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.

 

[lord trilobite]

So Littlefinger did not murder Hoster? Well I guess I've misjudged him, he's different from canon! Let's keep reading...oh wait there it is.

 

[The Overlord]

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

Click to shrink...

We got red-herringed it looks like yeah,

So Littlefinger did not murder Hoster? Well I guess I've misjudged him, he's different from canon! Let's keep reading...oh wait there it is.

Click to shrink...

Baelish is still Baelish looks like, but at the very least not 'will kill literally anyone to rise regardless of how good they have been to me' bad still. Which is a major difference for him, but practically meaningless for the need of the MC to handle/get rid of him still. I feel we will probably see more change in him given the direction of the story, but I highly doubt it will be enough change to really prevent Baelish from not being a problem that needs to be removed at some point by the MC.

 

[Daario]

TYGETT | STANNIS​

---

The port of Lannisport never slept, but this afternoon, the intensity of its bustle had reached a level that made the air itself seem to vibrate.

From where he stood, Tygett stared down intently. As far as the eye could see, the wooden docks that had recently been reinforced with concrete were filled with a sea of humanity moving like worker ants. Soldiers in Lannister crimson uniforms marched, porters shouldered wooden crates, and sailors shouted rough commands piercing through the roar of the waves.

Off the coast, dozens of warships floated arrogantly, swaying gently, their thick wooden hulls ready to cleave the sea.

Seeing all that, Tygett felt a sharp pounding in his chest, a rhythm that had constantly emerged lately every time he thought of what was about to happen. He exhaled a long breath, letting the sea air fill his lungs, calming himself down, while continuing to watch men carrying provisions and tightening the large sails ready to be unfurled.

They would depart before long.

Their destination was the waters of the Stepstones, where they would launch a massive retaliatory strike. But before reaching there, this Lannisport fleet would sail along the western coast, stopping at several main ports to merge with the fleets of other houses. They would dock at Oldtown, and then sail around towards Sunspear to meet the Dornish fleet.

Meanwhile, the fleet from King's Landing led by Paxter Redwyne would also do the same from the east, then stop at the opposite side to form a blockade.

"Have you recorded everything, Leyton?" Tygett asked without turning.

The man standing two paces beside him immediately straightened his body. "Yes, nothing is left behind so far, Ser. Everything matches the report we received this morning, as does the number of soldiers."

Leyton was a Lannister of the Lannisport branch. His age was perhaps around thirty namedays; Tygett had never bothered to ask or care about his exact lineage. Physically, Leyton looked nothing like a Lannister of Casterly Rock. This man's hair was pitch black like a raven's feather and he had sea-blue eyes. Leyton's mother was rumored to be a Stormlander, and it seemed his mother's physical heritage was far stronger than his father's.

Tygett nodded slowly. "Good. I do not want a single thing left behind when we are about to depart. We will be out there in enemy waters who knows how long. What is clear, this seems like it will go on for a very long time."

"Everyone here is doing their duty professionally, Ser," Leyton reassured. "You can entrust this to us. Therefore, you do not need to worry too much about the port affairs."

Looking at the shimmering sea, Tygett snorted softly.

"My duty as commander is to ensure everything goes exactly as planned. I will still ask you periodically so things do not fall apart. Too much trust is the beginning of defeat. But you have done a good job so far. Keep it up. I will go to the castle first; I need to bid farewell to my nephew."

"Yes, Ser. I will be at the shipyard if you need the final report tonight," answered Leyton, bowing.

Tygett turned his body and walked. He felt the afternoon wind hit his face and hair. The afternoon sunlight felt fresh as he walked towards his horse, guarded by several escorts at the end of the path. He mounted the saddle in one fluid motion, and immediately rode it uphill towards Casterly Rock.

As he dismounted from his horse in the castle's inner courtyard and handed the reins to the stableboy, his thoughts drifted to his family.

Jaime was rumored to have departed from Riverrun heading here a few days ago; Tygett hadn't seen the boy in quite a long time. And now, ironically, when Jaime was finally coming home, Tygett himself had to leave him to fight in his name.

Tygett stepped into the castle, walking down the torch-lit corridors. He went up via the giant spiral staircase connecting the levels within Casterly Rock. There were hundreds of unoccupied chambers in this castle, yet he knew exactly where he had to go.

Tyrion's chamber was located slightly at the end of the west wing, in the same area where Jaime and Cersei used to be.

Tywin's youngest child had been very busy lately. Kevan, who took full charge of Lannisport's administrative affairs, had begun giving recording tasks to Tyrion to hone his mind. Tygett had seen Tyrion doing this several times at the port yard, shuffling around with a ledger, inspecting piles of timber or stone. There was certainly reluctance on the boy's face when dust stained his clothes, but it had to be said that he was quite clever and very sharp at it.

The common folk and artisans questioned or supervised by Tyrion certainly looked skeptical at first. Tygett could see from afar how they often held back laughter or looked away, though they never dared to show it clearly due to the guard behind the boy. But the work proved it. Tyrion made the bookkeeping neater than ever before.

The boy's shortcoming currently was only one: his physical deformity since birth, something that could not be changed by anyone except the Gods. And the Gods were often deaf.

Arriving in front of Tyrion's chamber door, he knocked with his knuckle.

He waited for a few seconds. There was no answer from within. Tygett frowned, then knocked once more, this time harder.

Then, the scraping sound of a chair was heard, followed by small, shuffling footsteps approaching. The door opened slowly. Tygett looked down.

Tyrion was there. The boy stood in a slightly oversized casual tunic, his blonde hair messy. He stared at his uncle with one eyebrow raised high.

"Uncle Tygett? Do you need something from me? It is unusual for you to knock on my door, especially this late in the afternoon."

Tygett smiled thinly hearing that greeting. He did not answer, only gesturing with his hand for Tyrion to step back and let him in. Tyrion let out a dramatic sigh, then stepped aside and shuffledly followed him slowly.

The room was as usual, filled with piles of books, rolled parchments, and a few small mechanical devices scattered across the table.

"I will depart soon, Tyrion," said Tygett as he stood in the middle of the room. "Perhaps in the middle of some night or very early in the morning. I just wanted to bid you farewell now before the frenzy of departure swallows me."

Tyrion's eyes widened slightly, his short steps halting.

"Oh," muttered Tyrion. "Is everything ready at the port? You are truly going to war across the sea?"

"What else would I be doing with thousands of fully armed soldiers and dozens of warships down there?" Tygett crossed his arms. "Isn't everything already clearly visible from your window? Why do you still ask what you already know the answer to?"

Tyrion smiled awkwardly, his hand squeezing the hem of his tunic. "I didn't mean it like that, Uncle. It's just... it feels very sudden. And... are you not afraid?"

The innocent question from the boy who often pretended to know everything made Tygett pause for a moment. He stared straight into his nephew's eyes.

"Afraid?" answered Tygett. "Of course the feeling of fear is there, Tyrion. Anyone who says he is not afraid before a battle is a fool or a liar. You go to war, which means you hold a sword, and your enemy also holds a sword. You can die at any time, from a stray arrow, an infected wound, or drowning."

Tygett stepped closer to the window, staring at the sea he would soon cross.

"But will that fear make me draw back?" he continued, turning his body back. "No. This is my duty as a Lannister. Moreover, this entire situation occurred because of the assassination attempt on your brother. Jaime is very close to me. I was the one who taught him how to swing a sword. And I will not let those people simply get away with it without paying at least a price in their own blood."

Silence enveloped the chamber for a moment. Tyrion stared at his uncle for a long time, then nodded slowly.

"Just... promise me that you will not die out there," said Tyrion.

Tygett let out a soft sigh.

"I cannot promise that to anyone, lad. On the battlefield, promises are the cheapest things you can make. But what I can assure you of is, I have done this once before. Even though back then I was still very young and reckless, that combat experience still remains strongly etched in my memory. I know how ships move and how to lead men. So I will not go to the Stepstones like a blind man searching for a path in the dark."

"Just make sure to send letters often enough," Tyrion nodded. "I want to know what happens there, troop movements, the tactics you use. So that if one day, when I also have to face something similar, I at least have some direct insight from the commander."

"Well, we also have to see if there will be many ravens available later," Tygett laughed slightly, a rather awkward laugh because he indeed rarely did such things. "We must utilize all available resources for highly important matters. But I will have the ship's maester send you a summary if there is a chance."

"You are Tywin Lannister's brother. Anything coming out of your mouth will surely be deemed important by any maester," Tyrion joined in the laughter.

Tygett smirked thinly. "Important, because everything will be seen by everyone later, won't it? Your father's reputation will also be carried in my failure or success. I do not plan to embarrass him."

He shifted his gaze towards Tyrion's cluttered writing desk. He decided to change the subject to something lighter before he truly had to depart.

"Enough talk about this," said Tygett. "What about that secret 'project' of yours? I do not know what you are actually making because you never speak of it. But well, will you tell me now since we won't see each other for a long time?"

Tyrion shrugged, as if it were no big matter. He shuffled towards the drawer of the wooden desk.

"Before, I didn't tell anyone because it was indeed not fully finished. There is much I have to do to perfect its rules; they are quite difficult to balance in terms of probability. I have met with the best paper craftsmen at the Lannisport printing house and ordered them to make this with quite quality materials, so it is not easily wet or damaged by sweat."

"Just what are you making?" asked Tygett curiously, stepping closer to the desk.

"A game," said Tyrion, turning around and finally taking something from inside his drawer.

"To keep people from getting bored when in certain places or situations, where there is very little space we can use to move. Like in a crowded tavern, or... on a swaying ship's deck."

Tyrion approached him, handing over an object. It looked like a thin white wooden block at first glance. However, it wasn't wood. When Tygett examined it closely, there were very fine lines on its side edges indicating that it was a stack of separate sheets that were very thin and pressed together. He was also holding a small book.

"These are cards," Tyrion explained proudly, his eyes shining. "A card game I made from several papers put together until they became thick. Small enough, about the size of an adult's palm, and easy to carry everywhere."

Tygett held the deck. He then fanned the deck with his thumb, separating it slightly like spreading a small fan. There were many card sheets there, who knows exactly how many, clearly numbering in the dozens; Tygett didn't have time to count them.

On one side of each card, there was an intricate pattern of gold and red lines, the Lannister colors. On the reverse side, there were many pictures. Tygett was sure these pictures were precisely printed using high-quality printing presses and iron plates, with very bright inks. The red, black, and gold colors were very attractive and sharp to the eye.

He flipped several cards randomly. The pictures on them varied but had a regular pattern. There were pictures of Swords, Coins, Cups, and Ravens. Each card had a number shape or amount of pictures distinguishing its value, ranging from one to perhaps ten.

Then, he saw other, different cards. Cards that had pictures of full human figures on them. There was one that looked like a graceful Queen holding a flower, a King sitting on a throne with a sword, and a Knight riding a horse.

Then, his finger stopped on a very odd card.

The card had no symbol of Sword, Coin, Cup, or Raven. Only a picture of a very small-bodied man, wearing a jester's outfit, with a very sly smile.

"Tyrion..." Tygett lifted the card, showing it to him with a confused and slightly shocked gaze. "Did you specifically tell the craftsman to draw this figure?"

Tyrion smirked. "Somewhat. I drew the rough sketch. Isn't it a good drawing? I had some difficulty designing its proportions so as not to be too frightening, but the craftsman redrew it very well and sharply."

Tygett stared into Tyrion's eyes slowly, searching for honesty behind that relaxed laughter. He observed whether the boy was serious with this dark joke or not. There, inside those eyes, Tyrion looked very happy and satisfied.

But why? Tygett knew very well, the boy used to hate it so much, would hang his head or rage in silence when realizing that there were people in the castle and the city who called him 'Imp' behind his back. And Tygett knew that Tyrion seemed to have begun to make peace, or at least cynically accept it as his destiny.

But... making it clearly as a drawing on a 'card' he created himself to be played by the masses? That was the strangest thing.

Tygett wanted to ask deeper about the reason behind the card, but he decided not to do so. This was not the time; he looked towards the deck of cards again.

"Then, how do you play it?" asked Tygett, shuffling the cards amateurishly. "What is the function of these pictures and numbers in a game?"

Tyrion's eyes immediately lit up bright. He pulled up a tall wooden stool and told Tygett to sit near the table. Placed his thin book there.

"I call this game Triumph," Tyrion began to explain enthusiastically, his tone flowing fast.

He took some of the cards from Tygett's hand and divided them into two small piles on the table.

"Listen, the rules are simple enough to learn in ten minutes, but it takes a lifetime to truly master them," said Tyrion, his small fingers pointing at the cards he turned over. "This is a game of combination and memory. There are fifty-four cards in total. The goal is to empty the cards in your hand first, or score the highest points by arranging certain card combinations on the table."

Tyrion lined up three cards: Seven, Eight, and Nine of Swords.

"You can play cards if you have a consecutive sequence of numbers of the same suit, like a line of troops," explained Tyrion. Then he placed three King cards from the Sword, Coin, and Cup suits side by side. "Or, you can play them if you have three or four cards of the same value or rank, regardless of the suit. That is called an alliance."

Tygett nodded, his eyes following the visual explanation. "Makes sense. It's like arranging battle formations and political alliances."

"Exactly!" cried Tyrion happily. "But this is not just about luck in getting good cards. You must pay attention to what cards are discarded by your opponent, guess what they hold in their hands, and sometimes, hold onto your most valuable cards to block their strategy."

The boy then picked up one specific card laid separately. The card with the drawing of a slyly smiling dwarf.

"And this is the ultimate game-changer, Uncle," said Tyrion, holding up one of the cards. "This is a wild card. This card called the Imp can substitute for and morph into any card you want to complete a combination. If you only have two Kings, and you hold this Imp card... you have three Kings and you win that round. The Imp destroys your opponent's predictions."

Staring at the card, Tygett then let out a soft laugh. "This is truly a brilliant work. It can be played by two, three, or four people, right? Just like Cyvasse, but lighter."

"Exactly," said Tyrion. "You can play it when your mind is troubled by certain things. Or you can use it to bet gold with your friends to make it more fun."

Tygett smiled gently. He raised his leather-gloved right hand, then with an awkward and affectionate motion, he stroked Tyrion's head, ruffling it slightly.

"You have grown into a frightening man in your own way, Tyrion," he said proudly. "Your brain is more dangerous than any sword."

"Yes, keep this, Uncle, it's for you. You can keep it and then play it when you are bored." Tyrion said, picking up the small book. "I also wrote down all the combinations and rules of the game here."

Nodding, Tygett slipped the deck of cards into his belt pouch at his waist, and received the book. Still smiling, then whispered:

"Time's up. I must go to the port now."

He stepped around, opened the chamber door, and walked out. His steps felt a little lighter. As Tygett was in the outer hallway, Tyrion's small voice called him from inside the room.

"Uncle?"

He stopped and turned from the threshold. "Yes, Tyrion?"

Tyrion stood in the middle of his room, looking at his uncle with a smile trying to cover his worry.

"Please take good care of those cards," he said, sounding casual, yet there was a tremor in his voice. "That is the first edition I made. There is only one in the world right now. So maybe one day, its price will become very expensive and valuable."

Staring into his nephew's eyes, Tygett understood the implicit message behind the request. Please survive. Please return alive.

"Of course, Tyrion," answered Tygett with a reassuring smile, patting the pouch at his waist once more. "Of course I will guard it with my life, and I will bring it back to Casterly Rock to beat you in this game. Farewell."

Tygett turned, taking and exhaling a breath with difficulty, his chest slightly tight, and, why did his eyes feel so hot?

...

Stannis stood silently near his chamber window. Both hands were tightly clasped behind his back in a rigid posture that seemed to refuse to loosen even when he was alone. He stared out, towards the city that was beginning to stir below.

He had arrived last night, after an exhausting journey from the Stormlands. His quiet arrival in the middle of the night was welcomed by his father and mother with wide-open arms. The warmth of his mother's embrace and the steady pat on his shoulder from his father had temporarily eased the fatigue in his bones. However, that tranquility did not last long once he stepped further into the castle.

The Red Keep was quite quiet this morning. Too quiet compared to the last time he visited the capital a few years ago. The stone corridors felt hollow. His father had briefly mentioned last night before sending him to sleep that some of them had led the fleet and gone out to wage war.

The war in the Stepstones had begun.

That realization tormented Stannis's mind as he stared out the window. When he departed from Storm's End, news of the matter had not sounded this critical. And now, after he arrived in the capital to take on new responsibilities, a great question weighed heavily in his chest: would the construction of the highway and sewers desired by King Rhaegar be canceled to fund the war? Would all the preparations he had made go to waste?

He had not discussed this with his father last night. He felt it was somewhat improper to immediately talk about work affairs when his father had only just embraced him after months of separation.

Stannis ground his teeth, a habit he could not rid himself of every time anxiety or frustration crept within him. He turned from the window, stepping towards the small privy in the corner of his chamber.

He scooped cold water from the stone basin, then washed his face roughly. The cold piercing his skin helped clear his mind, banishing the fog of sleepiness and remnants of anxiety spinning in his head. He wanted to meet his father immediately this morning. However, common sense held back his steps. As Master of Laws, his father must be very tired after all the work he did. Stannis did not want to look childish by directly bursting through his door without warning.

So, before going to the dining room, Stannis called a young servant guarding outside his room.

"Please tell my father that I wish to meet him after breakfast," ordered Stannis. "Ask if he has free time, so that I do not disturb his schedule."

"Yes, My Lord," answered the servant, bowing stiffly before hurrying away.

Stannis walked slowly towards his private dining room. The breakfast food he ordered had been served on the table. A simple yet solid meal: dry-fried pork sausages, two soft-boiled eggs, and several strips of bacon glistening with fat.

Before touching his fork, Stannis reached for a glass of cold plain water. He drank it in several large gulps, feeling the cold flow passing through his throat. The cold sensation calmed his tense nerves, restoring his temporarily wavering focus.

He then used a knife and fork, starting to cut the sausage with orderly movements and a highly stable speed. The sausage was fried very crisply, emitting a crunch every time he chewed it. It tasted savory, rich in fat, and slightly salty. There were some spice flavors whose names he did not know in the meat mixture.

Then he took the bacon using his fork, devouring it slowly, enjoying the savory saltiness filling his mouth. The soft-boiled eggs with the yolk still runny was the last thing he finished, wiping the remnants of his dry bread on the plate clean.

Finished eating, he drank his plain water again to clean the remaining fat in his mouth. He took a napkin, wiped his lips thoroughly, and then stood up from the chair.

For now, he still had a few minutes left before his father was ready. Stannis walked back towards the window, staring out of the city in silence, watching how the construction dust began to rise in the distance.

The door of his chamber was knocked from outside.

"Enter," called Stannis.

The door opened, and the maidservant he had ordered earlier stood on the threshold with her head bowed. "Lord Stannis, your father has finished his breakfast and is now willing to meet you in his solar."

Stannis nodded slowly. "Thank you."

Without wasting any more time, Stannis stepped out of his chamber. His footsteps resounded in the Red Keep corridor. He went down the stairs towards the tower wing where the Master of Laws worked.

He stood in front of his father's solar door, took a breath for a moment, then knocked on the door.

It only took a few seconds before a heavy, deep, and very familiar voice was heard from within, granting permission. "Come in."

Stannis pushed the door and stepped inside.

Steffon Baratheon was sitting behind his writing desk piled with documents. Upon seeing his son enter, a warm and sincere smile instantly bloomed on the face of the Lord of Storm's End.

He looked at his father's smile. In his heart, he wanted to return that smile. He wanted to show that he too was glad to see his father. However, the muscles in his face felt too heavy to be pulled into a smile. No matter how hard he tried in front of a mirror, smiling always felt unnatural to Stannis. He only did such things when he was completely unaware, and for Stannis, he very rarely lost control of himself.

"If you have a question in your head, Son," said Steffon. "You can directly knock on my door at any time. No need to bother ordering servants to make an official appointment with me beforehand. You know that, don't you? You are my son."

"I just didn't want to disturb you, Father."

Steffon sighed a long sigh, shaking his head with amusement mixed with affection. "Why do you always think that you will disturb me? Sit down, Stannis. Don't stand there constantly like a door-guarding soldier."

Stannis sat on the chair opposite his father's desk, following the advice. He straightened his back, staring straight into his father's bright blue eyes.

"I want to ask you something," said Stannis, going straight to the point. "This is something that just happened when I was already halfway here from Storm's End. Since the counter-attack on the Stepstones is finally about to be launched by our fleet... is this road construction project still running? Will I... will I still be needed here?"

Steffon laughed slightly, a warm voice that slightly eroded the tension within the solar.

"Do not worry about that. Our war is happening in the waters of the Stepstones, far at the southern end of the open sea. Most of the realm's territory currently remains in a state of peace, except perhaps the Riverlands which still must be swept of remaining bandits. So yes, you are certainly very much needed here."

His father leaned his body forward. "Everything will still follow our initial plan with King Rhaegar. The repairs of the Kingsroad and building projects must keep running. If we stop that construction to fund the war, then thousands of unemployed people here will starve again, and this kingdom's internal problems will never improve. We must heal the capital from within."

Stannis nodded slowly, feeling a massive weight lifted from his chest. "So... you won't send me on another task? Like... ordering me to follow the royal fleet to the Stepstones to join the war?"

"They all already have their own men, Stannis. You do not need to worry about that. Or..." Steffon stared at his son with a searching look. "Do you actually intend to join them at sea? Seeking glory under the banner of war?"

Hearing that question, Stannis pondered for a moment.

Following them to the battlefield would certainly be a far easier path to gain a name and glory recognized by many. Stannis, even though he knew he was not the best swordsman, was still a highly capable man. War was not just about one-on-one duels; war was about discipline and the like, things he was very proficient in.

But, honestly, when he thought about the road and construction projects that King Rhaegar initiated, he felt more interested in that prospect. This was something completely new. Something structured, demanding mathematical precision, and far more useful for preserving many lives in the long term. He wanted to be part of building that future, not just part of something that spilled human blood upon barren reefs.

"That crossed my mind a few times on the road, Father. But... no."

Steffon stared into his son's eyes in silence. For several long seconds, neither of them spoke. The silence in the room was so thick, that the beating of his own heart was audible.

Finally, his father smiled widely and nodded.

"I know you are being honest when you say that. I have known your eyes since you were a baby. I know when you are trying to lie to hide something, and in your eyes today, I do not find that lie at all. And I... I am very glad to hear it, you know?"

Stannis knitted his brow slightly. "Why?"

Steffon adjusted his sitting position, leaning back casually while smiling thinly, his hand moving playing with the ring on his finger.

"When the news of the assassination attempt on Jaime arrived at the Red Keep... I saw Tywin Lannister become so angry. I had never seen him like that before. His eyes, his trembling cold expression... all of it was something he could not hide, no matter how hard he tried.

"Seeing Tywin's anger when his son nearly died, I suddenly imagined... what if such a terrible thing happened to you? To Robert? To you? To Renly? My chest instantly felt hot and tight with extraordinary fear."

The man took a long breath.

"At that moment, I realized I was weak as a father. I did not want to see you hurt on a dirty battlefield. Although in the end, I know I must let you take your own dangerous paths in life... but for now, seeing you safe here, choosing to build roads... I... I feel deeply grateful."

Stannis fell silent for a moment. His father's words filtered in, penetrating his defensive walls. He lowered his head slightly, closing his eyes tightly, and absorbed all those words into his mind.

 

[Daario]

PETYR | JAIME | TYGETT​

---

It had been a week since Petyr left Riverrun. He was currently riding his horse along a muddy dirt path, flanked by a dozen guards and two large cargo carts that creaked slowly behind him.

Inside those carts, stored all the supplies, clothes, and a few notebooks he could bring. Currently they were traveling very carefully, pushing through rarely used rat paths. Rumors blown by travelers and merchants said that there were still very many bandit groups roaming around. Because of that, they tried to take the safest and quietest route.

Petyr controlled his horse's reins with a sour look on his face, looking around the monotonous forest with a chest burning with unquenched anger.

He should still be in Riverrun right now, helping to record various things, if only Jaime hadn't interfered and persuaded Ser Brynden to expel him.

Petyr gripped his horse's reins tighter.

I will have my revenge later, he promised himself.

This would be difficult, Petyr knew that very well. Jaime was no ordinary person; he was a Lannister heir whose name was soaring high. Jaime was the innovator, the King's brother-in-law, a hero to many, and a man who seemed protected by luck itself. Petyr would need a lot of effort just to be able to touch and bring him down. The golden opportunity to carry out a direct assassination like yesterday was a rare stroke of luck he would not be able to get again anytime soon.

Suddenly, the lead horse at the front line stopped. Its guard raised his hand, halting the entire entourage.

That made Petyr frown and spur his horse slightly forward to align himself with the guard. "What is it?"

The man, Brad, turned to look at him with an alert face. "It seems we better take a slightly detoured path from this point, My Lord. This road ahead has been traversed very hurriedly by a large group of people recently. Judging from the tracks they left behind... they moved disorderly. Perhaps they are a bandit group."

Petyr moved his horse slightly forward again to see the road indicated by Brad more clearly. Indeed, everything looked messy and rough, the people who passed this route seemed only to care about reaching their destination quickly.

He weighed his options quickly. Dealing with bandits was the last thing he wanted. "You are right, we take a longer path through the forest. As long as we do not meet them and can avoid a bloody confrontation, a longer distance will not be a problem. It is too risky for us to cross paths with them when our number of guards is limited. It is better to avoid them entirely."

"As you command, My Lord," Brad nodded.

He then directed his horse to turn sharply to the right, opening a new path, and Petyr followed Brad taking the other road, along with the rest of the entourage behind him.

The road they took this time was full of very tall trees, blocking the sunlight. On the ground, there were many protruding roots and piles of broken branches underneath that were still intact and dry. As a result, every time their cargo carts advanced, this forest was never quiet. There would be sounds of cracking wood and creaking wheels every few seconds, making their movement feel very noisy and slow.

Petyr looked behind him, glancing at the wooden carts where his belongings were. He sighed a long and bitter breath.

His mind kept spinning, trying to think what he would do after he arrived at The Fingers later. He had indeed thought of several business plans before, building small inns or brothels, but all of that did not feel satisfying now.

Because in the past, before his expulsion from Riverrun, he was still quite sure and felt safe that he would continue living there, managing Lord Tully's finances, siphoning gold little by little without being caught, accumulating a vast amount of money, and then leaving only when he felt that his wealth was enough to buy anything.

Now, he was sent home by force, and he only had a little money in his pocket. Only about four hundred golden dragons and some silver pieces. For a farmer, that was a very large amount. But for someone with ambition to raise his value and transform his barren and rocky land into a new center of power, that amount was very small, very pathetic. If he tried to build the foundation of a new castle, in just a few months those coins would soon run out leaving nothing.

He probably just had to invest in matters related to ship trade. Currently a war was going on fiercely with the Stepstones. That situation would definitely make the prices of many goods skyrocket. It would be very profitable. He could make that situation a business field to accumulate more gold quickly. But, how to start without his own fleet? The profit would indeed be very substantial, but so would the risk.

Hour by hour passed in the forest. The sun began to descend, its light shrinking more and more and the sky above the leaves turned a dim orange color.

Brad stopped the entourage. "We stop here, My Lord. Too dark to continue the journey through the brush."

Petyr nodded in agreement. The guards started unloading and setting up their tents in a small clearing. There were many insects here, forest mosquitoes began buzzing around their ears. Petyr felt very annoyed, so he had to quickly order someone to light a campfire so its smoke could drive away those damn insects.

After his small tent was set up, Petyr opened his own food pouch. Inside were quite good standard supplies: many pieces of dried smoked meat, several blocks of cheese, and also chunks of wheat bread.

He started cutting and cooking his own portion by skewering the meat on sticks and roasting it over the fire, while Brad was still busy arranging the night watch schedule for the other soldiers.

The sky above the trees had completely darkened and began displaying thousands of twinkling stars. It was an actually very beautiful night view, clear, and calm. At the same time, the view also brought up a memory.

This sight took him back to the memory of the last night he went camping in the woods in the time when Lord Hoster Tully was still alive, before the old man got infected. At that time he was also cooking meat over a campfire and talking about various things.

Funny enough, thought Petyr, thinking how everything could shatter and turn upside down in a very short time. He turned his meat over the fire, his eyes blank as he watched a little fat come out of the meat's pores, splashing down and hissing loudly when touching the embers.

There was a feeling of emptiness and extreme isolation right now in his chest. In Riverrun, he was surrounded by people he knew. But here? Everyone near him now were people he did not know personally at all. They were just nameless faces he did not care about. He only spoke to them if necessary, and absolutely did not share his thoughts about anything.

"Let me do that for you, My Lord. You can go into the tent and rest."

Brad suddenly appeared and stood near him, offering his help to cook after his duty of setting up the tents was finished. Petyr did not refuse the offer. He handed his meat stick to the man and cleaned his hands.

While sitting on a wooden log, Petyr stared at the guard. Brad was about mid-twenties, his head shaved clean bald, with a little muscle visible on his linen-wrapped arms.

"What will you do after escorting me back to The Fingers later, Brad?" Petyr made idle conversation for fun, trying to break his boredom.

Brad raised his eyebrows slightly. "I am a castle guard, My Lord. I will ride a horse back there and resume my guard duties after this is done."

"You like your job?"

"Yes," Brad nodded, his face radiating pride. "Guarding the castle is a great honor for a commoner like me. I worked hard training day and night, just to get that position."

Looking into his eyes, Petyr felt his disgust bubbling up slightly. "You are satisfied? Feeling enough, even if for the rest of your life you only do that? Standing at the gate and opening doors for other people?"

"Of course I am satisfied. Why not, My Lord?" Brad answered with a confused smile. "Guarding the castle is a relaxed and safe job, as long as there is no war. There are not too many problems, especially in a large and protected castle like Lord Tully's. I get paid quite a lot, routinely every month, and can set it aside to buy food and warm clothes for my family. For a person like me, this is a dream job."

Petyr had to restrain himself very strongly not to snort and mock the man to his face. he averted his gaze, looking back at the meat over the fire.

This man had absolutely no ambition. And Petyr really disliked that. To him, people like Brad were the most pathetic people in the world. Why are you satisfied just living as someone else's tool? Especially when that position is quite easy to replace if you get injured or old. If Brad made a mistake even once, or lost his right arm, they would fire him immediately, and then he would be helpless.

And at that time, powerless people like Brad could only curse the gods, cry in a corner, and blame their bad luck without being able to change anything.

A few moments later, Brad took a plate and offered the cooked meat to him. Petyr accepted it, then ate it with pieces of bread and cheese. It tasted absolutely not as delicious as what he usually ate. The meat was tough and the cheese too salty, but he kept eating it and forced himself to swallow, because he was too hungry and needed energy.

Right as the fourth bite entered his mouth, Petyr's body froze.

He heard something. And it seemed it wasn't just him who noticed it; everyone in that camp heard the same thing, because the sound of their chewing stopped in unison. Several seated guards immediately stood up alertly, their hands moving reflexively towards their sword hilts.

He and Brad did the same thing. Petyr put his plate down slowly on the tree trunk, then pulled a short dagger from under his cloak.

Damn, we should have successfully avoided them on the road earlier, right? Petyr cursed inwardly, his chest starting to pound wildly.

The sound came louder and noisier. The sound of footsteps that made no effort to be hidden. The sound of broken twigs being stepped on, and then, from all directions breaking the boundary of the trees' darkness, they saw something emerge into the campfire light.

Horses. So many horses, with fierce-faced men on them. Their clothes were shabby and dirty.

"Back!" shouted Brad, immediately drawing his longsword. He stepped forward, placing himself as Petyr's shield. "No one come closer! Who are you?! Identify yourselves!"

The other people in Petyr's group immediately did the same thing, drawing their swords and forming a defensive circle around the cargo carts.

In front of them, a man riding a grey-furred horse only smiled dismissively. The man dismounted from his saddle casually, then drew his own sword.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here, boys?" said the man with a hoarse voice, pointing the tip of his sword at the small entourage. "Your clothes look quite nice. Especially that pale-faced little man hiding in the back there. It seems the gods gave us a great stroke of luck tonight, I want him."

"Forgive me if I must disappoint you, but I am quite sure these clothes will not fit you. Our sizes are very different," Petyr said, trying to control his voice to sound as calm as possible, using his words to stall for time while his brain spun wildly thinking if there was a way out or anything he could do.

There was none.

No matter how he calculated, their numbers were very lopsided. Damn it, these madmen in front of him must have more than a hundred people hiding in the darkness.

"Oh, don't worry about our clothing size problem," said the person, laughing followed by the rough chuckles of his men behind him. "We can handle that"

"Don't mess around and back off while you can!" Brad took a step forward, trying to bluff using noble authority. "The person you are threatening is Lord Baelish! He is the ward of the late Lord Hoster Tully, and is under Riverrun's protection!"

"A Lord?!" said the man, his eyes widening instantly with enthusiasm. He turned to his group. "You hear that, boys?! We are truly going to feast tonight!"

Petyr opened his mouth, panic starting to ruin his mask of calm. "Wait! Listen to me carefully! If you only want money, we can settle this. I will give it to you. All of it. We do not need to use unnecessary violence."

"My Lord—" Brad immediately turned and protested. but Petyr sent a sharp glare and signaled the guard to be quiet.

The barbarian shrugged. "See? This little Lord is very smart, we came here in peace. If you do not hit, do not shout, and hand over everything valuable... everything will be fine and there will be no blood staining the grass."

Nodding quickly, Petyr immediately moved backward towards his storage bag in the cart. He took a leather pouch that jingled heavily. This was all his life savings he had collected. Losing it would make him fall poor, but his life was far more valuable than all this money. Money could be sought again.

He approached slowly towards the person, and handed the pouch into his rough hands. "Here. Take it. That is all the gold I have right now."

The man took it. He untied the pouch strings and looked inside, checking its contents under the campfire light. The man's eyes widened happily and he laughed out loud.

"Damn, you are apparently very rich, boy! This is pure golden dragons! Now I truly believe that you are a proper Lord. Rest assured, Lord Baelish. We are men who highly value friendship. If you really want to hand over this treasure voluntarily, of course there is no use for us to fight and hurt each other, is there?"

Swallowing saliva that felt painful in his throat, Petyr nodded. "Glad to hear it. You are a man who keeps his word. Well... now, after you got what you wanted. Can you take it and leave us immediately? We are very exhausted and need to sleep peacefully."

Instead of turning to leave, the man stepped forward. He patted Petyr's shoulder with a hard pat that almost made Petyr lose his balance, then smiled showing his teeth.

"Do not be in too much of a hurry to chase us away, my Lord," said the person. "There are many people in your group. Why are you alone the only one generous tonight? Don't the others back there, your soldiers, also want to donate what they keep in their pockets for our friendship?"

Silence instantly filled the forest. Only the sound of the crackling campfire was heard.

Petyr turned his head, looking at his group one by one slowly. Their faces paled, and all of them looked very hesitant. Of course, they were just lowly soldiers paid in coppers. Asking them to hand over personal wealth to bandits was a painful thing.

After a few tense seconds, seeing the number of bandits surrounding them increasing from the darkness of the forest, Brad finally nodded very reluctantly, giving a signal of surrender to his group.

"Very good! You all are smart! Line up everyone to the front here!" the bandit laughed loudly, which was immediately followed by celebrating cheers from his group.

One by one, the people in Petyr's entourage started walking forward. They took out small coin pouches or jewelry from under their shirts with slow movements, then gave them up. Petyr could see from their hardened jaws and their blazing eyes that they were holding back immense anger and humiliation.

Fools, Petyr cursed inwardly, lamenting his situation. I should have forced and begged harder to ask for more guards from Ser Brynden before leaving. But they were indeed also short of personnel at that time, especially with the ongoing sweeping war. This was his worst fate.

The surrender of wealth proceeded slowly. One by one, servants and soldiers handed it over.

But then, in the middle of the line, it was the turn of a young soldier who looked hesitant. The soldier held a silver heart-shaped ring very tightly. When a rough bandit tried to snatch it from his hand, the soldier exploded.

"No! This is mine, bastard!" the young soldier protested by shouting.

Panic overcame his common sense. He hit the bandit's face with his sword hilt, and before anyone could stop him, the young man turned and ran as fast as he could breaking through the line, running wildly towards the horses tethered at the side of the camp.

One second. And that false peace was shattered into pieces.

"KILL THEM ALL!" shouted the bandit leader instantly, his eyes turning red.

Chaos exploded that night. Screams of anger and shrieks of panic filled the air. Arrows whizzed from the darkness, hitting unarmed people who immediately fell to the ground. Swords clashed with swords.

Petyr, who stood too close to the bandit leader, tried to back away. But a rough hand grabbed his clothes collar and pulled him strongly.

He was thrown into the air. His body hit the hard and rocky ground with a painful slam, knocking the air in his lungs completely out. Before he could draw breath to scream or crawl away, the shadows of several people were already looming over him.

The first blow landed squarely on his ribs. Petyr screamed in pain, but his voice was swallowed by the hustle and bustle of the battle around him. Muddy boots started kicking and stomping him mercilessly from various directions.

He was punched, kicked, and battered repeatedly. He tried to protect his head with both his arms, curling up like a stepped-on insect. Pain exploded all over his body, sharp and burning, until his tolerance limit shattered.

His vision began to be filled with blinding white spots, and in a matter of seconds, a bottomless pitch-black darkness finally swallowed him whole.

...

Everything looked calm. Casterly Rock stood sturdy, magnificent, and looked beautiful. This was a very large castle, which could give you a sense of security in warmth, which brought many past memories to Jaime.

Up ahead, waiting was his family.

Jaime saw Uncle Kevan standing tall in his red cloak, radiating the authority of a middle-aged man. Beside him, stood a small figure with blonde hair slightly messy blown by the wind, Tyrion.

His younger brother's eyes sparkled very brightly upon seeing Jaime alight from the carriage. A very cheerful and sincere smile bloomed on his face, the child looked almost like he wanted to run to him, but ultimately held back. Jaime and Catelyn walked closer. They hadn't seen each other for quite a long time, and he also missed the boy.

As soon as he stood right in front of his brother, Jaime smiled, greeted his uncle and family one by one, then after a moment, he lowered his body, kneeling on one knee on the courtyard to be level with Tyrion, then hugged that small body deeply.

He took a breath, buried his face in the boy's shoulder, and felt extraordinary warmth there. The scent of soap wafted from his brother, he kept hugging, brushing away the longing that had existed all this time. His brother was a life not yet stained by time, he was one of the reminders that in this world, there was still such a thing as peace.

Yes, very different from his current self.

Jaime's eyes closed, and dark shadows crossed his tired mind. The hand currently hugging his brother was no longer clean. This hand was covered in invisible blood.

Petyr Baelish would die.

Before he left Riverrun, he had sent several men to tail and watch the young man. He did something that had never previously crossed his mind. Now, after his decision was executed, Jaime's heart was filled with a storm of conflicting emotions. Anxiety and relief mixed into one, choking his chest at the same time.

Why did that happen? He wondered in the darkness of his mind. Why did he feel so relieved after ordering a murder? He didn't know. Perhaps because he had accepted the reality that in Westeros, he could not always play clean. He traded a part of his soul to ensure Catelyn and this unborn child could sleep safely.

He continued hugging Tyrion a little longer, letting his brother's warmth absorb the remnants of those thoughts. Jaime's lips trembled slightly, holding back the pile of emotions that almost broke.

Then, Jaime heard his brother clear his throat awkwardly.

"Jaime?" he whispered. "Let me go, this is very embarrassing..."

That comment instantly pulled Jaime back from the abyss of his thoughts, he laughed, chuckled with relief from the bottom of his stomach, then released his hug and stood back up.

"You didn't miss me, Little Brother?" he teased, grinning looking at his brother's face which was now slightly blushing.

"Of course I missed you. But we can talk about that inside, civilizedly. Over a drink, maybe?" replied Tyrion.

Jaime reached out his hand and ruffled Tyrion's hair, ignoring his brother's protests. "You are getting bigger, Tyrion,"

"Growing sideways, yes," muttered Tyrion cynically. "But unfortunately not growing taller the slightest bit... I might have reached the maximum limit of the gods' creation."

Before Jaime could reply to that self-deprecating comment, Catelyn stepped forward. The woman bowed slightly, looking at her brother-in-law with a warm smile. "How are you, Tyrion?"

Tyrion looked up, his eyes widening slightly. He stared at Catelyn's rounded stomach with hidden awe. "Quite well, Lady Catelyn. And I hope you are too. And... your child too... of course. I heard the journey from the Riverlands was very arduous."

"We are both fine, Tyrion. We are very strong," his wife's hand moved rubbing her stomach covered in thick silk. "This child too. They were very tough on the road. And you know what? I think they like every letter you send to King's Landing. Every time I read your letters to them out loud, they always kick enthusiastically."

"Really? Then I must write a more heroic story for them later. A story about dragons," said Tyrion with sparkling eyes.

Jaime embraced Catelyn's waist, smiling seeing their interaction. Then his uncle invited them inside, which of course they did not refuse.

...

That night, the Stepstones waters showed no mercy. Surging waves from the sea crashed against ship hulls repeatedly, making those ships vibrate and rock.

Tygett stood on the command deck, his legs positioned wide apart to maintain balance. He gripped his sword hilt with one hand, his eyes staring far ahead, trying to pierce the night mist covering the rocks.

He turned to his left and right. Upon the waters, the shadow silhouettes of dozens of warships floated in silence; it was a combined fleet. Banners of various Westerosi Houses fluttered there. Besides his own, Tygett could faintly see the banners belonging to Martell as well as Greyjoy who led the Ironborn.

He recalled their meeting at Sunspear a while ago. Oberyn Martell was the most annoying person according to Tygett. The man spoke with a style that was too relaxed, straightforward, and blunt as if they were old friends drinking wine, every one of Oberyn's sentences was always interspersed with a mocking smile that made Tygett's hands itch to stop him.

Meanwhile, Lord Quellon Greyjoy gave a completely different impression. The old man was quite friendly, a fact that very much surprised Tygett, considering he was a lord of an uncivilized archipelago. Even, when the two of them had a chance to speak privately, Quellon bowed his head slightly and expressed his sincere gratitude to House Lannister, because thanks to them, the Iron Islands could advance.

Shaking his head slowly to banish the memory, Tygett refocused his attention forward. He saw the Ironborn longships which were much smaller, slender, and agile speeding forward at high speed, disappearing swallowed by mist and narrow reef crevices.

The task of the Ironborn right now was very simple. While the large fleet formed a semi-circle formation to blockade the main sea route outside the shallow waters, those small Ironborn ships would enter the enemy's nest. They acted as bait. Those people would lure the pirate fleet or the Triarchy's hired warships out of their hiding places behind the reefs.

Then, when those rats came out into open waters, this waiting large fleet would exterminate them leaving nothing behind.

Tygett felt optimistic now. At least for now, with the number of ships and discipline they possessed, circumstances leaned more favorably towards the Seven Kingdoms' side.

"Do you think this plan will truly work, Ser?"

Leyton's voice was heard from behind him, trembling slightly because of the cold air or maybe because of nervousness.

"We can only be certain of our duty, and pray to the Gods that the enemy is stupid enough to take the bait," said Tygett without turning.

He turned his body for a moment, looking towards the main deck below him. Many soldiers had been wearing their full armor since an hour ago. They sat close to each other, their hands gripping their spears and shields tightly. They would be the first wave to immediately charge and land on the island if they indeed managed to destroy the enemy fleet. The island ahead was one of the pirate settlements they would claim as their first base of operations.

However, staring at his soldiers' faces, Tygett could see thick tension. Many of his soldiers had tense expressions and hardened jaws. Most of them were land soldiers; they were not used to this unstable naval warfare. They sweated a lot under their steel and leather armor, even though there was no sun heat tonight, their smell could be smelled and felt slightly pungent.

Tygett took a long breath. He stepped approaching Leyton, took the far-eye from his hand, and pointed it forward, right at the giant reef crevice where many Ironborn ships had disappeared earlier.

For a few minutes that felt like hours, everything was silent. No sound of explosions, no war cries, only the crashing waves. Tygett waited with tense muscles. There were no signs whatsoever. How long would this last? Were the Ironborn slaughtered silently inside there?

A cold wind suddenly blowing hard hit his face, bringing with it sea dust. Tygett squinted and was forced to blink several times. He lowered his far-eye for a moment, rubbed his eyes roughly using the back of his glove to get out the stinging dust.

"Ser?!"

Leyton spoke suddenly, his tone rising into a hurried shriek while pointing towards the darkness.

Tygett hurriedly raised the far-eye to his eyes again. There, behind the silhouettes of towering coral rocks, he saw a ship emerge splitting the waves. Then followed another one, and several more behind it. They were not Ironborn.

The bait worked. The enemy came out of their nest.

"Prepare!" shouted Tygett, his voice exploding overpowering the sound of waves and wind. He drew his sword, lifting it high. "Aim your weapons! Catapults! Scorpions! Prepare to shoot when they enter range!"

Instantly, the ship's deck turned into chaos. The sounds of war machines being moved broke the night's silence. The creak of wood from catapults drawn taut and the shouts of commanders repeating Tygett's orders echoed from one ship to another.

Tygett moved his gaze forward again. There, there were dozens of enemy ships now pouring out of the reef crevices, realizing they had entered the Westerosi encirclement formation, yet deciding to push forward. His chest beat wildly, his blood ran hot. This was it.

"FIRE!"

The battle broke out with deafening explosions.

Large boulders the size of buffalo heads sped through the night air, thrown by catapults from the Lannister and Martell fleets. The boulders hit the water with giant splashes, or landed right on the decks of enemy ships, destroying masts and crushing human bodies. Large iron spears the size of humans were launched from scorpions, piercing the wooden hulls of enemy ships like needles piercing paper.

Some were coated in fire.

Many counter-attacks occurred. The night sky was filled with beautifully arching and deadly arrows. Occasionally, Tygett's ship rocked violently when a stone from an enemy catapult hit the side of his ship's hull, causing several of his soldiers to fall.

Tygett watched with a hardened jaw as a ship on his side was destroyed by an attack from a large enemy ship. The ship began to sink, pulling its sailors to the dark seabed.

But for every Westerosi ship that fell, there were three pirate ships shattered to pieces. Fire began to blaze on the water, illuminating the night with orange colors. Shouts of victory and screams of death mixed into one. After some time of exchanging fire and close combat from boarding ships, the enemy defenses in those shallow waters were totally destroyed.

"Advance to the beach!" ordered Tygett, his face adorned with soot stains and splatters of enemy blood from the deck battle.

Finally, Tygett jumped from his ship, his boots hitting the shallow water and gravel. His sword drawn, leading his remaining soldiers running up the sand and rocks of the Stepstones island. There was no significant resistance on land; the surviving pirates were too busy fleeing into the caves.

Tygett stood tall on the rocky beach, panting. He looked back. Upon the dark ocean, much wreckage from floating ships was like giant burning firewood.

It was horrifying, but beautiful at the same time.

---

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