Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

[TYWIN​

---

Something had changed in Jaime.

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

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

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

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

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

Now, the boy was quiet. Too quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

​

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


"Yes, Father."


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

​

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

 

[Daario]

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


And yet, this body… this body was different.


Thud. Slide. Parry.


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


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


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


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


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


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


"Jaime."


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


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


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


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


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


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


Now, that shield had been shattered.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


"They think I'm right!"


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


"Someone has to," Jaime replied.


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


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


…


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


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


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


The nursery door.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

 

[Daario]

JAIME

​

---

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


One of them was the Sept of Lannisport.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


"A generous offering, young lord."


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

 

[Daario]

OBERYN​

---

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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





Jaime's eyebrows shot up. "Truly?"





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





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





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





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





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





…





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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





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

 

[Daario]

OBERYN​

---

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


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


Jaime Lannister.


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


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


And if he was honest, he was enjoying it.


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


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


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


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


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


But Oberyn was not slow.


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


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


Then Oberyn made his move.


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


Thwack!


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


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


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


He laughed.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


And with that last sentence, Oberyn understood.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Instead, he got something far more interesting.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


And there he was.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


"Difference makes people uncomfortable," Oberyn said.


Jaime just nodded.


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


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


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


"And your sister?"


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


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


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


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


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


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


And perhaps, the most fragile.


…


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

 

[Daario]

GERION​

---

Casterly Rock, 275 AC​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And they listen to him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those words hit Gerion with unexpected force.

Lonely and wants to see the world.

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

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

Loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

AN: I changed the storyline a bit. For some reason Gerion had never been to the free cities. Thank you for reading! You can read 3 chapters early on Patreon!

 

[Daario]

JON​

---

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

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

Snip. Snip. Snip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cersei Lannister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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[Daario]

CERSEI​

---

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



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



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



Now… now everything was different. Strange.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



That was her world. That was her destiny.



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



…



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



Annoying. So annoying.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



It was a dismissal, not a suggestion.



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



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



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



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



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



…



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

---

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[Daario]

JON​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Money.

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

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

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

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

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

"Swords," Addam answered instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

"Jon?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A bite!" Addam exclaimed.

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

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

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

"Fishing requires patience, doesn't it?"

Jon just nodded, saying nothing.

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

---

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[Daario]

GERION​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How well?" Gerion leaned in.

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

Gerion didn't understand and just nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those words hit Gerion like a tidal wave.

They do not care about the opinions of others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course," Gerion muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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[Daario]

CLEOS​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just a fact," Jaime replied calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Too late," Jaime said with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleos looked at his cousin, at the golden lion who seemed to be able to do everything with ease. "Maybe it's because the goal is easier to reach with you," Cleos said, and the words just came out.

Jaime looked at him, a little confused at first, and then he understood. He smiled, this time not the smile of a confident warrior. It was a warm and understanding smile.

And in return, Cleos smiled back. And for the first time that day, the smile felt genuine.

…

Cleos stepped over the threshold of his room, leaving the dim corridor behind him. Here, in his private space, the world felt a little simpler. The air was filled with the faint scent of lemon soap and polished wood. It was his place, a small pocket within the vastness of Casterly Rock where he didn't have to constantly feel like he was being judged.

He felt tired, but it was a good kind of tired. His muscles ached from drawing the unfamiliar bowstring, and there were mud patches on his tunic, but inside his chest, there was a new spark of warmth. Hope.

A quiet young servant was already waiting there, ready to help him out of his dirty clothes and prepare a bath. Cleos was starting to undo his laces when a familiar, sharp voice broke the silence.

"Have fun?"

Startled, Cleos spun around. His mother, Genna Lannister, was sitting in an armchair by the window, a place he hadn't noticed when he first came in.

"Mother! You startled me!" Cleos exclaimed, his heart pounding.

"That was the point." Genna smiled, but her intelligent eyes were not smiling. Her eyes were observing, analyzing, as always. "I wanted to make sure an archer knows that even in a calm wilderness, a lion will surprise you."

"And the archer will be startled to death," Cleos said flatly, trying to regain his composure.

"Easier for the lion to eat him." Genna laughed, a sharp, knowing laugh. She gestured for the servant to step back for a moment. "Oh, you are filthy," she said, her eyes sweeping over the mud patches on Cleos's clothes. "I hope it was worth everything you did."

"It was worth it," Cleos said, and he was surprised at the note of conviction in his own voice. "Jaime is going to teach me the bow, and maybe the sword too."

His mother looked straight into his eyes, her gaze piercing. "There are many knights in Casterly Rock who are better than Jaime, you know that. Ser Benedict is a master-at-arms who has trained dozens of knights. You just have to train harder." She paused, and a small smile returned to her lips. "But that's good. Being close to your cousin will make your days less boring."

Less boring. It was his mother's way of saying safer. Cleos knew it. Being close to Jaime meant Derrick Lefford and the others would think twice before mocking him. It meant he would be part of the inner circle, not just a Frey who happened to live here.

"Yes," Cleos said quietly. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to voice the confusion that had been bothering him. "Mother, sometimes Jaime says things I don't understand. About 'paper,' 'interests,' and… everything. It makes me wonder if I'm getting stupider."

"Don't say that." Genna sighed, and for a moment, the hardness in her face softened into a genuinely maternal expression. She patted the chair beside her, an invitation. Cleos walked over and sat down awkwardly. "Jaime is more mature in his thinking even though he is only a year older than you," she said, her voice softer now. "Don't blame yourself for that. He is the son of Tywin Lannister. He was raised to think about legacy and power even before he could walk properly."

Hearing that, Cleos nodded slowly. It was a simple, undeniable truth. Jaime was Tywin's son, the heir to everything.

'And I am the son of a Frey,' he thought, and the familiar bitterness rose in his throat. The difference was vast. It was the difference between pure gold and mud.

As if she could read his mind, his mother's hand reached out and stroked his cheek, her thumb gently brushing away a smudge of dirt he hadn't realized was there. "And you?" she said softly, her eyes looking intently into his. "You have Lannister blood in you too. My blood. Never forget that. You are more than what others see, Cleos. You have a quietness that other boys lack. You observe. You listen. It's a different kind of strength, but it is strength."

Cleos's throat felt tight. Praise from his mother was rare, and when it came, it always carried a heavy weight. So many thoughts swirled in his mind—gratitude, frustration, confusion, and a new flicker of pride. He wanted to say something, to explain how hard it was to be him, caught between two names, two worlds. But the words wouldn't come. It was all too complicated.

He swallowed, pulling away from his mother's touch. He stood up, suddenly feeling the need to do something simple, something physical.

"I need a bath."

Genna looked at him for a moment longer, her eyes filled with an understanding that couldn't be put into words. Then, she nodded. "Yes," she said. "You do."


As the servant stepped forward to help him, Cleos was no longer thinking about mud or sweat. He was thinking about Lannister blood and the Frey name, about being strong in a quiet way, and about the promise of training with his strange, brilliant cousin. A bath wouldn't wash all of that away. But at least, it was a start.

---

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[Daario]

JON​

---

After two weeks, after two damned, relentless weeks where his muscles screamed and his patience was tested to its limits, Jon finally saw it. And the sight, strangely, left him speechless.



On the long table in the center of the workshop, arranged in neat stacks, lay the fruits of their labor. Paper. But not like the coarse, thick sheets they had produced before, which were more like stiff rags than anything else. This was different.



These papers were thinner, almost translucent when held up to the afternoon light filtering through the window. They were a clean white, not the pale gray of their failed attempts. And when Jon dared to touch one, its surface felt slightly rough yet smooth under his calloused fingers.



He stared at the stacks with an admiration he had never felt before. This was not the beauty of a sword blade or the grandeur of a tapestry. This was a different kind of beauty. The beauty of something born from chaos. He knew exactly what was contained in each of those sheets: hours of pounding linen cloth in a stone mortar until his arms felt numb, the strange smell of the boiled pulp, the frustration of lifting the mould from the water and seeing the pulp clump incorrectly, and the ache in his back from pressing the water out of the stacks. He had hated every second of it.



But now, seeing the result, he felt a strange, powerful wave of pride.



At the end of the table, Lord Jaime was grinning, of course he was grinning. The satisfied grin of a general who had just won a difficult battle. It worked! It worked! After Jon did almost all the heavy lifting!



"This is very good, Jon," Jaime said, his voice filled with sincere satisfaction. He was sitting on a stool, holding one of the paper sheets, and carefully dipping the tip of a quill into an inkwell. He began to write, his strokes smooth and unhindered. "The texture is not bad," he murmured, more to himself. "And the ink absorbs without spreading or bleeding."



"I am glad to hear that, Young Lord," Jon said calmly, keeping his voice flat and respectful. But in his mind, he was cheering: 'I've conquered this stupid game! I did it! I, Jon of Clearwater, am the best papermaker in all of Westeros!'



The workshop door creaked open, and Addam Marbrand entered, followed by the more reserved Cleos Frey. They had been coming every few days to check on "the Lannister's crazy project," as Addam called it.



"Wow," Marbrand said as he approached and saw the stacks of paper. He picked up a sheet, examining it with a critical eye. Cleos also leaned in for a closer look. "This actually looks good," Addam admitted, sounding genuinely impressed. "Thinner and whiter than parchment." Then, he did a strange thing. He sniffed it. "And it doesn't smell too bad. Not like sheepskin."



"Amazing," Cleos said, nodding earnestly. His eyes shifted from the paper to Jon. "Seeing Jon fail repeatedly and finally succeed is something worth celebrating."



'Yes!' Jon cheered in his head. 'Let's celebrate! You don't need to provide food or drink, Young Lord. You just have to give me a gold coin and I'll be happy!'



"With this, the first problem is solved," Jaime said, setting down his quill and nodding in satisfaction at his work.



Jon frowned. "There's a second problem?" he asked, his heart sinking a little. He thought his suffering was over.



Jaime looked at him, and that grin returned, this time a little more sly. "Of course there is. The easy parts are done." He leaned back in his chair. "For mass production, we can't use high-quality linen like this... well, we could, but it wouldn't be profitable."



"Therefore," Jaime continued, "used cloths will be very useful. Old clothes, rags, torn ship sails. Anything we can get cheaply. We can get that from many places."



"For example?" Addam asked, his curiosity piqued.



Jaime shrugged, a strange, casual gesture. "There are plenty in this castle. Think of all the old sheets or worn-out servant's tunics. In Lannisport, there are thousands of households. Every house must have a pile of used cloth."



"After mass production, we can sell it?" Jon asked, finally getting to the part he really cared about.



Jaime grinned at him, his eyes dancing. "No, we're going to eat it." He paused for a moment to enjoy the confused expression on Jon's face before laughing. "Of course we're going to sell it, Jon! I'll gather these papers first, our best 'samples.' I'll show them to the merchants in Lannisport later. And maybe to my father when we visit King's Landing."



King's Landing. The journey was getting closer. Jon nodded slowly. With the Lannister name and the connections of the Hand of the King, selling these stacks of paper would be very easy. He could see it now: carts full of paper, and other carts returning full of gold.



"If paper can spread information like you say, Lannister," Addam said slowly, his gaze distant. He held a sheet of paper in his hand as if it were something far more precious. "This might change a lot of things later. The Maesters, the Septons… even the kings. And I'm here to witness it."



"You'll see," Jaime said, his grin full of absolute confidence.



"But how will you get all those used cloths?" Cleos asked, ever the practical one. "You can't just go from house to house and ask for their old clothes."



"That's where the clever part comes in," Jaime said. "We're not going to ask for it. We're going to buy it. For a very cheap price, of course. We'll pay people for their trash. They'll get a few copper pennies, and we'll get our raw materials. Everyone is happy." He turned to Jon. "And you, Jon, will be a very powerful man. You'll have to supervise the workers later."



Jon knew it was just a joke, but he tried to imagine himself ordering a dozen men to do the back-breaking work he had done alone. The image was quite pleasant.



"This all sounds like a lot of work," Addam said. "I think I'd rather fight with a sword."



"That's why you'll be a great knight, and I'll be a rich Lord," Jaime retorted cheerfully. "Everyone has their role."



Jon listened to them talk, his mind spinning. Money. Mass production. Connections. Changing the world. It was all too big for him to fully comprehend.



"Let's go, Jon, I'm going to see Uncle Kevan."



Young Lord Jaime's voice broke the satisfied thoughts in the workshop. The boy moved with a sharp purpose, carefully gathering the best sheets of paper—the whitest, the smoothest, the most perfect. He placed them one by one into a leather pouch he had prepared specifically for this moment. Every movement was filled with conviction, the conviction of a man who knew he held something valuable.



'Oh, this is the first stage for the spread of this paper!' The thought flashed through Jon's mind, and a hot wave of excitement washed over him, banishing all the remaining fatigue from his muscles. This was it. The moment when all his sweat and his aching back would start to pay off.



They left the workshop, bidding a brief farewell to Addam and Cleos, who were still staring at the stacks of paper with a mixture of awe and confusion.



The journey from the workshop to the solar felt different. Usually, when walking beside Young Lord Jaime, Jon felt like a guard, a protector. Today, he felt like an escort on an important mission. Every step on the familiar stones felt heavier, more meaningful. He carried the pride of the work he had done, not as a knight, but as a… creator. It was a strange and intoxicating feeling.



They arrived at the door to Ser Kevan Lannister's solar. The thick wooden door seemed intimidating, like a gate to a different world. In Jon's world, people solved problems with swords or muscle. Behind this door, problems were solved with words, numbers, and quiet decisions that could change the fates of thousands. Two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention on either side of the door, their spears held perfectly. They nodded respectfully at Jaime, their gazes betraying no curiosity.



Jaime didn't hesitate. He knocked on the door three times, a sharp, confident rap.



A calm, deep voice came from within. "Enter."



Jaime pushed the door open and stepped inside. Jon followed him, standing silently behind his young lord's shoulder, his hand instinctively on the hilt of his sword, a habit hard to break even in the safest place in the Westerlands.



Ser Kevan's solar was exactly like the man himself: orderly, efficient, and without unnecessary frills. Neat bookshelves lined one wall, scrolls of parchment were stacked meticulously on a table, and a large map of the Westerlands was spread under glass on a massive desk. Ser Kevan himself was sitting behind that desk, reading a scroll. He looked up as they entered, and a pair of thick, blond eyebrows rose in surprise.



"Jaime? You're not practicing your sword or playing? That's something."



Jaime shook his head and walked forward, sitting in one of the chairs in front of his uncle's desk without waiting to be invited. "Practice and play can wait, Uncle," he said, his voice calm and serious. "Right now, I have something important."



Jon watched the interaction closely. Ser Kevan was a hard man to read. He didn't have the intimidating coldness of Lord Tywin, nor the easy cheerfulness of Ser Gerion. He was a quiet, considerate man, a man whose actions always had a purpose.



"What is it? Is the toy you were making finished?" Kevan smiled lightly, a rare smile that softened the corners of his eyes. Jon knew that beneath his serious demeanor, Ser Kevan was very fond of his nephew.



Jaime laughed, a relaxed sound. "You can read my mind, Uncle. Only, this isn't just a toy anymore. I have something real, that might, just might, change a few things for real."



With a deliberate movement, Jaime opened the leather pouch and carefully took out a small stack of white paper. He placed it on the desk between himself and his uncle.



The paper I made. Jon could feel a hot wave of pride rise in his chest. He had seen that paper wet, clumpy, and torn. Now, seeing it lying on Ser Kevan's polished wooden desk, looking so clean and perfect, it felt almost like magic.



Kevan stared at the stack with a confused expression. He reached out and took a sheet. Jon watched as his uncle's thick, strong fingers gently felt the surface of the paper. "You made this?"



"Yes," Jaime said. "I didn't show it to you before because, frankly, it was more like trash than something you could write on." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm beginning to show. "Now it's finished. Try writing something, Uncle. Feel it for yourself."



Kevan didn't speak. He set the sheet down, took a quill from its stand, dipped it in ink, and then, with a steady, firm stroke, he wrote a single word in the center of the white page.



Lannister.



The black ink looked sharp and clear on the white surface, absorbing quickly without the slightest bleed.



Kevan set down his quill and stared at the word for what felt like a very long time. The room was completely silent, the only sound the frantic beating of Jon's heart in his ears.



Finally, Ser Kevan looked up and stared straight at Jaime. The amused expression on his face was gone, replaced by something much deeper. Something that looked like genuine admiration.



"This is very good, Jaime."



"I know!" Jaime exclaimed, his excitement finally bubbling over. He leaned even further forward, almost jumping out of his chair. "I know how you value brains and information, Uncle, so you of all people would understand. It's cheaper to make than parchment, faster, and lighter. I plan to produce and sell it. For that, I need your help. And Father's."



Kevan smiled again, this time a different smile. Not the smile of an uncle to his nephew, but the smile of a lord who has just seen a powerful new weapon. "A thing like this is indeed worthy of appreciation," he said, his quiet voice filled with a new weight. He picked up the sheet again. "How much of it can you make? If it's the same or less than parchment, it's useless. Just a waste of time."



It was a Lannister's question. A question of scale, efficiency, and profit.



"For now, I can't confirm it for certain," Jaime answered, not at all daunted. "But I am sure, with the right process, we will be able to make about ten to twenty thousand sheets every three weeks." He nodded, as if it were a simple calculation. "That's if we have up to twenty skilled workers."



Jon raised his eyebrows. Ten to twenty thousand? The number was so large he couldn't even imagine it. He had spent two weeks making less than a hundred decent sheets. The thought of twenty thousand made his head spin.



Ser Kevan also seemed taken aback. He set the paper sheet back down as if it had suddenly become hot. "Ten… thousand?" he repeated, to make sure he hadn't misheard. "Jaime, with that amount, the maesters at the Citadel could write the history of the entire world in a year. You… you could write endlessly with that much." He looked at his nephew as if seeing him for the first time. "What do you need?"



And then, Jaime began to explain. Jon listened in awe as his young master spoke no longer like a boy, but like a planner. He spoke of "pulping efficiency," of the need for larger mortars, and of his main idea: a waterwheel.



"We can build it on the riverbank," Jaime said with passion, his hands moving as he explained. "The power of the water can be used to move giant wooden hammers. Those hammers will pound the cloth into pulp continuously, day and night. It will be much faster than human labor. It will be the heart of the operation."



Kevan listened intently, his eyes never leaving Jaime's face. He nodded slowly, absorbing every detail. When Jaime had finished, silence once again filled the room.



"A waterwheel," Kevan said softly. "That is a large project. It will require gold."



"We have gold," Jaime replied simply.



Kevan looked at his nephew for a few more moments, and then a decision was made. "Alright," he said. "You will have your waterwheel. And your twenty workers. I will arrange everything." He paused, and a sly smile very similar to Jaime's appeared on his face. "But first, I will tell Tywin. I will send a raven to King's Landing tonight." He picked up the sheet of paper he had written on. "And of course, I will use your invention to write the letter."



Jon felt a thrill of excitement. This was real. This was really happening.



"One more thing, Jaime," Kevan said, rising from his chair. "I want to see it."



Jaime looked confused. "See what, Uncle?"



"The process," Kevan said. "Take me to your workshop. I want to see with my own eyes how you turn a pile of rags into… this."

---

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Tywin Lannister sat alone in the vast silence of his solar in the Tower of the Hand. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound to break the thick quiet. Outside, King's Landing pulsed with its filthy, noisy life, but here, in this center of power, the world seemed to be held at bay. On his massive oaken desk, among the reports and royal decrees, lay a letter from Casterly Rock.

He felt a strangeness in the medium he held. This was not parchment. It was whiter, almost flawless, and its texture, though smooth, had a slight fibrous roughness that felt alien under his fingers. It was light, almost weightless, yet the words written upon it carried an immense weight.

He had read the letters from Kevan with the efficiency that had become his trademark. The first part was as expected: reports on Casterly Rock, the health of his vassals, and meticulous details of taxation. Kevan was always thorough, a reliable man who kept the Westerlands running smoothly while Tywin was occupied by the larger, though often more foolish, duties of the realm.

Then, at the end of the letter, he finally found it. The part written in a slightly different tone, a tone of barely restrained astonishment that was very unusual for his calm brother.

"Since this letter was sent, Jaime and Cersei are still preparing their things for King's Landing. And Tywin, he has created something that might change the structure of this kingdom."

Tywin paused for a moment, his pale green eyes narrowing.

"What you are holding now is 'paper,'" the letter continued. "Jaime made it himself, with the help of theory from Maester Creylen and the labor of Jon, his sworn sword."

Kevan then explained the details of the paper, about how it was made from cheap cloth, not from expensive animal hides. He explained its potential for mass production. And then, he got to the heart of the matter, to the strategic thinking he knew Tywin would understand.

"Jaime explained that with cheaper paper, information can be spread more easily and more quickly. And perhaps later, when they can create a 'printing press,' a concept he is still developing, House Lannister might be able to hold and control what information is spread throughout the kingdom. He also explained the income that could be generated from the sale of this paper. It would be like a new, endless stream of gold."

Tywin set the letter down, but he did not release the sheet of paper itself. He was silent. Of course, Jaime had mentioned his "project" in the brief letters he sent every fortnight. Tywin had read about what he was doing with the metal blocks. He had dismissed it as the amusement of a clever boy, a way to occupy his restless mind. He had given it his tacit permission, wanting to see where his son's curiosity would lead him. He had not expected this.

He had not expected a tangible result, a result he could hold in his hands.

A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Tywin's lips.

Jaime, at the tender age of nine, was already thinking about information control, mass production, and new revenue streams. The boy was everything Tywin could have wanted in an heir. Sharp, ambitious, and able to see beyond the sword and shield. The proof he now held, this paper, made Tywin trust him even more. The boy wasn't just talking nonsense. He had potential. A real and frightening potential.

Tywin valued brains. He had used his own to drag House Lannister out of the disgrace his father had left it in and return it to the pinnacle of power. But even he had never thought like this. He had never thought of "invention," of creating an entirely new source of wealth and power from nothing. Tywin used his brain to think rationally, to politic with clarity, to look into a man's soul and find his weakness. Jaime… Jaime was thinking of changing the very foundations of that world.

He set Kevan's letter down, but his hand still held the sheet of paper, feeling its new and possibility-filled texture.

Jaime was nine years old. He was still young. But in their world, the sons of great Houses were assets to be managed from an early age. And the most valuable assets had to be secured with the strongest alliances. The people around Tywin, the Lords from various places, had already begun their initial maneuvers, peddling their daughters like the finest horses at a fair.

Until now, Tywin had not given it much thought. But now, with such tangible proof of Jaime's potential in his hands, the thought came to the surface.

There were several potential candidates. He could marry Jaime to a daughter of House Crakehall, or Marbrand, or one of the other powerful Houses in the Westerlands. It would be a safe move, one that would strengthen his grip on his own territory. But Tywin Lannister never played it safe. Playing it safe was for men who were afraid to lose.

Then there were the others, the daughters of the great Lords. Catelyn Tully, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. A match with the Riverlands would be a strategic move, securing the center of the kingdom. Hoster was an ambitious man, and his daughter was said to have her mother's beauty and her father's spirit. A solid asset.

From the North. Lyanna Stark, Rickard Stark's daughter. Uniting Casterly Rock with Winterfell would be an unprecedented move, tying the vast North into Lannister's power.

And then there was Janna Tyrell. Twelve years old, already beginning to blossom. A match with House Tyrell would unite the gold of Casterly Rock with the fertile fields of the Reach. Gold and food. Wealth and population.

His thoughts naturally turned to his other twin. Cersei. His most perfect prize. He had planned her destiny since the day she was born. Cersei would be Queen. She would sit beside Prince Rhaegar on the Iron Throne, and the blood of the lion would merge with the blood of the dragon.

But Aerys… the King was truly unstable now. Every time Tywin carefully suggested the match between Cersei and Rhaegar, the King would just change the subject, or mutter about "thinking about it," his violet eyes flickering with paranoia. As if there were someone better than a Lannister for the Iron Throne. As if his gold and his daughter's intelligence were not enough. The insult felt like a hot coal in Tywin's gut.

He forcibly pushed the thought from his mind, returning it to the steel box in his mind where he kept all his frustrations. He could not control the madness of a King. But he could control his son's future.

Tywin decided to go out. The same walls that usually gave him a sense of power and control now felt suffocating, as if the echoes of the King's growing madness were seeping through the cracks in the stone. He needed to think, and fresh air, even the polluted air of King's Landing, sometimes helped to clear the mind.

He walked down the vast corridors of the Red Keep, his steady footsteps making no echo on the Myrish carpets. The white-cloaked Kingsguard guards bowed respectfully as he passed, their faces expressionless behind their helms. Courtiers and servants moved out of his way, bowing their heads in a mixture of fear and respect. He was the true power in this castle, and everyone knew it.

Everyone, it seemed, except the King himself.

His mind drifted back to the past, to a time that felt simpler, clearer. Aerys, Steffon, and himself. Three young men, bound by ambition, war, and a genuine friendship. Steffon Baratheon, with his booming laugh and his easy strength. Aerys Targaryen, once charming and full of spirit, his violet eyes sparkling with the promise of a golden age. And himself, Tywin, the quiet strategist, the anchor for his more spirited friends. They were an inseparable trio, bound by their shared experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was on the bloody battlefields of the Stepstones that he had truly earned Aerys's trust. That was why, when the throne became his, Aerys had called on him to be his Hand. It wasn't just because Tywin was competent; it was because he was his close friend.

But where was that warmth now? Lately, whenever Aerys looked at him, the King's eyes were different. The warmth of friendship had long since died, replaced by something else. Something flickering, restless, and filled with a poisonous suspicion. Tywin no longer understood what he was thinking. There was only one conclusion his logical mind could draw: madness. The King was going mad.

However, Tywin was not a fool. He understood the root of that madness, at least the part that was directed at him. Aerys might feel threatened. Threatened by him. Tywin had ruled this kingdom in Aerys's name. He had refilled the royal coffers that previous kings had emptied. He had built new roads, suppressed rebellious vassals, and enforced the King's justice with merciless efficiency. The kingdom ran smoothly under his watch.

And that was the problem. People saw it. When it came to this, people spoke of the Hand of the King, not of the King himself. Lords from distant lands came to him first to ask for permission or help. His voice carried more weight in the small council than the King's.

But this was his duty. The duty of a Hand was to rule. Aerys should have been grateful to him for bearing this burden, allowing the King to enjoy his feasts and tourneys. Aerys should have been grateful to him for repaying the crown's debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos, debts that his own father had accumulated.

But instead, Aerys slapped him in the face. Every day, in small, cunning ways. Rejecting his suggestions in public. Making demeaning jokes about lions and gold. And worst of all, the most painful, was the constant stalling regarding the match between Rhaegar and Cersei.

Once, this plan had been a foregone conclusion in Tywin's mind, a logical certainty. The Crown Prince would marry the daughter of his Hand. The blood of the dragon and the blood of the lion would unite, creating a dynasty that would rule for hundreds of years. It was the smartest, most powerful move. Even Aerys, in his saner days, had agreed to it in principle.

His aimless steps had taken him across the inner courtyard and towards the only place in the Red Keep that offered true silence. The Godswood.

He stepped under the shade of the ancient trees. Here, in this small pocket, the noise of the court seemed to vanish. The air felt cooler, smelling of damp earth and wet leaves. He was not a follower of the Old Gods, but he appreciated the silence and the age of this place.

As he stood there, in the silence, he heard it.

The sound of a harp.

The music drifted through the trees, a complex and melancholy melody filled with an indescribable sadness. Each note was played with perfect precision, yet filled with a raw emotion. A harp in the night. There was only one person in the entire Red Keep who could play like that.

Prince Rhaegar.

Tywin did not move. He remained in the shadows, hidden from view. He listened, his usually racing mind now calm, focused only on the music.

In that sad melody, he heard the echo of all his frustrations. He heard the beauty he wanted to claim for his daughter. He heard the dragon's blood he so desperately wanted to unite with his own. He heard the son of the man who stood in his way, the son of the man who had betrayed their friendship. The music was everything he wanted and everything he could not have, all woven into one heartbreaking song.

He felt no anger. Anger was a useless emotion. Instead, he felt something far colder, far harder. Determination.

The music stopped, leaving a silence deeper than before. Tywin did not move. He just stood in the growing darkness, listening to the echo of the last note fading in the air.

 

[Daario]

CERSEI

---

After a long and grueling month's journey, they finally arrived at King's Landing. The cramped, swaying carriage finally came to a halt, and for the first time in weeks, Cersei felt a silence that wasn't accompanied by the creaking of wheels or the whinnying of horses. What first came to Cersei's mind, as she peeked through the small window, was how magnificent the buildings were.

Oh, Casterly Rock was a marvel, certainly. Lannisport was a rich and bustling port city. But the Capital had a uniqueness all its own. The towers of the Red Keep soared into the sky like the petrified fingers of a dragon, the Targaryen banners fluttering majestically in the wind. Even from a distance, she could feel the pulse of this city's power, a wild and untamed energy that the orderly Westerlands lacked.

Perfect. This suited her. This was a stage worthy of a queen. A stage where she would one day rule alongside her prince.

As the carriage door opened and she stepped out, a wave of warmth greeted her. It was a different air from the cool sea breeze of Casterly Rock. This air was thicker, filled with a thousand different scents—spices from other parts of the world, the smell of woodsmoke from a thousand hearths, and beneath it all, the faint, unpleasant odor of too many people living in close quarters. But Cersei did not care. She breathed it in deeply, tasting her new world.

Then, she felt Jaime's gaze on her. She turned and immediately met it with a flat look. She would not show her excitement to Jaime. Not now. She walked towards him, her gown swishing over the stones of the courtyard. There, beside Jaime, stood Addam Marbrand, looking a little overwhelmed by the scale of the place, and the ever-present sworn sword, Jon.

"Don't wander off anywhere. We need to go see Father," Cersei said flatly, her tone sharp and commanding. She deliberately spoke to him as if he were a three-year-old, not her twin brother.

Jaime didn't retort sharply. Instead, there was a weary expression on his face, as if Cersei were just another annoyance on his long journey. "Yes, boss," he said quietly.

Boss? That strange word sounded foreign to Cersei's ears. What did it mean? It sounded like a word a dockworker would use. She wanted to hit him for using strange words she didn't understand, for having changed into someone she no longer recognized.

They were led by a captain of her father's guard, a man with a hard face whose name was unimportant to Cersei. They walked through corridors that felt darker and older than those in Casterly Rock, past tapestries depicting fighting dragons. After a while, they finally arrived at the door to the Tower of the Hand. The captain knocked.

Lord Tywin's deep and unmistakable voice, which always managed to make the hairs on Cersei's neck stand up, echoed from within. "Enter."

Their father was sitting behind a massive desk, looking like a king himself. The room was the embodiment of power: silent, orderly, and intimidating. Cersei and Jaime sat in the chairs before the desk, their backs straight and erect.

Tywin looked at them in a long silence, his pale green eyes assessing every detail of their appearance. Finally, he broke the silence.

"You arrived later than expected."

It was not a question. It was a statement, an accusation.

"The roads were rough and full of disruptions, Father," Cersei frowned, letting a note of complaint enter her voice. "The mud slowed the carriage wheels. I still remember when one of the horses neighed loudly in the blind heat of the day. The atmosphere felt like it wanted to kill me."

Father looked into her eyes for a few moments, then he turned to Jaime, as if Cersei's complaints were unimportant.

Jaime opened his mouth. "It was indeed like that," he agreed, which surprised Cersei. "But it was something interesting, because along the way I could see each village and its inhabitants more clearly."

Cersei almost snorted. Typical Jaime. Of course he would find something "interesting" in suffering. Of course he cared about the "villagers."

"You know why I summoned you here, don't you?" Tywin's tone was flat, ignoring their comments about the journey.

'To meet Prince Rhaegar,' Cersei thought instantly, her heart beating a little faster. She nodded gracefully. "Of course, Father. To learn. To socialize and make connections."

"To see how you lead," Jaime added, his tone calm.

"You are both correct," Tywin confirmed, and Cersei felt a wave of satisfaction. She had given the right answer. "All that you have mentioned is useful for a ruler. A solitary ruler will not be respected by their followers, even when they are from a prominent family. They still have to socialize and make connections to keep the sheep in the pasture."

Yes, Cersei thought, pleased. The sheep will continue to eat grass until the lions come and eat them. They exist only for us.

Tywin then did something unexpected. He opened a drawer in his large desk. Cersei leaned forward slightly, thinking he would take out a scroll or perhaps a piece of jewelry. Instead, he took out a stack of sheets of… that thing.

The thin white thing that Jaime had proudly shown off at dinner a month ago, before they left.

Paper!

Cersei's heart sank. The air seemed to be sucked out of her lungs. She knew now. She knew exactly where this conversation was going. Her moment, the discussion of her future, of Prince Rhaegar, had been hijacked. Again, this was all about Jaime and his stupid, dirty invention.

"You made this well."

The words were directed entirely at Jaime. Father didn't even glance at Cersei. It was as if she were just another piece of furniture in the room, a gilded ornament with no purpose other than to be sat upon and be silent. A cold, familiar anger began to creep into her stomach. This was supposed to be her moment, their moment. The moment when Father would see his daughter, his future queen, and begin to lay the plans for her destiny.

Jaime, of course, accepted the praise as if it were his birthright. He nodded, completely unfazed by Father's sharp gaze that could usually make even the most powerful Lords tremble. "After years of theorizing and planning various things, it was finally worth it."

Years? Cersei almost snorted. A few weeks ago you were still playing with a wooden sword and stealing cakes from the kitchen. Don't act like you're the Grand Maester.

"You said you could make tens of thousands in a few weeks?" Father's voice came again, still completely ignoring Cersei. And this time, there was a different note in his voice. Not just approval, but genuine interest.

Cersei hated it.

"Yes. Uncle Kevan has taken care of everything I asked for, Father. The waterwheel is being built. If everything is done correctly, it's not impossible," Jaime said, the calmness in his voice making Cersei even more sick. He spoke as if he were discussing a wheat harvest, not an impossible invention.

"With the price of parchment these days," Father tapped a long, well-manicured finger on the polished wooden desk. It was a sharp, calculating sound. "If we start selling this for just half the price, it will disrupt the market."

Jaime smiled, a small, sly smile that reminded Cersei of a fox. "Not just that, Father. A lot of paper means there will be a lot of useful writings. There we can make people read more. When many people are literate, a kingdom will be more prosperous. Administration more structured, information easier to obtain." He leaned forward, his green eyes sparkling with a strange enthusiasm. "And most importantly, as Lannisters who hold all that, information can be spun solely for our own benefit. Then, Lannisport will get many visitors from many places to get this 'paper.' There, money will flow like the tide."

Cersei listened, and though she hated every word that came out of Jaime's mouth, a small part of her, the cold, calculating Lannister part, understood. Power. This was about power. Not the grand power of a crown or a sword, but a creeping, unseen kind of power, that controlled what people thought and knew. It was a powerful idea. And it was Jaime's idea, not hers.

"You would need many scribes to copy a book," Father said, his voice flat. It was not a refutation, but a test. He was testing the depth of his son's thinking.

Jaime was ready for it. "What if we don't need to copy it by hand?" he asked, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "As I mentioned before, there are the small metal blocks I have hidden in the workshop. The ones with the reversed letters carved on them. Imagine if we arranged those letters to form a page, coated them with ink, and pressed them onto the paper."

He paused, letting the image form. "We could create a printing press, not a worn-out wooden one. This is different, this could make hundreds of copies of the same page in a single day. Thousands in a week. A book that would normally take a maester a year to copy could be finished in a few days."

Cersei stared at him, truly stunned for a moment. The concept was so large, so… impossible.

Father just nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "A printing press," he said. "An ambitious concept. But there are many details to be perfected."

"Of course," Jaime said, not at all intimidated. "And I have already found the next biggest problem. It's not the machine, Father. That's just mechanical, levers and screws, we can handle that. The real problem is the ink."

Cersei saw Father raise an eyebrow slightly, a silent invitation for Jaime to continue.

"The ink we use for quills won't work," Jaime explained, now completely lost in his own explanation. "I've tried it on a small scale. It's too watery. It won't adhere well to the smooth metal surface, and when pressed, it will bleed into the paper fibers, creating an unreadable smudge and ruining the sheet. We need something completely different."

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Something thicker, stickier. Something oil-based, perhaps, that will adhere to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper when pressed. I have already asked Maester Creylen to look for information, to be able to make the ink adhere. That is the next problem to be solved before the printing press can become a reality."

Cersei sat there, trapped in silence, as Father and Jaime continued to talk. No, Jaime talked and Father listened. She saw the way Father looked at her twin brother, and it was a look Cersei had never seen before directed at anyone, not even Uncle Kevan. It was not cold approval or reluctant praise. It was respect. The genuine respect of one strategist for another.

After what felt like an eternity, during which Cersei could only sit in silence while Father and Jaime spoke in a language of invention and profit that she did not understand, the conversation finally ended.

"That is all. You had better go to your respective chambers first." Father's voice came, cutting off the discussion about ink as if it had never happened. His tone was back to being flat, cold, and final. The audience was over. "The guard who brought you here will show you the way. You are dismissed."

"Yes, Father," Cersei said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

She rose gracefully, every movement controlled, hiding the storm of anger and humiliation churning within her. This was shameful. Absolutely shameful. She had traveled for a month, enduring the discomfort of muddy roads and mediocre inns, all with one image in her mind: arriving at King's Landing, facing her father, and taking the first step towards her destiny as Queen. She had come here to talk about Prince Rhaegar, about her future at court, about her role at the center of power.

And all she got was to be a mute spectator to her twin brother's endless rambling about paper and other infuriating things. She had been ignored, dismissed, in front of Father.

As she turned, she glared at Jaime, a sharp look full of a rage that promised retribution. Jaime, who was also rising from his chair, caught her gaze for a moment before subtly looking away, his eyes shifting to the floor as if there were something interesting there.

Good, Cersei thought cruelly. At least he is aware that he has ruined my day. That small awareness gave her a sliver of bitter satisfaction.

The same hard-faced guard was waiting for them outside the door and escorted them in silence through the corridors of the Red Keep. Cersei walked with her head held high, refusing to show how disturbed she was. She didn't glance at Jaime once. The silence between them was heavy and tense. Every step that took them further from Father's solar felt like a step that took them further from each other.

Finally, the guard stopped at a junction in the corridor, pointing in one direction for Jaime and another for her. Their chambers were adjacent, but not connected. A small detail that felt very significant to Cersei at that moment.

She was glad to be separated from the book-eater. The moment she was inside her own chambers and the door was closed behind her, she could finally let out a breath. She was alone. At least she could breathe peacefully, away from Jaime's annoying presence and Father's judging gaze.

Her chambers were luxurious, of course. A large four-poster bed dominated the room, with deep red velvet curtains. A thick carpet covered the floor, and the furniture was made of polished dark wood. But Cersei didn't notice any of it.

She walked straight to the large, arched window that overlooked the city. From this height, the view was magnificent. She could see the red rooftops of King's Landing stretching out to the bay. She could see the grand domes of the Great Sept of Baelor glittering in the afternoon sun. She could see the ships that looked like toys entering and leaving the harbor.

This would all be hers.

A smile slowly returned to Cersei's lips as she gazed at the view. Her anger and humiliation began to recede, replaced by the cold, hard ambition that had always been her core. Father might be distracted by Jaime's little inventions for now, but that was just a diversion. The real game was a marathon, not a sprint. And in that game, she held the trump card.

She turned from the window and looked into the large, gold-framed mirror that leaned against the wall, a mirror that showed her full-length from head to toe.

The girl who looked back at her was stunning. Her hair was molten gold, purer and brighter than any coin ever minted. Her eyes were glittering emeralds, filled with intelligence and fire. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, and her figure, even at nine, already showed the promise of a beauty that would make men kneel.

This was her power. Not some dirty contraption or strange ideas about paper. This was pure, real, and undeniable gold. This was the asset that would win her a crown.

She lifted her chin, looking at her own reflection with cold satisfaction. Father would soon realize his mistake. He would see that true power did not lie in spreading information to the smallfolk, but in uniting the most powerful bloodlines. He would see that his daughter, not his strange son, was the true key to the eternal legacy of House Lannister.

It would all pay off. Her current frustration, the humiliation of being ignored, all of it was just a small obstacle on her path. In the end, she would get what she wanted. She would be Queen. And from upon the Iron Throne, she would look down on everyone, including Jaime.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

Breakfast passed in silence. A heavy, dense silence that felt like a physical weight in the room. On the long, polished wooden table, a feast fit for gods was laid out: spiced eggs from Dorne, thick and savory bacon, warm bread fresh from the oven, fruits from the Reach glistening with dew, and silver pitchers filled with milk and sweet wine. The aroma of delicious food filled the air, a cruel contrast to the cold, lifeless atmosphere.

Rhaegar Targaryen stared at his plate, but he didn't see the food. He saw his father, King Aerys Targaryen, sitting at the head of the table, chewing on a piece of bacon with vacant eyes. It had been like this for months, and Rhaegar felt a sense of unease every time he saw it. The emptiness in his father's eyes was frightening. Sometimes, it was the blank stare of a man whose mind was miles away. Other times, like now, it was the deceptive calm of a sleeping dragon, gathering fiery heat within its quiet self.

His father had become more short-tempered lately, more unpredictable. His outbursts could be triggered by the most trivial things: a servant pouring his wine too full, a dog barking in the courtyard, or, most often, a report from the small council. He would snap at everyone, his shrill voice echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Including Mother.

It hadn't come to blows, thank the gods. But words could wound just as deeply. Rhaegar knew that every shout, every unjust accusation, chipped away at his mother, piece by piece.

He glanced at his mother, Queen Rhaella, who sat opposite his father. She was a beautiful woman, with the same silver-gold hair as his own and gentle violet eyes. A soft smile usually graced her face, a smile that could soothe the most restless of lords. But now, that smile was gone, replaced by a mask of forced neutrality. She ate with small, controlled movements, her back straight, a queen to her fingertips, but Rhaegar could see the tension in her shoulders and the way her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup.

Rhaegar thought about laughter. Once, this table was filled with laughter. His mother's melodious laugh, his own, even his father's laugh, which had once been so charming and full of life. That laughter hadn't been here lately. Silence had consumed it, just as a shadow consumes candlelight.

Suddenly, his father put down his knife and fork with a sound that was a little too loud on the porcelain plate.

"I saw the new sewers on the street yesterday," Aerys said suddenly, his voice hollow, but with a hidden undercurrent of bitterness. "So orderly. So efficient. Tywin has always been efficient."

Rhaegar and Rhaella both stopped eating, sensing the sudden shift in the mood.

"The people... they clapped as I passed," the King continued, his violet eyes staring blankly at the wall behind Rhaegar. "But they weren't cheering for their King. They were cheering for the 'Hand's sewers'." He let out a small, dry, humorless laugh. "I wonder if they'll build a statue for him there later, next to a pile of rubbish."

"But that was a task you commanded him to do, Aerys," Queen Rhaella said gently, trying to soothe him. "It is a sign of your successful reign. The city is becoming a better place."

"A successful reign is one where the people love their King, not his subordinate," Aerys retorted sharply, his bitterness now more apparent. "Tywin... my good friend. Sometimes I feel he works too hard for his own good... and for mine." He said the words "my good friend" with a subtle, painful irony. "He shoulders so many burdens that there is nothing left for me."

The tense silence returned to the room. Rhaegar could feel his heart pounding in his chest. This was dangerous territory. Lord Tywin's competence was the surest trigger for his father's rage.

"No one thinks that, Father," Rhaegar said quietly, choosing his words carefully. "Lord Tywin is merely performing his duty as the Hand. Improving the city is part of that duty. He does it in your name."

"In my name?" Aerys turned to him, and for a moment, Rhaegar saw a flash of wild paranoia in his eyes. "Is that so? Or does he do it to show everyone how incompetent their King is without him? He builds roads and sewers, he fills the coffers, while I... I just sit here, looking like a Targaryen." He pointed his fork at Rhaella. "And you! Don't you start defending him! You always think I'm too harsh, too suspicious. You don't see how he is slowly taking over my kingdom, piece by piece, with stones!"

"I only think you shouldn't burden yourself with such details of construction," Rhaella said, her voice still calm, but Rhaegar could see how much effort it took her to remain so.

"Burden myself?" the King exclaimed, rising from his chair with a sudden movement. The chair scraped back with a loud screech. "This is my kingdom! Every stone laid, every sewer dug, is my burden! I am the King! I decide who is loyal and who is a traitor! And I see more and more traitors every day!"

He stood there, towering over them, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his violet eyes wild and unfocused. He stared from Rhaegar to Rhaella, then to the untouched food on the table as if it too had betrayed him.

Then, without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room, his dragon-embroidered cloak swirling behind him.

The door slammed shut.

The returning silence felt a hundred times heavier than before.

Rhaegar let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands, which had been clenched into tight fists under the table, slowly relaxed. He felt a wave of helpless anger on his mother's behalf. This wasn't fair. Mother had done nothing but try to calm him.

He looked at his mother. The Queen's mask of composure had finally cracked. Just for a moment, but Rhaegar saw it. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her hand was trembling slightly.

"Mother..." Rhaegar whispered, reaching a hand across the table.

Queen Rhaella took a deep breath and straightened her back, the remnants of her fragility disappearing as quickly as they had come. She was the Queen again. "I'm fine, Rhaegar," she said, her voice barely trembling. "Finish your breakfast. You need to eat."

The command was so ordinary, so motherly, in the midst of this madness that it almost made Rhaegar laugh bitterly. Finish your breakfast. As if his appetite hadn't turned to ash in his mouth.

He looked down at the plate in front of him. The delicious food, painstakingly prepared, now seemed repulsive. It was a symbol of their lives, a facade of luxury and wealth that hid the rot within.

A breakfast for rulers, he thought bitterly. A feast in a beautiful golden cage.

Rhaegar ate only a little. Every bite felt like a chore, the delicious taste of the food turning bland in his mouth from the bitter morning atmosphere. When he finished, he stood up, bidding a quiet, respectful farewell to his mother, who only replied with a small nod, her eyes still staring blankly at her father's abandoned plate.

He needed to clear his head. The tense silence and the unexpected outburst had left an unpleasant residue in his soul, like a slow-acting poison. There was only one remedy he knew for this kind of ailment. He went to his room and picked up his small harp, a beautiful instrument of light-colored wood with carvings of small dragons coiling around its frame.

Then he walked to the garden, a pocket of peace within the bustling Red Keep. He found a stone bench under the shade of an ancient oak tree, away from the main path. He sat down and placed the harp on his lap. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the warmth of the morning sun touch his face and listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves.

Then, his fingers began to move. Not the sad melodies he often played when contemplating prophecies or the fate of his kingdom. No. This morning, he needed something else. He played a tune, a cheerful melody from the Reach, a song about spring and the dance of maidens in the meadows. Its fast, light notes jumped from the strings, a deliberate rebellion against the darkness he had just left. For a moment, the music worked, washing away the madness that haunted the castle's corridors.

He played with a peaceful touch, letting himself get lost in the simple, happy melody. Then, as the song reached its peak, he slowed his movements, letting the final notes hang in the quiet air before fading into silence. The music was finished.

"You have an impressive skill, Prince."

The voice came from behind him, calm and appreciative. Rhaegar turned. It was Jaime Lannister. The boy had been in King's Landing for two days, but with all the tension at court, Rhaegar hadn't had a chance to speak with him. The boy stood there, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, looking a bit awkward, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to approach.

"I hope the song didn't disturb you," Rhaegar smiled, a genuine smile.

"Disturb me? No, no," Jaime smiled back, and the smile seemed to light up his face. He walked closer and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down on the other end of the stone bench. "It was a hundred times better than the deafening silence around here. When I listened to you play, I could immediately feel the notes in my soul. It was impressive."

Rhaegar was slightly taken aback by the boy's choice of words. Deafening silence. It was a very accurate description of the atmosphere in the Red Keep lately. "You seem to know a lot about music," Rhaegar replied.

"Blah," Jaime laughed, a free and pleasant sound. "No, I'm just an admirer. I'm good at playing a few instruments, but only 'good', not 'skilled' like you. I prefer to sing."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Then try it. Sing something. It's always nice to have someone who shares the same interest."

Jaime looked hesitant, his smile fading slightly. "Are you sure? My voice isn't good, you know? The only one who's ever heard me sing is my little brother, and he's just a baby."

"I've heard worse," Rhaegar laughed, trying to put him at ease. "When I first started learning, my voice sounded like a war hammer."

"At least it was loud and strong," Jaime teased, and Rhaegar saw a flash of sharp intelligence in his eyes.

"Go on," Rhaegar said, his smile widening.

"Alright, alright, but don't laugh." Jaime glanced around quickly, as if he didn't want anyone else to see him do this. He took a deep breath.

Then he sang.

"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me..."

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

"And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me..."

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows. The melody... it was strange. Simple, yet haunting. And the lyrics... he had never heard a song like this before. It wasn't a song about war, or heroes, or lost love. It was something else. He had expected Jaime to sing something he knew, or worse, The Rains of Castamere.

And his voice... Jaime's claim that his voice was "bad" was a blatant lie. His voice lacked the power of a trained singer, but it was melodic, rhythmic, and most surprisingly of all, filled with a genuine emotion. An emotion that felt much older than the nine-year-old boy singing it.

"And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree..."

"There will be an answer, let it be..."

"For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see..."

"There will be an answer, let it be..."

Rhaegar found himself completely drawn into the song. The words resonated within him in an unexpected way. The broken-hearted people living in the world. He thought of his mother, sitting alone at the breakfast table, swallowing her tears along with her food. He thought of his father, trapped in his own paranoia and rage. He thought of himself, burdened by it all. This simple song from a boy from Casterly Rock, somehow, seemed to understand the sorrow of his kingdom.

"You're a very good liar," Rhaegar said after the song was finished, a genuine smile slowly forming on his lips. The tension from the morning seemed to melt away under the warmth of this strange moment. "That was a beautiful song. Where did you get it?"

Jaime looked a little relieved that Rhaegar hadn't laughed at him. He smiled back, a shyer smile than Rhaegar had expected. "I often visit the port in Lannisport," he answered. "There are many people from all over the country. They bring many songs that are not well-known among the nobility. They have many stories and their own meanings... this one? The person who sang this didn't want to tell me his home country."

"A mysterious person then," Rhaegar chuckled, fascinated by the idea. He imagined a bustling port, an anonymous singer bringing songs from an unknown land. It was the kind of romance he usually read about in old books.

"You could say that," Jaime said. "I didn't want to pry too much. He was a good singer, and his privacy should be respected."

Rhaegar nodded, his curiosity growing. This morning, which had started with anger and tears, had suddenly turned into something else. Something interesting. "Well then," he said, leaning a little closer. "Tell me. What other songs do you know."

Jaime smiled, this time his smile was wider, more confident. It was as if he had been invited into his own world, and he was happy to have a guest. And he began to talk.

For Rhaegar, this was an escape. He was used to the songs of the Seven Kingdoms: epic ballads about heroes and kings, mournful songs about lost love, and the rough drinking songs of soldiers. Those songs were part of the fabric of his world, each with its own place and purpose.

But the songs Jaime told him about were different. They were the songs of common folk, sung not in great halls, but on the swaying decks of ships and in dimly lit taverns. Jaime didn't just sing the melodies; he told the stories behind them.

Rhaegar listened, completely captivated. He was a musician. He understood the power of a song to convey emotions that words could not express. And in Jaime Lannister, he had found an unexpected connoisseur of music, a collector of forgotten songs.

This boy was more than just golden hair and a powerful name. There was a depth to him, a rich inner world that Rhaegar had never expected. And Rhaegar felt that, in some ways, they were alike.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

The afternoon arrived quickly, bringing with it the suffocating heat so characteristic of King's Landing. Rhaegar walked through the crowded streets, an act that always felt like a performance. Though he wore a simple, unadorned traveling cloak, his silver hair was a curtain that could not be hidden. People moved aside, bowed, and whispered as he passed, their gazes a mixture of awe, curiosity, and fear.

Today, however, Rhaegar barely noticed them. His mind was not filled with the ever-darkening shadow of his father. Instead, he found himself constantly replaying the strange melody from that morning, the song about letting things be, sung in the clear, unexpected voice of a young boy. There was a peace in that memory, a brief respite from the storm that was his life. A faint smile touched his lips without him realizing it.

Beside him, walking with long, easy strides, stood Arthur Dayne. There was an empty space around Arthur, an aura of deadly competence that made even the most audacious pickpockets and merchants keep their distance. His eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning the crowd, the rooftops, and the dark alleyways.

Arthur noticed the smile. "You've been scowling a lot lately," he said, his deep, calm voice cutting clearly through the city's noise. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Rhaegar shrugged, his smile fading slightly at being caught.

Arthur was not fooled. He knew Rhaegar better than anyone, perhaps even better than Rhaegar knew himself. They had grown up together, first as fellow wards at court, and now as friends. "You must have spoken with the Lannister boy, haven't you?" Arthur guessed.

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking at his friend. "How did you know?"

Dayne smirked his typical thin smile, one more often seen in his eyes than on his lips. "Oh, come on, it's not hard to figure out. The boy has only been here for two days, and this morning you came back from the garden with an expression I haven't seen in months, the look of someone who has just discovered something good, not your usual lament." He paused for a moment. "I also heard he's an avid book reader, just like you."

"Jaime... a book reader?" Rhaegar was genuinely surprised to hear this. This morning, he had only thought the boy was merely interested in folk songs, an unusual music enthusiast. He had never imagined him as such. Boys from great Houses were usually more interested in swords and horses, not dusty scrolls.

Arthur chuckled, a low, pleasant laugh. "I was training with his guard, Ser Jon of Clearwater, this morning. He's a capable and skilled knight. I was impressed by his skill. He has an honest strength and perseverance. We talked afterward." Arthur paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "And he spoke of his 'Young Lord' with a passion usually reserved for discussing a new warhorse or a tournament victory. Especially about the prospect of 'paper'."

"Paper?" Rhaegar frowned, the word sounding foreign.

"It's a parchment-like material they've created," Arthur explained. "Jon described it as something born from 'two weeks of suffering in a hell of cloth pulp', but the result, according to him, was worth it. They claim it's thinner and more practical than parchment, and honestly, Rhaegar, it looked quite good." Arthur nodded to himself, as if remembering it. "Jon showed me a sheet his master gave him as a 'bonus'. It was white, smooth... I won't describe much, but when I saw that one sheet, the first thing that came to my mind was, 'Oh, Rhaegar would love this.'"

Rhaegar's mind immediately started racing. A new writing medium? Made not from animal hide, but from... cloth? "Then you should have brought some," Rhaegar said, his curiosity now fully piqued.

Arthur smiled. "It was just his personal 'sample', and I doubt he would part with it; he held it like a sacred relic. If you're interested, you can see it for yourself. He's at your court now, you know that, right? He's not going anywhere."

"I'll try to see it then," Rhaegar nodded, a plan beginning to form in his mind. He wanted to see this thing. He wanted to talk to Jaime again, not just about music, but about this. About ideas. He felt a wave of intellectual excitement he hadn't felt in a long time. "And to be honest," he added, "we just talked about songs this morning."

"Impressive," Arthur joked, his tone light. "One more person in the kingdom has managed to impress the gloomy Prince Rhaegar."

Rhaegar laughed, a free and genuine sound. "It wasn't just that. He sang songs I had never heard before. Strange and beautiful songs. He said he got them from people coming in and out of the port at Lannisport."

"Is he a good singer?" Arthur looked up at the evening sky, as if trying to imagine it.

"Very," Rhaegar affirmed. "His voice is melodious, and the lyrics... the lyrics are moving. I like his taste. It's not like the usual heroic songs we hear. It's more... real."

They walked in silence for a moment, Rhaegar lost in his thoughts. Jaime Lannister. Two days ago, he was just another name on the guest list, the son of his father's Hand, one half of a pair of twins famous for their beauty. Now, he was something else. An enthusiast of folk music. A secret singer. A book reader. And an inventor.

"He seems different from what I've heard," Rhaegar said quietly, more to himself.

"How so?" Arthur asked.

"Everyone talks about the Lannisters as proud, power-hungry lions. They talk about gold and debts and The Rains of Castamere. But this boy..." Rhaegar paused, trying to find the right word. "He feels... older than his years. Calmer. He doesn't have the overflowing arrogance I expected. There's a seriousness to him, but also a strange cheerfulness."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Ser Jon said something similar. He said his master sometimes talks like a maester, and the next moment, he'll be roaring with laughter at a story about a guard slipping in the mud. He said it gives him whiplash."

Rhaegar smiled. He could understand that. This morning, he had seen both sides: the musician and the shy boy.

…

Night fell with the usual noise within the Red Keep. The clinking of armor from the changing of the guard, the echo of hurried footsteps of servants in the stone corridors, and the faint hum of the city below that never truly slept. But inside Prince Rhaegar's private solar, there was a pocket of peace. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden light on the tapestries depicting Targaryen hunts and battles of old.

Jaime Lannister arrived on time, escorted by a servant. He was not alone. His sworn shield, Ser Jon, followed him, standing silently near the door, his sturdy figure a quiet reminder of the dangerous world outside. Rhaegar had invited him and allowed Ser Jon to enter as well; he understood the bond between a young Lord and his protector.

Across the room, in a comfortable armchair near the fire, Ser Arthur Dayne was seated. For a rare moment, he was not standing guard. Instead, he was reading a book, his head bowed, his presence calming. What book he was reading was anyone's guess; Arthur always had an unexpected depth.

"I didn't think you'd actually want to see me again, Prince Rhaegar," Jaime smiled as he approached, the same easy smile as in the garden that morning. "I thought you were just being polite about my voice this morning."

Rhaegar chuckled, motioning for Jaime to sit in the chair opposite him. "I never lie, especially when it comes to that. The songs you brought are so beautiful that I've prepared parchment to memorize the lyrics, if you don't mind?" He pointed to a small table beside him, where a clean scroll of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill had been prepared.

Jaime's eyes widened with surprise and delight. "Not at all." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm genuine. "I'm very flattered you'd want to do that. It means all my efforts to sneak through the port weren't in vain. After all, if I do it again, I can make an excuse. 'Hey, the Prince likes this, these songs will bring peace to the kingdom!'"

Rhaegar burst out laughing, a free and genuine laugh he hadn't felt in a long time. From the corner of his eye, he saw even the usually serious lips of Arthur Dayne twitch into a slight smile.

"Alright, let's begin," Rhaegar said, unrolling the parchment and dipping his quill into the ink.

And so their evening began. Jaime, with an incredible memory, began to sing or recite the songs he knew, one by one. He sang again, and this time, Rhaegar could write down the lyrics, the words feeling just as powerful on parchment as they did when he heard them. He recited another, about a pair of lovers, and Rhaegar wrote quickly, trying to capture the simple sadness in the words.

The scratching of Rhaegar's quill on the parchment became the only rhythm in the room, accompanied by Jaime's clear and rhythmic voice. It was a strange and unexpected situation, a moment of pure creation in the midst of a world filled with destruction.

"With all these songs you know," Rhaegar spoke between verses, without lifting his head from his work, "have you ever thought of creating your own?"

Jaime fell silent for a moment. "I'm not very good at making this kind of thing," he said with a smile. "Every note I compose is always a mess."

"So you have tried?" Rhaegar continued to write, but his ears were now fully focused on Jaime's answer.

"Sometimes when I'm alone, when I'm lying down to sleep," Jaime said. "I always imagine things along the way then. The scenery, the people, the feelings... Then I would turn them into words. The words I create, I have to admit, are quite good. But when it comes to the melody, it's very disappointing. It feels like trying to fit an eagle into a canary's cage."

Rhaegar stopped writing. He put down his quill and looked straight into the boy's eyes across from him. He saw a flicker of frustration there, the frustration of an artist whose vision surpasses his ability. Rhaegar understood that feeling all too well. "Perhaps we could collaborate," he said softly. "You create the lyrics, and I'll create the melody. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

Jaime's eyes lit up, all remnants of doubt vanishing, replaced by pure, boyish excitement. "Really? Of course, I'd love to! It would be an honor."

Rhaegar laughed again, delighted by the genuine enthusiasm. He looked at the half-filled parchment, and it reminded him of his conversation with Arthur. He decided to change the subject. "By the way, I've heard about your 'paper'. Are you really sure it's better than parchment?"

Jaime raised an eyebrow, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He knew exactly what Rhaegar was doing. "Yes. You can try it for yourself, Prince."

He then reached into the small leather pouch that always hung at his waist and took out a few neatly folded sheets of white paper. He handed them to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar took them. The first thing he noticed was how light the paper was. Then, he felt it. The surface was smooth, but not slick like the most expensive parchment. There was a faint texture of fibers underneath. "This is good," he said, his voice filled with sincere admiration.

"Thank the hard work of Ser Jon of Clearwater," Jaime joked, winking at his sworn shield who stood near the door. Ser Jon only gave a small, awkward nod.

Without hesitation, Rhaegar picked up his quill again, dipped it in ink, and began to write on the new medium. The stroke felt different. Easier. The tip of the quill glided over the surface with little resistance, and the ink absorbed quickly, creating sharp, clean lines. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

"You can make a lot of these?" Rhaegar asked, raising his head, his eyes shining with new possibilities.

"It's still in the planning stage, but yes. Are you interested in them, Prince?"

"Of course. This is amazing." Rhaegar placed the sheet down as if it were a jewel. "How many can you produce?"

"When everything is running smoothly, with a water mill and enough workers," Jaime confirmed calmly, "it's not impossible to produce ten to twenty thousand in a month."

Rhaegar was stunned. He put down his quill. Across the room, he saw that even Arthur Dayne had lifted his head from his book, his eyes fixed on Jaime with the same shocked expression.

"That many?" Rhaegar's voice was barely a whisper. The number was almost incomprehensible. The library in the Red Keep, which had been collected over centuries, probably didn't even have that many sheets of parchment.

"Yes," Jaime said simply. "This could change a lot of things, couldn't it?" His smile returned, the smile of a dreamer who had thought about all of this for a long time.

"'Change a lot of things' is an understatement," Rhaegar said slowly, his mind racing. "Jaime, with numbers like that... we could copy every book in the Citadel. We could send royal decrees to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms in an instant."

"And not just that, Prince," Jaime said, leaning forward again, his voice filled with the same passion. "Think about knowledge. Right now, knowledge belongs to the maesters and the great Lords. It's a closely guarded treasure. With cheap and abundant paper, knowledge could become... water. Something accessible to more people. Merchants could learn better accounting. Builders could share new designs. Even farmers might be able to learn to record all their harvests."

Rhaegar listened, mesmerized. This was an echo of his own thoughts, thoughts he often kept to himself. He had always believed that the true strength of a kingdom lay not just in its dragons or its armies, but in its people. An educated people, a prosperous people, a united people. And here, a nine-year-old boy was offering him the tool to achieve that.

"You're talking about a revolution," Rhaegar whispered.

"I'm talking about progress," Jaime corrected gently. "A smarter kingdom is a stronger kingdom. And a stronger kingdom is harder to destroy."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his mind filled with images: new libraries being built in major cities, merchants' children learning to read and write, more accurate maps, better-recorded history. He saw a future, a future he might be able to build himself.

He looked at Jaime Lannister, at the boy who had walked into his life and, in two days, had given him more hope than he had felt in years.

"You're right," Rhaegar said finally, his voice filled with a newfound conviction. "This will change everything."

"But it will take time. A very, very long time," Jaime continued, his expression becoming more serious, more analytical. "To make it happen, paper is just the first step. It's the tool. But a tool is useless if no one knows how to use it. First, we have to make people literate."

"How do you do that?"

The voice was deep and calm, cutting in from the side of the room. It belonged to Arthur. He had put down his book, and he was looking at Jaime with the intensity of a soldier assessing a battle plan. "By having every Maester travel from village to village? The Citadel would never agree. They don't have enough men, and the Lords wouldn't like a maester teaching their peasants to read complaints."

Jaime was slightly surprised by Arthur joining the conversation, but he didn't seem fazed. Instead, he smiled, as if pleased with the challenge. "No, of course not. The Maesters serve the Lords, not the common folk. We'll teach people to read in a different way. We'll build a 'school'. A place of learning." He said the word as if he were introducing a completely new concept. "A school for people who are not just nobles."

"That would require a great deal of capital," Rhaegar said, deliberately pouring a little oil on the fire, wanting to see more of the boy's thinking. He wasn't trying to shoot down the idea; he was testing it, like a blacksmith testing a new blade.

"Yes," Jaime said. "That's why we have to start smart. We have to build these schools in the major cities first. Lannisport and King's Landing, for example. Places where there's already a thriving merchant class, people who already understand the value of numbers and words. They will be the first to see the benefit."

"And who will teach?" Rhaegar asked, continuing his role as the devil's advocate.

"We don't need a Maester to teach children how to write their names," Jaime said. "There are many educated people who need work. Younger sons of minor Lords who will inherit nothing. Septons in the cities who can spare a few hours a day. We will pay them. It will be an honorable job."

"So you're asking House Lannister to fund all of this indefinitely?" Arthur asked. "Even the gold of Casterly Rock has its limits."

"Initially, yes," Jaime admitted. "It's a startup investment. But the long-term goal is for the schools to be self-sustaining. Even better, over time, they will become free."

"Free?" Rhaegar frowned. It was a foreign concept. Nothing was free.

"Think of it as a long-term investment, Prince," Jaime explained, his eyes sparkling as he explained the mechanics. "At first, we'll charge a very small fee to the merchants and craftsmen who send their children. Just enough to help cover the costs. But, over time, what happens when you have a more educated population? Trade becomes more efficient. New businesses emerge. Prosperity increases."

He leaned forward. "The taxes from that increased trade, the revenue from a busier port of Lannisport, all of that will flow back into the coffers. That extra profit will pay for these schools many times over. After a few years, we won't need to charge the students anymore. For the farmers and craftsmen, it will be free. For us, it's a profit. An investment in the people that yields the greatest return..."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his mind spinning. He was thinking about many things.

And he was so engrossed in it.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Tywin Lannister exited the Small Council chamber for the umpteenth time with a sour taste in his stomach. The meeting, like so many before it, had been an exhausting exercise in futility.

Today's problem was the same as last week's: piracy. They had lost another merchant ship, this time a large cargo vessel carrying silks from Myr, swallowed by the pirates who hid like rats among the rocks of the Stepstones. The solution was obvious and tedious: build more warships, order stricter patrols. And of course, it all had to be funded by the royal treasury, a treasury that was steadily dwindling due to the King's reckless spending and endless ambitions.

As if that wasn't enough, there was the problem of King's Landing itself. The construction of sewers for every street in the city was costing an immense fortune, a bottomless pit for the royal coffers. Yet, it was necessary. The stench of human filth and rotting garbage in the streets was overwhelming, especially in the summer. It wasn't just a matter of discomfort; it was an economic issue. The stench and disease would drive away skilled merchants and craftsmen. Disturbing their comfort meant people would leave, and their departure meant the economy would stagnate.

It was astonishing, Tywin thought as he walked down the cold corridor. This city, the base of Aegon the Conqueror, was built on ambition, not planning. King's Landing had no concept; it just grew organically like fungus on rotting wood, becoming the tangled and inefficient mess it was today. Perfect. And he was the one who had to clean it up. Looking at history, the Targaryen kings mostly only knew how to destroy with fire, never learning how to build.

He was lost in his dark thoughts when he saw her. His daughter, Cersei, standing alone in a hall overlooking one of the inner gardens. She wasn't doing anything, just standing by a tall, arched window, staring into the distance. Her eyes were unfocused.

Tywin disliked seeing anyone, especially his own child, daydreaming and lost in thought. Daydreaming was a sign of weakness, a sign of an undisciplined mind. So, he approached his daughter, his silent footsteps on the carpet not announcing his arrival.

"Why are you standing here, Cersei? Do you have nothing else to do?"

Cersei blinked, startled from her reverie. She turned to face him, and for a fleeting moment, Tywin saw something unusual in her eyes: vulnerability. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the mask of composure he had taught her. "Nothing, Father," she replied. "My other activities are finished. I have nothing interesting to do."

"Then try harder," Tywin said, his voice sharp and unsympathetic. "The world will not hand you entertainment. You must take it. Learn whatever you can. Learn the names of the Houses at court, learn their weaknesses, learn who owes whom. Never waste time."

Cersei nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yes, Father." She paused, and Tywin could see she was wrestling with something. Finally, she raised her head again, hesitation clear on her face. "Father," she said, her voice a little softer, "I always cross paths with Prince Rhaegar. In the garden, in the library. But we rarely speak... you are going to do something about that, aren't you?"

Tywin looked at his daughter. He saw the anxiety in her eyes, the impatience of a young girl who wanted her prize now. 'Does she think I've been idle?' he thought. He had been doing 'something' for her since before she was born, since the day he decided that his perfect daughter would be Queen.

"That is my concern," he answered coldly. "You will simply have to wait."

"But," Cersei said, and now her tone was filled with a barely controlled frustration, "he's practically with Jaime constantly! I saw them this morning, walking with Ser Arthur Dayne. I heard they spent the previous evening in the Prince's solar, talking about music. It should be me he's seeing!" She gritted her teeth, an unladylike habit that Tywin detested.

Tywin knew that. Of course, he knew. Jaime reported every interaction with the Prince to him each night, a concise and efficient report. It was good. Jaime was laying the groundwork. He was using their shared interest in books and music as an entry point, a way to gain the Prince's trust and interest. Tywin knew Jaime had planted his initial ideas about 'paper' with Rhaegar, framing it as an intellectual revolution, not just a business venture. Schools... it was a foreign idea. But when he thought about them, House Lannister, being able to control the curriculum, print the books, and subtly shape the minds of the next generation of rulers and merchants... it was tantalizing. It was a form of power far more enduring than that of the sword.

"Jaime is doing his duty," Tywin said flatly, deciding to give his daughter a small fraction of the truth. "He is gaining the Prince's interest. That is a necessary first step. And it will make the match with you easier." Tywin doubted that last sentence. He knew perfectly well that the biggest obstacle wasn't a lack of interest from the Prince, but the madness of the King. Aerys was a wall he could not breach. But Cersei didn't need to know about that doubt. Doubt was poison.

Cersei seemed to think for a moment, her anger subsiding slightly as she processed the logic of her father's words. She no longer saw it as a betrayal from her twin, but as a maneuver in a larger campaign. "Does that mean I should be with Jaime to talk to the Prince?" she asked, her mind already shifting to tactics.

Tywin looked at his beautiful, ambitious daughter. He had given her a goal. Now, he would see if she had the intelligence to achieve it.

"Do what you think is right," Tywin said, his voice sharp, each word both a command and a test. "But do not make a mess of it."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. He left Cersei alone with her thoughts and her burden. He had given her permission, but also full responsibility for the outcome. That was Tywin's way of teaching.

And it was the way the world worked. Results were all that mattered.

Tywin Lannister's footsteps made no sound. He walked alone, his mind then shifting to one thing. The matter of Jaime.

He thought about the conversation in his study. About paper, and about the logical next step his son had conceived: the "printing press". An idea so transformative that at first, it sounded like a fantasy. But Jaime had broken it down into a series of solvable problems, a series of technical challenges. And the first problem, as his son had correctly identified, was the ink.

Jaime had mentioned they were only lacking the right ink. The ink they had now wouldn't work. It was too fluid. It wouldn't adhere to the cold, smooth metal surface of the letter blocks. Under the pressure of a printing press, the ink would spread like a water stain, ruining the paper and making the words illegible.

No, they needed something different. Something Jaime had described with surprising precision, quoting from his research with Maester Creylen. An oil-based ink. Something thicker, stickier, that would cling to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper. The basic formula, according to Jaime, would likely involve oil boiled from flaxseed until it thickened, mixed with fine soot collected from burning oil lamps as the black pigment, and perhaps stabilized with something to aid in drying.

Tywin didn't understand half of that science. That was the business of maesters and craftsmen. But what he did understand was logistics.

If they wanted to produce this printing on a large scale, it meant they needed a large and stable supply of oil-based ink. And to make that ink, they needed its primary raw material: flax plants. A great many flax plants.

His mind immediately turned to the Westerlands. Who had suitable land? Who could be trusted to meet production quotas without asking too many questions? A raven would be sent to Silverhill. Lord Serret was a practical man; he would understand a profitable business order when he saw one. House Serret and other Houses with extensive farmlands would be ordered to significantly increase their flax production. They would be compensated well, of course. Well enough to ensure their compliance and low enough to maximize Lannister profits. The gold of Casterly Rock would turn fields of wheat into waving fields of blue flax.

That was the first problem solved.

Then there was the second problem: the paper itself. The production at Casterly Rock was a good start. The watermill Kevan had ordered would increase the yield dramatically. Lannisport was indeed a bustling market, the perfect place to introduce this new product. But to achieve something greater, to truly dominate the market and, as Jaime had said, "control information," they had to promote this thing throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And beyond.

They needed an emissary. Not a maester who would talk about its technical merits, and not a knight who would look out of place. They needed someone who could speak to the merchant princes of Essos in the language of profit, and to the Lords of Westeros in the language of charm. Someone who would not arouse suspicion, someone whose arrival would be met with a smile, not a raised shield.

Tywin's mind immediately went to his brother. Gerion.

The man had been doing nothing useful lately, other than spending Lannister gold on wine and women in Lannisport. He was the laughing lion, the family joke, a man without purpose. But it was precisely those qualities that made him perfect for this task. His charm and his ability to make people laugh, usually a source of annoyance for Tywin, could now be the perfect tool. He could travel to the major cities: Oldtown, Gulltown, White Harbor. Even across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, Pentos, and Myr. He would go not as an official envoy of the Hand of the King, but as Gerion Lannister who happened to be carrying samples of "an interesting new invention from his nephew."

He would show the paper, let the merchants and scribes feel it, let them see its quality and imagine its lower price. And while he did so, he would also perform another task. He would use his charm to open doors that were normally closed. He would listen to gossip in taverns and in the palaces of merchants. He would seek information about ship movements, commodity prices, political intrigues. Sending Gerion on this journey would give him a purpose, give him a way to finally serve House Lannister in a meaningful way. It was an efficient solution to two problems.

These thoughts, which had been swirling in his mind, had now become a clear plan, a series of logical steps. Flax. Ink. Gerion. Each piece had its place.

Tywin arrived at the door of his own solar, the quiet and secluded tower of the Hand of the King. He had been walking aimlessly, and his feet had brought him back to the center of his power. The fresh air had done its job. His mind was now clear, his actions decided.

He saw the guard standing silently by his door, an unmoving statue.

"Find my son, Jaime," Tywin commanded, his voice flat and emotionless. "Bring him to me."

Entering, Tywin took up a stack of documents, reading and filling them out while waiting for the boy. Fifteen minutes later, he appeared.

"Are you done playing with the prince?"

Tywin's voice cut through the silence of his study as Jaime entered. It was a deliberately dismissive question, an opening test. Tywin observed him, assessing his son's posture, the expression on his face.

Jaime did not seem intimidated. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and walked to the chair in front of his father's desk. "The Prince is truly enthusiastic," Jaime replied, his voice calm. "He remains composed on the surface, but his eyes... you can see it in his eyes, Father. All the songs I sang, all the stories I told, it all captured his interest. It was like giving water to a very thirsty man."

"Spending so much time with the common folk has its uses, apparently," Tywin said flatly, his pale green eyes locking with his son's.

Jaime met his gaze without flinching. "Everything has its use, depending on how and on whom you use it," he said. It was a Lannister's answer. It was the correct answer. "What is it, Father?"

"Here. Help me read these reports." Tywin pushed a stack of parchments across the desk. They were trivial reports he had set aside: harvest yields from a small farm near the Golden Tooth, a petty dispute over grazing rights between two low-ranking knights, cargo manifests from ships carrying wool to Lannisport. It was tedious work, but suitable for training the boy's mind without giving him too much sensitive information.

Jaime nodded, taking the stack without further comment. He pulled his chair closer and began to read, his sharp eyes moving quickly from line to line.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth and the rustle of parchment. Tywin feigned returning to his own work, but he watched his son from the corner of his eye. He saw the way Jaime didn't just read the words, but absorbed the information, a small frown creasing his brow as he processed numbers and facts.

Tywin put down his quill, breaking the silence. "What do you see in those reports?"

Jaime didn't look up immediately. He finished the page he was on, then carefully placed it on top of the stack. "Lord Clark's harvest report is ten percent lower than last year's," he said. "But the land around there should be fertile. The report from Lord Swain, whose lands are adjacent, shows a five percent increase in harvest."

"Continue," Tywin said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Lord Swain mentioned in his report that he built a small dam upstream three months ago to irrigate his new fields," Jaime explained. "The same river flows through Lord Clark's land. It's likely the dam reduced the water flow to his lands, causing his harvest to decline." He paused for a moment. "And in the report, both men are vassals of House Lefford. This should have been settled by them, not brought to Casterly Rock. It shows a weakness in how Lefford manages his own vassals."

Tywin did not smile. He never smiled. But inside, he felt a flicker of cold satisfaction.

"A good lord," Tywin said quietly, "knows his lands not by riding through them, but by reading them. Every report is a window. Never forget that." He paused, letting the lesson sink in. Then, he moved on to the real business. "We will build the 'school' you spoke of."

Jaime lifted his eyes from the parchment, his composed face finally showing a hint of reaction. Tywin could see a quick spark of excitement in his eyes before he managed to control it. "In Lannisport?"

"Yes," Tywin nodded. "We will try it. Build one. Supervise it closely. If it goes as well as you say, if the merchants are truly willing to pay, it's very possible to expand it."

A smile finally broke on Jaime's face, a genuine and triumphant smile. "That's excellent, Father. Knowledge has always been held by the Citadel and the Maesters. If we do this, we can change the game."

"But it will also antagonize the Maesters," Tywin stated the obvious logic. He didn't care for the opinions of those foolish grey-robed maesters. He just wanted to see Jaime's thinking, to see if his son had considered all the angles.

"Let them think what they will," Jaime replied instantly, and there was a steel in his voice that reminded Tywin of himself. "They depend on the Lords for protection and funding. They wouldn't dare oppose us openly. House Lannister will always be at the top." He paused, and added his trump card. "Plus, now Prince Rhaegar shares the same idea. He sees its value."

It was a smart move. Using the Prince's interest as a political shield. Tywin nodded slowly. "We'll just have to wait for him to become king then."

"Yes," Jaime commented, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a thin, cold one. "But that will take time."

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

"So this is how you meet all sorts of people?" Rhaegar asked, his voice barely audible above the din of the bustling tavern on River Row.

He sat on a rough wooden bench, feeling the stuffy warmth of dozens of bodies around him. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, smoked fish, and something cloyingly sweet from a cold meat pie. The sounds of rough laughter, arguments in various accents, and the clinking of cups created a deafening symphony of common life. To disguise his identity, Rhaegar had covered his conspicuous silver hair with the hood of a simple traveling cloak, an act that felt strange and liberating at the same time.

Across from him, around a sticky table, sat his companions. Arthur Dayne, who even in this crowd seemed calm and alert; Addam Marbrand, who looked deeply uncomfortable, his nose slightly wrinkled; and of course, Jaime Lannister, who looked completely at home, with his sworn shield, Jon, standing silently behind him.

"Places like this usually have a lot of interesting stories," Jaime nodded, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the crowd. "People from all over the country gather here. Sailors, merchants, sellswords... every face has a song."

"And those interesting stories seem to make them forget what 'bathing' is," Addam grumbled, grimacing as a large dockworker passed him, leaving a strong odor in his wake.

Arthur chuckled softly behind his cup. "I've heard some call it the smell of a 'real man'."

"A real man wouldn't make women avoid you," Addam sighed.

Jaime teased him. "Is that why you always wear perfume?"

Rhaegar sniffed the air discreetly. Yes, there was a faint, expensive scent of perfume coming from Addam's direction, a futile attempt to combat the tavern's stench.

"Shut up," Addam said, his face flushing slightly as he quickly drank his ale.

"So," Jaime leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's play a guessing game. Let's guess what the people here have been through."

"Troublesome," Addam muttered after swallowing his drink. "Honestly, I don't care what they've been through, as long as they don't spill their drink on me."

"Now, that's interesting," Arthur countered, joining the game. He lowered his voice and subtly pointed to a middle-aged man standing anxiously near the door. "That man over there. His clothes are good, made of decent wool. His posture is straight, not stooped like a laborer. His face isn't bad. But right now, he looks terrified. Why?"

Rhaegar frowned, whispering along, intrigued by it. He observed the man. Arthur was right. The man looked out of place, his anxiety palpable amidst the casual ruckus. "The first answer that comes to my mind is that he might be a swindler," Rhaegar said. "Clothes, face, and posture are their weapons to gain trust. And someone is about to expose him."

"The second," Rhaegar continued, "is that he's the victim of a swindle. He's lost his money and now doesn't know what to do."

Jaime nodded, considering the possibilities. "Or," he said, "he's just a skilled craftsman from out of town. Maybe a stonemason or a cabinetmaker. He came to King's Landing to meet a Lord who promised him a big project. His nice clothes are his best, worn to make a good impression. But the Lord didn't show up. And now he's alone in a city he doesn't know, his money is running low, and he's afraid of having to go home empty-handed."

Rhaegar fell silent. Jaime's explanation was far more detailed, more... human. He didn't just see a role swindler, victim he saw a life.

"More likely the last one," Addam added flatly. "Waiting for a Lord is the most frightening thing of all."

"What about her?" Arthur pointed again, this time to an old woman sitting alone in a dark corner, sipping a small glass of red wine. She stared into her cup as if the whole world were inside it.

"A widow," Rhaegar said instantly, the image of his mother at the breakfast table flashing through his mind. "Perhaps her husband was a soldier. She comes here every year on the anniversary of his death to remember him."

"Maybe she's just tired," Addam said with a shrug.

"Look at the pendant on her neck," Jaime whispered. "Small and made of silver, worn down. It's shaped like an anchor. Maybe her husband wasn't a soldier. Maybe he was a sailor. Maybe he sailed out of the harbor twenty years ago and never came back. And she still comes here, to the first tavern they ever visited together, hoping that one day the door will open and he'll walk in, smelling of salt and adventure."

A silence fell over their table for a moment. Jaime's story, whether true or not, felt so real. It turned the nameless old woman into a symbol of enduring loyalty and sorrow. Rhaegar felt a pang of ache in his heart for her.

"You read too many fairy tales," Addam muttered, though his words lacked their usual bite.

"And you?" Jaime turned to Rhaegar. "What about the young man near the hearth? The skinny one with the lute on his lap. He hasn't played a single note, just keeps tapping his restless fingers on the strings and staring at the door."

Rhaegar looked at the young man. He recognized that look. The look of desperate hope. "He's a musician," Rhaegar said, feeling a familiar connection. "He's hoping the tavern owner will give him a chance to play for a few copper coins. And he's afraid of being rejected."

"He's not just hoping to play," Jaime corrected gently. "He's hoping for dinner. There's a big difference."

And Rhaegar understood. For Rhaegar, music was an escape, a noble art form. For that young man, music was a tool for survival.

They continued the game for nearly an hour. Every face in the crowd became a story. A sellsword with a scar on his face wasn't just a killer for hire; perhaps he was saving up to bring home a gift for his daughter across the sea. A serving girl who laughed too loudly wasn't just cheap; perhaps she was just trying to forget the ache in her feet and the emptiness in her stomach.

Slowly, Rhaegar began to see. He began to truly see.

He had always viewed the kingdom as an abstract concept. A vast map with the names of Houses and border lines. Its people were a faceless mass, the "smallfolk," a collective entity to be ruled, fed, and controlled.

But here, in this smelly tavern, there were no "smallfolk." There were only individuals. The anxious man, the grieving woman, the hopeful musician. Each with their own fears, dreams, and hungers. Each the center of their own world.

He glanced around his table. Arthur, the embodiment of honor and duty, his unwavering protector. Addam, who behind his posturing just wanted a comfortable life and maybe a smile from a pretty girl. Jon, the knight of common birth, who stood silently, his loyalty an unseen bedrock.

A kingdom is not the Iron Throne, or the Red Keep, or even an army of dragons. A kingdom is the sum of all these stories. All these hopes and fears. To rule them, you cannot just sit on a throne and issue decrees. You must, somehow, understand them. You must see them, not as the "smallfolk," but as people.

It was a frightening and humbling thought. Its weight felt far heavier than that of any crown.

Rhaegar looked at Jaime, who was now laughing at a crude joke he'd overheard from the next table. A lord, he thought to himself, must not only be able to sit on a throne. He must also be able to sit on a sticky wooden bench in a common tavern and, at least for a moment, understand the heartbeat of his kingdom.

Therefore, a lord must also think with utmost clarity so as not to sacrifice them in vain…

For example, in the wars of the past, how many of these people have perished because of greedy and foolish lords?

How many lives, dreams, and stories were extinguished?

So many…

They were all songs, never sung by anyone.

…

Word by word, a verse had formed in Rhaegar's mind. As they left the crowded tavern and returned to the wider streets of King's Landing, a melody began to weave itself around the words. It was a lyric born from his observations, a first verse about the faces in the crowd, about the hope and despair hidden behind a stranger's eyes. He had a lyric, and it was a more exhilarating feeling than anything.

Glancing at his friends walking beside him, he smiled.

They walked home as the sun began to set, painting the sky above the city in soft hues. The afternoon atmosphere felt different now. The noise that had been deafening now sounded like the heartbeat of a living city. The stench that had been overpowering now seemed like the honest smell of life itself. For a moment, Rhaegar forgot all the madness within the walls of the Red Keep. He forgot his volatile father, and his silently grieving mother.

The concept was so pleasant and warm. Friends. Arthur, of course, was more than a friend; he was a part of him, his loyal shadow. But Addam, with his amusing complaints about smells and perfumes, and Jaime, with his strange and unexpected insights... yes, Rhaegar thought he could call them friends. It was a new and welcome feeling.

When they finally reached the gates of the Red Keep, passing the guards who bowed respectfully, reality began to creep back in. The warmth of the streets faded, replaced by the familiar coolness of the long stone corridors. Their relaxed laughter subsided into quieter conversation. The golden cage, however beautiful, was still a cage.

And there he was, standing in the middle of the inner courtyard as if he had been waiting for him. His father.

King Aerys Targaryen stood speaking in a low voice to Ser Barristan Selmy. His father looked immaculate as always, wearing a doublet with the three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest. From a distance, he looked regal, majestic, as a king should. But as they drew closer, Rhaegar could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his violet eyes constantly darted around.

Their small group came to a halt a few paces away. Rhaegar, Arthur, Jaime, Addam, and Jon all gave a slight bow to their king.

"Where have you been, Rhaegar?" His father's voice was deceptively calm, the kind of calm that often preceded a storm.

"Out for a walk, Father," Rhaegar explained, keeping his voice respectful and neutral. "Seeing the people."

"Find anything interesting?" His father's restless eyes moved from Rhaegar, swept over his companions, pausing for a moment on Jaime with a calculated air of indifference, before returning to his son.

"Yes," Rhaegar replied, deciding to be honest. "I've just learned a lesson I believe to be valuable."

His father smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Valuable in what way? Something that will help you rule this kingdom one day? Or something for your pleasures again?"

Rhaegar heard the slight mockery in that last phrase. Your pleasures. His father always referred to his music and his books as "pleasures," as if they were a child's hobbies with no weight in the real world.

"Both, thankfully, this time," Rhaegar answered patiently, refusing to take the bait. "I came to understand some corners of the kingdom that I didn't know before. So small, so narrow that I doubt most Lords would discuss them in the Small Council. And from there I also found an idea for a new song I will write."

"Ah, a song," Aerys said, his bitter tone now more pronounced. "How fortunate for the realm. While my Hand is busy building sewers to prevent a plague, my son is busy composing a song. A perfect balance." He glanced at Jaime again, this time with a hint of scorn. "I'm sure your new friend from the West, with all his songs, is a great inspiration."

Jaime remained silent, his face a mask of neutrality, but Rhaegar could feel the boy tense beside him.

"Understanding the people is not a pleasure, Father," Rhaegar said, his voice still calm but with a slight edge of steel. "It is a duty. Perhaps the most important duty of all."

"Is it?" Aerys raised a thin eyebrow. "I was always under the impression that the most important duty was to ensure the Lords remain obedient and the coffers remain full. But perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps what the kingdom truly needs is more musicians." He paused, letting the insult hang in the air. "Tell me, what valuable lesson did you learn amongst the stench and poverty out there?"

Rhaegar took a deep breath. "I learned that the 'smallfolk' are not a monolith," he said, choosing his words carefully. "They are individuals. Each with their own hopes and fears. A king who does not understand that can never truly rule them. He can only control them."

Aerys stared at him in a long silence. For a brief, fleeting moment, Rhaegar saw something else in his father's eyes. Not paranoia, not anger. Something that looked like... regret? A memory of a young man who once held similar ideals?

But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold cynicism. "A very poetic lesson," the King said. "Very suitable for a song. But songs don't fill hungry bellies or stop rebellions. Gold does. Iron does." He turned to Ser Barristan, as if Rhaegar were no longer there. "It is time for the council meeting. There are reports to be heard."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, bowing.

Without another word to his son, Aerys turned and walked away. He did not look back.

The small group was left in an awkward silence in the middle of the courtyard. The warmth and camaraderie of the afternoon had completely vanished, sucked away by the chill the King had left behind.

Rhaegar watched his father's retreating back, and a familiar weariness settled over him. He had tried. He always tried. But talking to his father was like trying to hold smoke. The more you tried to grasp it, the faster it disappeared.

He felt a gaze on him and turned. Jaime Lannister was looking at him, not with pity, but with a strange, quiet expression of understanding in his green eyes. As if he had seen this kind of performance many times before.

Rhaegar gave a small, tired smile. The new song in his mind was still there, but now the melody felt different. The cheerful notes he had imagined had faded, replaced by a lower, more melancholic tone.

…

That night, Rhaegar could not find peace. He left his warm solar and walked out onto his private balcony, where the cool night air from Blackwater Bay could touch his face. Below him, King's Landing was spread out like a dark tapestry sprinkled with a thousand flickering lights torches, lanterns, and bonfires, each one a sign of a life.

He leaned against the cold stone balustrade, his small harp lying on a nearby bench, untouched. The music wouldn't come to him tonight. His mind was too full of the day's echoes, especially his father's cold gaze.

The soft, steady footsteps behind him did not startle him. There was only one person who would approach him with such familiar silence.

"A beautiful night," Arthur Dayne said, his deep voice a comfort in the midst of Rhaegar's unease. He didn't come close, just stood in the doorway of the balcony, giving him space.

Rhaegar didn't turn. "The stars always seem brighter here than they should be," he replied. "As if they're trying to compete with the city's lights."

A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment, the kind that can only exist between two people who have shared more battles and secrets than can be counted.

"You're going to be a good king, you know that right?" Arthur said suddenly, his voice filled with a simple, unshakeable conviction.

Rhaegar laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh, a bitter sound in the night air. "How so?" he asked, finally turning to look at his friend. "Is it because I anger my father just by stating an obvious truth? Or is it because I write songs while the kingdom slowly rots from within?"

Arthur walked closer, leaning on the balustrade beside him. He didn't look at Rhaegar, but out at the same city. "It's because you have a gentle heart," he said quietly, "and at the same time, you are strong in the convictions you believe are right. That alone is enough to be loved by the people."

Rhaegar shook his head, a familiar frustration rising in him. "Love can't build buildings, Arthur. Love can't defeat enemies, let alone rebels. Love can't fill the royal coffers." He paused, his voice becoming quieter, more bitter. "More importantly, love alone will not bring prosperity."

"No," Arthur agreed, and Rhaegar was slightly surprised by his quick agreement. "But that's why the kingdom has a Small Council. That's why a king has vassals. Even if you are king, you can never handle everything yourself. Aegon the Conqueror had his sisters." He turned to look at Rhaegar, his eyes serious in the moonlight. "You need loyal and skilled vassals in their respective fields. A king's duty is not to know how to build a sewer. His duty is to find the best man in the kingdom who knows how to build a sewer, and then trust him to do his job."

"And what if you choose wrong?" Rhaegar countered, his voice barely a whisper. "The history of our House is filled with betrayal. Trust is a luxury a Targaryen cannot afford."

"Then don't give your trust blindly," Arthur said. "Test them. Observe them. Listen to them. You did that today in that tavern. You looked past their clothes and their accents, you tried to understand who they really were. Do the same with the Lords around you. That gentle heart I spoke of, it's not a weakness, Prince. It's your weapon. It allows you to see into the hearts of others, to understand their motivations. Use it."

Rhaegar was silent, pondering his friend's words. He often possessed a wisdom sharper than any maester's.

"You see that Lannister boy," Arthur continued, as if reading his mind. "He's clever. Perhaps too clever for his own good. But you saw past his Lannister arrogance and found a musician, a thinker. You were drawn to him not because of his gold, but because of his ideas."

"His ideas... his ideas are big," Rhaegar admitted. "Big and dangerous."

"All big ideas are dangerous," Arthur said. "But you also see their value, don't you? A man who thinks about how to make his lands more prosperous through knowledge, not just through conquest. Isn't that the kind of man you'd want by your side?"

"He is Tywin Lannister's son," Rhaegar reminded, more to himself than to Arthur. "His father is a man who burned a House to its roots."

"And his son is a man who wants to build a place of learning," Arthur countered. "Men are not always their fathers. You are proof of that."

Those last words hit Rhaegar with an unexpected force. You are proof of that. He had spent so much of his life trying not to be his father that he'd forgotten it was a choice, a battle he was winning every day.

He looked out at the city again, at those thousands of little lights. They were no longer just nameless dots. They deserved a king who would fight for them.

He couldn't do it alone. Arthur was right. He would need a Master of Ships who could clear the seas of criminals. He would need a Master of Coin who could refill the coffers without squeezing the people dry. He would need a Hand who could advise. He would need men and women who were loyal, who were smart, who were brave.

He would need men like Arthur. And maybe, just maybe, men like Jaime Lannister.

"I will try," Rhaegar whispered, the words more a promise to himself than to Arthur.

Arthur placed a hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "I know you will."

Rhaegar turned from the cityscape and walked to the bench where his harp lay. He picked it up. The wood felt cool and familiar in his hands. He sat, positioning the instrument on his lap.

He didn't play the cheerful song from the Reach. Nor did he play a sad song about destiny. Instead, his fingers found the strings and began to play a new melody, the one that had been forming in his mind that afternoon.

It was a melody of sorrow.

---

Not much happens in this chapter, but it is necessary to establish the story and the characters in the future. As always, thanks for reading!

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

Jaime sat in his room as the first dawn began to break. The morning air was cool through the slightly open window, bringing with it the dampness from Blackwater Bay and a thin blanket of mist that still clung to the lower parts of the city.

Sitting on a wooden chair at his writing desk, Jaime unfurled a parchment scroll that displayed the fiery handwriting of Prince Oberyn Martell. This letter had actually arrived last night, but Jaime hadn't opened it. Yesterday had been long, the meeting with Father, the conversation with Prince Rhaegar, and he hadn't had the energy left to deal with Oberyn's typically exaggerated prose.

But now, in the silence of the morning, he felt ready. Reading the letter slowly, a smile began to appear on Jaime's face as the characteristic opening lines came into view.

"King's Landing, ugh, King's Landing," Oberyn wrote. "You are in King's Landing while I am cooped up here? May this letter reach its destination correctly, because the ravens in this cursed place seem as lethargic as the maesters. Oldtown is so stuffy and cramped that I believe it is the true hell on earth."

Jaime chuckled softly. That was so typical of Oberyn.

"I met Baelor Hightower yesterday," the letter continued. "Do you remember him? The tall, awkward one who farted right in front of Elia when we visited? That memory is still so seared into my mind that I still laugh every time I see his serious face. Luckily, I managed to hold it in (this time)."

"Honestly, he's a good man, though dull as a rock. And I feel a bit bad for laughing, well, just a little. He was kind enough to show me around, playing the part of my personal tour guide in this ancient city. It's quite nice when I have a local 'friend' who can show me the interesting places, which means hidden taverns, rather than just spice merchants and the maesters' dusty libraries."

Jaime turned to the next page, shaking his head in amusement. Oberyn's thoughts always made him laugh. The man was so blunt, so unconcerned with propriety, reminding him of some friends from his other life, Steven's life. A world that felt blurrier every day.

"Oh, also, your paper is finished?" The letter's tone shifted to one of more interest. "That's good. You have talent, boy. I will guard this secret as tightly as a maiden's thighs, so that when you actually start selling it, it will be a huge explosion! It will be interesting to see everyone's reaction, the arrogant Maesters, the pious Septons, the greedy Merchants! Haha! Imagine their faces!"

"I honestly wish you could show me that thing sooner, but yes, life sucks and doesn't always go our way, does it? Like that damn Yronwood, for example. How can I be accused of killing Edgar? The man was as weak as a newborn kitten. I wouldn't need poison to kill him if I really wanted to. He'd probably just trip on a stone in the street and die of embarrassment."

"Anyway, enough complaining. See you again, little lion. Next time we meet, you'll have to tell me a lot so I'm not too shocked by what you'll make next. A flying machine? A potion of immortality? I wouldn't be surprised."

Jaime laughed again, a genuine laugh. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the table. He would write his reply tonight, when the time felt right, when he could find the right words to answer Oberyn's mix of mockery, support, and complaints. Their strange friendship, forged through letters across half the kingdom, was one of the most unexpected yet enjoyable things in this new life of his.

He rose from the chair and walked to the window, gazing at the mist that was slowly beginning to thin over the city. Today he had plans with Prince Rhaegar again. The Prince had invited him to discuss "something related to music." Musical instruments... Jaime sighed inwardly. He was completely blank there. As Steven, he had tried to learn the guitar a few times, driven by a fleeting desire to look cool, but his packed work schedule quickly extinguished that spark. He had only managed to master a few basic chords before giving up. He could enjoy music, he could feel it, but he could not create it. That was Rhaegar's territory.

Speaking of Rhaegar, there was something relieving about the Prince at the moment. As far as Jaime could see, Rhaegar had not yet become obsessed with "the prophecy."

A Song of Ice and Fire.

Jaime's memory of the TV show was like scattered shards of glass, sharp in some places, but mostly blurry and incomplete. He only remembered vague parts. Rhaegar and the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised. Rhaegar and the "abduction" of Lyanna Stark at Harrenhal. The war that tore the kingdom apart. Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar's death at the Trident. And then... Jon Snow. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The question of his heritage. Then the Zombie King... did Jon kill him? Steven couldn't remember. It all felt like a forgotten nightmare.

What was certain, if he could stop Rhaegar from obsessing over that prophecy... if he could divert the Prince's attention to more tangible things, like music, or paper, or even actual governance... maybe, just maybe, Robert's Rebellion could be avoided. And if the war could be avoided, fewer people would die. Hundreds of thousands of lives. It was a massive thought, a terrifying burden.

But what about the Mad King? Aerys was a different problem. He couldn't be left on the throne. He was a ticking time bomb. They had to depose him, right? Yes! Of course. Somehow. That was another puzzle for another day.

Jaime pushed those dizzying thoughts aside. Step by step. Right now, the focus is on building a relationship with Rhaegar, planting different ideas, offering another path. And focusing on his own projects.

He smiled as he thought about Father finally agreeing to build a school in Lannisport. That was a huge victory. His first real victory. This was the first step in his larger plan. After years of discussing the history of bookmaking from parchment, and the dissemination of knowledge with Maester Creylen, all under the guise of research for his paper project, this gave him the perfect excuse. A new excuse where he could randomly "rediscover" or "develop" ideas, like the printing press, schools, ink, that a nine-year-old boy in Westeros shouldn't know about.

Yes, Jaime thought as he turned from the window and began to get ready to meet the Prince. Everything is going according to plan. At least, for now.

Jaime opened his chamber door and stepped out into the still-dim corridor. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint scent of extinguished candles and ancient dust. Outside his door, as he had expected, stood Ser Jon, his sworn shield, as steadfast and silent as a rock.

"Quite cold, isn't it?" Jaime said with a smile, rubbing his arms.

"Feels like being in the North," Jon replied, his gruff voice echoing in the quiet. "Not that I've ever actually been to the North."

"One day, Jon," Jaime reassured him lightly, "you'll be leading an army against the undead."

Jon made a face, a comical expression of discomfort flashing across his usually stoic features. "Uh, it's bad enough fighting the living, young master. I'd rather not add the undead to the problem."

Jaime laughed lightly. This was why he liked being with Jon. With him, he didn't have to hide himself as much. He could toss out strange jokes about a future he shouldn't know, and Jon would just chalk it up as another quirk from his eccentric master. It was different from being with Father, where every word had to be calculated, or even with his friends like Addam, where he had to constantly try to sound like a nine-year-old boy.

Well, maybe not try that hard. The original Jaime's memories, the instincts and habits of the boy whose body he inhabited, had helped him blend in well enough. He still enjoyed sword practice, though now with a much deeper tactical understanding, he could still laugh at a crude joke, and he still had a child's characteristic impatience. But sometimes, Steven would surface, in his choice of words, in the way he analyzed a situation, in the strange references he made. And people would definitely look at him strangely.

At least Jon never showed it. Maybe he thought him odd, but he hid it well behind his quiet loyalty. And Jaime was grateful for that.

They walked through the labyrinthine corridors. Jaime, despite only being here for a few days, was already beginning to memorize the route, his sharp mind mapping every turn and tapestry. They arrived at the appointed place, a smaller, more private room near the library, which Jaime knew was where Prince Rhaegar often escaped to play his music.

The door was slightly ajar, and the soft sound of a harp drifted from within. Jaime knocked softly. The music stopped.

"Enter," Prince Rhaegar's voice called out.

Jaime and Jon entered. The room was warm and comfortable, lit by the morning light streaming through a high window and a crackling fire in the hearth. Prince Rhaegar sat near the fire, his small harp resting beside his chair. Across the room, in an armchair, sat Arthur Dayne, though this time he wasn't reading. He was simply observing their arrival with his calm eyes.

"Ah, you found your way," Prince Rhaegar teased, a friendly smile on his face. "I hope you didn't get lost?"

Arthur added in his typical deadpan. "At least he had Jon as an adult to guide him."

Jaime laughed, feeling instantly at ease. The atmosphere here was so different from Father's cold study. "Rest assured," he said. "Jon would have carried me if we were truly lost. He doesn't like to see me tired, you know?"

Jon, behind him, just gave a small, almost inaudible huff.

"A true man. Helping children," Rhaegar laughed as Jaime sat in the plush chair opposite him. On the low table between them, a spread of morning snacks was laid out: small cakes, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of fragrant herbal tea. Rhaegar leaned forward slightly. "I hope you haven't had breakfast, as I told you yesterday. We can finish all of this."

"I could do it with my eyes closed," Jaime said, not hesitating to pick up a small lemon cake. The taste exploded in his mouth, sweet, tart, and incredibly soft. This cake was made with a skill one could only find in the royal kitchens. Something he was grateful for in this current life was this: he could eat good food without having to think about his sometimes-pitiful wallet in his previous life. He savored that simple luxury.

"We've already written the first lyric and its tune, haven't we?" Rhaegar interjected, in between sips of his tea. He seemed excited, his violet eyes shining.

"Yes. Is there anything you want to change, Prince?" Jaime said, putting down his cake.

"Nonsense, the lyrics are quite good," Rhaegar said. "I just need your opinion on the music. I tried a few variations last night. I'm thinking we'll use the harp as the base, of course, but maybe add a bit of flute for the chorus? To give it a lighter, more hopeful feel."

"Opinions, I'm good at giving opinions," Jaime smiled. "But don't expect me to be able to play anything in this matter."

"You can learn," Rhaegar grinned, a challenge in his eyes. "But yes, later. We'll finish the song first."

After they finished eating a few more snacks, feeling a new energy from the sugar and the warmth of the tea, the mood shifted to one of more focus. Jaime watched Rhaegar pick up his harp, the instrument looking so natural in his hands. The prince closed his eyes for a moment, as if summoning the melody from within himself.

Then, he began to pluck the strings. The first notes opened softly, a simple yet beautiful sequence, flowing like a calm river. The rhythm was consistent, melodic, capturing the melancholic yet hopeful mood of the first verse's lyrics they had written together.

Jaime listened intently, not just with the ears of Jaime Lannister, who might only have heard a beautiful melody, but also with the ears of Steven, who had been exposed to thousands of songs from another world, with different structures and harmonies.

Rhaegar finished the opening section and looked at Jaime, waiting.

"It's beautiful," Jaime said honestly. "Very... Targaryen. Majestic yet sad."

Rhaegar smiled faintly. "But?"

"But maybe a little too... polished?" Jaime hesitated, searching for the right word. "The lyrics speak of common people, of their difficult yet hopeful lives. Maybe the music could be a little more... grounded? Perhaps some simpler notes at the beginning, before building to the more complex melody as the lyrics speak of hope?"

Rhaegar frowned, not in offense, but in deep thought. He plucked a few different notes, trying to feel what Jaime meant. "Like this?" he asked.

"Yes!" Jaime said, enthusiastic. "That feels more... honest. Closer to the song's theme."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, absorbing the feedback. He played the opening part again, this time incorporating Jaime's idea. The simpler notes provided a more solid foundation, making the more intricate melody that followed feel more impactful, like a sliver of beauty emerging from a rougher background.

"Better," Rhaegar admitted.

They continued like that for almost an hour. Rhaegar would play a section, then look at Jaime. Jaime would offer his opinion.

And the most amazing thing was, Rhaegar understood. The prince was a true musician, able to translate Jaime's abstract ideas into real notes. He would try different variations, experimenting with rhythm and harmony, until they both felt it was "right."

In the corner of the room, Jaime occasionally glanced towards Arthur and Jon. Dayne was listening intently, his expression calm but clearly interested. Jon, on the other hand, looked a little sleepy, but he remained standing straight, doing his duty with the patience of a saint.

Slowly but surely, the song began to take shape. The first verse now had a strong yet touching melody. They started working on the chorus, where Rhaegar truly incorporated the idea of the flute, playing a light, soaring counter-melody over the harp's foundation, creating a feeling of fragile optimism.

There was a strange synergy between them, a shared joy in the creative process. Jaime felt as if he were helping to paint a beautiful picture, even if he couldn't hold the brush himself. He only could suggest a color or the shape of a shadow.

As the sun began to climb higher in the sky, they had managed to complete the basic framework for the first verse and the chorus. Rhaegar played it all from beginning to end, and this time, it felt complete. It was a sad song, yes, but also a song filled with a quiet beauty and a glimmer of hope.

"This..." Rhaegar paused, searching for the right word, his violet eyes shining. "This feels right."

Jaime smiled widely. "Yes," he said. "It really does."

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

Jaime walked with Jon down the long corridors of the Red Keep, a quiet feeling of satisfaction still lingering from his morning music session with Prince Rhaegar. Creating something new felt like an antidote to the often suffocating atmosphere of the court.

Then, he saw her. At the end of the hall, standing like a statue of ice in the afternoon warmth, was Cersei. She was not alone; there was a Lannister guard nearby. Her face was creased in a familiar expression of dissatisfaction. Then, she looked up when she heard their footsteps and immediately approached him, her movements quick and determined.

Jaime's feelings were immediately mixed. He was always resigned when dealing with this child. As Steven, he had met people like Cersei, people whose worlds revolved around themselves, whose belief in their own superiority was so absolute it blinded them to reality. Unstoppable narcissism, coupled with a surging anger if their desires were not met. Usually, Steven believed that children like that tended to be changeable, directable towards better traits, though it would take time, patience, and firm boundaries.

But Cersei… Cersei was very difficult. Her armor of arrogance was so thick. Jaime had tried giving her advice, tried sharing some perspectives he had gained from Steven's life, tried to show her a world beyond her own mirror. But Cersei only saw him as her twin brother, her rival, and, worst of all, just another strange little boy.

She did not take him seriously. Maybe if their Father had done it, if Father was willing to take the time to shape her character as he shaped their House's legacy, Cersei might have turned out better. But Father was too busy with his work, and Cersei was left to grow wild in the garden of her own arrogance.

"Jaime."

Cersei's voice sounded, and there was a hesitant tone in it that was very unusual. Usually, she would immediately attack with accusations or demands.

"Yes?" Jaime replied, keeping his voice neutral. He wanted to add, 'It's not like you to greet me gently,' but he held his tongue. Triggering her anger would achieve nothing.

Then, something changed in Cersei's eyes. The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, steely determination. "Teach me," she said, the words coming out like a command, not a request.

Jaime was completely confused. "Teach you what, do you mean?"

"Everything," Cersei insisted, stepping closer so only he could hear. "The stories you tell the Prince. The strange songs you sing. The knowledge from those books." She stared straight into his eyes, her intensity almost burning.

"Are you sick?" Jaime asked, a little worried despite his annoyance at being interrupted. After all, she was his twin sister, and although their relationship was complicated, he didn't want to see Cersei become truly insane.

A twitch appeared at the corner of Cersei's mouth, a classic sign that she was restraining her anger. "I saw you with Prince Rhaegar," she said, her voice low and hissing. "Talking constantly. Laughing. I want that. I want to be able to talk to him like that. So, teach me the things you know so I can talk to him."

"Ah." Understanding formed in Jaime's mind. So this was not about a sincere desire to learn. This was about Rhaegar. This was about jealousy. This was about her ambition to be Queen. She saw Jaime getting the Prince's attention, and she wanted a shortcut to get the same. She saw Jaime's knowledge not as something valuable in itself, but as another tool to achieve her goal.

Jaime's mind raced. Honestly, he did not want Cersei to be Queen. Remembering what he vaguely recalled from that TV series, her madness, her cruelty, the destruction she brought, the idea of Cersei on the Iron Throne made his skin crawl. He would block her, no matter what. For now, Jaime's power in terms of influence, especially with Father taking a greater interest in him, allowed him to obstruct Cersei's path. Especially knowing Aerys was not interested in the match.

But this request... this was an opportunity. A dangerous opportunity, but an opportunity nonetheless. Would he teach Cersei stories? Maybe. He could choose the stories carefully. Disney stories from his other world, for example. Stories about kindness, sacrifice, and the consequences of arrogance. Stories designed for children, but carrying strong moral messages. Maybe he could instill things that were so human and emotional that it would slightly change Cersei's nature. Maybe he could wear down some of the sharp edges of her character.

Songs too. He could teach her simple folk songs, songs about the lives of ordinary people, not just songs of war and power. Other things as well, basic knowledge of history or geography that was not too strategic.

Yes, he could do that. It was a gamble. But if there was even a small chance he could change her, make her a little more empathetic, a little less cruel... shouldn't he try?

However, even if Cersei's nature changed, even if she became a better person, Jaime knew he would still try to keep her away from the throne. If she remained the same character as in the TV series, putting her near power would be a disaster. No. Changing her was one thing. Letting her rule was another.

"Of course," Jaime said at last, putting on a thin smile. "I will teach you."

Cersei looked a little surprised by his quick agreement, but she quickly hid it behind a mask of satisfaction.

"But," Jaime added, raising a finger, "if you really want this, you must promise to obey everything I say. Every lesson, every reading assignment, every song I choose. You will do it without question and without complaint. If you break this even once, the deal is off."

Cersei thought for a moment, looking hesitant. She hated being ordered around, especially by Jaime. But then Jaime saw the ambition flare up in her eyes again. Her determination to be with 'her Prince', to secure her destiny, was apparently stronger than her pride. "Fine," she said reluctantly. "I break a rule and you'll stop. But you must really teach me what you talk about with Prince Rhaegar."

"I will only teach you the things I think you need to know," Jaime corrected gently but firmly. "And I will not bring you directly to him." He nodded to himself. This was important. "You want a conversation? Find your own opportune time with him. Show him what you have learned."

This was the right thing. He would give her the tools, but he would not open the door for her. He would not let Cersei come with him, using his closeness to Rhaegar for her own advantage.

Cersei frowned, her frustration returning. "Why are you making this difficult for me?"

Jaime smiled, this time a more genuine smile. He decided to use one of the old sayings he often heard. "People say effort does not betray the results," he said. "So if you work hard and are sincere, then you will get it."

Cersei stared at him intently for a few moments, as if trying to read his hidden intentions. Then, she nodded stiffly. "Fine. You get what you want. Teach me a song first then."

Jaime pretended to think for a moment, even though he already knew exactly which song he would start with. He nodded. "Let's find a suitable place," he said. "Like the garden. It fits the song I'm going to teach you."

He motioned for Cersei to follow him, and with Jon behind him, they began to walk towards the garden.

…

"You sing it well."

The words came from Jaime's mouth, and he meant them. They had spent nearly an hour in this secluded corner of the Red Keep's garden. Jon and the other Lannister guard stood far enough away to provide privacy, yet close enough to keep watch. Jaime had chosen a song he remembered from his previous life: "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins. It was a song one of his friends used to play, a soothing melody with lyrics about protection and unconditional love. He thought it was a good start, something that contrasted with the songs of war or intrigue usually sung in Westeros. And honestly, Cersei had a good voice. Clear, strong, and when she concentrated on the melody, she could convey the song's emotion quite well.

Cersei smiled at the compliment, a proud smile that was so typical of her. "Of course," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "It was easy."

Nodding, Jaime decided it was time for the real 'feedback'. This lesson was not just about singing. "Now," he said, keeping his voice calm and neutral, "your goal is to impress Prince Rhaegar, isn't it?"

"Of course," Cersei snorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I will use this to impress him. These strange songs of yours. I've already memorized the famous songs, but I heard the Prince likes 'unusual' songs. That's why he's always talking to you." There was an annoyed tone in that last sentence.

"The Prince is like that," Jaime confirmed, ignoring her annoyed tone. "He values authenticity. He's bored with the same things he hears every day at court." He leaned in slightly. "But do you want to know what he likes besides just unusual songs?"

Cersei's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but her curiosity was piqued. "What?" she moved closer.

"He likes women who are graceful and gentle," Jaime said, observing her reaction carefully. This was the dangerous part.

As expected, Cersei immediately straightened her back, looking offended. "I am graceful and gentle," she said, her voice hissing slightly.

"No, no," Jaime calmly refuted, shaking his head. "You hear yourself just now? That hiss? That's not gentle. You are graceful, yes, no one can deny that. You move like a cat, and you know how to carry yourself. But gentle? Far from it." He decided to be honest, as brutal as it was. Their deal depended on honesty. "I've lived with you my whole life, Cersei. I know how you are. You are stubborn, cynical, and arrogant."

"What did you say?!" Cersei's voice rose, anger flaring in her green eyes. The Lannister guard in the distance seemed to tense up.

"See! You see for yourself, don't you?" Jaime pointed calmly at her reaction. "That. That's what I mean. That burst of anger. That impatience. The contempt in your voice. Prince Rhaegar is a calm and considerate man. He will not be impressed by that. He will be disturbed."

Cersei stared at him, her chest rising and falling with anger, but Jaime's calm argument and the direct evidence of her own behavior left her speechless. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She looked like an angry cat soaked in water, helpless for a moment. Jaime could see the struggle within her, between her wounded pride and her burning ambition.

After a brief silence, where the only sound was the chirping of birds in the trees, Cersei finally turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. "Suppose you are right," she muttered, the words coming out with difficulty. "So what should I do to 'dampen' all this?"

This was progress. An admission, however reluctant, that something needed to be changed. Jaime straightened his voice, adopting the role of the teacher he had set for himself. "First, if you want to erase all that, you must learn to control your mind. Every time your mind churns, with anger, annoyance, contempt, you must try to return to calm. Take a breath. Count to ten if you need to."

He continued, "Second, don't always think that others are beneath you. That thought is toxic. It makes you underestimate others and makes you look arrogant. Try to see other people as... people. Not as pawns in your game or servants for your desires."

"And most importantly," Jaime stressed, "keep thinking good thoughts about everything. Or at least, try. Don't jump to the worst conclusion or see hidden motives in every action."

Cersei listened in silence, her expression unreadable.

"For example?" she finally asked, her voice still flat.

Jaime had expected this question. "For example, right now," he said calmly. "You are talking to me. I am your twin brother, but right now I am also your teacher in this matter. And I know your mind must be spinning. Something like, 'He's so stupid. I can't believe I have to listen to this nonsense. I just need these songs to get closer to the Prince, after that he's completely useless.' At least close to that, right?"

Cersei was silent, but the faint blush creeping up her neck was answer enough.

"Cersei," Jaime said, his voice firm but not judgmental. "I want you to answer honestly. This is part of our deal. If you can't be honest, even about your own thoughts, then our deal is off. Remember?"

Cersei stared at him, the struggle clear in her eyes. Her pride warred against her ambition. Finally, ambition won. "Fine, fine!" she said with frustration, stomping her foot slightly. "Yes! I was thinking you are useless and incredibly arrogant! You are just a little boy acting like you know everything, trying to tell me what to do! Satisfied?"

"Good," Jaime nodded, completely unfazed by her outburst. He almost smiled. "You're honest. I like that. Now, erase that thought. For now, accept me as at least your teacher. What should you do when a teacher is teaching? You don't argue with him. You don't underestimate him. You empty your mind, and you follow him. You listen. You try to understand."

Cersei stared at him, her breathing still a little ragged from anger.

"Try this," Jaime said, his voice softening. "Close your eyes."

Cersei hesitated, looking at him suspiciously.

"Just close them," Jaime urged gently. "No one will see."

Reluctantly, Cersei closed her eyes. Her long, dark eyelashes contrasted starkly with her pale skin.

"Now, take a deep breath through your nose," Jaime instructed. "Feel the air fill your lungs. Hold it for a moment... then exhale slowly through your mouth. Feel the tension in your shoulders relax."

Cersei did it, albeit stiffly at first.

"Again," Jaime said. "Breathe in... hold... exhale. Focus only on your breath. Let those angry thoughts go. Let the annoyance flow out with your breath."

He watched her as she took several more deep breaths. Slowly, he could see the tension in her face ease slightly. The lines between her brows softened. Her jaw was no longer clenched so tightly.

After a few moments, Jaime said, "Alright. Open your eyes."

Cersei opened her eyes. Her expression was still wary, but there was a new calm there, a fragile one. She looked a little confused, as if she had just woken up from a dream.

Then, she tried to smile, a forced smile but an attempt nonetheless.

"Done."

"Good," Jaime agreed, nodding. "Now," he said, taking a breath of his own. "Let's try that song again. This time, focus not just on the notes, but on the feeling behind them. The feeling of protection. The feeling of tenderness. Try to feel it as you sing."

Cersei looked at him for a moment, then she nodded. And they began again.

The lesson with Cersei ended with a fragile promise to meet again the next afternoon. The time was set by Jaime.

As he walked back to his chambers, with Jon following behind, Jaime felt a deep exhaustion seeping into his bones. Not the physical fatigue from sword practice or horse riding. This was a different kind of mental exhaustion, one that came from having to be constantly on guard, constantly analyzing, especially when dealing with his twin sister.

Facing Cersei was truly mentally draining. It was like trying to hold back a storm with a paper umbrella. He had to constantly anticipate her outbursts, deflect her cynicism, and try to plant ideas that contradicted every fiber of her being, all while maintaining a mask of patience.

"You look tired, My Lord," Jon said, his gruff voice breaking the silence of the corridor.

Jaime chuckled softly, a dry laugh. "If you had to face someone like Cersei for a full hour, trying to teach her about patience, this is what would happen."

Just as he said that, a Lannister soldier in a red cloak appeared from a corridor intersection ahead of them. He bowed respectfully to Jaime. "Young Lord," he said. "Lord Lannister summons you to his solar."

'Oh,' thought Jaime, his fatigue instantly mixing with a hint of anxiety. He hoped this conversation would just be a normal one about his progress at court or perhaps about the paper again. He was not in the mood to act, to play the role of the perfect, obedient son, to follow the cold, calculating flow of his Father's thoughts.

Facing his Father always required a different level of mental alertness. Jaime had learned that the best way, the only way, to get Father's approval for his ideas was to frame them in the language of power, profit, and legacy. Like the school, for example. He couldn't just say he wanted the people of the Westerlands to be smarter for their own good.

No. He had to wrap it in the idea of 'printing Lannister propaganda', of creating a more controllable populace because they read the narrative he provided. He had to emphasize how the school would increase economic efficiency, which in turn would increase tax revenue for Casterly Rock. He had to talk about controlling information.

Something always had to be sacrificed. His idealism had to be veiled by profit for that man. He just hoped he could minimize the negative impact, ensure that the ultimate goal, a more educated and prosperous society, was not completely lost in the process.

Jaime took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Alright," he said to the soldier. "I'll be right there."

Arriving there. With Jon waiting outside the Hand's solar. He entered his Father's study without knocking this time; he had been summoned. There, as usual, his Father was sitting behind his large desk, bent over a stack of documents, his quill moving quickly across the parchment. The room was silent, save for the scratching of the quill and the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth.

"You called, Father?" Jaime said.

Tywin did not look up immediately. He finished the sentence he was writing, set down his quill carefully, then raised his head. His pale green eyes met Jaime's, assessing as always. "Sit," he said.

Jaime sat in the chair across the desk, keeping his back straight. He waited. With Father, it was always better to wait.

After a few moments of tense silence, Jaime ventured. "What did you want to talk about?"

Tywin looked straight into his eyes. "You are nine years old," Father said, his voice flat. "And time keeps moving. You are growing bigger."

"That's what happens to living beings," Jaime replied, trying to sound indifferent, though he felt a bad feeling start to creep into his stomach.

Tywin paused for a moment, as if considering his words. "I've been thinking about some things."

"What things?" Jaime asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"It's... about your marriage."

'Shit.' The thought exploded in Jaime's mind with surprising force.

And he rarely ever cursed.

---

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Tywin watched his son, who looked back at him calmly, but for a moment Tywin could see a brief twitch at the corner of his eye. Yes, this was big news. Tywin knew it. Discussing marriage at the age of nine indeed seemed premature, but this was not about romance or childhood. This was about the future of House Lannister, about securing power for generations to come.

"I have thought of several candidates," said Tywin, placing his interlaced hands on the table. "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, and Janna Tyrell of Highgarden. Who do you think is the most suitable for you?" He was not truly asking for his son's opinion in the sense of seeking approval. He wanted to test his mind, to see if Jaime could see the strategic implications of each choice, beyond just names and titles.

Jaime did not answer immediately. Silence hung for a moment between them, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth. "Isn't this too soon, Father?" he finally asked, his voice quiet and measured.

Tywin frowned. That was an evasion, not an answer. He did not like evasions. "This is a plan," he said sharply, his voice as sharp as a dagger's point. "A well thought out plan takes years before it is executed. Securing an alliance is the foundation of enduring power. The strongest oak takes decades to grow, Jaime. You cannot plant it when the storm has already arrived. Also, I did not ask you to return the question. I asked you to analyze. Do you understand that?"

Thinking for a moment, weighing his words under his father's sharp gaze, Jaime finally nodded.

"Lyanna Stark is a good candidate, Father." For the first time, Tywin saw a slight hesitation in his eyes. "The North is vast and has many resources."

"Timber and wool, you mean?" Tywin interjected, unimpressed. Resources that are difficult to extract and low in value compared to the gold of the West.

"They are part of it," Jaime confirmed, undaunted. "But there are also many regions that may be unexplored due to their vastness. I suspect there might be many undiscovered metal mines there, iron, silver, maybe even gold. That is very important for the future."

"Yes, unexplored," Tywin countered coldly. "And how can you be sure there will be many 'mines'? The North is a harsh and poor land. They are strong in battle, yes, their soldiers are as tough as their winters. But their wealth is insignificant. They have no large cities besides White Harbor, their trade is limited."

"According to my theory, Father..."

"Theories do not fill coffers," Tywin cut in, his impatience beginning to show. "Let us assume your theory is correct. It would require enormous capital just to search for those mines, sending expeditions into that frozen wilderness. And with the North's harsh climate and its small population, scattered across a vast territory, it would take years, even decades, just to start any meaningful production. The return would not be worth the cost, Jaime."

He paused, adding his true assessment of the North. "They are also too backward. Too bound to their ancient traditions of the Old Gods and trees with faces. They are indeed famously loyal, like good hunting dogs, but loyalty alone is not enough to build true power in this world. Blind loyalty is often a sign of a lack of ambition."

He saw Jaime accept his rebuttal without further argument. Good. The boy was learning to distinguish between interesting theories and harsh reality. "What about Tully?" Tywin pressed, moving to the next option.

"House Tully holds a vital strategic position," said Jaime. "Riverrun controls the Trident, the great rivers that flow through the heart of the kingdom. Any significant land and river trade between the North, the Vale, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands must pass through them." He glanced at his father. "If we want to ensure smoother passage for our paper and printed goods when marketing them throughout Westeros, securing the routes through the Riverlands is a good move. An alliance with Tully would give us direct influence over the course of this trade."

"However," Jaime continued, and Tywin listened intently to see if his son could see both sides of the coin. "Compared to the others, the return is smaller in terms of wealth or direct military strength. The Riverlands are often a battlefield. Their lands are fertile, but they do not have gold like us or an army as large as the Reach."

Jaime shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward. "For example, if we were to invest heavily there, building infrastructure to support our trade, but if war breaks out, our investment would be a total loss. As I said before, the Riverlands are the 'heart' of the kingdom itself. And the heart is the first thing stabbed in a fight."

"But that means we would have a bulwark ourselves," Tywin countered. "If the Riverlands are the heart, then controlling them means the enemy must pass through them first. They would become our shield."

Jaime smiled bitterly, a smile too cynical for a nine-year-old boy. "A human bulwark, yes," he said quietly. "When at war, their soldiers would be the first to be spent, absorbing the first attack. And we, with our fresh troops, would come as a hero to save the day. That is indeed a valid strategy, Father."

Tywin stared at his son in silence. The observation was cruel, but strategically correct. Jaime saw the game for what it was: a cold calculation of lives and profit. He was not swayed by naive ideas of honor or inter.House friendship. He saw allies as tools, as shields, as assets. That was the thinking of a Lannister. That was his thinking.

"Lord Hoster is a cunning man," said Tywin, returning to the analysis. "But his ambition is great. He wants to see his family rise. He would see his daughter's match with the heir of Casterly Rock as a great victory."

"And a man like that can be controlled," Jaime added, understanding his father's line of thought. "Their ambition is a leash we can hold."

"Precisely," said Tywin. He considered the Tully alliance. It was solid. Strategic. Not too conspicuous. It would secure vital trade routes and create a useful buffer zone without provoking needless alarm among the other Houses or, more importantly, at the King's court. It was a measured step, a wise step.

Tywin nodded, accepting Jaime's analysis of House Tully. Logical and seeing the potential profits as well as the risks. That was good. Now, it was time to test his understanding of the greatest prize in the South.

"Now, Tyrell," said Tywin, his tone neutral.

Jaime leaned forward a bit more, his eyes now gleaming with a clear appreciation for raw power. "House Tyrell," he began, "possesses immense strength. Perhaps the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms if measured by the number of soldiers and food. The Reach is the breadbasket of Westeros, Father. They can feed an army far larger than any other House, and for much longer."

"Quantity does not always mean quality," Tywin interjected. "The armies of the Reach are famous for their proud, flowery knights, more concerned with tournaments than actual battle."

"That might be true for some of them," Jaime admitted, "but their sheer numbers alone are a force that cannot be underestimated. They 'might' be able to field sixty thousand swords if needed. Sixty thousand, Father. Even if only half of them are competent, that is still a formidable army." He paused for a moment, adding another important detail. "And do not forget Olenna Tyrell. She is a Redwyne."

Tywin nodded again. Of course he had not forgotten. That woman, it was said, was the true brain behind Highgarden. "The Redwyne fleet," he said.

"Exactly," said Jaime. "One of the largest fleets in Westeros. If we ally with Tyrell, we not only get the largest land army, but also easy access to significant naval power through their Redwyne connections. Imagine, Father. Our gold could fund their ships. We could control the sea and the land."

The image was indeed tempting. Very tempting. Nearly limitless power. Total domination. That was a language Tywin understood.

"They are also rich," Jaime continued. "Not as rich as us, of course, but their wealth from the wine, fruit, and grain trade is substantial."

Tywin said coldly. "The Tyrells are known for their boundless ambition. They rose to Lord Paramount after the fall of House Gardener because they knew when to bow to Aegon. They are stewards who became Lords. Their blood is not as ancient or as pure as ours." There was a slight tone of contempt in his voice.

"But their ambition also makes them motivated allies," Jaime countered. "They want to rise higher. They want recognition. An alliance with us would give them that. They would be eager partners."

"Eager partners, or dangerous competitors?" Tywin asked quietly. "Olenna Redwyne is not a woman easily controlled. And her son, Mace Tyrell, while not as clever as his mother, possesses an arrogance just as large."

Jaime was silent for a moment, considering that. "Every alliance has its risks, Father. Great power always comes with great challenges."

Tywin let the silence hang between them. He let his son contemplate the implications. Internally, Tywin had already weighed the pros and cons of the Tyrell alliance long before this conversation.

The Tyrells were indeed strong, yes. Very strong. A combined Lannister. Tyrell force would be like an unmatched giant in Westeros. But it was precisely that strength that was its biggest problem.It would be too conspicuous. Too threatening.

An alliance that large would immediately create opposing blocs. Stark, Arryn, Baratheon, maybe even Martell, they would see it as a blatant attempt to dominate the kingdom, a direct threat to the balance of power. They would unite against it, creating instability, suspicion, and possibly even civil war.

And that would be very disruptive to the paper and printing projects. Those projects required stability, open trade routes, and at least the illusion of cooperation between the great Houses. If the kingdom was split into suspicious factions, how could they sell their paper widely? How could they get supplies of flax from other regions? How could they control the flow of information if every great Lord built walls around their own lands? The Tyrell alliance was too risky for this much more subtle and potentially more powerful long term project.

Besides, the Tyrells are ambitious. Very ambitious. Olenna Tyrell is a masterful player of the game of thrones. They would not be content just being Lannister's partner. They would have their own agenda. Uniting the two most powerful Houses in the kingdom could easily turn into a destructive internal rivalry. They are hard to control.

Whereas the Tullys... they offered almost the same in terms of strategic position, control over the heart of the kingdom. Their military strength and wealth might be only half of the Tyrells, but they were far easier to control. Hoster Tully has dreams, but his dreams are more measured, more predictable. He wants status and security for his family. He can be managed. An alliance with the Tullys would significantly strengthen the Lannisters without making the entire kingdom panic. It was not a reckless move.

And most importantly, there was Aerys. The King was already wary of Tywin's power. If Tywin married his son to a Tyrell, Aerys would see it as a declaration of war. It would be the end of his position as Hand of the King, and the end of any hope of marrying Cersei to Rhaegar. The Tyrell alliance was too costly in terms of political consequences in King's Landing.

Tywin had already made his choice even before this conversation began. This discussion was merely a test for Jaime, a way to ensure his son understood these complexities. And Jaime had passed that test. He saw the strength of the Tyrells, but he also was beginning to understand the risks.

"Tully," Tywin said to his son, his voice flat and final.

He saw confusion flash across Jaime's face. After all the discussion about the unrivaled strength of the Tyrells, this decision must have seemed ridiculous. "Huh?"

"Catelyn Tully," Tywin affirmed, leaving no room for doubt. He had weighed all the variables, all the possibilities, and this was the most logical, the most strategic step for the long term. "She will be your wife."

---

Honestly, from the start I wanted Jaime to be with Lyanna, but here Tywin is the one who weighs the pros and cons, this would be OOC. At least that's what I think.

 

[Daario]

WHISPER IN THE WIND​

---

The sight was so grand, so large, that Gerion himself felt as if this were a dream. The ship loomed before him on the busy docks of Lannisport, its hull gleaming in the morning sun. Its size alone was astonishing, far larger than the usual merchant ships that filled the harbor. Its tall masts pierced the blue sky, its neatly furled sails promising wind and adventure.

Gerion stood among the crowd, the dockworkers, merchants, sailors, who had also paused for a moment to gaze at this newborn masterpiece. Whispers and murmurs of admiration sounded around him. They might see an impressive new ship, another symbol of the limitless wealth of the Lannisters. But Gerion saw something far more personal. He saw freedom.

For these past few months, he had felt as if he were living in a golden cage. Yes, the cage was beautiful, its walls made of the mighty stone of Casterly Rock, its bars coated in pure gold. He had a long chain, allowing him to wander the taverns of Lannisport, flirt with women, and tell his jokes. He could go wherever he wanted within the Westerlands, enjoying all the pleasures that could be bought with his name and fortune. But still, there was a limit. An invisible wall that separated him from the real world, the world of adventure he dreamed of in the quiet of the night.

But now, standing here, on this dock that smelled of salt and fish, looking at the ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea, he realized that the cage had been shattered to pieces. The chain was broken. And he, Gerion Lannister, was finally free.

A ship. Not just any ship, but one designed for long voyages, capable of holding more than fifty men, crew, guards, and of course, himself and his small retinue. This ship was fast, sturdy, and most importantly, new. He got this because of that funny, strange nephew of his, Jaime. Who would have thought a ten-year-old boy's obsession with rags and paper pulp could lead to this? Whatever invention Jaime was working on might change the world one day, but it started by changing Gerion's world. A world that was once dull and grim, now filled with the promise of new horizons.

With a step lighter than usual, Gerion climbed the wooden gangplank connecting the dock to the ship's deck. The workers bowed respectfully as he passed. He entered the ship, leaving the noise of the harbor behind. The atmosphere inside was damp, filled with the smell of freshly planed pine and oak and the sharp scent of varnish. Sunlight streamed in through the open hatches, illuminating the remaining construction chaos.

The interior was a bit of a mess. Pieces of wood were scattered on the floor, a few nails lay in the corners, coils of rope piled up like sleeping snakes. Sheets of unfolded sailcloth were folded over crates, and there were even a few used drinking glasses and leftover food from the workers left on a barrel. However, Gerion didn't mind. This chaos was the chaos of creation. In a few days, all this would be clean, replaced by crates of supplies, trade goods, a cover for his journey, and of course, the precious samples of his nephew's invention.

He walked down the narrow corridor below deck, imagining how this place would soon be filled with life, the sound of sailors' footsteps, the aroma of cooking from the galley, and perhaps occasionally, the sound of singing at night. This ship would be his home for months, maybe even years. And that thought, instead of scaring him, filled him with overflowing joy.

Tywin's order had come a few weeks after Jaime's return from King's Landing. Returning with stories of Prince Rhaegar being captivated by his ideas. Tywin immediately saw the golden potential in his son's discovery. And he also saw the potential in Gerion.

"You will go to the Free Cities," Tywin had written in the letter. "Bring samples of this paper. Show them to the merchant princes, the magisters, the scribes. Make them want it. And while you are there, keep your ears open. Listen to the gossip. Learn the trade currents. Report back anything of interest."

It was a command, but to Gerion, it felt like a gift. A mission. A purpose. And a new ship to do it on.

The paper production itself had begun in earnest since Jaime's return. The small mill established in one of the old warehouses near the river below Casterly Rock quickly expanded. The initial production was chaotic, of course. Teaching dozens of workers, mostly the sons of farmers or fishermen with no special skills, how to sort used cloth, cut it to the right size, pound it into pulp of the correct consistency, boil it, form thin sheets on molds, press them, and dry them... it was a complicated and tiring process. Gerion himself had visited a few times, and just watching it made his head spin. Cloth dust flew in the air, the strange smell of boiling pulp stung the nose, and the monotonous sound of the pounding hammers echoed relentlessly.

But Jaime, with his patience and good explanations, assisted by Jon who supervised sternly, managed to train them. And then came the waterwheel. Another idea to harness the river's power to move giant pounding hammers had revolutionized everything. Production became much faster, much more efficient.

Now, the 'mill', as people were beginning to call it, not only had twenty workers, but up to a hundred. They worked in rotating 'shifts', keeping the hammers pounding day and night, turning piles of dirty rags into clean white sheets of paper. It was strange how something that might have been born from the random thought of a curious child could create jobs for a hundred people and change the small economic landscape around Casterly Rock.

Of course, Jaime himself was rarely seen there anymore. Since returning from King's Landing, his Father had placed him as a page for Tygett. And a few months later, he was made a squire. It was part of the education of a future great Lord, learning to serve before ruling. So now, most of Jaime's time was spent in the training yard, in the stables, or following Tygett around, doing whatever his moody uncle asked of him to 'learn'. The paper production was established enough that it no longer needed his direct supervision at all times. The older workers could teach the new ones. They ran on their own now, a new living, breathing enterprise in the shadows.

And the paper itself? Very well received. The merchants in Lannisport were the first to adopt it. They never turned down something practical and cheaper. Although the initial price was still quite high, it was still far cheaper than animal skin parchment. Scribes, mapmakers, even some minor Lords began to order it. Over time, as production increased and the process became more efficient, the price stabilized, making it even more affordable. Parchment was still used for important royal documents or luxurious manuscripts, but for everyday notes, correspondence, and bookkeeping, paper quickly became the primary choice.

And then there was the 'school' idea. Another of Jaime's concepts, which he somehow managed to convince Tywin of. A school for common folk. The initial implementation began a few weeks ago in Lannisport. And who did Tywin assign to talk to the stubborn old Septons in the Sept? Gerion, of course. Gerion himself had to go to the sept, sit for hours in rooms that smelled of incense and old books, discussing and chatting with the Leader Septon of Lannisport. He had to frame it carefully, not as an attempt to disrupt the social order, but as a way to increase piety. 'Imagine', he said, 'how wonderful it would be if more children could read The Seven-Pointed Star for themselves, without needing to rely on a Septon to read it to them. Imagine how much stronger their faith would become'. The Septons, after some debate and the assurance of a generous donation to the Sept, finally agreed to provide a few rooms and some young Septons as initial teachers. It was a small step, but it was a start.

Gerion smiled to himself as he stood in the spacious captain's cabin at the ship's stern. He looked out the window at the bustling harbor, at Casterly Rock looming in the distance. He was a part of all this now. Not just a spectator, but a player. He would bring this paper to the world. He would open new markets. He would gather information for Tywin. He would help build the school.

The 'Sept' school itself, the pilot project in Lannisport, was an interesting experiment. The fee had been set: six silver stags per month for each child. A price affordable enough for the more prosperous merchants and craftsmen in the city, but significant enough to ensure they valued the opportunity. In return, each child would receive a ration of paper, the new Lannister paper, worth nine coppers each week for writing and arithmetic practice. Jaime insisted they must use real paper from the start, not just slate, to get them used to the new medium and, of course, to create demand early on.

The learning itself was quite simple. The young Septons used a blackboard, just an ordinary wooden board painted black, and white chalk to teach basic letters and numbers. The children came five days a week, usually in the morning before they were expected to help their parents in the shop or workshop. They learned to read simple words, spell their names, and add basic numbers. Practical skills designed to make them better merchants or craftsmen in the future.

Gerion felt that, even if most of these children were probably just being ordered to learn arithmetic so they could help their fathers cheat customers more efficiently later on, there was an inevitable side benefit. Learning to read in the Sept, with The Seven-Pointed Star as one of their main practice texts... They would be exposed to the faith, whether they liked it or not. They would learn about the Maiden and the Mother, about the Warrior and the Smith, even as they learned how to count copper coins.

That thought made him laugh softly. Tywin might see this school as a way to increase economic efficiency and instill Lannister loyalty or control. But the Septons... the Septons might be inadvertently gaining a small army of new followers who could read their own prayers. A delightful irony.

He, Gerion Lannister, finally had a purpose. And well. The winds of change were blowing.

…

Alan climbed the spiral stairs of the Citadel's tower with a steady pace, his breathing even despite the load in his hands. A steady pace was the key; rushing would only leave him breathless before reaching the top. In his hands, he held a stack of paper, that precious new commodity, which he had obtained with great difficulty from the morning crowd near the merchants' gate. To get this, he had to queue since before dawn, jostling with greedy people who wanted to buy as much as possible to resell at a higher price, servants sent by their masters, and of course, other Citadel acolytes as desperate as himself.

The wealthier acolytes, sons of great Lords or merchants, didn't bother with such indignities. They would just send someone, someone like Alan, who needed a few extra copper coins, to queue for them.

In his hands were a hundred sheets of clean white paper. A very large amount. Meanwhile, he himself could only afford ten sheets with the coins he had managed to scrape together. The remaining ninety sheets belonged to his friends: Bandy, Colin, and Davos. They had pooled their money and given it to Alan last night, along with a wage of a few copper coins in return for his efforts. It was profitable, of course. Extra money was always welcome, even if it meant he had to endure the elbows, shoves, and the sour smell of sweat from people who seemed to have never bathed in their lives. The smell of the crowd at the merchants' gate was something that would haunt him in his sleep.

He finally reached the top of the stairs and pushed the heavy wooden door open. The Citadel's library greeted him, a massive circular room, so vast that the far end seemed to blur in the dim light filtering through the high windows. Bookshelves soared from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, filled with thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of parchment scrolls and leather-bound books. Wheeled wooden ladders leaned against the shelves here and there, allowing access to the higher levels. This room had a distinct smell, a mixture of the fragile aroma of old parchment, melted wax, dust dancing in the beams of light, and something indescribable, the smell of knowledge itself, the accumulation of centuries of wisdom. For Alan, this smell was calming. It was the smell of his purpose.

He stepped inside, his worn shoes making no sound on the cold stone floor. At one of the long wooden tables scattered around the room, he saw his three friends already waiting, their heads bowed over thick books.

"Wow, you got a lot this time, huh?" Bandy's voice was the first to be heard as Alan approached. Bandy, the son of a fishmonger, was a nineteen-name-day-old young man with intelligent black eyes and straw-like blond hair. He was always better dressed than the other three.

"Of course," Alan replied, slightly out of breath now that he had stopped walking. He passed the three of them and carefully placed the stack of paper in the middle of the table. "I arrived there before the sun even rose. I was almost trampled by an angry lard seller."

Colin, who had fiery red hair and freckles, immediately grabbed a few sheets from the top of the pile and, to Alan's surprise, inhaled them deeply. "I love the smell," he said with a wide grin. "Don't know why. It's not perfume."

"Yes, it's very distinct," Alan agreed, taking a sheet for himself and feeling it between his fingers. Smooth yet fibrous. Far different from parchment. "Maybe that's part of its magic. Maybe it was also made as an excuse to dig more coins out of you to buy it."

Davos, the oldest among them, already losing his hair despite being only twenty-five, chuckled softly. He rubbed his finger gently on the paper's surface. "I wouldn't mind if I had a lot of money to buy this," he said. "Especially when it's more affordable than parchment. For the Seven's sake, just to buy one blank parchment scroll, I have to help Maester Moris copy notes for a whole week."

Bandy had already started flipping through the paper quickly, sorting out his share. "Mine should be thirty, right?" he asked, his eyes shining. "With this, I can write down many of my own notes on history. I have to get that chain no matter what. Borrowing books from the library is a real hassle, you have to return them too quickly. And reading here every day makes me feel cooped up."

"Take it. Mine is ten," Alan confirmed, taking his modest share. "The rest belongs to Colin and Davos." He looked at his ten sheets of clean white paper. Ten sheets of possibility. Ten sheets of knowledge he could hold. "I also need to note down which medicinal plants are good for healing internal wounds. I'm terrible at remembering those names. They all sound the same after a while. At least with this, I can look at it anytime, even when I want to go to sleep."

Alan was the youngest son of a Landed Knight in the Reach. A title that sounded good, but didn't mean much when you were the third son and their small plot of land and castle were barely enough to support his eldest brother and his family. He had no inheritance, no brilliant marriage prospects. Here, at least he had a chance. A chance to gain knowledge, to prove himself through intelligence, not bloodline. If he managed to get enough links on his chain, he could become a Maester. And then, perhaps, he could serve a higher Lord. He imagined himself in a magnificent castle, advising a wise Lord, having access to a private library, respected for his knowledge. Maybe he could even serve House Lannister in the Westerlands, the House that had created this paper.

He badly wanted to meet its creator. They said he was still a child, the heir of Casterly Rock himself. Jaime Lannister. How could a boy, who should be busy playing with wooden swords, have an idea like this? An idea that in an instant had changed the small world of the acolytes at the Citadel? This paper wasn't just a convenience; it was a small revolution. It made knowledge slightly more accessible, slightly easier to record and store. It was a powerful tool.

Alan wanted to see with his own eyes and head how that boy thought. How could he see a need and find such an elegant solution? This was interesting. This was amusing. And it was very impressive.

Because of that, ever since hearing news of the Lannister paper a few months ago, Alan had become more motivated to learn. He no longer just studied to escape his fate as a useless youngest son. He studied because he had seen what knowledge, what an idea, could do, right before his eyes. He felt as if he were witnessing history being made, history that one day might be written on the very papers he currently held.

"So, Alan," said Colin, interrupting his daydream as he carefully stacked his share of paper. "Decided which love potion you're going to write down first to impress that milkmaid at the inn?"

Alan laughed with his friends, the warmth of their camaraderie chasing away the last of the chill from the morning queue. "I'm more interested in a potion to cure your stupidity, Colin," he retorted.

He opened the thick herbal book he had borrowed from the library, its leather cover cracked with age. He took a sheet of his new paper, a quill, and a small ink bottle. He dipped the quill, and carefully, he began to note down the complicated names, the descriptions of leaves and roots, and their uses for healing.

…

Harys opened his thick leather-bound book, its thin pages rustling softly in the silence of his small study. This was the fifth day of the week, which meant tomorrow was his day off from teaching the children. He was a septon, newly ordained five years ago, thirty name days old. A simple man from a farming family in Greengrass, a small, forgotten village in the green expanses of the Westerlands.

When the Leader Septon of Lannisport first appointed him as one of the teachers for this new Lannister-funded 'school' a few months ago, Harys's first thought was that he would be very busy. Teaching dozens of restless merchant and artisan children how to read and count was no easy task. However, he accepted the duty without hesitation. Teaching, spreading the light of knowledge and, of course, the wisdom of the Seven, would surely be favored by the Gods themselves. It was a noble job.

Now, he was preparing the lesson for later: basic mathematics. Addition, subtraction, maybe a little simple multiplication if the children seemed ready. This was the foundation for those future little merchants, skills they would need to count their fathers' goods, to weigh copper coins and silver stags.

He took a sheet of paper, the new object that still felt slightly magical in his hands, and a quill. Carefully, he dipped the tip of the quill into the bottle of thick black ink and began to write practice problems on the paper with neatness and precision. His strokes were clear and legible, a skill he had painstakingly trained for years, spending so much ink and borrowed parchment when he was still a student.

Once, he was just a weak farmer's boy. Harys was born smaller than his brothers, his lungs were weak, and he never had the physical strength to work in the fields all day under the hot sun. While other children his age helped their fathers plow or sow seeds, Harys was more often found sitting under a tree, daydreaming or trying to draw the shapes of clouds on the ground with a stick. Most farmer parents might have grumbled, seeing him as a useless burden. But his father did not. His father was a quiet, kind man, who would just give him a tired smile and say, "Everyone has their own path, son." He let him be, loved him unconditionally, and Harys was grateful for that simple kindness every day.

Because of that weakness, he was first drawn to Septon Glenn. The wandering Septon had come to their village one summer, an old man with a long white beard and eyes that had seen many things. While the other children were busy playing, Harys often snuck into Septon Glenn's small tent, captivated by the leather-bound books he owned and the stories he could tell about the world beyond Greengrass. Seeing the curiosity in the pale boy's eyes, Septon Glenn began to teach him. First letters, then words, then sentences. For Harys, it was like a floodgate opening. He absorbed the knowledge like dry earth finding water after a long drought. He was so fascinated by the power of words, by the ability to capture thoughts and stories on a page, by the history of kings and the wisdom of the Seven stored within those books.

Now, years later, he was doing the same thing Septon Glenn had done for him. The old Septon was long gone, continuing his journey to who knows where, but his legacy lived on in Harys. And Harys was determined to do it earnestly, to ignite that same spark of curiosity in these Lannisport children, hoping to change someone's life for the better, just as his life had been changed. Maybe, after all this, this was his destiny. Not to swing a sword or rule lands, but to teach.

After carefully writing several pages of practice problems, double-checking every number and word several times to ensure there were no mistakes, Harys smiled with satisfaction. He cleaned the tip of his quill, closed his ink bottle, and tidied the stack of paper on his desk. He stood up, stretched his slightly stiff back, and returned the basic mathematics book to the small shelf on the wall, careful not to let it fall. His study was small, just a simple nook within the Sept, but it was his place, a place where he could prepare himself for his duty. Then, he left the room, ready to start his day.

The Sept of Lannisport was magnificent. Far more magnificent than the simple wooden sept in his village. This one was made of gleaming white marble, with high stained-glass windows that cast colorful patterns on the polished floor when the sun shone. Its large dome seemed to touch the sky, and its bells rang with a deep, melodious sound. Of course, that was to be expected. This building was right in the heart of the richest city in the Westerlands, under the shadow of House Lannister itself. A noble family whose wealth was so great it had become legend. The gold mines under Casterly Rock, people said, might never run out, and would always be the family's main weapon.

Fortunately, Harys thought as he walked down the quiet corridor, the Lannisters were now using some of their wealth for good things. Like building the school here in the Sept. All the capital came from the Lannisters. The new wooden desks for the children, the large custom-made blackboards, the white chalk, even the small additional buildings that had just been completed in the backyard to house more classes. Lord Tywin Lannister might be a hard man, but at least he understood the value of knowledge.

"You look bright as usual, Harys."

A friendly voice greeted him in the corridor. Harys turned and smiled. It was Ormund, one of the senior Septons. He wore the usual long grey robes, his face neatly shaven, although the top of his head was already beginning to show obvious baldness. His blue eyes were kind and full of quiet wisdom.

"I am grateful to the Seven for that," Harys replied. "They have given me peace during my sleep last night. I had no dreams, just slept in pleasant silence." He paused for a moment, walking side by side with Ormund. "When I woke up, my energy was restored and I didn't have a single ache in my bones. It is a small blessing to be thankful for."

Ormund chuckled softly, a warm sound. "Ah, as you get older, sleep indeed becomes the most beautiful blessing. I sometimes dream of the past," he continued, his gaze becoming slightly distant. "A past where my parents were still alive, in our lands in the Stormlands. But sometimes those dreams quickly turn into nightmares. Things we didn't want to happen, shadows from the war... it always flashes in my head when I wake up." He sighed. "So yes, indeed. I think dreamless sleep is the greatest blessing."

Ormund was ten years older than Harys, around forty. What Harys knew from their previous conversations was that he came from the Stormlands, the son of a minor noble whose name he never mentioned. His parents were killed by a group of bandits when he was young. Ormund himself had participated in the War of the Ninepenny Kings as a young soldier before he took his vows as a Septon, so it was certain that behind his peaceful robes, he was a man who had known violence and battle. That experience gave him a depth and perspective that Harys, the weak farmer's son, did not possess.

"May the Seven bless us all." Harys felt the depth behind the man's words. There was a sadness that had settled into wisdom. "I am sure you will get through it as soon as possible, Ormund."

Ormund laughed again, this time a more relaxed laugh, as if the dark cloud had passed. "Hahaha, the Seven have already given me their blessing, Harys. Now, those dreams are just like shadows in the water that I don't care about." He reassured, his blue eyes clear again. "What will you be teaching the children this time?"

"Arithmetic," Harys showed the sheets of paper with the practice problems he had prepared. "Basic addition, subtraction. Some of them really like this, maybe because they see their own fathers counting coins every night."

Ormund chuckled, stroking his smooth chin. "Who doesn't like money? When I was little, I was once given a dragon coin by my uncle. One whole dragon! It felt like I was the king of the world." He smiled at the memory. "And I spent it all within two weeks. Buying sweets, wooden toys, even tried to buy a small dagger, which of course was immediately confiscated by my father. But it was so satisfying, when every day you felt you could buy anything you wanted."

"True," Harys agreed, smiling at the thought of an enthusiastic young Ormund. "Money isn't everything, the Seven teach us that. Virtue, faith, family, those are far more valuable. However," he added with a practical tone he had learned from teaching the merchant children, "everything in this world requires money. Bread on the table, a roof over your head, even candles for prayer. That is why one must not be lazy and must keep working hard. Not just expect something to fall from the sky like rain."

"Wise words from a young teacher," said Ormund with an agreeable tone. "You know, Harys, the work you do in that school is important. More important than you might realize."

"I am only teaching them to read and count," Harys replied humbly.

"You are giving them tools," Ormund corrected. "Tools to understand the world around them. Tools to improve their lives. Maybe one of those children won't end up just as a fishmonger like his father. Maybe he will read about laws and become a scribe. Maybe he will read about the stars and become a maester." Ormund paused for a moment, his gaze becoming more intense. "Or maybe he will just become a better fishmonger, one who is more successful and not easily cheated."

"Sometimes I wonder," Harys said softly, "if we are doing the right thing. Giving them this knowledge. Will it make them dissatisfied with their lives? Wanting more than what they were fated for?" It was a doubt that sometimes surfaced in his mind at night.

Ormund placed a calming hand on Harys's shoulder. "Fate is not a narrow footpath, Harys," he said gently. "It is a vast landscape with many roads. The Seven give us choices. Knowledge is the light that helps us see those roads more clearly. It is not our job to decide which path they must take, but it is our job to give them as much light as possible." He smiled. "And if that knowledge makes them a little more pious in the process, that is an added bonus."

Harys felt the burden of his doubt lift slightly. Ormund had a way of making complicated things seem simple and right. "Thank you, Ormund. You always know what to say."

"I only say what I believe," the older Septon replied. "Now, go. The children are waiting for you. And I must prepare for morning prayers."

Harys then said goodbye to Ormund, feeling his spirits restored. He walked out of the Sept's cool corridor and onto the streets of Lannisport, which were starting to get busy. The sun was higher now, and the aroma of fresh baked bread from a nearby bakery filled the air. His stomach began to growl.

He headed to a small, simple eatery near the harbor, his favorite place for breakfast. The place was always crowded with morning workers, but the food was good and the price was affordable. He ordered a bowl of warm oat porridge with a little honey and a thick slice of bread. While eating, he observed the people around him, the fishermen just returning from the sea, their faces tired but satisfied; the small merchants discussing the price of fish; the dockworkers taking a short break before starting their heavy labor.

This was the world of his students. A world of calculations, hard work, and simple hopes. And he, Harys, a weak farmer's son, had somehow been given the chance to give them the tools to navigate this world a little better.

As he finished his porridge and felt the warmth spread in his stomach, he felt grateful. Grateful for Septon Glenn, for his father's kindness, for the opportunity given by the Lannisters, and for Ormund's wisdom.

This was a good day. And he was ready to teach.

…

"You received another letter, Cat?"

A smile touched Brynden Tully's lips as he saw his niece, Catelyn, coming out of her room. The little girl, well, not so little anymore, she was already eleven name days old, held a carefully sealed sheet of paper. Her bright auburn hair, a Tully trademark, looked like liquid fire under the flickering candlelight along the somewhat damp corridors of Riverrun.

Catelyn blushed immediately, a pink hue creeping up her cheeks, signaling that Brynden's guess was correct. The letter must be from her distant betrothed, the heir of Casterly Rock. "Jaime said that his day today was the same as a month ago," Catelyn said, her voice a little shy. "It was spent helping his uncle, Ser Tygett, wiping swords, polishing armor, and even taking care of the horses."

Brynden's smile widened. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed. He knew his niece. Catelyn was a serious and responsible child, grown up too fast like most firstborns. She wouldn't blush just from hearing about the boring duties of a squire. "But?" Brynden prompted, it couldn't be just that in the letter.

Catelyn's face turned redder. She hugged the paper a little tighter. "He... he gave me a poem," she whispered. "It was very touching."

"A poem?" Now Brynden was truly interested. A young lion writing poetry? That was an unusual combination. He leaned in a little. "Can you tell me? I always appreciate good words."

Catelyn shook her head quickly, her blue eyes looking at him with an apologetic gaze. "No, Uncle. This is for me. He made it himself, he said as a gift."

"Ah, how romantic," Brynden chuckled, taking a step back. He respected his niece's privacy, even though his curiosity was piqued. "I am very curious, but if you refuse, who am I to force?" He shrugged with a look of mock resignation. He observed Catelyn for a moment, the way the girl held the letter as if it were a treasure. "You like the boy?"

The question was simple, but the answer was complicated. Jaime Lannister and Catelyn Tully had been betrothed for over six months. A match arranged with lightning speed between his brother, Hoster, and the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Brynden still remembered how bright Hoster's face was when that raven from King's Landing arrived. A request from Tywin Lannister himself, offering his son and heir for Hoster's eldest daughter. It was an offer impossible for Hoster to refuse, whose ambition to elevate House Tully was always as great as the Trident river itself. He accepted without a second thought, without much consultation, only seeing the strategic advantage and glory of such an alliance.

But Catelyn and Jaime themselves had never met. Not even once. Jaime was busy with his affairs, first as a page and now as a squire to his own uncle, Tygett Lannister, a rather strange arrangement, Brynden thought, but who could understand the workings of Tywin Lannister's mind? Besides, there were rumors of other projects taking up the boy's time. 'Paper'. That new thing had already become a sensation throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Merchants in Riverrun talked about it, maesters at court ordered it. It was cheaper than parchment, more practical, and came from the richest House in Westeros. And apparently, something even bigger was waiting. Hoster, after his visit to King's Landing to formalize the engagement, returned with other stories, something called a "Printing Press", which he said would allow books to be copied in large numbers.

The point was, this heir of Casterly Rock was no ordinary noble son. He was a very valuable asset. Handsome, as rumored, a Lannister trademark. Smart, the invention of paper and the printing press was proof. And, according to whispers, he was also very skilled with a sword, even at his young age. Everything Hoster wanted in a husband for his beloved daughter.

But all of that was just reputation, reports, and rumors. What about the boy himself? Was he kind? Would he make Cat happy? That's what Brynden worried about.

"Jaime is very nice," Catelyn finally answered, her voice quiet and considered. She looked at the letter in her hand. "He always starts his letters by asking how I am first, about Lysa and Edmure, about my lessons. Then he'll make a joke about something, about Ser Tygett being too serious, or about how bad the food he made was, to make me laugh." Her eyes shone as she spoke. "He also tells me all sorts of things. Sometimes about a book he just read, sometimes about strange people he saw. Whether it's a real story or one made up by his own mind, it's all so impressive. He has a way of storytelling that makes me feel as if I were there."

"That's good," Brynden said gently. "But the question is, do you like him?" He stressed the last word.

Catelyn seemed to think for a moment, biting her lower lip. She gazed down the corridor, as if trying to visualize the boy she only knew through written words. "He's like a man from a song," she said softly. "The golden knight from the West. Handsome, smart, brave, even writes poetry. He sounds so perfect... but seems distant at the same time, because we haven't met at all." She paused, then turned back to Brynden, and a small, sincere smile appeared on her face. "But yes. I think I like him, Uncle."

Brynden felt a wave of relief. It wasn't burning love, of course not. How could it be, when they had never even laid eyes on each other? But it was a good start. An affection, a hope. It was more than many couples had in political matches.

He nodded, placing his large, rough hand on his niece's shoulder. "That's good," he said. "He sounds like a good lad. At least, from what you've told me, he doesn't sound like the type of man who would hurt you."

"Keep your poem safe then," he said with a smile, removing his hand from her shoulder. "And maybe next time, you can read just one verse for your old, curious uncle?"

Catelyn laughed, a melodious laugh. "Maybe, Uncle. Maybe."

He watched his niece walk away down the corridor, the paper still held tightly in her hand, her step a little lighter than before. Brynden leaned back against the wall, his smile fading into a more contemplative expression.

…

Waldon was a patient man. At least, that's what he always told himself. In his fifty years of life in this world, he had learned that patience was the most valuable currency, especially for someone like him. He had experienced many ups and downs, more downs than ups, to be honest. There were faint, happy memories, his wedding day with Ellyn, the birth of his first son Mathis, then Lyra, but more often, his mind was filled with memories of struggle: harsh winters when food supplies dwindled, mounting debts to a cunning wool merchant, his father's failed harvest that almost made them lose their small plot of land. Yes, he had known hardship like he knew the palm of his own hand.

However, these past ten years had been different. These ten years were a good turmoil, a rising tide that finally lifted his rickety boat. The peak of his career in trading had risen rapidly, far beyond his wildest dreams. At first, he was just Waldon the butcher, standing on a corner of Oldtown's busy market, selling cuts of cured meat and sausages he made himself. It was honest work, but the returns were mediocre.

Then, an opportunity came in the form of an old scribe complaining about the sky-high price of parchment. That scribe, the grumpy but sharp-witted Maester Gerold, had given him an idea. Parchment. Sheepskin and calfskin painstakingly processed into a valuable writing medium. The production was complicated, requiring time and skill, but the demand was always there, especially in a city like Oldtown, home to the great Citadel.

Waldon, with his typical patience, learned the craft. He spent his savings to buy some quality skins, learned from an old craftsman who was about to retire, made costly mistakes, but kept learning. He worked tirelessly, his hands becoming calloused and smelling strange, but slowly but surely, he mastered it. His parchment was smooth, strong, and consistent in color. The scribes and acolytes of the Citadel began to recognize it. Orders started coming in.

For ten years, Waldon's parchment business flourished. He moved from a market corner to a proper little workshop. He hired two assistants. He even started getting orders from outside Oldtown, from minor Lords in the Reach who needed parchment to record genealogies or send important letters. He could finally provide a comfortable life for Ellyn and his children. Mathis was now apprenticed to a blacksmith, and Lyra helped her mother at home. They were not wealthy, but they were secure. Their bellies were full, and they had a sturdy roof over their heads. Waldon felt proud. He had built something from scratch, with his own hands and patience.

Sipping his cheap drink that tasted bitter on his tongue tonight, Waldon listened to the chatter around him in "The Melting Candle" tavern. The sound of rough laughter, clinking cups, and drunken arguments was usually a soothing backdrop for him after a hard day's work. But tonight, there was one topic that kept buzzing in his ears, annoying him like a blowfly: paper.

This paper, that paper. The new thing from the Lannisters. People talked about it as if it were the most historic invention in mankind! As if the Seven Gods themselves descended from the sky and gave it to them.

"Cheaper, you know?" said a cloth merchant at the next table. "Half the price of the best parchment, maybe less!"

"And light," chimed in a young, drunk-looking scribe. "I can carry a hundred sheets without feeling like I'm carrying a dead calf!"

"It's whiter, too," added another. "My writing looks clearer on it."

Waldon clenched his fists under the table. Disgusted. He felt disgusted. Who needed this thin, flimsy paper when you had parchment? Parchment was time-tested. Parchment was more durable, classier. It was the medium of kings and great maesters, used for thousands of years! This paper... this was just a fleeting fad, a cheap thing for people who didn't appreciate quality.

Damn it!

With a sudden movement that made a few people turn, Waldon rose from his seat. He slammed a few copper pieces onto the sticky table, enough to pay for his drink and a little more, then walked out of that gathering place of people with no future, leaving the buzz of conversation about 'paper' behind him.

The cool night air of Oldtown felt slightly calming on his face, which was hot with anger and ale. But inside, a storm still raged. This was infuriating. It was so infuriating when the business you had built with hardship over years, drop by drop of sweat, was destroyed overnight by a fancy new invention.

A few months prior, driven by his growing success, Waldon had taken a bold step. He borrowed a large sum of gold, more than he had ever held in his life, from several other wealthier merchants. He used it to expand his workshop, buy more high-quality skins, and even hire two more workers. He dreamed of becoming the main parchment supplier in the entire Reach, perhaps even competing with the producers in King's Landing.

But then, the paper came. Like an invisible plague, it spread quickly. His parchment orders began to decline. Slowly at first, just a few cancellations here and there. But then the decline became drastic. The Citadel acolytes, who used to be his regular customers, now preferred the cheaper paper for their notes. The small merchants, who counted every copper coin, switched to paper for their bookkeeping. Even some scribes, tempted by its practicality and price, began to use it for drafts and less important letters.

Now, his parchment sales had plummeted. His newly expanded workshop felt empty and quiet. His workers sat idle more often than they worked. And his debts... those debts loomed over him like a dark storm cloud. The merchants who had lent him money were starting to ask questions and look at him with cold, assessing gazes. How was he going to handle this?

The thought made him want to hit something, to punch the nearest stone wall until his knuckles bled. He had a wife and children to feed. He had promised Ellyn a better life. He had promised himself that his children would never know hunger as he once had. And now? Would they be destitute instead? Would his good name be tarnished because of his debts? Would they lose their home?

Waldon couldn't bear the thought. A cold despair began to creep into his heart.

Lannister. The name was so bitter on his tongue and in his ears right now. They had been fabulously wealthy for thousands of years, sitting on their mountain of gold. Why? Why did they have to meddle in his small business? Why did they have to create something that destroyed the livelihoods of ordinary people like him? Was their gold not enough? Were they so bored with their wealth that they had to ruin other people's lives just for entertainment?

Waldon gritted his teeth, a burning hatred searing his chest. He walked aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of Oldtown, his mind racing. He turned to his other thoughts, trying to find a way out, a glimmer of hope. He still had a little left from that loan, maybe a thousand golden dragon coins remaining. An amount that sounded large, but with workers still needing to be paid their weekly wages, raw skins still needing to be bought, though he doubted he would need them anymore, and the loan interest continuing to accrue, this money would vanish like morning dew in just a few months.

He knew he was not alone. His fellow parchment merchants in Oldtown were also feeling the impact. Old Man Harlon, whose workshop had been passed down from his grandfather. Matthew Flowers, the bastard who worked hard to prove himself. They all had the same problem. Sales down, the future grim.

They had gathered a few times, speaking in low voices in tavern corners, sharing their grievances and fears. But no solution emerged. How could you compete with a product that was cheaper, more practical, and backed by the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms?

If only... The dark thought emerged unbidden, a wicked whisper in his mind. If only those papers were ashes... If only their mill in Lannisport was put to the torch... If only their supply was choked off.....

Maybe things would go back to how they were. Maybe parchment would be valuable again. Maybe he could save his business, his family, his pride.

If only they could...

Waldon stopped in the middle of the empty street, the darkness of the night seeming to creep into his soul. The thought was terrifying, but also... tempting. He shook his head hard, trying to banish the dangerous whisper. He was Waldon, the patient man. He was an honest craftsman. He was not a criminal.

But as he continued his step towards home, towards Ellyn and his children, the whisper remained, hiding in the dark corner of his mind, waiting. Waiting for the moment when his patience finally ran out.

---

If you think Gerion's ship doesn't make sense, blame it on me, I don't know anything about ships, lol.
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