. He did not see the hateful Aerys. He saw the father of old. He saw the Aerys who sat at the end of the dining table in the Red Keep, wearing a neat velvet doublet, smiling at him and asking, "How was your harp practice today, my son?"

The memory was so sharp, so painful, that Rhaegar had to close his eyes and turn his face away. His father might not have been a good king at the end of his life, but he was still his father. He was the man who once carried Rhaegar on his shoulders. He was the man who once had hope.

And now he was just a broken corpse behind those stone walls.

Barristan...

The name tasted bitter on Rhaegar's tongue, as bitter as gall. He cursed the man in silence. Barristan the Bold. He should have been called Barristan the Fool. If only he hadn't taken matters into his own hands, if only he had obeyed orders and waited like a disciplined soldier, none of this would have happened. His father might still be alive. Negotiations might still be possible.

A knight's arrogance had killed a King.

"We will avenge him, Prince."

The voice was heavy and hollow, like wind blowing through an empty tomb. Rhaegar opened his eyes and saw Ser Gerold Hightower standing near the tent flap. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked broken. His face was pale beneath his white helm, his eyes hollow. He had failed to protect his king, and the weight of that failure bowed his usually broad shoulders.

"Avenge?" Rhaegar repeated the word, his voice hoarse.

Could vengeance bring his father back to life? Would burning Duskendale put his father's broken body back together? No, of course not. Death was an absolute end. No song, no magic, no prayer could undo it.

However, Rhaegar was a Targaryen. He was the heir to the throne. And the world was watching. The Lords were watching. If he remained silent, if he showed weakness when his father was murdered, then the kingdom would crumble with him.

'Justice' indeed had to be served, however hollow the word felt now. They could not let this pass without consequence. They could not let a Lord kill his King and keep breathing. Not while Rhaegar still breathed. No one could harm his family without paying the highest price.

"Yes, Ser," Rhaegar said, weak at first, then he straightened his body, forcing his voice to be loud. "Yes. We will avenge him."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Rhaegar took a deep breath, trying to bury his grief in a deep, dark place in his heart. He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist, so tight that the leather of his gloves creaked.

He did not want to do this. Truly. His soul, which loved music and peace, screamed in rejection of the coming slaughter. But his father's vengeance had to be paid. And the Lords' anger also needed to be appeased. The dam had broken, and the flood of violence could no longer be stemmed. Blood had to be paid with blood. Fire with fire.

"Help me," Rhaegar ordered the two squires waiting in the corner of the tent with frightened faces.

Rhaegar stood, spreading his arms. The squires moved quickly, fastening pieces of armor to his body. The breastplate with the three-headed dragon. Pauldrons. Vambraces.

He rarely wore this. Its weight felt heavy, pressing on his shoulders and chest, restricting his movements. But compared to the weight in his heart now, the weight of this steel was nothing. This armor was his second skin now. The skin of a dragon that would burn its enemies.

He walked out of the tent.

The night world welcomed him with a roar. Thousands of torches burned, turning night into a bloody day. Rows of soldiers stood in formation, their faces hard, their weapons ready. Torchlight reflected off his armor, making it gleam grimly, not blinding like the sun, but enough to give a majestic and terrifying impression.

Ser Gerold Hightower was already mounted, sword drawn. Beside him, Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington were also prepared, their faces grim but full of determination.

"Is everything ready, Ser?" Rhaegar asked, his tone flat, not as melodious as usual.

Gerold nodded, pointing toward the front lines. "Everything is prepared, Prince. The battering ram is in position. Archers have soaked their arrows in oil. The horses are impatient. They all will not let this drag on. They want to end this tonight."

Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the Dun Fort. The fortress loomed black and silent in the distance, its gates shut tight, as if trying to hide the sin within.

There were tens of thousands of men out here, ready to kill. And in there... Rhaegar thought of the Dun Fort. There were women, there were children, there were old servants who only served wine, there were stablehands who only tended the livestock.

They would all be destroyed. His people would die fighting this unstoppable tide. The innocent would be there, trapped between stone walls and steel swords, bearing the sins of their mad leader.

Jaime Lannister once told him, in a shabby tavern in King's Landing, that everyone had a story. That the smallfolk were not just a faceless mass.

Tonight, those stories would end with screams. And it was Rhaegar who would write the end of that story with his sword.

"Prepare my horse," Rhaegar commanded.

Then, he walked toward his large black warhorse, mounting the saddle in one fluid motion. He drew his sword. Metal clashed against metal, a sharp and final sound.

Rhaegar looked at the fortress one last time. He did not see an enemy. He saw a graveyard.

…

Dawn broke over Duskendale, not with the golden light of hope, but with a cold pale grey, as if the sky itself were mourning, or perhaps, washing its hands of the sin about to occur. A thin mist crept from the sea, caressing the silent and haughty stone walls of the Dun Fort, hiding the King's corpse within from the world's view.

In front of the fortress's main gate, the entire besieging force had gathered. Thousands of soldiers stood in tight formation, a frozen sea of steel and leather. No trumpets sounded, no cheers. The silence was heavy, oppressive, broken only by the sound of waves and the wood of siege engines being pulled into position.

A giant battering ram, a tree trunk tipped with iron, was at the very front. Around it, soldiers bearing large shields formed a tortoise shell to protect its operators.

Tywin Lannister sat atop his great warhorse, not far behind the front line. He wore his full crimson armor with gold trim, his lion helm tucked under his arm. His face was as calm and cold as the surface of a frozen lake.

Beside him, Rhaegar Targaryen sat on his horse. The Prince looked like a ghost. His face was as pale as milk, his violet eyes staring blankly at the ironwood gate ahead. Since the news of death shattered their sleep hours ago, Rhaegar had not spoken a word. He had retreated into himself, his soul perhaps still kneeling beside his father's corpse in his imagination.

Seeing the broken and empty Rhaegar, Tywin felt the corner of his lip twitch, almost forming a smile. He did not show it openly, of course. That would be improper. But in his heart, the satisfaction flowed warm like the finest wine.

'Aerys', Tywin thought, staring at the enemy fortress with an analytical gaze. 'A pity you had to die so ridiculously without me seeing it.'

He imagined his king's final moments. The fool was probably happy enough when the idiotic Barristan approached him in the cell. He probably thought he would get out of there, return to his throne, and punish everyone he deemed traitors. He probably already planned his feast.

But apparently fate, or rather, human stupidity, said otherwise. They died before they could exit the gate. Barristan died of futile heroism, and Aerys died of his own incompetence.

This was an unexpected situation. Tywin's original plan was a slow and torturous siege, letting Aerys rot mentally. But this quick death? This was a gift. Tywin was very satisfied with the story's end. He didn't even have to do anything. He didn't have to dirty his hands with regicide. He just slept in his tent, let others make mistakes, and everything had run its course towards the optimal result.

This was a good thing. Even better than his wildest dreams.

Aerys was gone. The thorn in his flesh, the biggest obstacle to his ambitions, had been plucked by fate.

Now, thanks to this tragedy, Rhaegar would become King. This melancholic and guilt-ridden young prince would need guidance. He would need a strong and experienced Hand to stabilize the shaken kingdom. And Tywin would be there.

And most importantly, no one could stop Cersei from becoming Queen anymore. The Aerys who rejected the betrothal was history. The future of House Lannister stretched bright and straight before Tywin's eyes, as red as the blood that would spill this morning.

Tywin drew his sword. The sound of metal clashing against the scabbard rang sharp in the morning air.

He gave no speech. Speeches were for people who needed motivation. This army only needed blood.

Tywin shouted, his voice very loud and high, cutting through the silence.

"FORWARD!"

His spirit burned so hot in his chest, it overflowed, yet he covered it with a mask of righteous fury. He had to show grief and wrath over the King's death, and for that, Tywin was the perfect actor.

He signaled the battering ram with his outstretched arm.

"BREAK IT!"

The ram operators began to swing the giant trunk.

Meanwhile, from atop the walls of the Dun Fort, Darklyn's archers began to release their desperate attack. Arrows launched with a whizzing sound like angry bees. But Tywin's formation was disciplined. Shields were raised, forming a roof of steel. The arrows fell in places, bouncing off armor or sticking in the wood of shields, only hitting a few unlucky men.

THUMP!

The iron head of the ram struck the wooden gate. The shock was so massive, Tywin could feel the vibration through his horse's legs. The sound of the impact was like thunder.

THUMP!

Again. The old wood groaned and cracked.

THUMP!

Again and again. Splinters of wood flew. Atop the walls, Darklyn's defenders tried to pour hot oil and stones, but the royal archers retaliated with a deadly rain of arrows, forcing them to take cover.

CRACK!

With one final deafening blow, the gate hinges gave way. The thick wooden doors split and collapsed inward, opening a path into the belly of the Dun Fort.

The gate was open. Gaping like the mouth of the dead.

"ATTACK! NO MERCY!" Tywin shouted.

Tywin's horse shrieked loudly as he kicked its belly, commanding it to run. He did not lead from the rear today. He spurred his horse forward, running very fast, passing the infantry lines, towards the newly opened breach.

He wanted to be one of the first. He wanted Darklyn to see his face when doom arrived.

Tywin broke into the courtyard. Before him, the remaining Darklyn troops, men who were tired, hungry, and terrified, tried to form a pathetic defensive line.

Tywin did not slow down. He swung his sword with full force.

His steel blade sliced through a Darklyn spearman's neck without resistance. Blood splattered everywhere, bright red in the morning air, staining Tywin's armor.

They appeared before him again, screaming in despair. And he did the same. One by one. Slash after slash. None escaped. He finished them all without hesitation, without mercy. He moved efficiently and brutally.

'For Aerys', he thought cynically as he slashed a soldier's shoulder down to the chest. 'For our friendship'.

The battle was one-sided. Darklyn's forces were outnumbered, out-moraled, and out-fed. The royal forces flooded the fortress, drowning every resistance.

Bones crushed under horse hooves. Tywin could feel it, a sickening vibration traveling up to his saddle. Strangely, it added to the feeling of joy in his chest. It was the sound of victory. The sound of order being restored in the only way rebels understood: absolute violence.

The sound of battle was deafening, clashing steel, screams of pain, roars of anger. It was a beautiful symphony of chaos to Tywin.

Tywin's horse stepped on someone who had fallen, a young archer trying to crawl away. The scream of pain was there, high-pitched. Tywin looked down, seeing the boy's face destroyed by fear.

Without stopping his horse, Tywin swung his sword downward, beheading the man in one clean motion. The scream was cut off instantly, replaced by a spray of blood.

A worthy mercy. Tywin did not like unnecessary suffering. He liked quick and complete death.

He continued spurring his horse toward the main keep, where Denys Darklyn must be hiding like a rat. Around him, the Dun Fort burned and bled. Screams of death echoed in every corner.

And for Tywin Lannister, those screams were the most beautiful thing in his ears right now.

…

The sound of the battering ram hitting the main gate echoed into Denys's solar, like a death knell tolling incessantly. Every vibration traveled through the stone floor, creeping up through his legs, and shaking his spine.

Denys stood in the middle of the room, his eyes moving wildly from corner to corner, looking for an escape that did not exist.

This was outside the plan. This was all wrong.

In his now fractured mind, the scenario should have been different. They, Tywin Lannister, Prince Rhaegar, those arrogant lords, should have been trembling in fear at the sight of Aerys's finger. They should have realized Denys was serious. They should have backed down, begged for negotiation, and finally given him what he wanted: a town charter, freedom from taxes, honor.

Not this. Not breaking down the gate by force like madmen!

"They are mad," Denys whispered, his voice trembling. "They are mad."

He was careless. He had been careless by only letting four guards underground guard the King. He thought it was enough. He thought no one was crazy enough to try to infiltrate. And now the King was dead, killed by an accident in a failed rescue attempt, and Denys no longer had a shield.

His hands grabbed his own black hair, pulling it with painful frustration. What should he do? Run? Where? The sea was blockaded. The land besieged. Secret passages? Probably already guarded.

"Denys! Denys! What must we do?"

The voice was shrill, full of hysteria. Denys turned and saw his wife, Serala. The usually elegant and calm Myrish woman was now a mess. Her silk gown was crumpled, her hair loose and wild, and black tears streamed down her pale cheeks.

"They have entered the outer bailey! I heard their screams!" Serala gripped Denys's arm, her fingernails digging in painfully. "We must leave! We must hide!"

Denys looked at her, disgust suddenly welling in his chest. Why was this woman asking him? Was she so stupid she didn't see her husband was drowning too?

"Silence, Serala! Silence!" snapped Denys, throwing off his wife's hand.

He fumbled for the sword hilt at his waist, his sweaty fingers slipping on the leather scabbard. "I... I will fight!" he cried, trying to summon the remnants of the famous Darklyn courage. "I am Lord of Duskendale! I will not die like a rat! I did the right thing! I only demanded my rights!"

"You fool!" screamed Serala, her voice breaking. "You cannot fight them all! There are thousands out there! They will cut us to pieces!"

"Then what must I do?!" Denys shouted back, his face flushed red, neck veins bulging. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Tell me, my clever wife! What is your plan now?!"

Serala took a step back, trembling. "Surrender, Denys! Surrender! Maybe... maybe they will spare us if we beg. I told you from the start this was a bad idea! We should never have held the King!"

Denys fell silent. He looked into his wife's eyes, dark eyes that once captivated him so, now only containing cowardly fear.

A mocking laugh escaped Denys's throat, a dry and mad sound.

"Told me from the start?" Denys stepped forward, backing Serala against the wall. "You said this was a bad idea? Wasn't it you who whispered to me to imprison the king, you damn woman?! Wasn't it you who said, 'Take your rights, husband. Show them your strength. Aerys is weak, he will bow.'"

Serala shook her head frantically, her eyes widening in horror. "N-no... W-what do you mean? I never said such things! Even the stupidest person would know holding a king is suicide! I always forbade you!"

That lie was the final straw.

"DON'T PRETEND TO BE INNOCENT!"

Denys swung his hand with all his might.

SLAP!

The slap was so hard Serala was thrown to the floor. She gave a stifled scream, holding her reddening cheek.

Denys stood over her, breathing heavily, pointing with a trembling finger. "YOU WHISPERED THAT TO ME EVERY NIGHT IN BED! YOU SAID THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY! And now you try to wash your hands of the poison you poured into my ears?!"

Serala looked up at Denys from the floor, her eyes full of fear, as if seeing a stranger. "You... are mad," she whispered. "You are truly mad."

BOOM!

An explosion sound far louder than before shook the keep. Dust fell from the ceiling. Bright orange light suddenly illuminated the window, fire. A massive fire had lit inside the fortress walls. The inner gate had been breached.

War cries of "For the King!" sounded closer, accompanied by the death screams of Darklyn soldiers.

Denys staggered back, his strength spent. His anger at Serala evaporated, replaced by cold emptiness.

Surrender.

Yes, Serala was right. The only way was surrender. Not to save Serala, not to save the town, but to save his own life. Maybe... maybe if he knelt, Tywin would give him mercy.

Denys turned, leaving his weeping wife on the floor. He didn't take his sword. He didn't take his helm.

He ran out of the room, stumbling down the stone stairs. He ignored the servants running in panic, ignored the wounded soldiers begging for orders.

He arrived in front of his own castle, which was no longer his.

There, amidst a sea of steel and horses, he saw the figure.

Tywin Lannister sat on his horse. His armor gleamed reflecting the firelight, clean without a blemish, contrasting with the dirty and disheveled Denys. The Hand of the King's face was flat, emotionless, staring at Denys like someone staring at a disgusting insect from afar.

Beside him was Prince Rhaegar, his face pale and full of grief, yet his eyes burned with cold hatred. Their horses kept running closer.

Denys's legs felt very weak, his bones seemed to melt. Pure, primal fear took over.

He didn't wait to be ordered. He let his knees fall to the muddy ground. Ignoring everything around him.

Chapter Text

Drizzle fell from the grey and swollen sky, as if the clouds themselves could not bear the weight of the day's sorrow. Cold droplets of water fell wetting the scorched earth, mixing the ash of the fire with mud and blood, creating a disgusting black slurry beneath Rhaegar's feet.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood silently in the middle of the outer courtyard of the Dun Fort, which now resembled a mass graveyard more than a fortress of pride. His silver hair, usually gleaming like moonlight, was now soaked, falling flat and messy, covering part of his pale face. There was no majesty there, only an exhaustion so deep it felt as if it penetrated the bone.

Before him, kneeling in the cold mud, were the remnants of House Darklyn.

They had been dragged out of their hiding holes, past the rubble of the destroyed gate and the corpses of their own soldiers. Lord Denys Darklyn, Lady Serala, uncles, cousins, and other kin. Their hands were roughly bound behind their backs, their silk and velvet clothes torn and stained with filth.

Rhaegar stared at Lord Darklyn with a hollow gaze.

There was no fiery anger in his chest. Strangely, that fire had been extinguished when he saw his father's broken body earlier. What remained was a gaping hole, a cold and dark void. He saw the kneeling man not as a monster, but as a pathetic creature who had gambled everything and lost utterly.

Denys trembled violently, not just from the cold rain, but from pure terror. His face was now wet with a mixture of rainwater, snot, and tears. He did not dare look Rhaegar in the eye; his gaze was fixed on the Prince's mud-splattered boots.

"What were you thinking?"

Rhaegar's voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain and the hiss of the dying embers.

"What were you thinking," Rhaegar repeated, his tone flat, emotionless, "when you decided to take my father captive? When you decided to betray your oath to a King who came to your home in friendship, without an army, with only trust?"

Denys flinched, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. He lifted his face slightly, his eyes red and swollen.

"Forgive me, Prince... Your Grace... Mercy..." Denys babbled, his voice breaking. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I did not mean... I did not know it would be like this..."

"You did not know?" Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, looking at him as one looks at a strange insect specimen.

"I just wanted His Grace to listen to me!" Denys wailed, trying to justify his madness. "That is all! I wanted that charter. I wanted my rights. I thought if I could speak to him, just the two of us..."

"And you killed him?" Rhaegar cut in coldly. "You killed your King for a charter?"

Denys's face paled even further, if that were possible. He shook his head frantically, rainwater spraying from his wet hair.

"I did not kill him! By the Seven, I did not touch him!" Denys denied weakly. "He fell... it was an accident... Ser Barristan! He was the one who did it! He came sneaking in like a thief, he killed my men, he tried to take the King away, and the King fell! It was his fault! Not mine!"

"DO NOT SPEAK THAT NAME WITH YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!"

The shout came from beside Rhaegar. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward. His face was flushed red with wrath, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tight his leather glove creaked.

"Do not dare insult my sworn brother because of your own doing!" Gerold snapped, his voice booming with grief. "Barristan Selmy died with honor you will never possess in your entire life! You took the King captive, you let him rot, you cut off his finger and threw it before us like garbage! And now you blame the man who tried to save him?!"

Gerold raised his hand as if to slap Denys on the spot, but Rhaegar stopped him with one raised hand. Gerold stopped, his breath coming in gasps, his chest heaving to contain his explosive anger.

"Prince..."

Another voice sounded, soft and trembling. It came from the woman beside Denys. Lady Serala of Myr. She crawled forward a little on her knees, looking at Rhaegar with pleading eyes.

"Please spare us, Prince..." Serala begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "We... I and the other kin... we had nothing to do with this madness. I am an obedient wife, I have no power. I tried to stop Denys! I begged him to release the King, but he would not listen!"

Denys turned to her quickly, his eyes widening in disbelief. The betrayal seemed more painful than the threat of death.

"Silence, you! You whore!" Denys shouted, his voice hoarse with hatred. "How dare you?! You whispered that in my ear every night! You said Aerys was weak! You said Tywin would not dare attack! This was all your idea!"

"No! That is a lie!" Serala screamed back, her voice shrill with hysteria. She looked at Rhaegar again, shaking her head. "He is mad, Prince! My husband is mad! He hallucinates! He hit me! Look!" She tried to show a bruise on her cheek, though it was hard to see under the dirt. "Do not punish us for the sins of one madman!"

"You viper! You poison!" Denys tried to lunge at his wife, but a Lannister soldier kicked him back into the mud.

Rhaegar watched the scene with deep disgust. A husband and wife tearing each other apart on the brink of death, trying to save their own necks at the expense of the other. No dignity. No honor. Only naked and revolting fear.

Behind Rhaegar, the Lords watched with hard faces. They had seen the King's corpse. They had seen the severed finger. Their hearts had turned to stone.

"Enough."

Rhaegar's voice was not loud, but it killed the pathetic argument before him instantly.

He looked at Denys, then Serala, then the row of trembling Darklyn kin behind them.

"I feel none of you are sane," Rhaegar said quietly. "You let this happen. You supported it. You were silent when your King was mutilated."

"Yes!" shouted Lord Rosby from the crowd. "Traitors! All of them!"

"Burn them!" cried another voice, perhaps Lord Velaryon. "Burn them as they burned the stables! Let them taste dragon fire!"

"Hang them!"

"Flay them!"

The shouts of the Lords grew louder, demanding blood, demanding suffering. They wanted to see a spectacle. They wanted to see pain commensurate with the fear they had felt for the past month.

"No, Prince! Please!" Serala screamed again as she saw Rhaegar's expression harden. "I beg you! I—"

Rhaegar did not listen anymore. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, looking at Tywin Lannister.

The Hand of the King stood, silent and expressionless, observing this makeshift court with cold pale green eyes. He said nothing, offered no advice, yet Rhaegar knew Tywin was judging him. Judging if Rhaegar had the stomach to do what needed to be done.

Rhaegar straightened his back. He took a deep breath, inhaling the air that smelled of rain and death.

"Prepare the gallows," Rhaegar commanded. His voice did not tremble.

Silence fell on the courtyard.

"I do not wish to let this linger," Rhaegar continued, his eyes returning to stare at Denys and Serala who were now frozen in horror. "Bring them. All members of House Darklyn. Cleanse this stain from my kingdom."

His voice was round, his decision absolute. And as he spoke it, Rhaegar realized one terrifying thing.

This decision, the decision to end the lives of dozens of people, felt far easier than he had thought.

He turned, splashing a little mud, and walked away without looking back at the desperate screams, which sounded like a hollow melody.

…

The world narrowed into a single, deafening rhythm.

Denys Darklyn's heart beat fast, hammering his ribs with painful force. The sound of its beating was like a war drum beaten right inside his skull, so loud he could hear nothing else. The voices from outside, the jeers of the soldiers, the sobs of Serala being dragged behind him, the crackle of the remaining fire, all were drowned out under the thumping of his own blood. He only heard time running fast towards the end.

He was going to die. And all his kin too. House Darklyn, which had ruled Duskendale for so long, would be extinguished today like a candle blown out by a storm wind.

They were not wrong, he swore in his frozen heart, trying to maintain the remnants of his sanity. They, Tywin, Rhaegar, they were doing what had to be done according to the iron laws of war. Denys knew the laws. He knew the price.

A rough shove on his back forced him forward, a wordless command that could not be refused.

Denys stumbled forward. He was forced to walk up the rough wooden stairs to the makeshift execution platform that had just been erected in the middle of the muddy courtyard. The wood beneath his feet creaked, a sound that sounded like breaking bones to his sensitive ears. Every step took him higher, above the crowd, above the life he had once known.

He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut tight and find himself having a nightmare in his warm bedroom, then wake up in a cold sweat, finding Serala sleeping soundly beside him and the morning sun shining on a peaceful Duskendale. He wanted to wake up and realize that mad ambition had never happened.

But this was no dream. The cold air piercing his skin was too real. The smell of smoke, filth, and blood was too sharp for an illusion.

Something wet and heavy hit his face hard. Denys staggered, his vision blurring for a moment. He touched his cheek with his shoulder.

His face was dirty from something thrown by the mob below. Denys didn't know who threw it, maybe an angry soldier, maybe a commoner who hated him for bringing war to their home, and he didn't care either. His dignity was long gone, left in the dungeon cell along with the King's severed finger. He was no longer a Lord; he was just meat waiting to stop breathing.

His legs trembled so violently, his knees knocked against each other. He wanted to fall, wanted to kneel and beg once more to the void, even though he knew it was futile. But a strong push on his shoulder forced him to stand straight, forced him to face destiny.

He reached the center of the platform. And then he saw the object in front of him.

A slightly dirty white rope, hanging from a sturdy wooden beam. The knot was large and thick, swaying gently in the breeze. It looked so ordinary, an object he often saw at the docks to tie ships, a simple tool for everyday work. But soon, that ordinary object would wrap around his neck, crush his windpipe, and separate his soul from his body.

He couldn't imagine what it would feel like. Would it hurt? Would it be quick? Or would he kick the air for minutes while his lungs burned seeking breath? The ignorance was more terrifying than death itself.

Cold sweat ran down his back, soaking his torn tunic. He looked up at the grey sky that seemed to press down on the earth.

He prayed to the Seven in the silence of his mind. Not the formal prayers taught by Septons, but the chaotic mute pleas of a frightened soul. He asked for a miracle. He asked for a dragon to descend from the sky. He asked for the earth to swallow him whole. Anything but this.

But when he looked down and saw the thousands of people below, the sea of faces full of hatred, the armor gleaming coldly, and Prince Rhaegar's violet eyes staring at him without mercy, Denys knew that was impossible. The sky remained grey, and the earth remained silent. The Gods had abandoned Duskendale.

A large figure in a black hood stepped forward, blocking his view. Rough and calloused hands held the rope. With efficient, emotionless movements, the rough noose was placed around Denys's neck.

The rough fibers of the rope rubbed against his neck skin, itchy and painful. Denys held his breath. The knot was tightened, biting into the flesh, choking off a little air flow even before the floor opened.

Someone down there might be waiting for final words, a plea or a curse, but Denys could only open his mouth soundlessly. His throat was bone dry. His tongue was stiff. No words were enough to explain, no words could change what had happened.

He just shook his head weakly, surrendering to total despair.

A cold wind hit his face once more, bringing the strong scent of salt from the sea not far away. The scent triggered something inside him. Bringing a deepening silence to Denys's mind, muffling the shouts of the mob, muffling the beat of his own heart.

Denys closed his eyes.

And in that moment, the world changed.

Everything before him became different. The darkness behind his eyelids faded, replaced by a blinding light. He didn't see the people screaming for his blood. He didn't see the grey and oppressive sky. And of course, he didn't see a dull rope.

He saw the sea.

The sea was crystal blue, shimmering under the warm summer sun. The harbor of Duskendale stretched before him, not a harbor blockaded by warships and full of smoke, but a peaceful harbor, smelling of salt, fresh fish, and tar. Seagulls cried cheerfully overhead, dancing in the free wind.

His father was there in front. Old Lord Darklyn, still dashing and strong, stood at the end of the pier. He did not speak, but his smile was wide and warm, his arms outstretched in welcome. He looked so proud, so alive.

Denys felt himself shrink. He was no longer a failed lord, no longer a traitor. He was little Denys, just seven name days old, barefoot on the warm wood of the pier.

His feet were light, unburdened by sin or ambition. He ran there, towards his father. He ran full of silent laughter as the sunlight washed over his face, feeling pure freedom. He wanted to show the seashell he had just found. He wanted to hug his father and never let go.

He ran faster, his hand reaching out to grasp that image.

Almost there. Just a little more. The hem of his father's cloak was right before his eyes.

But then, the floor beneath his feet disappeared.

The sensation of falling was sudden and absolute.

Suddenly he couldn't breathe. His chest was tight, as if the entire ocean had fallen upon him. A violent jerk at his neck stopped his fall brutally, breaking the illusion and the bone at once.

He couldn't reach his father. The image of the sea, the pier, and the smile shattered like glass struck by a stone.

His eyes closed tight, then opened again reflexively due to the pure panic of a dying body.

Dark clouds swirled above him, faded and distant. Thin cracks of sunlight were there, but unreachable. Crows flew at the edges of his narrowing vision, waiting for their feast.

And it seemed Denys was flying too, for he couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet. His legs kicked at empty air, seeking a foothold, seeking the earth, but couldn't find it. He hung between the sky and the earth, rejected by both.

His chest was incredibly tight, his lungs screaming for air that couldn't enter through the crushed windpipe. Heat spread across his face as blood was trapped, his head felt like it was going to explode. His neck stung, burned by the rope that was the only support of his existence.

The final shame came preventably. He felt the bottom of his trousers wet and warm, his muscles giving up in final defeat. A foul smell came from there, mixing with the smell of his own death.

But it was only for a moment.

The pain began to drift away, as if happening to someone else. The sound of drums in his head slowed... slowed...

Then stopped.

The void came to welcome him, cold and eternal. His vision narrowed to a black dot, swallowing the clouds, swallowing the pain, swallowing the regret.

Denys drifted in the air, like a leaf swept away by the wind.