Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Luker number 5]

Killing Little dick is always worth it, there's no redeeming quality to a smarmy would-be-whoremonger

 

[Avalon Du Lac]

And he only hoped that it would all be worth it.

Click to shrink...

Getting rid of your wife's obsessed stalker, that you KNOW is willing to lie, cheat, steal, and kill people in pursuit of power and getting what he wants, is always going to be worth it.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

The rustling sound of fabric rubbing against the thick carpet floor was heard repeatedly, creating a constant rhythm indicating anxiety.

Cersei was pacing back and forth inside the Hand of the King's private solar. Her dark red gown swished every time she turned roughly at the end of the room. Her breathing was heavy, and her beautiful face was colored by overflowing panic and anger.

On the rug not far from Tywin's feet, toddler Prince Aegon was sitting quietly. The silver-haired boy completely ignored the tension in the air around him, engrossed in banging two wooden toy blocks shaped like a dragon and a lion. The clacking sound of the wooden blocks blended with the pounding of his mother's footsteps.

Tywin Lannister sat silently behind his desk. His face was flat, showing not a single hint of emotional turmoil. However, inside his chest, his heart grew hot. An anger was boiling in his blood.

His eldest son, his heir, Jaime, had just been nearly killed.

A raven's letter that arrived this morning brought news that almost made Tywin's heart stop beating for a split second. The Sorrowful Men. The fact that their enemies dared to spend such a large amount of money to hire assassins just to take his eldest son's life was an open declaration of war.

But Tywin knew, there was no use exploding, even though he desperately wanted to scorch every ship from Essos docked in the harbor right this very second. Uncalculated anger was a weakness, and Tywin Lannister was never weak.

"Calm down, Cersei," said Tywin. "We will retaliate. You had better sit down right now, before your son starts crying from getting dizzy watching his mother keep pacing back and forth like a madwoman."

Cersei stopped her steps abruptly. She turned to her father with blazing green eyes.

"How can I be calm?!" hissed Cersei, her voice rising, almost breaking the boundaries of propriety. Her hands clenched tightly at her sides. "They tried to kill Jaime, Father! My twin brother! And now Jaime also warned us in that damn letter that we must be careful... because it is impossible that those Essosi rats won't do the same to us here!"

"But will you acting panicked and hysterical like that solve the problem?" Tywin narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharpening, suppressing his daughter's hysteria. He stood up from his chair. His towering posture instantly dominated the room.

"We will double every guard in the Red Keep starting this very second," continued Tywin. "I will give the order, no unknown person is allowed within a hundred-pace radius of the royal chambers. And from now on, we will have servants taste everything, every drop of wine and every piece of bread, before we, or Aegon, eat it."

Tywin walked slowly approaching his daughter, looking straight into her eyes.

"Those people from across the sea feel that with their gold coins, they can infiltrate and destroy us," growled Tywin. "We will show them that their gold is useless here. We will show them that our walls are far stronger than anyone estimates."

"Kill them all, Father. You must do that," demanded Cersei, her voice now trembling with hatred. She glanced at Aegon who was still playing, then looked back at Tywin. "You must slaughter them. They must not hurt us. They must not touch Jaime, and they absolutely must not hurt Aegon!"

"You do not need to advise me on that matter, Cersei. I know exactly what I must do to our enemies," Tywin replied coldly. "Now, what we must think about as the main priority is Jaime. He is still in Riverrun and hasn't moved from there because of that stupid funeral ceremony."

Tywin sighed roughly, remembering his ally's incompetence. "Brynden Blackfish failed to protect my son in his own castle courtyard. I will not let Jaime stay there one day longer. I will immediately send a raven, ordering him to take Catelyn and return to Casterly Rock as soon as possible."

Hoster Tully's funeral itself was over. There was no more use for Jaime to stay and waste time in that haunted place. If left longer, Tywin worried there would be too many variables he couldn't control. The Riverlands situation itself was very critical. Those bandits kept causing chaos, and the still-green rule of Edmure Tully couldn't be relied on to stabilize the situation.

At least at Casterly Rock, Jaime could be at peace. That castle was the most formidable fortress in all of Westeros, impenetrable by swords or poison if guarded properly. It was safe and protected there. Tywin could not, and would not, lose his son and his unborn grandchild from Catelyn.

Cersei looked hesitant. Her fear had not completely subsided.

"But what if other assassins sneak among their entourage on the journey?" said Cersei as she stepped unsteadily and dropped herself onto the sofa. "Are you really telling him to move on the open road amidst the chaos and bandits happening in the Riverlands?"

"We absolutely cannot let him continue to be in Riverrun after there is clear danger proven to be able to infiltrate there," Tywin looked at his daughter, explaining his logic. "And also, the Riverlands will become even more chaotic because we will wage a real war in the next few days. It is far better to let Jaime move with our heavily armed cavalry to Casterly Rock, like his wife always wanted."

"Good," said Cersei. She squeezed the fabric of her gown. "This is the most humiliating thing in my entire life. The fact that those rats could get in. There are many foreign merchants from the Free Cities who are always in the Blackwater port. They drink our wine and occupy our inns. What should we do with them? We cannot guarantee that they do not endanger us and plan something under our noses, right?"

"We will handle those leeches as soon as possible," Tywin growled, his jaw hardening. "I will immediately order the City Watch to sweep every inn, ship, and brothel. They will secure and interrogate every merchant, sailor, and envoy from those Free Cities. Anyone suspicious will be immediately thrown into a cell."

Tywin then sighed deeply, straightened his sleeves, and adjusted the position of the Hand of the King's gold pin on his chest.

"Now," said Tywin, "we will meet Rhaegar first. There are many big things to discuss, and military policies cannot be moved without the King's stamp."

Cersei rose from the sofa with a firm nod. Her face returned to normal, the Queen's haughtiness possessing her again. She walked over to Aegon, bent down and lifted her son herself into her arms.

Tywin watched this in silence. Cersei was clearly too afraid that something would happen to the child if let out of her sight, even for a moment. Vigilance was good, thought Tywin, as long as it wasn't excessive.

They then walked out of the solar, surrounded by a dozen red-cloaked guards around them.

Their footsteps echoed in the stone corridors of the Red Keep. The morning sunlight was still not too hot, its soft golden light washing their faces as they walked across the open gallery facing the inner courtyard. The light provided a calming and grounding sensation.

Along the way, every servant and minor noble who crossed paths with them immediately stepped aside and bowed deeply, no one dared to meet Tywin's eyes this morning.

They arrived in front of the double wooden doors leading to the King's private solar. Kingsguards stood tall there, their white cloaks gleaming.

They nodded respectfully seeing their arrival. Without asking, the knight announced their presence by knocking his iron gauntlet twice on the door, then pushing it open.

Stepping inside. Rhaegar Targaryen was sitting behind his large desk, surrounded by stacks of reports from various regions. The King looked up from his work, his purple eyes staring at Tywin and Cersei with a questioning expression.

"Your Grace," said Tywin, his voice heavy and echoing in the quiet room. "I have a very urgent matter to discuss."

Rhaegar put down his quill slowly. He looked at Tywin's face, then shifted to his wife's tense face. A thin smile appeared on the young King's face.

"I already suspected it just from looking at your face, Lord Tywin. It is unusual for you to enter my room with such a hard expression in the morning. What is it?" asked Rhaegar. His smile slowly faded, and he frowned when he realized Cersei was holding Aegon very protectively. "Obviously, from your tension, this seems to be a family matter? Jaime? Did something bad happen in Riverrun?"

Cersei did not wait for her father to answer. She stepped forward, sitting in the chair across Rhaegar's desk with Aegon on her lap.

"Jaime just suffered an assassination attempt, Husband," said Cersei directly, her words sliding as sharp as arrows.

Rhaegar's eyes widened instantly, shock breaking his calm.

"He was not physically hurt," Cersei hurriedly added, before Rhaegar could ask further. "His guard quickly subdued the assassin just before his dagger pierced my brother's chest. However, Jaime strongly suspects from his characteristics that the assassin is part of The Sorrowful Men, and he also warned us through this letter to stay alert, because we here could also be their next targets."

"We must immediately deploy the City Watch to patrol with full force, Your Grace," Tywin took over the conversation, pushing Jaime's letter paper onto Rhaegar's desk. "I suggest that we spread them out to inspect and interrogate every merchant from Essos in this capital without exception. Your safety, the Queen's, and all the royal heirs are at stake here."

Rhaegar stared at the letter on the desk for a moment before picking it up. He read it quickly, his face darkening more and more. The King then massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers, a habit showing frustration that always made Tywin snort inwardly. He had to stop doing that in front of subordinates, thought Tywin critically. A King must not look stressed.

"How could they become so bold as to blatantly send an assassin like that to the royal family?" said Rhaegar after finishing reading. There was anger vibrating in his voice. "All this time, those Essosi merchants only played so subtly, funding bandits through dark intermediaries and almost never leaving a direct trace."

"Is it hard to guess the reason, Husband?" Cersei growled, her gaze blazing. "They are clearly cornered! They are desperate because the wealth they have been scraping from us all this time has decreased drastically. So they risked this dirty move in retaliation. By sending an assassin to the heir of the Hand of the King, they have clearly declared war. We must retaliate with blood!"

Rhaegar looked at his wife, then looked at Tywin. The King's jaw hardened.

"Doing such a barbaric thing is an unforgivable act," Rhaegar ground his teeth, his purple eyes lit with anger. "Not only did they try to kill the heir to Casterly Rock, but they tried to kill my good-brother. Jaime is my friend. He has accompanied me through many things since I first wore this crown. I will not let them walk away from this affair without severe injuries."

Rhaegar stood up from his chair, walking closer to the window, staring out towards the sea where merchant ships were anchored.

"With everything that has happened, and intelligence reports from Denish Toland," Rhaegar analyzed quickly, "it is very clear who our main enemies across the sea are: Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. The triarchy are the ones most disadvantaged by our industrial progress. If we are going to attack them militarily or blockade their trade routes, we must also ensure that other free cities do not interfere and help them. We cannot go to war with the entire continent of Essos at once."

Rhaegar turned back to look at Tywin. "Are there any representatives we can send to secure the neutrality of other cities? Especially Braavos."

Tywin had already thought of this step long before he entered the room.

"Gerion, my youngest brother, happens to still be in Braavos right now," Tywin said calmly. "I had ordered him to remain there for the past few weeks to monitor the market. He possesses enough charm to converse with such people. I can send men to him with official instructions for such diplomatic matters."

"You are given full authority to do so, Lord Hand. Use all royal resources to protect your family and send messages to Braavos," said Rhaegar, sitting back down in his chair with an expression full of determination. "Now, it seems we must immediately discuss the details of executing retaliation for this matter with the small council, right?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Tywin nodded respectfully, a satisfaction filling his chest.

...

The air in the Small Council chamber felt heavier than usual. The windows facing the sea had been partially closed to block the wind, leaving daylight falling obliquely on the large wooden table.

Tywin Lannister sat to the King's right, watching every man present with sharp eyes.

Tywin observed Steffon, the surprise on his face quickly replaced by a hardened jaw.

"If we want to retaliate and do it quickly," said Steffon. "we must immediately prepare the entire rest of the royal fleet. We have already sent some previously for merchant ship escorts against pirates in the Narrow Sea, and at least the waters there are now quite clear of petty pirates. We can use this momentum. We gather the fleet, and we can directly breach the Stepstones waters while the remnants of their hired pirates are recovering or taking shelter on the islands."

"Breaching just like that is a hasty action, Lord Steffon," interrupted Denish Toland, the Master of Whisperers.

The Dornish man leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming the table rhythmically. His expression was full of caution.

"The assassination attempt on Lord Jaime was carried out almost a week ago if counted by raven travel time," continued Denish. "And the party that hired The Sorrowful Men are not stupid retail merchants at the port. They are Magisters who control spy networks. I feel they wouldn't be so stupid as to let their guard down in the Stepstones after failing to kill their main target. They will definitely predict that we will retaliate fiercely. They knew what the consequences of this would be from the start. We must make sure there are no fleet traps in those narrow waters before we send our warships there."

Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships, frowned.

"What kind of traps can they effectively make there?" he asked with a dismissive tone. "That island cluster is indeed dangerous because of its reefs, but the Stepstones waters are narrow and shallow in many spots. It's impossible for them to hide a large combat fleet or many heavy ships without being seen by our scouts. We can always anticipate them. The Redwyne fleet is ready to sail to assist the royal fleet at any time, Your Grace. We can crush their ships into floating wooden splinters."

"Sending hundreds of fully armed warships to the Stepstones and blockading that route is the same as closing the main trade route with other Free Cities not involved in this conflict, Lord Redwyne," Wyman Manderly, the Master of Coin, finally spoke up.

He continued. "A full blockade will destroy their economy too, and that will make them angry with us. We will turn neutral observers into active enemies allying with our enemies. We had better send a diplomatic envoy first to them to inform our situation, and separate foes from friends before we ignite the fires of war at sea."

Tywin stared at Manderly unblinkingly. Fat, cowardly, but his logic was highly accurate regarding the flow of money. He didn't hate him, but he also wouldn't let Manderly's caution hinder a drawn sword.

"The Lord Hand has already addressed that matter beforehand, Lord Wyman," said Rhaegar.

The King looked at Manderly, then shifted to the other council members. "You do not need to worry about diplomacy with them for now. Lord Tywin will send an official message through his brother, Gerion Lannister, who is currently already in Braavos. We will make the Braavosi Magisters and its Sealord understand that this is retaliation for criminal acts against the royal family. And they indeed must understand. Whatever the reason, this open conflict is unavoidable anymore."

Rhaegar then turned, his gaze locking with Paxter Redwyne's eyes.

"But Lord Manderly is right in one thing, Lord Paxter. Still, I do not want to fully and blindly blockade the sea. We are not at war with the entire continent of Essos. My orders are: prepare the Arbor fleet and combine it with the Royal fleet. But we must divide our forces. We must leave a large portion of fast ships to patrol strictly along the Narrow Sea, watching every port to prevent them from smuggling assassins back in or sending other mercenary companies to our shores."

Steffon Baratheon rested his elbows on the table, his black beard rubbing against his doublet collar as he looked at Rhaegar.

"If we truly assume that they will try to smuggle more assassins... or perhaps have already smuggled them before the sea borders are closed," said Steffon with a heavy tone. "Then that means we must inspect every foreign merchant, every ship captain, and every Essosi sailor currently anchored or staying at the inns of King's Landing, right?"

Wyman Manderly wiped his sweaty forehead. "Conducting mass sweeps and armed interrogations of merchants in the capital... that will cause a huge panic in the market, Your Grace... Merchants will be afraid to dock. The prices of goods will soar instantly because supplies are choked. And market panic always brings chaos in the streets..."

"Chaos has already happened in our streets, Lord Manderly," interrupted Lord Toland. "Bandits burning granaries, assassins trying to slit Lord Jaime's throat in the castle courtyard. Adding a little panic to greedy merchants who might be hiding poison behind their silks feels meaningless compared to the lives of the royal family. Besides, this is for our own internal security."

Tywin leaned his body forward, placing both hands flat on the table. Instantly, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier, as if the air temperature had just dropped a few degrees.

All eyes turned to him.

"We will send the City Watch forces after this meeting is over, and we will do exactly as Lord Steffon suggested," said Tywin. Not allowing further debate.

"Every corner, every brothel, and every foreign ship docked at the pier will be searched. Check their cargo, check their travel documents. If anyone resists, detain their ship. If anyone tries to run or bribe the guards, bring them to the interrogation rooms beneath this tower. I myself will employ the executioners to make them talk."

Manderly looked at him calmly, Paxter Redwyne only nodded stiffly.

"But we must do it structurally, not like a wild mob," added Tywin, looking directly at Steffon, delegating that task to him. "Lord Steffon, you are the Master of Laws. I want you to lead and organize the technicalities of this sweep. Use the City Watch, but ensure they are led by competent leaders, not drunken guards just looking for a chance to rob foreign merchants."

"I will carry it out, Lord Tywin. I will order the City Watch to divide their forces into small teams and close the city gates while the sweep is ongoing," answered Steffon firmly, accepting that responsibility without hesitation.

And they continued talking.

 

[Daario]

GERION​

---

"This is getting worse than I thought."

Gerion's voice sounded slightly strained as he paced around his spacious rented room. His footsteps marched quickly on the wooden floor, creating a rumbling rhythm of anxiety.

He rubbed his face roughly, feeling as if the air in the room had suddenly thinned. "I truly didn't expect that those people would dare to commit such an act on Jaime. Trying to kill him in broad daylight, in the middle of Riverrun? That is a foolish act."

Tywin had sent a message through a direct intermediary for him, his eldest brother's message was very brief, however, the meaning behind it was enough to make Gerion feel a heat in his chest that was hard to extinguish.

"Those fools are not much different from madmen, Gerion," a calm and flat voice broke Gerion's panic.

Donnell sat relaxed on a wooden chair near the unlit fireplace. His cousin held a cup of warm drink, sipping it slowly as if they were just discussing the weather.

"Now, you had better sit down," continued Donnell, putting his cup down. "Stop digging a hole in the floor with your boots and start thinking carefully about the words you will say to the Sealord later. Making yourself panicked and panting does not help our diplomatic position."

Gerion stopped his steps. He turned to look at Donnell with still-boiling frustration.

"What should I say to him?" Gerion replied. "Negotiating about trade is one thing. I am good at that. But this? This is about a continent-scale naval war! Hah, do you think that arrogant Sealord will easily listen to our words and sacrifice their profitable trade?"

"Why not?" Donnell snorted softly, as if Gerion had just asked a very trivial thing. "The people of Braavos have strong historical roots. They hate slavery and they hate the Magisters of other cities who legalize that practice. On the contrary, they should be glad we are going to eradicate the people from Myr and Tyrosh who always do business with slaves."

"You are right about that, I know the history of this City," Gerion sighed deeply, finally pulling a chair and sitting opposite Donnell. "But this is not the age of fairy tales. Braavos is a merchant city. Surely they have other considerations that can override morality for the sake of profiting their own coffers."

Gerion massaged the bridge of his nose. "You know how it works, don't you? People often turn a blind eye to idealistic things when it comes to money."

Donnell shook his head with firm conviction. "I think, comparing the economic potential of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys with the market potential of the entire continent of Westeros is a financially stupid act. Westeros is developing rapidly. If the Sealord has to choose between trading with three cities that will soon be blockaded by our fleet, or trading with an entire continent currently building giant infrastructure... they will definitely choose us. That is a whole continent you are talking about, Gerion."

Donnell's argument made sense. Gerion actually already knew that, of course, but in a situation this tense, his frantic mind indeed needed verbal confirmation from someone else to feel a little more confident.

He leaned his back against the chair, his tense muscles slowly beginning to relax.

"Alright," said Gerion, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. "You already sent an envoy to the Sealord this morning to request our official arrival schedule, right?"

"Yes," Donnell nodded, sipping his drink. "We will get word from them this afternoon. The Sealord will not keep envoys from the Iron Throne waiting too long."

Gerion pinched his nose, trying to suppress the remnants of a headache that came suddenly. This tension made his stomach react uncomfortably.

"Alright then, let's go out and take a walk for a bit," decided Gerion as he stood up, grabbing his thick outer cloak. "I desperately need food to calm my stomach. This anxiety makes my stomach feel like it's going to explode from the inside."

"You are exaggerating too much," Donnell smiled faintly, also getting up and grabbing his sword.

The two of them walked out of the room and went down the stairs of the wooden inn. At the front door, two waiting Lannister guards immediately joined, following them at a polite distance from behind.

It was currently midday, the sun was right above them. However, Braavos's weather rarely felt scorching. The air in this port was always cool, because there were many thin grey clouds hanging and the north sea wind always blew endlessly, bringing the scent of salt and fish.

"Where do you want to eat?" asked Donnell as they walked down the cobblestone streets crossing the city's water canals. "I think you better not eat too much or look for weird things if you indeed don't want to make your tense stomach truly 'explode' before you meet the Sealord."

"I don't want tough roast meat," muttered Gerion, his eyes sweeping the row of taverns they passed. "I want to eat something brothy, hot, and can keep me warm from the inside..."

"Let's go to that food place from the Yi-Ti Empire. The Red Lantern," said Gerion, his eyes sparking slightly. "I really miss the Mian they make. It's been a few days since I ate it. The broth is the best medicine for stress. I will also try asking the cook again how they make their mian dough that small."

"Do not push too hard, Gerion," Donnell replied, warning with an amused tone. "Last time you tried sneaking into his kitchen and doing that, the slant-eyed chef almost threw a hot pan at you and rejected you in a language I couldn't even understand."

"Well, I just want to try replicating it myself later, and bring the recipe home to Westeros," Gerion smiled. "The people in Lannisport must try food like that. Far better than the wheat porridge they usually eat every morning."

They kept walking across arched stone bridges, until they finally arrived in front of a two-story wooden tavern building decorated with red lanterns, The Red Lantern Tavern.

Because it was lunch time, the atmosphere inside the tavern was quite crowded with foreign sailors, spice merchants, and locals. The fragrant smell of sesame oil, sautéed garlic, and hot broth instantly ambushed Gerion's nose, making his cramping stomach immediately react asking to be filled.

"Well, seeing this crowd, I guess you won't be able to bother the cook to talk with you in the kitchen this time, Gerion," said Donnell, finding an empty table in the corner near the window facing the canal. "Or you will really be kicked out shortly after for disrupting their business."

"Huh, better we just sit quietly then," Gerion agreed reluctantly, pulling a bamboo chair and sitting down.

They called a young waiter dressed in thin silk moving nimbly between tables. Gerion ordered two large bowls of thick beef broth Mian, and additionally, he also ordered a plate of Jiaozi, as well as Shaomai.

Their food arrived not long after, carried on a heavy wooden tray.

Gerion stared at the large bowl in front of him. Thick white steam billowed from the surface of the brownish broth that looked very rich in spices. Inside the hot broth, submerged rolls of mian that were very long, thin, and yellowish in color. On top of it, neatly arranged slices of boiled beef sliced as thin as leaves, a sprinkle of fresh green scallions sliced diagonally, and a few drops of reddish chili oil floating on the surface of the broth.

Without waiting for Donnell, Gerion immediately took a pair of wooden chopsticks and the spoon provided.

He started by slurping the broth first.

The very intense beef broth flavor, simmered slowly with marrow bones for hours, exploded instantly on his tongue. The broth was savory, warm, and had a depth of spice flavor that was slightly spicy and sweet at the end. The hot sensation from the broth and a little chili oil flowed smoothly down his throat, instantly spreading a very relieving warmth to his entire tense stomach.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a long breath full of enjoyment. All thoughts about other things seemed to melt for a moment, swept away by the wave of savory flavor.

Gerion then used his chopsticks to pinch the Mian roll, lifting those long strands out of the broth, blowing on it softly, and feeding it into his mouth along with a slice of tender beef.

The texture of the handmade mian was truly extraordinary. The mian was not mushy like wet bread, and had the perfect level of chewiness, giving gentle resistance when chewed. The mian absorbed the broth very well, while the savory beef almost simply melted inside his mouth without needing much chewing.

He ate quickly and solemnly, occasionally interspersing it with biting into Jiaozi whose dumpling skin was soft and meat filling was very juicy, then dipping the Shaomai into dark soy sauce mixed with sour black vinegar.

Gerion kept eating in silence. A thin sweat started appearing on his forehead due to the food temperature and warming spices.

...

That night, Gerion and Donnell Lannister sat in one of the Sealord's private reception rooms. The room was decorated with tapestries and glass lanterns, as well as wooden furniture carved with details of waves and sea creatures. The fragrant and sharp smell of incense filled the air, masking the ever-present smell of the sea.

Across the shiny black wooden table, sat Forrego Antaryon.

The Sealord was a man whose appearance was deceiving. He wore a loose dark blue silk robe, his face friendly, adorned with a fatherly smile and a neatly trimmed beard. However, behind that smile, his bright eyes stared sharply, analyzing them from top to bottom.

Forrego was staring at the two of them with deep curiosity, or at least, he pretended so. Gerion was very sure that this man, who had spies in every tavern and port, already knew exactly what they wanted to talk about.

"It is not every day an envoy from the King of Westeros comes here to request a private meeting," Forrego opened the conversation, his voice calm and rhythmic. He extended his hand, smiling amiably. "Especially so suddenly. I could say that I am a little surprised. I didn't even have time to tidy up my residence or prepare a feast worthy of a Lannister."

"Your residence is very beautiful, Sealord Forrego. Far better than merely tidy," Gerion replied with a smile. "And I apologize for this sudden arrival. However, the wind does not always wait for our ships to be ready, does it?"

"Ah, a sailor's metaphor. You know how to win a Braavosi's heart," Forrego chuckled softly, leaning his back. "So, what kind of storm brings this wind? What is it, Ser?"

Leaning his body forward, Gerion dropped his smile. Time to play for real. He looked straight into the man's eyes.

"Westeros is in a state of chaos, Sealord Forrego," said Gerion, his voice lowering into a serious tone. "For these past few months, we have faced many things. Riots in the countryside, destruction of agricultural tools, burning of granaries. At first, we thought it was just the smallfolk's reaction to change. But then, we found strong evidence that the chaos apparently has interference from external parties."

Forrego's eyebrows raised slightly, though his face remained calm. "External parties? That is a rather heavy accusation, Lord Gerion. Inciting rebellion in King Rhaegar's domain is not a wise act."

"Very unwise," Gerion agreed, his jaw hardening. "And now, they have crossed our limits of tolerance. They have gone too far."

Gerion placed his hands flat on the table. "A few weeks ago they hired and sent an assassin to my nephew, Jaime. A blatant assassination attempt in the courtyard of Riverrun castle. They used the services of The Sorrowful Men."

"The Sorrowful Men," muttered the Sealord, stroking his white beard. "That is not a cheap weapon. That is a weapon of desperation from someone who has very deep pockets. Your nephew is very lucky to still be breathing."

"He has quick guards, and the protection of the Gods," answered Gerion. "But luck is not a defense strategy. My brother, Lord Tywin Lannister, is very furious about this matter. As is His Grace King Rhaegar. In response, we have already started mobilizing and sending our war fleet on a large scale. And I am sure you already know the movement of this fleet, Sealord, just through the rumors brought by merchant ships docking from the sea."

Forrego smiled thinly, not denying it. "The sea always has a chatty mouth. It is true, I heard warships are moving towards the Narrow Sea. This is a massive military maneuver."

Forrego stared at Gerion sharply. "The question is... who is the target of this anger, Lord Gerion? Whom will the fleet attack?"

"The Triarchy," answered Gerion without hesitation, naming the three cities that were their enemies. "Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. Those three cities are the most disadvantaged by the rise of industry and independent production in Westeros. They are the ones losing coin because we no longer import their luxury goods. They are the ones funding the chaos in our land, and they are the ones who tried to kill my nephew to stop our progress."

Donnell, who had been silent all this time, also leaned his body forward. "King Rhaegar will not let this attack go unpunished, Sealord. We will blockade their trade routes. We will strangle their ports until they hand over the brains behind this assassination, or until their cities are economically destroyed."

Forrego fell silent. He twisted the ring on his finger. "An embargo and naval war against the Triarchy. That will disrupt the stability of all trade in Essos. Prices of goods will soar. Sea routes will become dangerous. Why did you come to Braavos to tell me this, Lord Gerion? Did you come to threaten us not to interfere?"

"Not threatening, Sealord," Gerion replied quickly. "I come to offer clarity and... friendship. Braavos is the strongest and most neutral city in Essos. We respect your independence."

"My goal here is to ensure that Braavos understands the reason behind our actions. We are not starting a war of conquest. We are retaliating against acts of terrorism. And most importantly... we come to ensure that Braavos remains standing in a neutral position. That you will not send your fleet to help Myr, Tyrosh, or Lys."

"Or better yet," added Gerion. "we hope Braavos is willing to support Westeros's blockade against those three cities passively. Close your ports to their ships."

Forrego laughed softly, a sound that felt a little cynical.

"Support your blockade? That means we have to cut profitable trade relations with them. Braavos lives on trade, Lord Gerion. Why should we sacrifice our profits to side with Westeros?"

"Because it is the most logical and profitable choice in the long run," Gerion answered.

"Think about it, Sealord. We know that you are noble people. You fiercely hate slavery. While Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh? They are the centers of slavery in Essos. They live off the blood of slaves. On the contrary, you should be glad we are going to weaken and possibly destroy the power of the people who always legalize that disgusting practice."

Forrego did not dispute that fact, but he also didn't agree immediately. "Morality is one thing. Coin is another. If we feel your blockade harms our investments in Lys..."

"Then let us talk about coin," interrupted Gerion quickly, entering the language Forrego mastered.

"Compare the declining economic potential of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys with the market potential of the entire rising continent of Westeros. Westeros is currently developing rapidly under King Rhaegar and the innovations of House Lannister. We are building thousands of miles of concrete roads, massive new ports, textile manufactories, and schools."

"If the Sealord and the Iron Bank have to choose between maintaining relations with three cities that will soon be tightly blockaded by our fleet and destroyed from within by inflation... or investing and becoming primary trading partners with a whole continent that is building unprecedented giant infrastructure... which choice is smarter financially? We will need a lot of capital loans from the Iron Bank for our future mega-projects, Sealord. And we always pay our debts.

"Westeros is transforming," added Donnell reinforcing. "Those who stand on our side today will enjoy the results tomorrow."

The room was silent for a few minutes. Only the sound of waves breaking on stone pillars was heard. Forrego Antaryon closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps weighing every word and every number spinning in his head, and assessing the determination in their eyes.

When he opened his eyes, his friendly smile had returned, this time looking much more genuine.

"You are very good at negotiating, Lord Gerion," said the Sealord, raising his goblet. "Your argument makes sense. Morality combined with financial profit... that is a very difficult offer for a Braavosi to refuse."

Forrego sipped his wine, then put his goblet down.

"Braavos will not interfere in your war with the Triarchy," decided Forrego finally. "Our fleet will remain anchored in our ports. However, I hope Westeros does not forget who stood still and did not interfere when you were at war."

"We Lannisters never forget a favor, Sealord," Gerion smiled broadly, an immense relief melting the tension in his chest. "Just as we never forget a debt."

 

[Daario]

JAIME | PETYR​

---

"You are leaving again? Jaime? Catelyn?"

Edmure's slightly hoarse voice was heard. The young man sat leaning back on one of the sofas in the corner of the room, beside his uncle, Brynden Blackfish. His face was dim, he seemed quite tired from everything that had happened.

This room still hadn't changed from when Jaime first came here with Hoster Tully and also Uncle Tygett. Its layout was still exactly the same, as was its atmosphere. The large stone fireplace burned warmly, chasing away the cold Riverlands air seeping in from the window, while several large sofas were arranged in a semicircle in the center of the room.

Catelyn smiled sadly responding to her brother's question. She shifted her body carefully on the sofa she shared with Jaime, trying to find a more comfortable position for her back and her beginning-to-grow stomach. Seeing his wife struggling a little, Jaime immediately leaned his body, helping to hold Catelyn's waist and support her back very gently until the woman sat comfortably.

On the sofa opposite them, Lysa and Brandon Stark sat side by side, listening to the conversation in silence.

"Yes, Edmure. We are going to Casterly Rock," answered Catelyn. "Lord Tywin has sent an order and we must go. Besides, as we said since we first came here, we indeed cannot stay long here."

"But what if that assassin comes again?" Edmure leaned his body forward. "The road from here to Casterly Rock is very dangerous right now, isn't it? You said yourselves there is an assassin guild targeting Jaime!"

Jaime tried to reassure. "We have many experienced guards, Edmure, you do not need to worry about that. We have also made double anticipations for those things. Everything is under control, and we will also be very careful."

It had been about three weeks since the incident in the courtyard. And the assassin never woke up. The man died in a coma two days ago without uttering a single word.

Because medical science and technology in Westeros had not developed, it was highly impossible for the Maester to keep him alive longer, especially since the man also had a severe skull fracture. The secret of who gave him the order, buried with him in this earth.

The death of that assassin made Jaime think far ahead. He needed to note down later, that he must make advancements in the medical field when he returned to Casterly Rock.

Especially with Catelyn being pregnant. Frankly, Jaime was very worried and often woke up at night thinking about what if his wife didn't survive the childbirth process. The maternal mortality rate in this medieval world was too high. What if that bad thing happened to Cat? Jaime knew nothing about real medical science from his past life; he was not a doctor, he only knew basic concepts like sterilization with boiling water or alcohol. Because of that, he was determined to hand over and fund that research to the most experienced maesters and healers once he arrived at Casterly Rock.

Jaime's reverie was cut short when Brandon nodded in agreement from the opposite sofa. "Jaime is right, Edmure, You had better not think too much about bad scenarios. It will only burden your brain and make your health decline. As a Lord, you must not let fear control you."

Brandon leaned back more relaxed into the sofa cushions. "Now, just focus on what is in front of your eyes. We all have our respective affairs to handle, and so do you..."

"Brandon," said Lysa sharply, touching her husband's arm, warning the young man not to sound too patronizing to her brother who was still grieving.

"What I mean is, we all must keep moving forward, Lysa. Your father would not like to see us wailing continuously," Brandon smiled broadly, trying to break the ice in a blunt way. He then turned to Jaime. "By the way, from all the stories you told about Casterly Rock... it all sounds beautiful. I hope someday you will let us visit and see it with our own eyes."

"You are welcome to come whenever you want, Lord Brandon," Jaime replied with a grin. "Even now, if you really want to, we can depart together later. Pack your things, Lady Lysa."

Brandon laughed. "Impossible. I have so much work at home that I cannot leave any longer. My father will be very angry if I do that instead of returning to the North to help him, he is actually quite scary."

"Actually he is quite kind and quiet," said Lysa with a soft voice. "It's just that you are sometimes very wild and make his blood boil."

"Well, our personalities are very different. He is ice, I am a bonfire, and because of that sometimes we do not really understand each other without shouting first," Brandon chuckled, embracing Lysa's shoulder affectionately.

"Very understandable," said Catelyn, smiling gently. "Jaime and Lord Tywin also seemed like that. Always opposite at first."

"Well, we are not too different then, Jaime," Brandon grinned. "Both sons who often make their fathers frown. At least that is one of the reasons why we can now understand each other as brothers connected in marriage."

The conversation continued touching on topics about the journey back to Winterfell, provision supplies, and the weather conditions slowly warming up. The atmosphere that was initially heavy due to parting began to feel lighter and friendlier among those sitting on those sofas.

However, Jaime could not let this last family gathering end with just pleasantries. There was one important thing he had to finish before his carriage left Riverrun.

Jaime looked towards Brynden who sat quietly beside Edmure. Edmure himself was staring blankly at the fireplace fire, seeming lost in his own thoughts, not paying attention to the flow of conversation at all anymore.

"Speaking of leaving, I have a question. Will you follow up on the wardship of Lord Petyr Baelish, Ser Brynden?"

That question made Catelyn immediately turn to look at Jaime. His wife's face radiated clear confusion, her eyes wondering why her husband suddenly brought up the topic of Petyr.

Brynden stroked his chin covered with a thin beard, He leaned back on his sofa, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm still thinking about that, Lord Jaime. Honestly, Hoster's plan was indeed to send him home to The Fingers in a few more months. The boy is old enough, and his wardship period will technically end soon. But..."

Brynden sighed, his arms crossed over his chest. "Seeing the state of Riverrun now, with a heavy transition period, I might still desperately need Petyr's help to manage documents. Petyr is an expert with ledgers."

Jaime kept his face calm, controlling every muscle so as not to show any strangeness. "Not meaning to offend the way you manage the administration of this household, Ser Brynden, but I think you in Riverrun have Maesters who are very capable of handling those administrative matters."

He leaned his body forward. "And furthermore. Lord Baelish is indeed an adult by Westeros standards, he is a full Lord of his own land. We have talked a few times before, and he very clearly said that he wants to return and build The Fingers to become a prosperous region."

Jaime could not let Petyr be here. That was a risk, he would try to get rid of that boy as far as possible from Riverrun, then he would think of a way and send someone to get rid of him for good. This was very difficult for his morals, truly. But he couldn't keep staying quiet and making his head uneasy because he had to always be vigilant watching that boy.

"Jaime has a point, Uncle," said Catelyn. "Petyr is indeed very smart, and his talents will be wasted if he just stays here as an assistant to check our reports. If he returns to The Fingers, he can start building his own name and raising his family's status."

Brynden was silent for quite a long time. He weighed every argument thrown. The old man stared at the fire, then shifted to stare at Jaime, and finally stared at Catelyn. x "Both of your arguments make a lot of sense," Brynden finally sighed a long breath, a small nod appearing on his head. "Perhaps keeping him here because I am too lazy to find a new scribe is a selfish act. That boy must return to his land and learn to be a ruler, not just a Riverrun servant."

Brynden looked at Jaime with a firm gaze. "Alright. I will send Petyr home. I will speak with him tomorrow and prepare an escort for him to return to the Vale."

Hearing that decision, Jaime smiled sincerely. "That is a very wise decision for all parties, Ser Brynden."

...

Petyr Baelish stood silently behind the shadow of a stone pillar on the second-floor balcony, letting the cold morning Riverlands wind hit his face. His grey-green eyes stared straight down, towards the busy main courtyard of Riverrun.

Down there, a large carriage decorated with a golden lion sigil slowly began to move forward. Its wooden wheels creaked loudly rolling over the stones. Dozens of Lannister soldiers surrounded the carriage like an impenetrable wall of steel.

When that carriage finally disappeared behind the arch of the main gate, leaving Riverrun, Petyr gripped the stone balustrade of the balcony until his knuckles turned white.

He took a deep breath, trying to swallow the bitter taste welling up in his throat. He then turned, stepped back inside the castle, and walked down the long hallway towards his small bedroom.

His mind drifted back to last night's conversation. The conversation that had destroyed the foundation of his future.

Last night, he was summoned by Ser Brynden to his solar. Petyr entered with the polite smile and humble demeanor he had always honed to perfection. However, the first sentence that came out of the knight's mouth instantly slashed his hopes.

Brynden said that because Lord Hoster was gone, and because technically Petyr's wardship period in Riverrun would end soon in a few months. Brynden decided to speed up that process. The old man told Petyr to go home. Told him to return and manage his land in The Fingers, 'as you have told us a lot, Petyr,' said Brynden at that time, mimicking the fake ambition Petyr often voiced just to look like a dutiful young man.

Petyr closed his bedroom door tightly. He leaned against that wooden door and exhaled a long trembling breath.

He had lived in Riverrun for years. This house was the center of the world for him. It was true, he had once said he wanted to advance The Fingers. But in his deepest mind, his original plan was far grander than just managing stones and sheep dung on poor land.

When Lord Hoster died, Petyr saw a golden opportunity. A loophole. He planned to become closer to Edmure. The young man was naive, fragile, and very easily directed. Petyr knew that he could be the shadow behind the seat of power of the Riverlands. He was sure Edmure and Ser Brynden would accommodate him, let him manage the finances, record taxes, and hold control over valuable affairs.

In that position, Petyr would be freer to get more money, and create his own connections. He would gather power from behind the scenes. But now? Everything was destroyed just like that. He was subtly expelled. Returned to his meaningless land.

Petyr stepped towards the small table in the corner of his room, poured a cup of cold water, and drank it. The water tasted bland.

His mind shifted to Hoster Tully's death.

Hoster died because of an infection. Petyr was not sure why the infection could move so aggressively. Petyr himself was the one who cared for the old man in the camp. He did not poison him. He did not sprinkle dirt on his wound. He had ensured everything was according to procedure, and the responsible maester also said that he did it very correctly.

But everything then became chaotic when Hoster was suddenly struck by a very severe fever at night. His body temperature burned his own skin, and in a short time, the Lord's life could not be saved.

It was something that quite shook him; the camp became very chaotic at that time. The commanders and vassal lords lost their common sense. They were just sure that all this must be the fault of the incompetent maester. Without a proper trial, they dragged the maester and executed him shortly after.

When Petyr returned home to Riverrun, his mind was already a little shaken. He lost his main safety net, although he was a little annoyed with the man for keeping him away from Catelyn, but the man's presence provided stability.

Then, he heard that Jaime and Catelyn would come to Riverrun for the funeral.

Hearing that Lannister name, Petyr's chest always felt as if splashed with hot water. That man always had everything he dreamed of. Jaime had a handsome face as well as wealth, then the honor as a hero who brought progress, and the most painful of all... he had Catelyn. Jaime had an intact family with the woman who had always been the center of every breath Petyr took.

While himself? He was weak. His body was small, thin, and had no power to win a sword duel. His father had died years ago, and all he inherited was an empty title and poor land only overgrown with weeds. This world was so unfair.

Deep pain gripped his chest as he imagined the arrival of those two in the hall. Imagining Catelyn's smile given to Jaime made his sanity crack a little.

And that night, Petyr decided on a quite crazy idea.

If I cannot be happy, if I am cursed to suffer in the shadows... then let them feel it too.

Petyr knew he could not use his own hands. So, one night, he disguised himself using a cloak covering his face. He sneaked out of Riverrun, rode a horse to a remote village teeming with refugees and former mercenaries, then searched in dingy taverns.

He found a man who had enough fighting skills and knew how to sneak around. Petyr hired him using a few gold pieces, he ordered the man to wait in the camp and kill Jaime Lannister later when he came.

Petyr knew that this was a very, very big risk. If he was caught, his head would be spiked on a spear, but it was worth a try.

He was a sharp observer. Petyr knew that the trade conflict between Westeros and Essos had heated up to the point where there was no turning back. All that was needed was one small spark to blow up the entire continent. So, Petyr gave one specific instruction to the assassin: imitate the style of The Sorrowful Men. "Right before you stab him," whispered Petyr to the man. "you must whisper these words: I am so sorry."

That way, even if the man ultimately failed to kill Jaime, people would jump to the conclusion that the assassin was sent by the Triarchy from across the sea.

Petyr knew Tywin Lannister's reputation. The old man was a barbaric and merciless person. Petyr knew for sure that there was no way that man would let an assassination attempt on his heir just pass by. Letting it go meant showing weakness to the world.

So, exactly as he suspected. Even though Jaime survived, even though the assassin failed, that war would still erupt. Fleets would sail, cities would burn.

Then, fate also seemed to side with him: the battered assassin died in his coma. It was lucky that happened. Because even though Petyr felt his disguise that night was perfect, he was quite worried that the man would be tortured and somehow could reveal his true physical characteristics. But now, that secret had died with the man.

Now, everything in Westeros had become chaotic.

Chaos is a ladder. And Petyr intended to use it. He had created a war that would divert the attention of all the great lords, while he himself would climb the rungs of that ladder slowly from behind.

But... who would have thought that right when his plan was already running, he was instead ordered to 'go home'? Damn it!

Petyr had begged very subtly to Brynden last night to stay and help with administration. For a moment, Petyr could see the old knight considering his offer. Brynden looked like he would say 'yes', his face had softened. But then, Brynden suddenly hesitated and quickly hardened his heart again, turning him away subtly.

Someone had spoken to Brynden beforehand. Someone who had greater influence. Petyr knew exactly who that person was.

Jaime.

That name crossed his mind again. Petyr stared at the wall, not only did that man have Catelyn, but he had also ruined Petyr in Riverrun before he even had a chance to move. Jaime had seen through him and got rid of him without needing to draw a sword.

Petyr gripped the edge of his table. Jaime's name felt increasingly bitter and poisonous in his mouth.

 

[Avalon Du Lac]

Reading about Petyr suffering, and having all of his plans fail is always enjoyable.

 

[Silver1234]

Almost felt bad for him for half a second then immediately got slapped with that Assassin reveal.

 

[Fellow Human]

Hoster watched as Petyr applied it. The salve also seemed to have started changing color. Hoster remembered clearly that a few days ago, it was deep green. Now? The color was faded, more pale grey.

Petyr took a very large dollop of the salve, slathering it along the entire length of the wound, which instantly made Hoster frown due to the uncomfortable stinging mixed with cold sensation.

"Can you apply less of that damn mud, Petyr?" reprimanded Hoster. "The smell is very pungent. It bothers my nose every time I inhale. Makes my head dizzy."

Petyr didn't stop his movements. The boy's hand remained steady spreading the salve over Hoster's torn flesh.

"The Maester instructed that this is the appropriate dose for a wound this deep, My Lord," Petyr smiled thinly. "If you reduce it just because you cannot stand the smell, this will lower its healing effect. We do not want this wound infected, do we?"

"You say that easily because your nose doesn't have to inhale it all the time, Boy," Hoster snorted resignedly. "But I swear by the Seven, that the smell feels more pungent day by day. The color is also strange. Did the Maester put it in a dung heap or mix it with ash when I wasn't looking?"

"That is only your mind and exhaustion speaking, My Lord," Petyr chuckled softly, taking a fresh clean linen and starting to wrap it around Hoster's shoulder. "The smell is exactly the same as the first time the Maester brewed it. You only became more sensitive because of the pain."

Click to shrink...

He did not poison him. He did not sprinkle dirt on his wound. He had ensured everything was according to procedure, and the responsible maester also said that he did it very correctly.

Click to shrink...

???
Was the previous implication misleading? I don't believe Petyr would be delusional about poisoning Hoster. He'd be honest with himself.