Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

JAIME | CATELYN​

---

The sound of heavy and steady breathing filled the air in the dusty corner of the Red Keep's training yard.

Jaime Lannister lowered his training sword, its tip touching the sandy ground. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, falling onto the dry earth. He sighed a long sigh, trying to calm his racing heartbeat after a full hour of intensive training session. The muscles in his arms felt hot, a familiar and satisfying burning sensation after hard work.

Opposite him, Jon Connington was also wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his training tunic. His signature red hair looked limp and dark from wetness, sticking to his neck and temples. The man stood tall despite being tired, his posture always radiating rigid discipline.

"You are getting faster, Jaime," commented Jon, his voice slightly breathless but remaining serious. He did not give praise cheaply, so Jaime knew it was sincere. "Your defense was hard to penetrate today."

"And your attacks are as heavy as a blacksmith's hammer, Jon," replied Jaime, grinning while rotating his stiff shoulders. "I think I will be bruised tomorrow morning."

Jon only snorted, the corner of his lips lifting slightly, a thin smile rarely seen. Jon Connington was a good man, in his stiff and dutiful way. He was a capable soldier, a dedicated lord, and a loyal friend.

However, sometimes Jaime felt something strange.

Something invisible yet tickling the nape of his neck every time they were near Rhaegar together.

He didn't know, it felt like Jon was staring into him deeper than usual. Not the assessing gaze of a sparring opponent, but a gaze seeking to find out if Jaime was worthy of standing by the Prince's side. There was a burning intensity in Jon's eyes when he looked at Rhaegar, adoration, absolute loyalty, and perhaps something deeper.

Jaime wasn't sure what was wrong, or if he was just imagining things because he thought too much about future plots. So, he just let it pass for now. He wouldn't dig further. His mind was already filled with various kinds of things, he didn't have to bother adding another to his list, right?

"Thank you for training with me, Jon," said Jaime sincerely, while walking to take a coarse towel handed by a servant.

That name, Jon, was still confusing every time he said it.

In his head, the list of "Jons" kept growing. There was Jon Arryn of the Vale, there was Jon Connington standing before him. And of course, he also had a personal guard named Jon, Jon the guard who was currently in Lannisport or Casterly Rock overseeing his projects.

How could I know so many people named Jon? thought Jaime with amusement. Did parents in Westeros run out of name ideas? The name was truly popular.

"No matter," Jon shrugged, brushing dust from his trousers. "I also have nothing else to do this morning. Arthur is on duty accompanying King Rhaegar. And the others are busy for the coronation day, everyone is busy with something."

They walked slowly leaving the training area, heading to a stone bench on the edge of the field to rest for a moment before returning to the main castle.

"What do you think about Rhaegar?" asked Jon suddenly, his voice lowering. He did not look at Jaime, but stared at Maegor's Holdfast tower in the distance.

Jaime gulped water from the waterskin he brought. "He... endures. He does his duty."

"He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders," corrected Jon, his tone full of deep empathy. "Because of King Aerys's death, now he has to do this sooner than he should have."

Jon turned to Jaime, his eyes sharp. "He needs friends, Jaime. True friends. Not sycophants who want titles or lands. He needs people he can trust to watch his back while he looks forward, does he not?"

"I know," said Jaime softly. "Arthur does his part. You do your part."

"And you?" urged Jon. "I saw you with him in the garden yesterday. He laughed. I have not heard him laugh like that since... a very long time."

There was a possessive note in Jon's voice, but also reluctant gratitude.

"I just try to make him forget the crown for a moment," answered Jaime diplomatically. "Music, books, silly stories. Human things."

Jon nodded stiffly. "Good. Keep doing that. I... I can protect him with a sword. I can lead his armies if he commands me. But I am not good at making people laugh. I am too serious, they say."

Jaime stared at Jon with a little admiration for that friendship.

Before him was a sincere man with pure loyalty. He was willing to do anything for the happiness and safety of that prince without asking for anything in return other than the chance to serve.

While he was here?

Jaime felt a bitter taste on his tongue. He was here because his father 'ordered' it.

"Get inside the king's circle," said Tywin. "Ensure he is on the right path. Be his rational voice."

It was manipulation. It was a political maneuver to ensure House Lannister kept holding control over the Iron Throne through soft influence.

It wasn't that Jaime would truly manipulate Rhaegar for evil purposes. No, Steven had his own morals. He liked Rhaegar. He wanted Rhaegar to succeed because that meant a safer world. He only nodded agreeing to Tywin's orders merely to calm the old man's nerves.

But still, it made him feel a little guilty.

He felt like a fraud standing beside a saint. Jon gave his heart; Jaime gave his strategy.

"You do not need to worry too much, Jon, Rhaegar is not a weak man."

"Good," said Jon. He stood up, taking his sword. "I must go. I promised Rhaegar to check the city watch preparations."

They parted at the corridor junction. Jon turned towards the barracks, his steps steady and purposeful. Jaime watched him for a moment, then turned towards the direction of his room.

While walking down the cold hallway, Jaime's mind shifted to another 'interrogation'.

Father.

Tywin Lannister was not only busy taking care of the kingdom. Lately, he was also busy taking care of his son. Or more precisely, the contents of his son's brain.

Since a few days ago, Tywin often called him to his solar at night. Not to lecture him about duties as an heir, although that was still there, but to ask.

Tywin interrogated him about whatever he could make. About the "strange" ideas Jaime had.

"What else are you hiding in that head of yours?" asked Tywin the night before, his eyes glinting under the candlelight. "You made paper. You made a needle point north. What else?"

Jaime certainly did not refuse to answer. That was good, actually.

All this time, at Casterly Rock, he had to move secretly or through intermediaries like Uncle Gerion or Kevan to realize his ideas. He had to make his own experiments, prove his concepts worked, only then would Tywin glance at him.

Now? Tywin actively sought him out. Tywin gave resources.

Jaime had started talking about agriculture. Crop rotation. Planting turnips and clover to restore soil nutrients, instead of leaving fields fallow.

He also drew rough sketches of simple farming tools, a horse-drawn seed drill. Far more efficient than sowing by hand.

Tywin listened with frightening intensity. He didn't ask about the scientific principles; he asked about the results.

"How much harvest increase can we expect?" asked Tywin.

"Perhaps double in a few years, if done correctly," answered Jaime.

Tywin's eyes shone then. Gold was power, but food was life. If the Westerlands could produce as much food as the Reach, they would be unstoppable.

Jaime felt like he was feeding a dragon. He was giving tools of revolution to Tywin Lannister. He knew it was dangerous. But on the other hand, it was the only way to advance this world quickly. And Jaime needed this world to advance. He needed a healthy and large population, and to make people better.

He arrived in front of his room door. His personal servant, a young man named Peck, was already waiting.

"Prepare hot water, Peck," ordered Jaime while taking off his sword belt. "I smell like an old horse."

"Yes, My Lord. Immediately," answered Peck, rushing in.

Jaime entered his room, stretching his stiff neck. He needed a bath. He had to clean off the sweat and training dust, as well as the remnants of guilt sticking to his skin.

This afternoon, he had another agenda. An agenda far easier than sparring with Jon Connington or meeting with Tywin.

He would meet his betrothed.

Catelyn Tully.

...

Golden afternoon light flooded the long gallery overlooking the south garden of the Red Keep. Catelyn Tully stood near a high arched window, her hands resting lightly on the stone sill warm from sun exposure all day. She wore a dress of river blue silk with silver trout embroidery on the collar, but the cut was not as usual, with wider sleeves and a slimmer waist, following the capital fashion she observed at the welcoming feast yesterday. She wanted to look like part of this world, not just a girl from the riverbank.

Beside her stood Jaime Lannister.

The young man had just bathed; his golden hair was still slightly damp at the ends, and he smelled of lavender soap and clean leather, not the sword training sweat that usually clung to the men in Riverrun after noon. He wore a dark red tunic that fit his body, simple yet elegant, without too much flashy jewelry. A small gold lion pin was pinned on his chest, sparkling when hit by light.

Catelyn stole a glance at him. Jaime was handsome, no one could deny that. His green eyes were bright and sharp, his nose high, and there was an aura of relaxed confidence around him. Yet what made Catelyn feel relieved was not his good looks, but his attitude. He didn't look bored. He didn't look like he wanted to be elsewhere.

"You like being here?"

Jaime's question broke the comfortable silence between them. His voice was soft, lacking the haughty tone Catelyn often heard from other lords who felt themselves better than everyone. Jaime looked at her, not with a hungry or assessing gaze, but with sincere curiosity.

Catelyn turned fully, looking into the young man's green eyes. She smiled, feeling her cheeks warm slightly.

"Yes," answered Catelyn honestly, nodding slowly. She looked back at the city view down there, the roofs of houses huddled together, smoke billowing from chimneys, and ships sailing in the bay. "Of course. This is King's Landing. Since I was little, Father always told stories about the size of this city, about dragons that once flew above it. And seeing it directly... extraordinary."

She sighed softly, as if releasing a burden.

"It is a breath of fresh air, Jaime," she continued, her voice becoming more enthusiastic. "In Riverrun, days go slow. We know everyone, and everyone knows us. The routine is always the same. Morning in the sept, noon sewing, evening dinner. Here? Every day there is a new face. I can also meet many other nobles, especially those with similar interests."

Her blue eyes sparkled as she told her experience.

"Just this morning, I drank tea with Lady Janna Tyrell and several other ladies from the Vale in the garden," related Catelyn. "We talked about many things. About dancing techniques, which look very complicated and fast, about the harp music played by His Grace, and of course..." Catelyn laughed a little, covering her mouth politely, "About what we will do when we grow up. Being a Lady of a great castle is not a light task, you know? We exchanged herbal medicine recipes for fever and how to handle lazy servants."

Jaime chuckled, leaning relaxed on the stone wall, crossing his arms on his chest. "I am sure you will be a great Lady, Cat. Lazy servants won't dare lift their eyes before you. You have that 'Tully' stare, a stare that can make people feel guilty even if they did nothing."

That nickname 'Cat' sounded familiar, yet not presumptuous. Catelyn liked it. It felt warm.

"I hope so," said Catelyn. "I study hard."

"No need to worry," commented Jaime. He pointed towards a small crowd of nobles strolling in the garden below the gallery. "And it is indeed very crowded. Wherever you go, you will find someone. Sometimes it is fun, sometimes exhausting. You are never truly alone here. Even the walls have ears."

"That is why I am glad we can talk here," said Catelyn, lowering her voice slightly. "In a quiet corner. Far from the ears of the walls."

They laughed together. The laughter was light, breaking the remnants of her awkwardness.

Compared to the last time they met, where everything felt stiff, formal, and full of pressure, now they had become closer. Catelyn felt comfortable near him.

Jaime was stable. He was intelligent. Also very attentive. He listened. He didn't cut Catelyn's conversation to brag about his horses or swords. He asked about Catelyn's opinion, about what books she read, about how she liked the climate here.

"You know," said Jaime suddenly, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Just now I saw Lord Cressey trying to mount his horse. It took three squires to lift him. I worry his horse will file a petition to the King on charges of animal cruelty."

Catelyn covered her mouth to hold back impolite laughter, her eyes widening. "Jaime! That is very mean."

"It is a fact, Cat. Facts are not mean, only honest," Jaime grinned. "And you should have seen the hat Lady Olenna wore. I swear I saw a bird's nest in it. Maybe she is incubating a secret dragon egg."

"Stop it," Catelyn hit Jaime's arm lightly with her fan, but she laughed. "Lady Olenna is very sharp. She can hear you, even if she is not here."

"Let her hear. Maybe she will give me the egg."

Jaime had a dry and slightly cynical sense of humor, often making jokes about the excessive grandeur of other nobles. It made Catelyn feel they had a shared secret, a private joke amidst a serious world.

Then, Jaime's tone changed a little softer.

"How is Edmure?" asked Jaime suddenly, smiling, a smile that reached his eyes. "That spirited brother of yours. He tried to challenge me to climb a tree in the Riverrun yard, remember? He said he was the best squirrel in the Trident. I wonder if he has managed to climb to that highest branch without falling."

Catelyn's heart warmed. Most lords only cared about the heir or the daughter they would marry. The fact that Jaime remembered her little brother's silly game, even the details of that silly challenge, showed his true character.

"He is well," answered Catelyn gently. "He is still at Riverrun with Uncle Brynden. Father said he had to learn about House names first before meeting them, and Edmure was very angry. He sulked for three days, refusing to eat his favorite cake. He wanted to see the knights in white armor. He wanted to see you, actually."

"Ah, what a pity," said Jaime sympathetically. "He lost the chance to see the funny masks at the feast."

"He sends his regards," added Catelyn. "He asked when you will come again to see his 'secret fortress' by the riverbank."

"Next time, if I go to Riverrun, I will come," promised Jaime. "And I will bring him a wooden toy knight from Lannisport. One painted with gold and red colors."

"He will like it," said Catelyn. "He likes anything related to adventure. He... he might be a little lonely because Lysa and I left."

"And Lysa?" asked Jaime politely. "She is here, right? I saw her at the feast, but she looked... scared."

Catelyn sighed softly. "Lysa... she is shy. This crowd makes her anxious. She is afraid of speaking wrong or stepping wrong. Father is trying to find her a match too, and that makes her even more nervous. She is afraid of being married to a fierce old lord."

"Tell her not to worry," said Jaime. "If your Father tries to marry her to Walder Frey, I will lend my sword to her to run away."

Catelyn laughed again. "Walder Frey? By the Seven, don't joke about that. That is a nightmare."

"I am serious. No one deserves that fate," said Jaime, smiling. "And you? You are not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Marrying me," said Jaime straightforwardly. "Moving to Casterly Rock. Leaving the river for the rock and the western sea. People say Lannisters are arrogant, cold, and... well, you know my Father's reputation."

Catelyn fell silent for a moment. She looked at the face of the young man before her.

"Before... maybe I was afraid," she admitted honestly. "When Father first told me. Casterly Rock sounded very far. And Lord Tywin... he is intimidating. But..."

She looked into Jaime's green eyes.

"Not anymore. Not after knowing you. You are not like your family's reputation, Jaime. You are... warm. You make me laugh."

Jaime looked a little surprised by that honesty, then his ears turned slightly red. "Don't tell anyone. I have an 'arrogant brat' reputation to maintain."

"Your secret is safe with me," Catelyn smiled gently.

They chatted for a long time, until they didn't feel the time, then looked out the window again. The sun began to descend, touching the horizon line, turning the sky into a canvas painted with purple, red, and gold colors. The afternoon wind blew harder, bringing a refreshing cold air.

"The sunset here is different from Riverrun," murmured Catelyn. "There, the sun sinks behind forests and hills. Here, it sinks into the city."

"At Casterly Rock, it sinks into the sea," said Jaime. "One day, you will see it. The color is like liquid gold at twilight. That is why we are called the 'West'. We have the last sun."

"Sounds beautiful."

"Indeed."

They stood in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, enjoying each other's presence without needing to fill every second with words. It was a sign of rare compatibility.

Then Jaime straightened his body from leaning on the wall. He smoothed his tunic. There was a clear note of regret in his voice when he spoke.

"I must go," said Jaime. He looked at Catelyn with an apologetic gaze. "My father... he has other 'plans' for me tonight. He does not like waiting."

"Of course," said Catelyn, trying to hide her disappointment. She enjoyed this time. "Lord Tywin must be busy. You must not keep him waiting."

"I would prefer to stay here," said Jaime, and Catelyn knew he meant it. "Listening to you tell stories about Riverrun is far more interesting than listening to Father talk about taxes."

"Taxes are important," teased Catelyn.

"Maybe. But father's gaze is sharp." Then he bowed.

"Thank you for the time, Lady Catelyn," he said formally, but his eyes blinked mischievously. "See you again, oh and you know the coronation feast? I will make sure to save you if other Lords try to ask you to dance and step on your feet."

"I will hold you to your promise," Catelyn smiled.

"Good night, Cat."

"Good night, Jaime."

Jaime turned and walked away down the gallery, his steps steady and confident. Catelyn watched him until he disappeared around the corridor corner.

She stood there alone for a moment, holding her hands. The sea breeze hit her face, but she didn't feel cold.

She thought about the future. Casterly Rock. Lannisport. Being Jaime Lannister's wife.

She sighed.

 

[Daario]

JON | RHAEGAR​

---

Jon of Clearwater stood for a moment at the bend of the uphill path, letting the wind ruffle his hair which was now cut neater than when he was still Jaime's personal guard. He squinted, not because of the glare, but because of the amazement that never ceased every time he gazed at the expanse of the city down there.

Lannisport glittered under the morning sun. Colorful rooftops, busy cobblestone streets, and a harbor crowded with ship masts, everything looked like a living painting. In the distance, Casterly Rock towered arrogantly, a stone giant guarding all this wealth.

The view was breathtaking, but what was more amazing to Jon was the reality that he could stand here, on this high ground, not as a servant carrying his master's goods, but as a man with purpose, land, and his own status.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air of freedom, then continued his steps. His leather boots were of the best quality, comfortable for long walks, crunching crisply on the gravel. His destination was the large stone building that had just been erected on a flatter slope of the hill: The Lannisport Printing House.

While walking uphill, his mind drifted to the past.

His life had changed so much since two years ago. The change was so drastic that sometimes Jon felt he was living someone else's life. Two years ago, he was just 'Jon', a farmer's son from the village of Clearwater who happened to be able to hold a sword. He had no surname, no land, and his greatest wealth was an ordinary iron sword.

Now? He was Ser Jon of Clearwater, a confidant of Lord Jaime Lannister.

Now he owned land. A plot of fertile land on the outskirts of Lannisport, a direct gift from Ser Kevan. On that land stood a warm two-story stone house. Large enough to accommodate both his parents whom he had brought from the village.

Before, he never dreamed of obtaining such luxury. Now, when he had obtained it, he was grateful and made the best use of it.

He used his position to help others. He invited several of his village friends who didn't have jobs to Lannisport, giving them temporary shelter and menial jobs like cutting grass. He gave them pay he felt was high enough, because he knew what it felt like to have nothing.

His income was currently stable. As one of the few people who understood the paper-making process from scratch, his knowledge was valued in gold. He no longer worried about what to eat tomorrow.

"How about the working men, Dorian?" Jon asked while continuing to walk.

The man walking beside him was Dorian, the operational leader of the printing machines. He was a young man with good physical features and a firm jaw, giving an impression of natural authority.

"They learn fast, Ser Jon," answered Dorian with a proud smile. "At first it was quite difficult to explain the concept of letters and arranging blocks. But a few days later, they started finding the rhythm. The typesetting team, the ink team, the press team... it's like a dance, but sweatier."

Jon laughed. "I thought so too. But it is truly pleasing to see when they are all in order, isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed Dorian. "And it is even more pleasing when the results are visible. Seeing books piling up... it feels extraordinary. Knowing that our hands participated in making them is truly satisfying. It feels like there is a distinct satisfaction."

Jon nodded. He could very well understand that feeling. He remembered back to the early days of making paper with Jaime. The excitement of conquering something new other than swinging a sword.

They reached the top of the hill. The stone building stood sturdy in front of them. However, as they approached the large double doors, Jon's steps slowed.

The sound of machines was not heard.

Usually, the sound of metal clashing and wood creaking could be heard up to this road. But now, silence.

Jon exchanged glances with Dorian. Dorian's face tensed. Without a word, they quickened their pace.

When they entered the main hall of the workshop, the sight that greeted them was not productive busyness.

The printing presses stood frozen still. Ink drying on them.

The workers were not at their posts. Instead, they gathered in the center of the room, forming a tight and dense circle.

They were whispering, but the sound died instantly when the door opened and sunlight intruded along with Jon.

Heads turned. The crowd parted slowly, making way with heavy movements, as if the air in the room had turned into oil.

Jon walked through that human corridor, his face hardening.

In the center of the circle, on the cold stone floor, were two human figures.

Two men.

They were both kneeling, hands tied behind their backs with rough rope. Their condition was pitiful. Clothes torn, faces swollen, and fresh blood dripping onto the floor. They were battered, clearly having just received mob judgment.

Jon observed them coldly.

The first man was Arian, a young worker in the ink section Jon knew. His face was ruined, his eyes swollen shut, his body trembling violently.

The second man was a stranger. Bald, mid-thirty namedays, wearing merchant clothes now dirty. His face was pale as a sheet, his eyes wild like a trapped animal.

Two guards stood behind them, holding clubs, their breath heaving.

Gerry, the foreman, stepped forward from the crowd. His face was flushed red, neck veins bulging holding back explosive anger. However, he did not shout. He did not utter a single word.

The silence in the room was so thick that the sound of blood drops falling to the floor was clearly heard.

Gerry spoke, then extended his trembling hand. In his fingers dirty with ink, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper.

Jon took the paper.

He flattened it slowly. His brown eyes swept over the charcoal lines on it.

It was a sketch. A rough drawing of the printing press mechanism. Detailed. Probably accurate. With small notes on the margins about how the levers worked.

Jon lifted his face from the paper. His gaze fell on Arian who was crying silently, then shifted to the bald stranger staring at him with pure terror in his eyes.

Jon did not ask. He didn't need to ask.

He crumpled the paper in his hand. The sound of the paper being crushed sounded very loud in the quiet room.

The time of peace and luxury seemed to have just ended this morning, and it opened with something they had predicted would happen long before this.

Betrayal.

...

The full-length silver mirror standing in the corner of the room reflected a figure Rhaegar recognized, yet at the same time felt foreign.

The man in the mirror wore the finest clothes ever woven by King's Landing tailors. A tunic of pitch-black velvet that absorbed light, decorated with embroidery of the three-headed dragon in shimmering thread on the chest. A blood-red silk cloak fell from his shoulders, heavy and regal. His silver hair, usually left a little wild blown by the wind when he played the harp, was now cut slightly to be tidied and combed back, revealing a firm jawline and purple eyes full of a storm of emotions.

Rhaegar stared at the man. He stared into his own purple eyes.

This is him, thought Rhaegar. The man who starting today I will see every day.

The feeling was terrifying, like standing on the edge of a steep cliff with waves crashing below. Yet at the same time, his chest pounded hard with anticipation. There was something in the air today, an energy promising change. He was no longer the Prince waiting in his father's shadows. He was the sun rising.

Knock. Knock.

A knock on the door was heard.

Rhaegar took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly to calm his heartbeat, then turned from the mirror.

"Enter," he commanded.

The double doors were opened by a servant. Two white-cloaked figures stepped in with perfect synchronization. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jonothor Darry. Their faces hidden behind polished white helms, but Rhaegar could feel the same tension radiating from them.

"The time has come, Your Grace," said Arthur. His voice calm, an anchor in the middle of Rhaegar's sea of uncertainty.

"The carriage is waiting in the inner courtyard," added Jonothor.

Rhaegar nodded. No one spoke further. Everyone knew that this was a monumental day, a day where history was written. Spending energy on pleasantries felt like unnecessary waste. Silence was the best form of respect right now.

Rhaegar stepped out, flanked by his two white brothers.

They descended the stairs of Maegor's Holdfast. at the foot of the stairs, Queen Rhaella, the Queen Mother, was already waiting.

The woman smiled when she saw her son. There was burning pride in her purple eyes, erasing traces of past suffering. She wore a black and red silk dress matching Rhaegar. in her arms, little Prince Viserys, staring around with wide eyes full of curiosity.

"Mother," greeted Rhaegar softly, kissing his mother's cheek.

"You look... ready," whispered Rhaella, her voice trembling slightly with emotion.

They continued down, passing the empty Great Hall, towards the courtyard where the grand royal carriage, painted black, was waiting. Large black horses snorted, their breath becoming steam in the morning air.

"Your Grace."

Every noble, servant, and guard who saw them immediately bowed deeply. They gave way like parting water. Some couldn't hold back, cheering softly, "The Seven bless King Rhaegar!" or "Long live the King!"

Rhaegar only nodded stiffly, a thin smile fixed on his lips. He helped his mother up into the carriage, then followed inside. The door was closed from the outside, confining them in velvet luxury and momentary privacy.

The carriage began to move with a gentle jolt. Its wheels rumbled over the stones, a rhythmic and hypnotic sound.

Rhaegar sat upright, his hands gripping his own knees. He stared out the window, seeing the Red Keep walls slowly moving away.

"You look tense, Rhaegar," his mother's voice broke the silence inside the carriage.

Rhaegar turned. Rhaella was patting the back of Viserys who was starting to get sleepy.

"Of course," Rhaegar tried to laugh, but his voice sounded dry in his own ears. "This is the most historic day in my life, Mother. This will be recorded in books by Maesters, and remembered by everyone for a hundred years to come. Every movement, every word I say later... will be judged. Of course I am tense."

Rhaella smiled gently, shaking her head slightly.

"Do not worry about the Maesters or history," said Rhaella. "They will write what they want to write. Focus on the moment."

"It is hard not to think about it. The crown... its weight is not just physical."

"Indeed," Rhaella admitted. She moved Viserys to a more comfortable position. "But, you are Rhaegar. You have prepared yourself for this all your life."

"Preparation is not the same as reality, Mother," argued Rhaegar softly. "In books, being King sounds noble. But now, as this carriage approaches the Great Sept... it feels like I am heading to an execution, not a coronation."

Rhaella chuckled, a sound that surprised Rhaegar.

"Oh, Rhaegar. You are always too dramatic. That is your artist's soul speaking," teased his mother. "Execution? The people out there worship the ground you walk on. They do not bring axes, they bring flowers."

"They worship hope," corrected Rhaegar. "They hope I will fix everything instantly. Hope is a heavy burden, Mother."

"And you are strong enough to shoulder it," said Rhaella firmly. She reached out, squeezing Rhaegar's clenched hand. "Listen to me. Do not treat this as a test. Do not treat this as a trial."

"Then as what?"

"Just treat all this the same as a nameday feast," said Rhaella, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "A celebration. Today, this kingdom is reborn with you. And you will be fine. You just need to walk, smile, and let the High Septon do the boring part with oil and prayers."

Rhaegar felt the tension in his shoulders melt slightly hearing his mother's light tone.

"Just walk and smile?" he asked.

"And don't trip over your cloak," added Rhaella while winking. "That is the most important advice. The rest will flow like a song."

The carriage began to slow down. The sound from outside, which was just a faint hum, now turned into a distinct roar. Like the sound of waves hitting a cliff. It was the sound of thousands of humans.

"We have arrived," whispered Rhaegar. His heart raced again, but this time there was a little calmness there thanks to his mother.

The carriage stopped completely.

The door was knocked from outside, then opened wide by a palace servant who bowed until his nose almost touched the ground.

The scorching midday sunlight broke into the dim carriage, dazzling Rhaegar's eyes for a moment.

He squinted, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and stepped out.

As his feet touched the ground and his vision became clear, his breath hitched.

There, in front of him, the Great Sept of Baelor towered brilliant white, its dome sparkling under the sun.

But it was not the building that made him transfixed.

It was the sea of humans.

...

Inside one of the interrogation cells located deep beneath the rock, there was only the sound of water dripping from the ceiling into a puddle in the corner of the room. A slow and torturous rhythm, like a countdown to madness.

Jon stood near the tightly closed iron door, his back against the cold stone wall. His face was expressionless, but his sharp eyes missed not a single detail of the grim scene before him.

In the center of the room, tied to a wooden chair nailed to the floor, sat the bald man.

His condition was far worse than when he was dragged out of the printing house this morning. His round face was now swollen shapeless, his eyes squinting due to spreading purple bruises. His lip was split, and dried blood formed a crust on his chin. He no longer looked like a panicked rat; now he looked like a lump of meat that had given up.

While Arian, the young traitor, was still languishing in another cell, crying and begging for mercy.

Ser Kevan Lannister stood in front of the prisoner.

Jon observed his master with cautious curiosity. He knew Ser Kevan as a patient and friendly man. Kevan was a good uncle to Jaime, a fair administrator for Lannisport.

But today, Jon saw another side of Kevan Lannister.

Ser Kevan's green eyes looked deeper than usual, as if the light had been pulled out of there, leaving only cold darkness. His face wrinkled, not from age, but from frustration held back with steel discipline. No friendly smile. No wise words. There was only cruelty.

"What is your name? And who ordered you?" Ser Kevan asked. His voice calm, flat, yet echoing on the stone walls with a threat more terrifying than a scream.

The man only stared at him blankly. His head tilted up powerlessly, his neck seemingly unable to support the weight of his skull anymore. His face flat, his vision blurred, perhaps from pain or perhaps because he had resigned himself.

Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating.

"I will say it again," repeated Ser Kevan, his tone not changing a bit. Predator patience. "What is your name?"

Silence. Only the sound of dripping water answered.

Ser Kevan did not shout. He did not threaten. He only turned his head slightly to the side, staring at his personal guard standing there, a large man who had hands the size of hams.

The guard understood the signal without needing words.

He stepped forward one step, raised his heavy right hand, and swung it.

SLAP!

The sound of the slap exploded in the small room, loud and wet. The man's head was thrown to the side with violence that jerked his neck. Fresh blood sprayed from his already split lip, staining the stone floor.

He groaned softly, a pitiful sound like a wounded dog. He tried to straighten his head again, but his eyes were still blank.

"Now," said Ser Kevan, as if nothing happened. "Who ordered you to steal House Lannister secrets?"

No answer. The man only spat blood onto the floor.

SLAP!

The second slap came from the opposite direction, this time using the back of the hand. It tore the skin on his cheek.

Jon did not grimace seeing that. He did not look away. He was used to seeing violence. He was a soldier, he had seen tavern brawls, he had seen whippings for thieves. Violence was currency in this world. However, there was something different about this measured and cold violence that made him feel cold in his spine. This was not anger; this was procedure.

Ser Kevan waited again. Three seconds. Five seconds.

No answer again.

WHAM!

The guard hit again. This time with a fist to the solar plexus. He coughed violently, bending over as far as the rope bindings allowed, vomiting the contents of his empty stomach, only yellow bile fluid.

"I have all day," said Ser Kevan coldly. He stepped closer, bending down until his face was level with the man. "And I have torturers far more creative than him here. They can make you sing even without a tongue. But I prefer civilized ways. Tell me your master's name, and I will give you a quick death. Without pain."

He lifted his ruined face. His breath sounded hitching and painful. His swollen eyes stared at Kevan, but behind that pain, Jon saw something surprising.

A flash of stubbornness.

He gathered spit mixed with blood in his mouth, and with the last remaining strength, because he couldn't hold the clot in his mouth, he spat. The red liquid landed on Ser Kevan's clean leather boot.

Ser Kevan stared at the blood stain on his shoe. His face showed no anger, only cold disappointment.

"Loyalty," muttered Kevan softly. "Very rare to find in a gutter rat like you. A pity it is wasted on the wrong cause."

Kevan stepped back. He didn't hit the man again. He knew when he lost a battle, even though he would win the war. This man would not speak today. Perhaps never.

He turned, turning his back on the prisoner who now slumped limply again in his chair. He stared at Jon.

"Jon," he called.

"Ser?" Jon straightened his body.

"Increase the guard at the printing house. Double it. Check every new worker, check their backgrounds to the core," ordered Kevan, his voice sharp and alert. "This is not an ordinary thief looking for quick money. An ordinary thief would sell his mother to stop the pain. This man... he is willing to die to protect his secret."

Kevan glanced back at the silent figure.

"We are being targeted by someone who has resources, Jon. Someone who can buy loyalty this strong. That is dangerous."

"What should we do with him, Ser?" asked Jon, glancing at the broken body.

"Let him rot here," said Kevan coldly. "Give him water and stale bread. Let darkness and pain work. Maybe after a week inside the belly of Casterly Rock, his principles will start to fade."

Ser Kevan signaled his guard to watch the door, then he walked out.

Jon followed him. Before he closed the heavy iron door, he stared at the thief once more. The bald man didn't move, only his chest rising and falling weakly.

Jon closed the door with a loud thud echoing in the stone hallway. The key was turned. Leaving silence.

...

Rhaegar stepped forward, and the world seemed to split to give him way.

The roar of cheers did not stop; instead, as he began to climb the white marble stairs of the Great Sept of Baelor, the sound grew larger, swallowing the sound of bells and singing. It was the sound of hundreds of thousands of throats shouting one name, a wave of sound crashing against the walls of Rhaegar's consciousness.

On his right and left, lines of guards struggled to hold back the crowd pressing forward. The hands of the smallfolk reached out, dirty and rough, trying to touch the edge of his red cloak as if the fabric possessed magical healing powers.

Rhaegar did not retreat. He did not quicken his pace out of fear. Instead, he walked with a calm and measured rhythm. He stared at those faces, faces that were tired, yet now beaming with almost fanatical happiness. He saw a mother lifting her baby high. He saw a toothless old veteran crying with emotion.

They did not see a man who was mourning. They saw the dawn.

He reached the gate of the Great Sept. The air inside was cool and smelled of incense, a sharp contrast to the heat and dust outside. Inside, Lords and Ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms were waiting, standing in neat rows according to the order of power. The colorful sigils of their houses, wolves, lions, roses, stags, suns, and trouts, created a mosaic of power that now bowed to him.

Rhaegar walked down the aisle. Seven statues of gods towered around the altar, their stone eyes staring down, judging in silence.

In front of the Father's altar, the High Septon waited. The old man held a crystal vial containing holy oil. Beside him, on a purple velvet cushion held by a young septon, lay the object that would change Rhaegar's fate forever.

It was the crown of Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator. A simple gold crown decorated with seven gemstones of different colors, symbolizing the Seven Gods and the unity of the realm. It was a crown of reconciliation. A crown of building. A crown of wisdom.

Rhaegar arrived in front of the altar. He knelt. His knees touched the stone floor, a position of humility before the divine before he was exalted before men.

The High Septon began reciting chanted prayers. His voice echoed in the high dome, bouncing off the marble walls.

"May the Father grant him justice..."

Cold holy oil was anointed on Rhaegar's forehead.

"May the Mother grant him mercy..."

"May the Warrior grant him strength..."

The ritual proceeded solemnly. Rhaegar let those words seep into his soul, making them a personal oath. He did not want to be a conqueror. He wanted to be a healer. He wanted his kingdom peaceful and prosperous.

Finally, the prayer was finished. The High Septon raised the golden crown high. The sunlight entering through the stained glass window refracted the colors of the gems onto the marble floor, creating a rainbow around Rhaegar.

"Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the First of His Name," cried the High Septon, his voice trembling with the grandeur of the moment. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Rhaegar bowed his head slightly, ready to receive the burden.

Slowly, the golden circle descended.

Rhaegar held his breath, strengthening his neck, preparing to receive the heavy weight he had always imagined for years. The weight of history. The weight of his father.

Cold metal touched his skin. The crown settled on his head.

And... it wasn't as heavy as he thought.

It felt right. It felt natural. As if the crown was indeed made to be there. No pain, no pressure crushing the neck bones. Only a calm certainty.

Rhaegar let out a long breath, releasing the air he had held since he left his bedroom this morning.

"Rise, my King," whispered the High Septon.

Rhaegar stood. He turned slowly facing the audience.

His red cloak billowed. Jaehaerys's crown sparkled atop his silver hair.

The entire room held its breath for a moment, mesmerized by the figure standing there.

Then, Rhaegar observed the people who came.

He saw Tywin Lannister in the front row, clapping with a satisfied face. He saw Steffon Baratheon smiling broadly. He saw his mother, Rhaella, crying happily while hugging Viserys. He saw Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington, their swords raised high. He saw Jaime and Cersei Lannister, smiling at him.

They were all smiling.

Outside the open doors, he could hear the common people cheering happily.

Then, Rhaegar closed his eyes. Listening to the cheers calmly.

 

[Daario]

WHISPER IN THE WIND​

---

King's Landing, Crownlands 278 AC.

Wyman stared at his reflection in the large silver-plated mirror standing in the corner of the room. The mirror, fortunately, was wide enough to fit his entire figure.

King Rhaegar had sent a raven to White Harbor a month ago. The letter was brief, written neatly and elegantly, sealed with the three-headed dragon red wax. Its contents were formal, yet the question within it was capable of making any man's heart, even one buried in fat like his, beat fast like war drums: Is Lord Wyman willing to come to King's Landing to discuss the future of the royal treasury?

Since Rhaegar's coronation, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms understood that a massive shift in positions would occur. A new era required new faces. Rhaegar, according to the rumors circulating, desired competence.

And Wyman, like every Lord who possessed ambition even if wrapped in layers of thick flesh, very much wanted to enter that circle.

House Manderly was a proud house. They were exiles from the Reach who found a new home in the cold North. They had built White Harbor into the richest city in the North, an unrivaled trading hub above The Neck.

Becoming Master of Coin... that would change everything. It was not just about counting gold pieces or setting wine taxes; it was about holding the vein of the kingdom. It was about sitting at the same table as the Lion of Casterly Rock, and other great Lords. This would bring House Manderly to a higher level, a recognition they had long craved.

"Do I look proper, Randy?" asked Wyman to his personal servant who was preparing a soft bristle brush.

"You look very gallant, My Lord," answered the servant with a practiced tone, though Wyman knew there was a little honesty there.

Wyman snorted softly, a sound rumbling in his broad chest. His fat and soft hands moved with surprising dexterity, smoothing the folds of his sea-blue velvet tunic. The tunic was a work of art in itself, sewn specifically to accommodate his extraordinary girth without making him look messy. On the chest, a silver merman embroidery, sparkling in the morning sunlight, held a trident spear.

Wyman adjusted his collar once more, ensuring there were no stains or wrinkles. He was very conscious of his physique. He knew what people whispered behind his back. Those cruel nicknames had long reached his ears.

He knew he was overweight. He knew he loved to eat; grilled eel, pies, and sweet wine were weaknesses he embraced happily. But he refused to be a joke.

"People may mock my belly," muttered Wyman to his own reflection, his intelligent and sharp eyes staring back from the mirror. "But they will not be able to mock my brain, or my gold."

At least, his fat did not stop him from appearing neat, dignified, and fragrant. Cleanliness was a sign of civilization, something often forgotten by skinny lords who smelled of horse sweat.

"The perfume, Randy," ordered Wyman.

The servant sprayed a little perfume scented with sea and mint. Fresh and masculine, not too flowery like the Tyrells, but enough to cover the smell of sweat that might appear due to nervousness.

Knock. Knock.

A knock on the door was heard. "Enter," called Wyman.

A palace servant entered and bowed deeply. "Lord Manderly. His Grace King Rhaegar is ready to receive you now."

"Good," said Wyman. He took his walking cane, not because he was crippled, but to help support himself when standing for long periods, and walked towards the door.

The journey to Maegor's Holdfast felt quite far for Wyman's legs, but he did not complain. He walked with measured steps, greeting every guard and noble he passed with a polite nod. He observed the Red Keep with the eyes of a merchant assessing merchandise.

The servant took him to a large wooden door carved beautifully. Not the Throne Room, but the King's private solar. The place where decisions were actually made.

The door opened.

The first scent that greeted Wyman was not the smell of old parchment or ink, but the scent of flowers. Roses, lavender, and lemon. The room was brightly lit, sunlight flooding in through the balcony open towards the sea.

King Rhaegar sat behind a neat writing desk, but he immediately stood up when Wyman entered.

That figure... Wyman had to admit, Rhaegar Targaryen was the definition of a prince in a fairy tale come true. Tall and handsome, silver hair falling perfectly, and purple eyes that seemed able to see through the soul. He wore a simple black tunic with a touch of red.

"Lord Manderly," greeted Rhaegar, his voice soft yet resonant. "Thank you for coming to fulfill my invitation."

Wyman bowed as deep as his stomach allowed, a sincere and respectful homage. "Your Grace. An honor for me and House Manderly to be here. The light of the Seven bless your reign."

"Please sit, My Lord," Rhaegar pointed to a large sturdy chair in front of his desk. The chair looked specially selected, wide and padded, suitable for Wyman's body size. That small detail did not escape Wyman's attention. This King was attentive. He did not try to humiliate his guest with a narrow chair.

Wyman sat carefully, regulating his breath so as not to sound panting. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"How was your journey from White Harbor?" asked Rhaegar, starting with polite pleasantries. "I hope the Kingsroad did not trouble your carriage too much."

"The journey was smooth, Your Grace, thanks to the friendly weather," answered Wyman with the smile he usually used when negotiating with Braavosi merchants. "Although I must admit, there is no place as comfortable as one's own home. But seeing King's Landing so alive under your shade, that fatigue is paid off."

"I am glad to hear it," Rhaegar smiled thinly. "And how is White Harbor? I heard reports that your port revenue increased rapidly this year."

Wyman straightened his back a little, pride flowing in his chest. This was his domain.

"White Harbor is prosperous. Very prosperous," he said, his tone changing to be more serious and professional. "Trade is at its peak. We just finished expanding the south dock to accommodate larger merchant ships. Wood and wool exports from the North increased, and we managed to cut middleman costs by negotiating direct contracts from the Braavosi."

Wyman paused for a moment, then added a small detail to show his expertise. "I also implemented a new customs system that is more efficient at the port gates. Reducing ship waiting times, which means more ships entering, and more taxes for the city... and of course, for the Crown."

Rhaegar listened intently, his eyes not leaving Wyman's face. He nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

"Efficiency," murmured Rhaegar. "That is a beautiful word, Lord Wyman. Something we desperately need here, in King's Landing."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his long fingers interlaced on the table. The moment of pleasantries was over. The air in the room turned a little heavier, more serious.

"You must know why I summoned you here," said Rhaegar.

"I have a guess, Your Grace," answered Wyman carefully. "Although I dare not precede the King's decree."

"Master of Coin," said Rhaegar directly.

Wyman held his breath for a moment. Hearing it spoken directly by the King gave a different sensation than reading it in a letter.

"The position is... vacant," continued Rhaegar. He picked up a dragon-shaped paperweight from his desk, spinning it slowly in his hand. "Lord Chelsted has served this kingdom for the past few years."

Wyman nodded slowly. Qarlton Chelsted. A competent man, in the sense he could count, but lacked imagination.

"Lord Chelsted did his duty," said Rhaegar, choosing his words with high-level diplomacy. No insulting tone, yet the implied meaning was clear. "He kept the books neat. He ensured gold flowed to where my Father ordered. For that, I thank him."

Rhaegar put the paperweight back. His gaze sharpened.

"However, Lord Wyman, keeping books alone is not enough for the future I want to build. My Father... had different priorities. He focused on hoarding and short-term spending. Lord Chelsted was a good servant for that vision."

The young King leaned forward. "But I do not want to merely hoard gold. I want to develop the kingdom's wealth. I want to rebuild what is broken, improve infrastructure, advance trade, and create real prosperity for the people, not just an illusion of luxury in the palace."

Wyman felt his spirit ignite. This was language he understood. This was merchant language, builder language.

"To do that," continued Rhaegar, "I do not need someone who is only good at saying 'yes' and hiding deficits behind complicated numbers. I need someone who understands how money works. Someone who can turn one gold piece into two, not with magic, but with trade and investment. Someone who has proven that he can manage a busy port city and make it thrive amidst a harsh winter."

Rhaegar stared at Wyman intently.

"I dismissed Lord Chelsted this morning. I gave him a decent pension and thanks for his service. He left with his honor intact. I do not want to start my reign by firing people roughly for no reason other than change. But I need new blood. New vision."

Wyman was impressed. The way Rhaegar handled Chelsted was very... elegant. No drama, just a polite yet firm farewell. It showed quiet strength.

"And I believe," said Rhaegar, "that you are the right man for this new vision, Lord Manderly. Your reputation in White Harbor precedes you. You turned a cold outpost into the economic jewel of the North. I want you to do the same for the Seven Kingdoms."

Wyman felt his throat choked with emotion. Pride swelled in his chest, pressing against the tunic. Recognized not because of his sword, not because of his ancient lineage alone, but because of his ability. Because of his brain.

"Your Grace," said Wyman, his voice trembling slightly but full of respect. "Your words are the greatest honor House Manderly has received since we were welcomed by the Starks. I... I feel very flattered."

He took a deep breath, calming himself, then stared at the King with his sharp merchant eyes.

"I am not a magician. I cannot conjure gold from empty air. But I know trade currents. I know how tariffs can choke or advance a market. I know that investment in roads and ports is planting seeds for a harvest ten years from now."

Wyman smiled, a sincere and confident smile.

"If that is what you seek... then I am your servant. I will make your treasury sing, Your Grace. Not with songs about mere feasts, but with songs about ships full of cargo and bustling markets."

Rhaegar smiled, and this time the smile reached his eyes. A relieved smile.

"That is exactly the song I want to hear, Lord Wyman," said Rhaegar. "The music of prosperity."

The King stood, and Wyman followed him, struggling a little against gravity but managing to stand with dignity. Rhaegar extended his hand.

"Welcome to the Small Council, Lord Manderly. I expect much from you."

Wyman shook the King's hand. Rhaegar's grip was strong, but Wyman's large and soft hand swallowed it.

"I will not disappoint you, Your Grace," promised Wyman. "White Harbor never forgets a promise, and we never fail to pay a debt, or collect a profit."

"I hold to those words," said Rhaegar. "You can start occupying the Master of Coin's office tomorrow. Maester Pycelle will give the keys and existing ledgers. Be prepared, Lord Wyman."

As Wyman walked out of the room moments later, he felt his steps were far lighter, as if his weight had been reduced by half. He was no longer just a fat Lord. He was the Master of Coin. He was the manager of the dragon's wealth.

And by the Seven Gods, he would show all of King's Landing how Northerners did business. He would make them all look beyond his belly, straight to the pile of gold.

...

Oldtown, Reach, 279 AC.

The cobblestone streets in the northern district of Oldtown were always clean, swept every morning by invisible servants, but for Rowan, those streets felt like a bridge over an abyss.

He stepped into the courtyard of a large manse surrounded by high hedges and white stone walls. This place was quiet, an island of calm in the busy city. This was the area where wealthy people, successful spice merchants, retired ship captains, and distant relatives of House Hightower, spent their days behind closed walls. Rarely did anyone pass other than uniformed servants or closed carriages.

Rowan wore his best wool tunic in dark brown, with a matching cloak and polished leather boots. He looked like a successful artisan or mid-level merchant coming for business. A perfect disguise. He had to look proper so as not to be suspected or chased away by the city guards who patrolled with suspicious eyes on anyone looking poor.

But beneath the fine clothes, cold sweat soaked his back.

He sighed a long sigh, rubbing his thinning hair nervously. His hands trembled slightly, not from age, but from fear that had become his bedfellow for the past two years.

It had been almost two years since he returned from Lannisport. Two years since he ran like a coward, sneaking into the hold of a dirty merchant ship that took him back south, while his best friend was left behind.

He brought the design sketches with him. Crumpled papers he drew himself from his hasty observations in Jaime Lannister's printing house. With those sketches, and secret funding support from the Citadel through Lord Hightower's intermediaries, Rowan had managed to build a paper-making tool in the first few months.

It was an intoxicating success. They managed to make paper from hemp pulp and used rags. The quality was indeed not as smooth as Lannisport made, still somewhat rough and yellowish, but it was paper. It could be used.

However, that was where the problem started. That success brought the spotlight. And the spotlight brought shadows.

Rowan knew, almost certainly he was the person most wanted by the Lannisters if Shayne opened his mouth.

Shayne.

The name stabbed his heart every time it appeared. Thinking of the bald man who was always hungry brought massive guilt, a burden heavier than any wood he had ever lifted. He didn't know how the man was doing now. Was he still alive? Was he dead inside a damp dungeon? Or had he lost his tongue?

What was clear, Shayne's sickly wife and small child were currently under Rowan's responsibility. He set aside most of his pay from the Citadel for them, lying that Shayne was working on a long-term project in Braavos and sending the money. It was a painful lie, but what else could he do?

Luckily the Citadel had their own arrogance protecting Rowan. The senior Maesters were too proud to admit they stole ideas from a Lannister "brat". So, they fabricated a story.

They reasoned that they were the ones who "rediscovered" this paper invention. With access to thousands of ancient books and dusty scrolls, they claimed this knowledge came from the notes of Maester Glenn lost centuries ago, which they could only realize after getting "inspiration" from the crude Lannister attempts.

The story was weak. Smart people knew it was a lie. Merchants knew it was a lie. But they didn't care. The market didn't care about originality; the market cared about price. Once another competitor appeared, the goods would usually become cheaper. And Oldtown wanted to be the new production center.

Now, Rowan's task wasn't finished. Paper was only half the battle. He came here today to perfect the other monster: The Printing Press.

He was already at a stage of significant progress. If he could finish this... if he could make this machine work perfectly... the Citadel promised to give him enough gold and forget all this, he could go back to living quietly.

Rowan opened the front door of the building with a heavy bronze key.

The interior of the building looked like a rich person's house in general at the front, tapestries, flower vases, marble floors. But once Rowan went deeper, passing another door, the difference was clearer.

Here, the room was spacious and empty of fancy furniture. The floor was full of sawdust and oil stains. The smell of metal and wood filled the air.

In the center of the room, stood a giant contraption. A sturdy wooden frame with a large iron lever and a flat platen.

It was the Oldtown version of the 'printing press'.

Rowan stared at it with frustration. The machine was not finished. He just needed to add a few more things, a paper locking mechanism, rails to slide the type plate, but that was easier said than done. Because he himself only drew it hurriedly in Lannisport without further technical explanation, they worked in the dark. They were wrong more often than right. They had to guess gear ratios, plate thickness, and required pressure.

"You are late, Master Rowan."

The voice was dry and precise.

In the corner of the room, near a workbench full of glass bottles and bowls, stood a middle-aged man. He wore a simple grey robe without a chain, his chain kept under his clothes while working here.

Maester Faulin. He was a man with knowledge of mechanics and metallurgy, one of the few Maesters unafraid to dirty his hands with oil and dust.

"The streets were a bit busy, Maester," answered Rowan, taking off his outer cloak and hanging it. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong arms speckled with work scars. "Have you tried the new mixture?"

Faulin snorted, his wrinkled face looking sour. "The new mixture is as disappointing as the old one."

They exchanged pleasantries briefly about the weather and metal prices, a small ritual to normalize this abnormal situation, before moving to the core problem. The printing press itself was mechanically functional. The lever could press paper onto metal letters.

The problem was the Ink.

Rowan walked closer to the workbench. There were rows of trial papers scattered. All failed.

"Look at this," said Faulin, lifting a sheet of paper. "The ink bleeds. The letters become illegible black blobs."

He lifted another paper. "And this one... the ink refuses to stick to the metal letters. When we press it, the ink runs to the edges, leaving the center of the letter empty."

Rowan rubbed his face. This was an endless nightmare.

In Lannisport, he saw the Lannister print results. Pitch black. Sharp. Clean. The ink stuck to the paper without seeping to the back, and stuck to the metal without dripping.

Here? They used the ink Maesters usually used to write with quills, a mixture of soot, water, gum, and vinegar.

"Water-based ink does not work on metal, Rowan," complained Faulin, throwing the paper back onto the table. "Metal rejects it. Like water on a taro leaf. We already tried thickening it with more gum, but that only made it sticky like glue and tore the paper when lifted."

"Then what do they use?" muttered Rowan, more to himself. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the smell of the printing house in Lannisport.

The smell.

He remembered the smell was different. The Lannister printing house didn't smell of vinegar or ordinary writing ink. The smell was sharper, more... thick. A smell similar to a painter's workshop.

"Maybe we should try different pigments?" suggested Rowan.

"Already did," cut Faulin sharply. "No difference. The problem is not the color, Rowan. The problem is the carrier. The liquid."

Faulin took a small metal letter, the letter 'A', and dipped it into the bowl containing their trial ink. He lifted it. The ink immediately gathered into small droplets on the metal surface, uneven.

"We need something thicker than water, but more fluid than glue," said the Maester, frustrated. "Something that can stick to metal but wants to transfer to paper when pressed."

"How about egg whites?" asked Rowan. "Painters use them."

"Tried it. Smells rotten after two days, and dries too fast on the printing plate. We have to clean it every five minutes."

Rowan stared at the printing press. The object looked like a hungry monster, demanding answers he didn't have.

He felt stupid. He was a carpenter, not an alchemist. He could make a perfect lever, he could make a flat table, but he didn't understand chemistry.

"Lannister..." hissed Rowan. "That boy... Jaime. Where did he know this? The Maester there must be a genius."

"Or he got help from demons," muttered Faulin, half-joking but there was a note of envy in his voice. "Listen, Rowan. The Citadel is pressuring us. They heard that the Lannisters started printing other books besides holy scriptures. History books. Farming books. If we cannot match their quality, the Citadel's monopoly on knowledge will collapse in one generation."

That pressure again. Rowan felt it on his shoulders.

"I know, Maester. I know," said Rowan.

He took a palette knife, stirring a lump of black ink on a stone slab.

"Let's try again," said Rowan, his voice forced to sound optimistic. "What if we mix the ink with... oil? Linseed oil? Or walnut oil? Like painters use for canvas?"

Faulin fell silent. He stared at Rowan, his brows knitted.

"Oil?" repeated Faulin. "Oil takes a long time to dry, Rowan. Days. We need to print hundreds of pages a day."

"But oil sticks to metal," argued Rowan. He remembered how lubricating oil stuck to door hinges. "And if we boil the oil first? Make it thicker? Maybe add a little... I don't know, resin?"

Faulin's eyes blinked. An idea seemed to start forming behind his tired grey eyes. Silent, then he turned quickly, walking towards his chemical shelf. He took a bottle containing linseed oil and a container containing pine resin.

"This is dangerous," said Faulin, staring at Rowan. "We have to cook it until it boils. It could explode if wrong."

Rowan smiled thinly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"My life has been dangerous since I left Lannisport, Maester," he said. He took a thick leather apron from a nail on the wall and wore it.

"Alright," said Rowan, taking his stirring tools. "Let us cook."

He didn't know if this was the answer. He was just guessing. But he had to try. He had to succeed. Because if he failed, not only the Citadel would lose.

If he failed, he would never be able to redeem his sin to Shayne.

"I will work on it again, Maester," repeated Rowan, this time with stronger determination. He lit the small furnace in the corner of the room.

The fire lit up, reflecting in Rowan's tired eyes. In Lannisport, fire burned his best friend. Here, he would try not to burn himself.

...

Casterly Rock, Westerlands, 280 AC.

The afternoon sunlight pierced through the clear glass window and fell onto Ser Kevan Lannister's desk made of black wood. There, neatly stacked were dozens of parchment scrolls and letters sealed with various sigils, ranging from: House Broom, House Westerling, and House Brax.

Kevan sat leaning back, massaging his temples which throbbed slowly. The scent of wax and ink filled the air, a scent that to him was the smell of progress.

He picked up the topmost letter, broke its wax seal, and read the report carefully. It was from Lord Banefort. The report was full of surprising harvest numbers, and at the end of the letter, the old Lord's skeptical tone had changed into almost worshipping praise.

"It works," muttered Kevan to the empty room. "By the Seven Hells."

His mind drifted back to three years ago. At that time, Jaime had just returned from King's Landing, bringing with him ideas that sounded like the fever dream of a mad maester. He came to Kevan, not with a sword or war strategy, but with diagrams of farming tools and land concepts. He brought a letter from Tywin, a short letter containing only one sentence of order: Listen to him, and execute.

Kevan remembered when Jaime unrolled wide paper on this desk. The drawing showed a strange device. A wooden box on wheels, with small funnels and mini plows underneath.

"Seed drill," said Jaime at that time, his eyes sparkling with infectious enthusiasm. "Pulled by a horse or ox. It will make holes, drop seeds with precise spacing, and cover them back with soil. With this we can plant more and faster, practical."

The explanation made sense, very much sense. Even while Kevan was still listening with a frown on his forehead, he could imagine the tool moving in the fields. Efficiency. That was the language Kevan understood.

So, Kevan approved it. Not that he had much choice, Tywin's order was the law of nature at Casterly Rock, but he also saw the potential. He called the best woodworkers and blacksmiths from Lannisport, locked them in a workshop, and told them to realize Jaime's vision.

The first year was a trial on Lannister private fields. The result? Seed savings of almost forty percent, and a more even harvest. He also started training many blacksmiths.

Then, Kevan started "suggesting" vassal Lords to use it.

And now, the third year, these letters were the proof. The granaries in the Westerlands were bursting.

However, the seed drill was just the beginning. The real challenge was Jaime's second idea: The Four-Field Crop Rotation System. Kevan sighed, remembering the long arguments with stubborn old farmers.

"Wheat, turnips, barley, and clover," said Jaime. "Do not let the fields rest empty. Plant them alternately, this might sound like child's play, because we can only see the results later, but no harm in trying, right?"

That was the hardest to implement. Farmers were used to the three-field system, where one field was left fallow, to "recover". Convincing them to plant turnips and clover, plants usually considered livestock feed or weeds, on their precious wheat land was a diplomatic nightmare. They were skeptical. They were afraid the land would be angry.

So Kevan used the only language everyone understood: Taxes.

He suggested to several small Lords and free farmers indebted to Casterly Rock to do it as an experiment. In return, he cut their produce tax by one-tenth for that year.

The risk was on the Lannisters, the profit was on them.

And after the harvest, the results proved undeniable. Fields planted with clover and turnips turned out to produce far more fertile wheat in the following year.

The answer, said Jaime, was inside the clover roots and the manure of livestock eating those turnips. Something about "returning nutrients to the soil". Kevan didn't understand that soil magic, he wasn't a Maester, but since it worked, he just accepted it.

Kevan put down Lord Banefort's letter and picked up another object from his desk. A paperweight.

But this was not an ordinary paperweight. It was a glass sphere. Clear. Perfect. Almost invisible if not reflecting sunlight.

The third project. Glass.

Westeros usually got high-quality clear glass from Myr. Myrish glass was famously expensive, clear, and a status symbol. While that produced in Westeros itself? Little, brittle, and poor quality, often green, cloudy, or full of air bubbles. Making it was hard, and the results disappointing.

Again, Jaime came with a recipe. Not a food recipe, but a rock recipe.

"I only have the theory, Uncle, so this will take a lot of effort like before, but don't give up too fast. We need silica sand from the riverbank," said his nephew. "Limestone. And ash from burning certain hard woods."

They followed his method. This time, Kevan did not use old craftsmen stuck in their old failing ways. He looked for young people, apprentices hungry for recognition, and paid them to experiment in hot furnaces on the outskirts of Lannisport.

So many failed results during the first few months. Glass cracking when cooled. Glass still cloudy. Furnace explosions. Kevan almost stopped the funding.

But then, the moment came.

A sheet of thin glass, taken out of the furnace, cooled slowly. When held up to the sun, Kevan could see a hawk flying in the sky through it without distortion. Clear glass, almost certainly transparent. It was breathtaking.

Kevan remembered when he sent the first sample to King's Landing for Tywin. The reply came fast and firm.

Produce more. Do not sell yet. Keep in warehouses. We will use it to build greenhouses at Casterly Rock first, then as gifts.

Tywin, with his sharp political instinct, knew that selling it massively would crash the price and trigger a trade war with Myr too early. But giving it as an exclusive gift to loyal Lords? That bound loyalty. Who didn't want clear glass windows in their dark castles?

Kevan smoothed his thinning hair, feeling the burden as well as pride of this achievement. So many things happened in these three years. And this happened very quickly, as if the Westerlands were running while the rest of the kingdom was still walking.

Schools... schools also expanded.

Initially only one in Lannisport for merchant and artisan children to be able to read work instructions. Now, they had more. The curriculum was simple: reading, counting, and loyalty to House Lannister.

Even in King's Landing, King Rhaegar was rumored to also plan to build them, inspired by the success in the West. Knowledge spread like fire.

And paper.

Paper became increasingly popular. No one doubted it anymore. Lords all over Westeros now wrote letters on Lannister paper. Merchants recorded their ledgers in paper books.

And the Citadel...

Thinking of that made Kevan's eyes narrow, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes sharpening.

The Citadel also made paper now. The quality was worse, but they made it. They claimed that they "rediscovered" the recipe from dusty old scrolls.

How childish, thought Kevan cynically. How desperate those old men in grey robes were.

Now he knew who sent that bald man three years ago. The man who died without speaking in the Casterly Rock dungeon. Maesters. Of course Maesters. Who else felt most threatened by the spread of cheap knowledge? Who else wanted to monopolize the truth?

The Citadel was the enemy within. They moved slowly, but they moved. Kevan had ordered increased surveillance on every Maester in the Westerlands. Their letters were checked. Their movements monitored.

The trade war had begun, and Kevan intended to win it.

Kevan leaned back again, his gaze shifting to the family painting hanging on the wall.

Jaime.

That boy had returned to King's Landing since the success of glass making two years ago. Tywin wanted him there, by the King's side. Guarding Rhaegar. Ensuring Lannister influence did not fade.

Kevan missed his nephew. Jaime was no longer a mischievous child; he had grown into a young man. Sometimes Kevan wondered, where did all those ideas come from? Did the Gods whisper them while he slept? Or was he truly a genius born once in a thousand years?

And Cersei.

The girl grew into a stunning woman. Reports from King's Landing said that she was the jewel of the court. She would be married at sixteen namedays.

That would be the peak of all Tywin's ambitions. And with the new wealth generated by Westerlands agriculture and industry, the position of House Lannister would be unshakable for a thousand years.

Kevan smiled thinly. The smile of a man who saw his books balanced and surplus abundant. He took his quill, dipped it in ink, and began signing another approval file.

…

King's Landing, Crownlands, 281 AC.

The air inside the kitchen of "The Golden Loaf" bakery felt heavy and sticky, like a wet wool blanket wrapping the skin. The heat in King's Landing this year was scorching, carrying with it the humidity from Blackwater Bay trapped between the dense stone walls of the city.

Talia stood in front of a large wooden table whose surface was white covered in flour. Her strong and skilled hands moved with a steady rhythm, pressing, folding, and pushing the chewy wheat dough.

Press. Fold. Turn.

That movement had become a second language to her. The muscles of her arms tensed under sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sweat dripped from her temples, making several strands of her brown hair stick to her neck.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of rising yeast, burnt sugar, and cinnamon, a scent that to Talia was the smell of salvation.

It had been four years.

Four years since the fire devoured the Dun Fort. Four years since Clark, her foolish and brave husband, disappeared behind the ruins of the fortress of Darklyn, leaving Talia and Clara alone in a cruel world.

Talia closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory pass like a cloud shadow. Back then, she thought her life had ended on that muddy hill outside Duskendale. She thought she would starve to death or become a beggar.

However, fate, or perhaps the Mother, had other plans.

After that destruction, Talia did what a mother had to do: survive. She worked any job. Washing smelly soldier clothes, clearing rubble, until finally she found a place in a soup kitchen established by a local Sept to feed refugees.

It was there she found her talent. Or rather, her escape.

Baking bread was not merely cooking. It was an exact science that was calming amidst the chaos of her life. The measure of flour had to be right. The water had to be warm, not hot. Yeast needed time to breathe. If you followed the rules, you would get a good result. Bread would not betray you like a greedy Lord.

Her skills improved rapidly. She started experimenting secretly at night, using leftover ingredients to make sweet bread with honey or spiced bread. She shared it with Clara and fellow refugee friends at the Sept. Their praise was her first currency.

Then came Septon Marton.

Talia smiled thinly remembering the man. Septon Marton was a thin man of about forty namedays, with a face that always looked sour and cynical, as if he had just eaten a rotten lemon. He was not the type of religious leader full of sweet words. However, behind his rough robes and sharp tongue, he had a just heart.

"Your bread is better than my sermons, Talia," Marton said back then. "My friend in King's Landing, a bakery owner, needs new hands that aren't lazy. I can write a letter for you."

Talia trusted him. And that trust brought her here. To the capital.

Life in King's Landing was hard, noisy, and smelly. But here, there was money. There was opportunity.

Now, she was no longer a pitiful refugee widow. She was the head baker at one of the busiest shops in the merchant district. She rented a small but dry room above a shoe shop, two streets from here. She and Clara never slept with empty stomachs again.

Talia opened her eyes, staring at the dough which was now smooth and elastic under her hands.

"Mama?"

That small voice broke her focus. Talia turned.

Clara stood in the doorway of the kitchen connecting to the back room. The little girl had grown big now. She was six years old, almost seven. Her height already reached Talia's chest if she stood straight. Her hair was braided in two neatly, although there was a smudge of flour on her sharp nose, her father's nose.

Clara wore a simple clean cotton dress, a cloth bag slung over her shoulder.

"May I help make bread later, Ma?" asked Clara, her eyes sparkling staring at the dough on the table. "I can make the rabbit shape again. Master Fred said my rabbits were cute."

Talia smiled, her heart warming. "Your hands will get dirty, Clara. And later the flour will get on your dress that Mother already tidied. It will be troublesome to clean again, Darling. You are about to leave for school soon."

Clara's face turned gloomy. Her lips pouted, an expression very similar to Clark's when he lost at guessing games.

"Then I don't have to go to school today," offered Clara quickly, stepping forward approaching the table. "I will just help Mother here. I can learn to count by counting loaves. One loaf, two loaves..."

Talia frowned, stopping her hand movements. She cleaned the flour from her palms by patting them on her apron.

"Do not say that, Child," said Talia firmly yet gently. She knelt so her eyes were level with her daughter. "School is good for you. Very important. It will make you smarter. Smarter than Ma. Smarter than... your Dada."

School.

It was a new miracle in this city. Rumor had it, King Rhaegar had started supporting the establishment of primary schools managed by the Faith or merchant guilds for common children. The cost was cheap, subsidized by the Crown and merchant taxes.

For Talia, school was a gateway. An exit from true poverty.

Talia knew how important reading and writing were, precisely because she herself could not do it. She was illiterate. Her world was limited to what she could see and hear. If there was an announcement pasted on a wall, she had to ask someone else to read it, and she never knew if they were lying or not. She only had meager counting knowledge to ensure her wages weren't cut unfairly.

But Clara... Clara could be different.

With the ability to read and write, Clara didn't need to spend her life with blistered hands in front of a hot oven. She wouldn't struggle. She could be a scribe. She could work in school administration. She could write letters for others. Or perhaps... perhaps she could open her own business one day, becoming an owner, not a worker.

Certain nights, when the candle was almost out, Clara would sit beside Talia on their narrow bed. The little girl would open her precious notebook, and patiently, teach her mother to recognize letters.

"This is 'A', Ma. And this is 'B'."

Those moments made Talia want to cry from pride and shame at the same time.

"But school is boring sometimes, Ma," complained Clara, twirling the end of her braid. "And it's hard to be smart when Raymond is there. He sits behind me. He often shouts and runs around when the Septa isn't looking. He pulled my hair yesterday."

Talia chuckled, pinching her daughter's cheek with affection, leaving a little trace of white flour there.

"Raymond is just a naughty boy, Clara. Ignore him. If he bothers you again, you may pinch him back, but don't get caught by the teacher," whispered Talia slyly. "It means you can practice to be more focused. If you can learn amidst Raymond's noise, you can learn anywhere."

Clara giggled. "Mama is naughty."

"Mama is practical," corrected Talia. She stood up, kissing her daughter's forehead. "Now, go. Don't be late. Remember, listen to the teacher. And later tonight... you can read that story about the Dragon Knight to Ma again."

Clara's eyes sparkled again. "Promise?"

"Promise. Now run, before the bells ring."

Clara nodded, fixing the position of her bag, and ran out the back kitchen door towards the busy streets.

Talia stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her daughter's small back disappear around the corner. She prayed silently that this world would be kind to Clara. That King Rhaegar would keep this peace long enough for Clara to grow up without knowing war.

She sighed, then turned back to her work table. That dough wouldn't knead itself.

...

King's Landing, Crownlands, 282 AC.

Soft morning light flooded Cersei Lannister's chamber in the Red Keep tower, reflecting off the surface of the full-length silver mirror that was the room's centerpiece. Inside that reflection, stood a young goddess who would soon claim her throne.

Cersei stood still, her posture perfectly erect, chin lifted with a pride that had been part of her since she took her first breath at Casterly Rock. She let the servants swarm her like worker bees around a queen bee, their hands busy yet very gentle, afraid to hurt the perfection they were decorating.

This was the most historic day of her life. The day she had waited for since she was a girl listening to Jaime's nonsense tales about princes and princesses. Before, she dreamed of being Rhaegar's wife because of the prince's handsomeness in songs. Now, she stood here because she knew this was her destiny. This was her right.

She was currently ten and six namedays old. The age where a girl turned into a woman. Her beauty had matured since the day she arrived in King's Landing a few years ago. Her cheekbones were more defined, her skin glowing like polished pearl, and her green eyes held an emerald glint that could charm or kill.

She was satisfied with her life right now. She was satisfied with the reflection staring back from the mirror. She was a Lannister. She was a Lion. And soon, she would be a Dragon.

"Comb it neatly, Celia," said Cersei softly, her voice calm yet containing an undeniable command. Her eyes watched the servant's hands through the mirror, ensuring every wave of her golden hair fell exactly where desired. "Do not let a single strand be out of place. I do not want even the slightest flaw in me today."

"Yes, My Lady," answered Celia, her hands trembling slightly from nervousness as she combed Cersei's long and thick golden hair.

My Queen, corrected Cersei internally, her lips thinning slightly forming a firm line. In a few hours I will be Queen, you better remember that, stupid girl. 'My Lady' is no longer enough for me.

Another servant was buttoning the back of her wedding dress. The dress was a masterpiece of the best tailor specially brought in by her father. Thick and luxurious white silk, embroidered with real gold thread and small pearls, forming a lion pattern. A cloak with the Lannister crimson color lay ready on a nearby chair, waiting to be worn by her father for the last time.

"Done, My Lady," whispered the servant, retreating with head bowed, not daring to meet her master's eyes.

Cersei stood up. She turned her body slightly, ensuring the fabric fell perfectly. The dress hugged her body fittingly, accentuating her curves without looking excessive.

"Leave," she commanded.

The servants bowed deeply and hurried out, leaving Cersei alone with her victory. She looked at herself once more. Perfect. No Tyrell or Martell girl could match this. Cersei was the embodiment of power and beauty. Rhaegar would be mesmerized. He had to be mesmerized.

The chamber door opened again without a knock.

Only two people in the whole world dared to do that without her permission.

Cersei didn't need to turn to know who was coming. She recognized those heavy and rhythmic footsteps, as well as the lighter yet confident footsteps beside them.

Tywin and Jaime entered the room.

The Hand of the King wore a dark red velvet tunic with his golden chain of office gleaming. His face, as usual, was a mask of impenetrable calm. Yet Cersei, who knew him better than anyone, could see a very subtle glint of satisfaction in those pale green eyes. This was his day of victory too. The culmination of his lifelong ambition to place his blood on the Iron Throne.

Beside him, Jaime smiled gently, her twin brother looking very handsome. He wore a dark red silk doublet with intricate gold embroidery on the sleeves and collar, the grand colors of House Lannister he wore proudly as the heir to Casterly Rock. A sword with a lion-head hilt hung at his waist, and a gold cloak draped over one shoulder, making him look like a lion prince who jumped out of songs.

"Are you ready?" asked Tywin, his voice flat. His eyes swept over Cersei from head to toe, assessing his valuable 'asset' for the last time with a critical gaze. "You better be quick and not keep us all waiting. The carriage is prepared. The King does not like waiting, and the smallfolk have started to get restless in the streets."

Cersei straightened her back, slightly offended that her father thought she would be slow. "I am never late, Father. I am only ensuring perfection."

"It is a defining day in her life, Father," Jaime defended, but with a light joking tone. "Let her enjoy her moment for a while. Besides, the bride is indeed supposed to arrive a little late to make everyone hold their breath in anticipation, right?"

"I will not be late," repeated Cersei, her voice calm and full of conviction. "I am only ensuring that I am perfect. Do I look perfect, Father?"

Tywin stared at her. He did not smile, but he nodded slowly, a rare acknowledgment. "You look like a Queen. That is what matters. Remember, today is not just about you, Cersei. It is about House Lannister. About our legacy. Do not make mistakes. Do not trip while walking to the altar. Do not cry like a whiny girl. Stand tall. Show them dignity."

"I will not cry," answered Cersei sharply. "I am not a weak girl who cries from happiness or fear. I know who I am."

"Good," said Tywin. He walked to the chair and picked up the Lannister Cloak. With a rigid yet meaningful ceremonial movement, he draped it over Cersei's shoulders. The weight of the red velvet felt comfortable, like the protective embrace of the family that had surrounded her all this time.

Tywin tied the cloak strings at Cersei's neck, then looked deep into her eyes.

"Remember what I told you last night," whispered Tywin, his voice low so only Cersei could hear. "Marriage is a beginning, not an end. Your duty is to provide heirs. Male heirs. As soon as possible. That will secure your position stronger than your beauty or the King's love. A Queen without sons is a fragile Queen."

"I know my duty, Father," said Cersei. "I will give him sons. Sons with golden and silver hair who will rule the world."

Tywin stepped back, satisfied.

Jaime interrupted the heavy moment with a low whistle. "You look stunning, Cersei. Truly. Rhaegar will forget how to breathe when he sees you walking in."

Cersei laughed a little, a sound cold yet amused. "He should."

"That's the spirit," said Jaime. "And I will be there, in the front row, watching you. Ensuring you do not trip."

"Come," ordered Tywin, cutting the sentiment before it became too long. "Time to leave."

The journey to the Great Sept of Baelor felt like a blurry yet vivid dream. Cersei sat inside the gold-plated royal carriage, her father sitting opposite her.

Outside, the cheers of the common people crowding the streets sounded like adoring ocean waves. The roar of their voices penetrated the carriage walls.

Cersei waved at them from the carriage window with a perfectly practiced smile, a smile friendly yet distant, a smile of a goddess to her worshippers.

Look at me, she thought, her heart swelling with satisfaction. Look at your Queen. Remember this face. The face that will rule you.

The carriage stopped. The door opened.

When Cersei stepped out in front of the white marble stairs of the Great Sept of Baelor, the grandeur almost overwhelmed her for a moment. Thousands of candles burning inside, the sweet smell of incense wafting out, and great bells tolling deafeningly.

She held her breath, slightly nervous. Not out of fear, but out of pure adrenaline. This was her biggest stage. She had waited for a moment like this all her life.

She took her father's arm. Tywin patted her hand once, a very rare gesture of support from the ice-cold man, and they began to climb the stairs.

They entered the Sept.

A sea of noble faces turned to look at her. Colorful velvet cloaks, sparkling jewels, everything faded in the presence of Cersei.

She walked down that long aisle. Step by step. Her rhythm perfect. Chin lifted.

Every eye was on her. She could feel the envious gazes of the Tyrell girls sitting in the front row, the admiring gazes of small lords, and the calculating gaze of Jon Arryn. She loved it all. She absorbed that energy. She was the center of the world right now.

And there, at the end of the aisle, in front of the altar, stood Rhaegar Targaryen.

He was tall and handsome, wearing a black and red Targaryen tunic. Jaehaerys's crown sparkled atop his silver hair. His figure regal and full of power.

His purple eyes stared at Cersei as she approached.

There was a smile on Rhaegar's face. A smile that was gentle, welcoming, and... accepting. No rejection there. No hesitation.

Cersei felt her knees go a little weak from joy, but she forced herself to keep walking gracefully. This was the man she wanted. Her dream prince come true.

They reached the altar. Tywin released her arm and handed her to the King.

"I give my daughter, Cersei of House Lannister, to be your wife and your Queen," said Tywin, his voice echoing strongly in the silent room.

"I receive her with joy," answered Rhaegar. His voice was like music, deep and melodious.

Rhaegar extended his hand. Cersei welcomed it. Rhaegar's hand was warm and strong, grasping her hand gently yet firmly.

The High Septon, in his sparkling crystal robes, began reciting wedding prayers. Cersei listened, but part of her mind drifted to the victory of this moment. She had won. She had beaten fate. She had defeated all her competitors.

Then came the time for the exchange of cloaks.

Rhaegar stepped behind her. The King's hands untied the Lannister Cloak from Cersei's shoulders. The red cloth with the golden lion fell to the floor, a symbol that she was no longer just her father's daughter. She released her old identity.

Then, with a gentle and respectful movement, Rhaegar unfolded a new cloak.

The Queen's Cloak.

Pitch black silk with a three-headed red dragon embroidered large and regal on the back. The Targaryen Dragon.

Rhaegar draped it over Cersei's shoulders, tying it at her neck. The weight was different. This was heavier than the Lannister cloak. This was the weight of power. The weight of a dynasty.

"With this cloak, I protect you," said Rhaegar.

Cersei turned to face him.

"And with this heart, I love you," replied Cersei, reciting the vow she had memorized and practiced thousands of times in front of the mirror. Her voice clear and sincere.

They turned to face the High Septon again, hands clasping each other.

"With the power given by the Seven Gods, I pronounce you husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul..."

Rhaegar turned to face Cersei fully. He leaned in, his hands holding Cersei's face gently. Their lips met.

The kiss was polite, according to etiquette in public, yet there was warmth there. There was a promise.

Cheers exploded inside the sept as they separated. Trumpets sounded, announcing to the entire city and world that the King had a Queen.

Cersei stared into Rhaegar's purple eyes from close range. She saw her reflection there, a young woman with a gold crown in her hair.

She smiled. She was now Queen. The King's wife. Mother of future kings. She was on top of the world.

Cersei looked at the sea of faces before her, the Lords, Ladies, Knights, who now bowed to her. No one could look down on her anymore. No one could command her except the King, and she was sure she could manage the King.

She was Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And she would make sure everyone remembered her name.

...

Fairmarket, Riverlands, 283 AC.

Night in Fairmarket was never truly dark; the night here was dirty grey, illuminated by moonlight filtered through river mist and dim lanterns from brothels that never slept. But in the narrow alley behind the closed fish market, the darkness was pitch black, wet, and smelled of blood.

The sound of bone hitting flesh sounded wet and disgusting.

Rick hit again. And again. His hand moved with a rhythm of blind desperation. He didn't hate the old man beneath him, he didn't even see his face clearly, but he hated the hunger tearing at his stomach like a mad wolf.

Blood splattered, warm splashes hitting Rick's dirty face, then scattering onto the mossy stone floor. The man he beat had been unconscious since the second blow, his body limp like a sack of wheat falling from a cart. Yet Rick kept hitting again, one last time towards the ribs, just to make sure everything was safe. Just to make sure the victim wouldn't wake up and scream for the city watch before Rick disappeared.

Then he stopped.

Rick stepped back, staggering almost falling because his own legs were trembling. He was panting, his breath spent as if he had just run from a bear. His lungs felt very hot, burning every time he inhaled the cold and damp night air.

He looked down, at his own hands. Under the dim moonlight penetrating the roof cracks, he saw his skinny fists. The skin on his knuckles had split, revealing red flesh underneath. They were bruised, swollen, dark red, and a little purple.

It was painful. A stinging soreness started creeping up his arm. But the pain in his hand was nothing. It was just a mosquito bite compared to the discomfort filling his stomach. A gaping black hole in the center of his body, demanding to be filled.

He hadn't eaten for a whole day. Not even a piece of bread. The last half of a hard moldy loaf he kept behind a brick in his bed wall was finished yesterday afternoon, and even that was only enough to trick his stomach for a few hours.

Getting food was no longer easy. When you were someone with no copper pennies, no trade skills, or any valuable goods to pawn, your choices were limited. The most likely path was begging, sitting on the side of a muddy road, holding out dirty hands, and asking for other people's mercy to give a little leftover food.

But in these times, in this dense and crowded Fairmarket, rarely did anyone have empathy. People walked with eyes closed to the suffering of their fellows. Especially to strangers like Rick. They saw him as a pest, a gutter rat to be driven away.

So Rick chose the easier yet hardest path: stealing.

He remembered a few days ago, he went to the busy grain market. He tried to steal some warm bread when the seller was arguing about price. He almost succeeded. His hand had touched the crisp bread crust. But the sharp eyes of a shop guard caught him. Shouts of "Thief!" echoed. Rick ran with all his might, his heart about to explode, sneaking between horse legs and carts, luckily he ran fast enough that no one could beat him or cut off his hand.

But that was a few days ago. That luck had run out, just like the energy in his body.

Tonight, Rick started starving again. Hunger that was not just a desire to eat, but physical pain making his vision blurry and his head dizzy. He sat in this alley, waiting for death or a miracle.

Then came this old man.

He walked alone, drunk, singing a bawdy song about a milkmaid. His clothes were quite good, thick unpatched wool, and at his waist hung a leather pouch that jingled every time he stepped. The sound of metal clashing. The sound of salvation.

He was an easy target. A gift from the Gods, or perhaps demons.

Rick knelt beside his victim's body. His trembling hand groped the man's waist, cutting the pouch string with a small dull knife he found in the trash. He took the pouch, feeling its weight in his palm.

He opened it slightly. The glint of copper greeted him. And... there was one silver stag.

Rick's eyes widened. His heart beat fast. Enough. This was more than enough. There were several coppers and one silver there, enough to buy food for maybe a week, or two weeks if he scrimped and only ate porridge.

He smiled, a smile showing his teeth. This was his lucky day.

"Rest in peace, Old Man," whispered Rick, his voice hoarse. "At least until tomorrow noon when you wake up with a headache."

Rick stood up and left the alley quickly, merging with the shadows. But as he walked away, the pleasure faded, replaced by nausea.

He felt like trash. He felt dirty for beating an innocent old man just for his stomach. In the past, his mother taught him to respect elders. In the past, he was an honest man.

But he had no other choice. Survival logic killed his conscience. If he didn't hit, he was the one who would die of starvation in that cold gutter. And no one would cry for him.

In the past... Rick was a farmer in the village of Narrowwood, a small hamlet. Well, he wasn't a land owner, he was just a farmhand working to help on Lord Brackley's fields.

His job was simple. Hoeing hard ground, planting seeds by hand under the scorching sun, watering, and harvesting wheat. His back often hurt, his hands rough, and the pay small.

His life was ordinary. Very ordinary. He had a small hut, he had drinking buddies at the village tavern, and he had a dream to marry the milkman's daughter. However, he only realized now that ordinary life was also a luxury. A luxury he didn't appreciate until it was snatched from him so quickly.

Two years ago, disaster came. Not in the form of war, dragons, or plague. Disaster came in the form of wood and iron.

Lord Brackley, their landlord, had just returned from a meeting with Lord Tully. He brought a new tool. A strange cart with funnels and gears.

It was a tool already heard in the farmers' ears through terrifying rumors from the west. The seed drill from the Lannisters.

When Rick saw the tool pulled by two horses, walking splitting the field and planting seeds in perfectly straight rows in just a short time, he felt cold in his stomach. The tool did the work of ten men in half a day.

Rick knew right then that he had to find another job.

And sure enough. Lord Brackley called his farmhands. He said with a regretful face, or pretending to be regretful, that he had to perform "efficiency". The seed drill took his and his friends' jobs. Only a few people were kept there to maintain the tool and herd livestock. The rest? Not needed.

"You can seek fortune elsewhere," said the Lord.

So, that forced Rick out of the village where he was born. He had no land, no skills other than farming. He packed his meager bundle of clothes and tried his luck here, in Fairmarket, the largest trading town in the Riverlands. He thought in a big city there would be many jobs.

But yes, reality looked harsher.

Not only Rick was driven out. Many people like him also came here. Farmhands from other villages also replaced by Lannister tools. They all flooded the city like a flood.

Finding a job became almost impossible. For every single job lifting crates at the harbor, there were fifty people fighting for it. Wages fell freely because of too much labor. The city population increased drastically, but jobs did not.

So in Fairmarket now there were many homeless people. A slum tent city grew outside the walls. People wandered with empty eyes, sleeping in slum alleys, under bridges, or in pigsties. Theft epidemic increased. Prostitution increased.

This was a silent disaster. No blood on the battlefield, but slow death in the streets. And Rick didn't know how long this would last.

Rick shook his head, banishing the bitter memory. He gripped his stolen pouch tighter under his tunic.

He arrived at a leaning wooden building with a sign of a broken oar. "The Broken Oar" Inn.

He entered. The air inside was warm, smelling of wood smoke and human sweat. The noise of conversation filled the room. Rick liked this place. He chose an inn far from the city center and noble civilization because usually the food was cheaper, but at the same time the place was also crowded with outcasts like him. Here, no one asked where you got your money.

Rick walked to the sticky wooden bar table.

"Give me a whole loaf of bread. And meat stew. The large bowl," said Rick to the innkeeper, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation.

The innkeeper, a burly man named Dhorin, stared at Rick suspiciously. Rick placed several copper pieces on the table. Dhorin's eyes softened. Money always talked.

"Wait a moment," muttered Dhorin, sweeping the coins into his drawer.

While waiting, Rick looked around the main room. Usually this place was crowded with drunks gambling or whores looking for customers. But tonight was different.

Almost everyone in the room, rough laborers, beggars, former farmers, unemployed mercenaries, were looking in one direction. To the corner of the room near the fireplace.

There, a group of people gathered closely. The atmosphere was tense yet excited.

"What are they doing?" asked Rick to Dhorin, pointing to the crowd with his chin. "Is there another philanthropist distributing money? Or a madman dancing?"

Dhorin followed Rick's gaze, then frowned deeply. He leaned slightly over the table, whispering with a warning tone.

"You better ask them yourself if you have the guts. Or better yet, eat your food, close your ears, and leave," hissed Dhorin. "I want nothing to do at all with what they are talking about. It's dangerous business."

"Is it that hard to explain to a friend?" Rick smiled thinly, trying to fish for information.

Dhorin stared at him flatly. "You are not my friend, Kid. You are just a customer. I will prepare your order."

Dhorin turned to go to the kitchen.

Not long after, the bowl of stew arrived. Steam billowed, carrying the thick aroma of beef broth, onions, and carrots. Beside it was a large and dense piece of black bread.

To Rick, it looked more beautiful than King Rhaegar's crown he had ever imagined. It looked like heavenly food.

He snatched the bread, tearing it with his teeth, and chewed ravenously. He slurped the hot stew, letting the liquid burn his tongue and warm his cold stomach. The pain in his hand was forgotten. The guilt of beating an old man was forgotten. There was only a feeling of fullness slowly creeping in.

As he ate quickly, a loud shout occurred in the corner crowd.

"Right!" shouted someone. "What do they think we are? Cattle?!"

Rick raised an eyebrow. His curiosity was piqued. He took his bowl and remaining bread, then walked closer while continuing to eat. He stood on the edge of the crowd, listening while chewing.

There, in the center of the crowd, stood a man on an overturned wooden crate.

The man was tall, thin but muscular. He had a thick messy black beard, and long hair tied with a leather strap. His clothes were shabby, patches here and there, but he had a strange authority. His eyes burned with a fire that reminded Rick of a mad preacher, but his words made far more sense than prayers.

"You cannot just keep silent like this, can you?" said the man, his voice heavy and hoarse, yet reaching every corner of the room. He stared at the tired faces around him one by one. "Waiting for death to pick you up slowly in wet alleys? Waiting to be thrown bone scraps by dogs? While your voices are not heard? While your children's stomachs rumble?"

People nodded. Some muttered agreement. The atmosphere in the room started to heat up.

The man continued, his hand clenched in the air.

"They call it 'progress'," spat the man with disgust. "They call those tools a blessing. But a blessing for whom?"

Rick stopped chewing. The bread in his mouth felt tasteless suddenly.

"With those tools, the nobles become increasingly arbitrary to us!" cried the man, his voice rising. "They cut workers because tools don't need wages! They drive us from our ancestral lands because tools need vast fields without peasant huts! They don't think about our children struggling to get a piece of bread!"

The man pointed towards the door, towards the outside world.

"While the wheat itself is getting more abundant in their granaries! Harvest is plentiful, they say! But did the price of bread go down? No! are we full? No!"

"They hoard it to become gold!" shouted a woman in the front row.

"Exactly!" welcomed the speaker. "They get richer on our broken backbones. They replace us with wood and iron. Do you accept it?! Are you willing to be replaced by inanimate objects?!"

"NO!" shouted several people in unison.

Rick swallowed. He chewed his bread slowly.

Those words... those words stabbed right into the heart of the problem.

True. Since the appearance of strange tools and new farming systems from the West, it had become common knowledge that harvests in the Riverlands and Westerlands were increasingly abundant. Never had there been this much wheat. But that abundance did not trickle down. The Lords became richer, buying silk and glass, while their own people, the ones who used to till the land, were now starving in the cities, having no roof to sleep under, becoming thieves and whores.

This was not just poverty. This was systematic injustice.

The bearded man looked around, his eyes meeting Rick's eyes for a moment. There was an invitation there. An invitation to be angry.

"We must take back our rights," said the man, his voice lowering into a dangerous growl. "Those tools... they can burn. Those granaries... the doors can be broken down. If they don't feed us, we will take it ourselves."

This was not just a complaint in a tavern.

Rick realized it with a cold shiver down his spine. This was developing as a gathering. A beginning of something big and bloody.

Rebellion.

And as he stared at the remaining bread in his hand, bread he bought with money from beating a person, Rick wondered: would he join in burning the world, or not.

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

King's Landing, Crownlands, 284 AC.

The sound, the scratch of chalk on a blackboard, the rustle of cheap paper being turned, and the low hum of children concentrating, filled Jaime Lannister's ears like a symphony from a nearly forgotten past life.

To Jaime, these sounds were a time machine. A sight he hadn't seen since he left his modern world. But here, in the heart of the capital of Westeros, he had managed to recreate it.

A classroom.

He stood silently near an open window at the back of the room. Warm morning sunlight entered, illuminating chalk dust dancing in the air. The room was simple, a former grain warehouse near Rhaenys's Hill converted and renovated by King Rhaegar's order. The walls were painted lime white to reflect light, and new windows had been installed for air circulation.

In front of him sat about thirty boys and girls. Their average age was ten namedays. They wore simple clothes, rough wool tunics and linen, marking their status as common children. Children of artisans, small merchants, or dock workers.

They stared at the large blackboard at the front of the class with peaceful silence, their eyes wide absorbing information. Occasionally they shifted in their hard wooden chairs, adjusting their sitting positions for comfort, but no one dared to make a ruckus.

On the board, words were written in neat white chalk. They were learning about the kingdom's history. Not history about wars and dragon slaying alone, but the history of construction.

"...and that was how Baelor the Blessed began his vision," the teacher's voice sounded clear but slightly trembling.

William Hill, the teacher, was a thin young man in his early twenties. He was one of the first graduates of the experimental education program in Lannisport sent to the capital. He stood in front of the class with a pointer in hand, explaining how the Great Sept of Baelor was built.

"Not with magic," said William, pointing to the dome drawing he sketched on the board. "But with marble, glass, and the sweat of thousands of workers. It took planning, mathematics, and hard work to create something that lasts."

Standing near the classroom window, Jaime could feel the nervousness radiating from the young teacher. William explained fluently, his knowledge was solid, but sometimes his gaze darted towards Jaime. Quick, fearful glances, as if he worried the heir to Casterly Rock would suddenly draw a sword and behead him if he got a year wrong.

Jaime found it amusing. He held back a smile so as not to look mocking.

Relax, thought Jaime. I am not Tywin Lannister. I will not fire you because your handwriting is slanted.

Not that he would do anything terrible. He was just here to see how this lesson was going. King Rhaegar, with his spirit of reform, wanted a direct report on the progress of the new schools in King's Landing. And Rhaegar felt Jaime, as the originator of the original idea, was the best and most objective person for the task.

William cleared his throat, trying to ignore Jaime's presence and focus on his students.

"Now," said William, looking at the class. "Who can tell me, why did King Baelor choose the location atop Visenya's Hill, and not elsewhere?"

Silence for a moment. Some children looked down, afraid to be picked.

Then, in the middle row, a small hand raised. Hesitant at first, then becoming straight and sure.

It was a little girl with neatly braided brown hair and intelligent eyes. Clara. Jaime remembered the name from William mentioning it earlier.

"Yes, Clara?" pointed William, looking relieved someone responded.

Clara stood up. She crumpled her skirt slightly, but her voice was clear.

"Because it is a high hill, Teacher William," answered Clara. "So the Sept can be seen from the whole city, even from the sea. It... it is like a lighthouse for people to find their way home to the Gods."

William smiled broadly, a sincere smile erasing his nervousness for a moment.

"A very good answer, Clara. Exactly right. A symbol of hope that everyone can see."

Clara smiled proudly, her cheeks turning red as she sat back down. The friend beside her nudged her gently as congratulations.

Jaime watched that interaction with a warm feeling in his chest. This was real. Knowledge was being transferred. That child learned about architectural meaning and symbolism. This was the seed of something far greater than any war or conquest. This was the future he was trying to build.

Shaking his head gently, Jaime chuckled soundlessly. He had seen enough. This school was running well, perhaps even better than he expected.

He straightened his body from leaning on the wall, giving a brief nod to William when the teacher's eyes glanced at him again. The nod was approval.

Jaime turned and walked out of the class with slow steps. His footsteps echoed steadily in the stone corridor of the school he had just inspected. He walked with the upright posture of a young man who had found his place in the world, followed by two Lannister guards a few steps behind.

As he walked past rows of other closed classroom doors, hearing faintly the voices of teachers teaching basic arithmetic, Jaime couldn't help a feeling crossing his mind.

He was currently eighteen years old.

In his old life as Steven, eighteen was a transition period to college, a time full of teenage uncertainty. But here, in Westeros, eighteen was the age of a mature adult man. And by the Gods, he felt he had lived ten lives in the past few years.

Life passed quickly as if it were only yesterday he arrived in this world as a boy just recovering from his mother's death at Casterly Rock. Now? He was a husband, a knight, and an uncle to a prince.

He stared at the ring on his finger. He had married Catelyn Tully two years ago, shortly after the grand wedding feast of Cersei and Rhaegar that shook the capital. His married life... surprisingly good. Catelyn was not just a dutiful woman; she was smart, sharp, and possessed a warmth that balanced the cynical Lannister side. Hoster Tully, his father-in-law, was also quite easy to work with. Very easy even. The Lord of Riverrun seemed capable of agreeing to everything Jaime wanted, especially regarding agricultural and school projects, perhaps because he saw the golden profit behind it, or perhaps because he feared Tywin. Whatever it was, Jaime didn't think too much about it. As long as the Riverlands supplied raw materials for paper and food, he was satisfied.

Jaime also remembered the event a year ago, they eradicated bandits in the Kingswood, he finally knelt and received knighthood from his own uncle, Tygett Lannister. It was a satisfying moment. He was Ser Jaime Lannister now, and it was because of his own ability.

And Cersei...

His mind shifted to his sister who was now Queen. Cersei had given birth to her first child. A son. The baby had silver Valyrian hair like Rhaegar's, and pale purple eyes.

Aegon.

Rhaegar named him Aegon.

Jaime almost laughed bitterly when he heard it the first time. Yes, another Aegon, he thought cynically. Who knew how many more Aegons would be born in the future of the Targaryen family. But at least, that birth strengthened Cersei's position and eased political tension. Tywin was very happy; his grandson would be King.

Jaime stepped out of the school building, inhaling the outside air which was... less fresh.

A carriage with a golden lion logo was already waiting. A servant opened the door, and Jaime entered, sitting on the soft velvet seat.

"Return to the Red Keep," he ordered.

The carriage began to move, its wooden wheels rumbling over the cobblestone streets of King's Landing. Jaime leaned his head back, looking out the window.

The view outside his carriage glass window was a mixture of progress and chaos.

Schools had spread, gradually. Not only here, but especially in the Westerlands and Riverlands. That was a victory. But other problems arose with growth.

Jaime saw a group of workers digging a ditch on the side of the road, supervised by a foreman holding a scroll. They were checking the sewers.

That was one of Rhaegar's future projects. King's Landing already smelled. The smell was legendary. And with the exploding population, the smell was getting worse. The city's waste disposal system was a disaster waiting to happen. An epidemic could explode anytime if they didn't fix the actual sewers. Jaime wanted to build a sanitation system, find new water sources, covered culverts, and maybe aqueducts, although this one would require decades if it was to be realized.

This city was also too crowded since three years ago. Migration from villages to the city increased due to agricultural efficiency, a paradox of progress Jaime knew would happen. It didn't happen instantly, but gradually. People filled the slum alleys in Flea Bottom, looking for work everywhere.

The carriage turned into a narrower market street to cut the path. Here, the crowd of humans was so dense it almost spilled onto the carriage track. The smell of rotten fish, sweat, and spices mixed into one.

Suddenly, the carriage stopped abruptly. Jaime was pushed forward slightly.

Angry shouting was heard from outside. The crowd became boisterous.

"What is it?" Jaime asked from the window, his voice containing a little irritation. He wanted to go home quickly, bathe, and eat.

One of his mounted guards, Bryen, approached the window.

"I will check it, My Lord," said the guard. He spurred his horse forward, then returned moments later with a sour face.

"There is a thief, My Lord," he reported. "A thin man. He stole fruits from a merchant's cart. Caught red-handed. The people are angry. They are beating him."

Jaime frowned. He looked ahead. In the middle of the crowd, he could glimpse a man curling up on the ground, kicked by several irate merchants. Shouts of "Cut off his hand!" were clearly heard.

Vigilante justice. Street justice. Jaime hated it. It was barbaric, disorderly, and often disproportionate. Killing or cutting off someone's hand just for a handful of apples or pears? It was madness. But that was the law prevailing in these streets.

"Stop them," ordered Jaime firmly. He opened the carriage door.

"My Lord?" his guard looked hesitant. "It is just a market thief."

"Then bring him immediately and separate him from the mob," said Jaime coldly, his eyes staring sharply towards the crowd. "I do not want anyone taking the law into their own hands and then killing that person just because of a handful of fruit in front of my carriage. It ruins my appetite."

He used a haughty reason à la Lannister so his guards would move fast, but his heart felt sick. He had often heard of incidents like this here. Poverty amidst palace luxury.

"Yes, My Lord."

The Lannister guards moved. With spears and loud barks, they split the crowd.

"Make way! In the name of Ser Jaime Lannister! Make way!"

The angry mob immediately retreated upon seeing the red and gold uniforms and the lion sigil. Fear defeated anger.

Jaime saw his guards drag the man to stand. The man was skinny, his face bloody, clothes tattered. In his trembling hand, he still clutched a bruised green apple.

The man's eyes met Jaime's eyes for a moment. There was fear there, but also desperate hunger.

"Drive," ordered Jaime to his coachman as the guards took the man aside. "And bring him later to a cell in the Red Keep, not the city prison. I will try to speak with him later."

"Speak with him, Ser?" asked Bryen confused.

"Yes," answered Jaime while closing the carriage window, not explaining further.

The carriage moved again, leaving the crowd muttering in disappointment for losing their spectacle of blood. Jaime leaned back, but his mind was no longer calm.

...

After cleaning the street dust from his body with hot water and enjoying a lunch of delicious roast goose, Jaime did not rest immediately. Instead, his footsteps took him back into the belly of the Red Keep.

He went towards the temporary holding cell block on the higher level, not the damp and dark underground dungeon where traitors rotted. The air in this stone hallway was a bit hot due to the scorching afternoon sun penetrating high ventilation slits in the wall, but at least it wasn't stuffy. Sunlight created lines of dust floating in the air, giving an illusion of calm in a place usually filled with despair.

Jaime nodded to the jailer on duty, who immediately jumped up and opened the heavy iron cell door with a loud clang.

Jaime stepped in.

Inside, sitting on a rough wooden cot, was the thin man he had saved from the mob earlier.

The man looked much better than before, though that was a low standard. His face had been cleaned of blood, revealing pale and sunken skin under purple bruises that started to form. His thin body was wrapped in a simple prison tunic. Upon seeing Jaime enter, the man gasped in fear, his body trembling slightly like a dry leaf blown by the wind. He hurriedly stood up and bowed his head deeply.

Jaime held back from sighing heavily. He knew that look. The look of a rabbit seeing a wolf. This would be a long day, at least in his own mind.

"Sit," ordered Jaime with a tone he tried to make as gentle as possible.

He himself took a chair in the room, a simple wooden chair. Jaime's guard, Bryen, remained standing near the door, his hand alert on his sword hilt. He wouldn't risk letting his master be in danger, even though Jaime was sure he could defeat this thin man with one hand tied behind his back.

"Have you eaten?" asked Jaime. He had ordered the guards to provide food as soon as this man was put in the cell. There was no point talking to a person whose brain was jammed from hunger and pain.

The man nodded slowly, his eyes not daring to meet Jaime's face. "Yes... yes, M'lord. Bread and bean soup. Thank you..." He added it at the end with a hoarse voice, as if the word was foreign on his tongue.

"Good," Jaime smiled thinly. "Sorry to make you speak while you are hurt and probably want to sleep, but I do not have much time, and you also look like you want to get out of this situation as soon as possible."

The man nodded again, his split lip pressed tight.

Jaime leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on knees. "What is your name?"

"Hamlin," he whispered.

"Now, Hamlin," said Jaime, looking into the man's eyes, trying to find honesty there. "Why did you steal?"

It was a rhetorical stupid question, of course because he had no money, but this would open the topic about the man's condition and past without Jaime having to interrogate him like a war criminal.

"I... I..." Hamlin stammered. His dirty and rough hands played with the hem of his tunic nervously. He winced softly when the movement pressed one of the wounds on his ribs, then stopped.

"I had no other choice, M'lord," he said finally, his voice cracking from spilled despair. "I only drank water and ate scraps in the market trash for the last three days. My stomach... it felt like there were rats tearing from the inside. It was torturous. And I knew that I would die if things kept going like this. So I saw that apple... and my hand moved on its own."

Hamlin looked down, his shoulders slumping. "I know that it is a bad thing. But circumstances forced..."

Jaime nodded in silence. His expression didn't change, remaining calm and dignified, but inside, his heart felt tight.

He knew. He knew exactly what was happening.

Over the past few years, harvests in the Westerlands and Riverlands increased thanks to his new farming methods. Granaries were full. However, the price of wheat bread in the King's Landing market had not yet decreased significantly.

Many Lords, still prioritized themselves. They preferred to hoard that abundant harvest in their warehouses, stockpiling for winter, or selling it to Essos for much gold, rather than flooding the local market and lowering prices. Classic feudal greed.

According to Jaime and Tywin's estimate, this wouldn't last long. In the Westerlands, prices had started to stabilize and decrease because Tywin forced the market by flooding the supply. His father had moved to kill speculators. And that wave of cheap wheat wouldn't be long before reaching here, forcing capital merchants to lower prices or let their goods rot. Lord Tully was also doing the same.

But still, that didn't change much for people like Hamlin. Even cheap wheat still had to be bought with coin. And these people had no income.

"Where are you from, Hamlin?" asked Jaime gently. "Your hands are calloused, but not the calluses of a soldier or blacksmith. What did you do before all this happened to earn a living?"

"I..." The man frowned, his eyes gazing into a distant past. "I was a shepherd from Hardstone, M'lord. It was a small village on Lord Kenley's land in the Riverlands."

Hamlin's face brightened slightly telling his past. "Every day I tended the landlord's livestock. Taking them to pasture, shearing sheep wool in spring, helping calf births. And doing the same thing again the next day. I did that for twenty years. The pay was low, but enough. Enough to eat, enough for a roof over my head, and a mug of ale on weekends."

Then, the light on his face extinguished. His jaw hardened.

"But...." Hamlin held himself back from grinding his teeth. "He dismissed me. Lord Kenley. He dismissed me and many others, planters, reapers, shepherds, after that harvest. Suddenly. He said he didn't need many hands anymore."

Jaime's heart beat slower, heavier. He had suspected this, but hearing it directly from a victim made his stomach churn.

"Do you know why he did that?" asked Jaime. He wanted to hear it. He needed to hear it.

Hamlin flinched slightly. He looked into Jaime's eyes with doubt, fear reappearing. His fingers played nervously again. He knew who sat in front of him. Jaime Lannister.

"Th-that..." Hamlin swallowed. "That was because of your tools, Lord Lannister."

Those words hung in the hot air. An unspoken accusation.

Jaime nodded. He did not defend himself. He did not explain about anything. That would not fill Hamlin's stomach.

This was the dark side of progress. Peasants driven from their lands due to efficiency. Jaime had brought it to Westeros faster, and people like Hamlin were the price to be paid.

But Jaime, could not leave them just like that. He had a moral responsibility.

"Listen, Hamlin," said Jaime, breaking the awkward silence. "You see that we are doing big projects in this city, right? People digging ditches, cleaning sewers?"

"Yes, M'lord. I see them."

"That is my project. King's Landing Sanitation," said Jaime. "We are short of people willing to work hard and not afraid of getting dirty."

Jaime stared at Hamlin sharply.

"If you want, you can help. There will be weekly pay, enough for you to eat three times a day and rent a decent room. You will also be provided temporary accommodation in the workers' barracks with the others if you don't have a place yet. The work is heavy, smelly, and dirty. But it is honest work."

Hamlin gaped. His mouth opened slightly. He stared at Jaime as if he were a new person.

"I will not make you work now, of course, considering your current state," added Jaime quickly. "But if you want, the position is yours. While you think about it, and while your wounds heal, I will let you get a room, get food until you improve... What do you think?"

"Yes! Yes!" said Hamlin, his voice almost shouting, tears welling in the corners of his swollen eyes. He almost fell from his seat to kneel, but held back due to pain. "I want to, M'lord! By the Seven, I want to! I will even work now if needed! These wounds are nothing! I am strong, I am used to hard work!"

"Good spirit," Jaime smiled, a slightly sad smile. "But no. You may work when you have improved. I do not want you dying on the first day due to infection or exhaustion... that would make me look like a bad employer. No offense."

Hamlin laughed. A weary, broken laugh, mixed with sobs of relief. Tears flowed freely down his dirty cheeks. "Yes, M'lord. I... I will recover first. Thank you. Thank you."

"That is good."

Jaime stood up. He stepped closer, patting the thin man's shoulder. He could feel the shoulder bone protruding under his thin tunic.

"Bryen will take you to a more decent resting place, not this stone cell. And he will also explain further details later to the project foreman. Your name will enter the payroll starting today."

"Thank you, Ser Jaime. Gods bless you," sobbed Hamlin.

"See you, Hamlin. Do not steal apples again. Buy apple pie later," joked Jaime.

Jaime turned and walked out of the cell. The iron door was not locked back behind him for Hamlin, but opened wide to let the man out towards his new life.

But as Jaime walked down the corridor, his heart had not improved. The tight feeling was still there.

He fixed one problem, yes. He saved one person.

But he knew, out there, in the alleys of Flea Bottom and on the dusty roads of Westeros, there were still tens of thousands of humans suffering the same fate as Hamlin. Victims of the efficiency Jaime created. And he couldn't hire them all to clean sewers.

He had to think bigger. He had to create more jobs. Factories. Industries. Whatever it was.

People had to eat, and they had to live, because that was indeed his goal in planning this after all.

 

[Daario]

JAIME | RHAEGAR​

---

"You are going out again, Jaime?"

Catelyn's voice broke the comfortable silence. She lifted the silver teapot covered in dew, pouring the brown liquid into Jaime's porcelain cup with graceful and practiced movements.

This was a routine that had formed over the two years of their marriage. The morning belonged to them. They would breakfast on bread and tea, sometimes with salted ham or boiled eggs. Catelyn liked sweet things, lemon cakes, bread with thick honey, or fruit jams, because she thought they felt lighter to start the day.

Jaime, on the other hand, often had to restrain himself. He knew about the dangers of excess sugar and diabetes, although in this world, the disease was only known as the "sweet sickness" that attacked rich old people. He often reminded Catelyn subtly, hiding it behind jokes about keeping her waistline to fit into her party gowns.

"Yes," answered Jaime, taking a slice of dark rye bread. He spread strawberry jam thinly, very thinly. "I have to inspect the works myself to see if everything is still running smoothly. Jon Connington will come with me."

Jaime bit into his bread, tasting the blend of yeast sourness and faint fruit sweetness. The "Casterly Mortar" works, as they called it, had been established a few months ago outside the city gates, near the swift flow of the Blackwater Rush to turn the grinding wheels. It was an ambitious project to process limestone and volcanic ash into a material that would harden the foundations of King's Landing forever.

Catelyn put down her teapot, her face showing a little worry.

"The stones there are smelly and dusty," said Catelyn, then sipped her tea gracefully. "Last time you came home from there, your tunic was grey and you were coughing. You must be careful not to inhale too much of it. Maester Pycelle says stone dust can settle in the lungs and make you short of breath in old age."

"Pycelle complains about everything, including the wind being too strong. If I listened to him, I would never leave my bed," Jaime chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "I am used to it, Cat. Besides, this is just a routine inspection, not forced labor. I will stand in a safe place, watch the workers, ensure the burning in the kiln runs at the right temperature, then go home. I won't be exposed that much, so you don't need to worry too much."

Catelyn stared at him from behind her cup. Her clear eyes sparkled, radiating a mixture of affection and annoyance only possessed by a wife who loved her stubborn husband.

"I cannot stop worrying because you are always so reckless, Jaime Lannister," she said softly, placing the cup down with a soft clink. "You jump into danger without thinking twice. And now I am stuck with you since we said our vows in the Sept. So, keeping you from dying foolishly by choking on lime dust is part of my duty."

Jaime smiled wryly, leaning his body slightly forward over the table.

"Oh, stuck? What a harsh word, My Lady. I just hope you don't get bored seeing my face every day for the rest of your life. Because I intend to live a very long time, dust or not."

"We shall see," replied Catelyn, but her smile betrayed her tone which pretended to be curt. "Now finish your bread. Jon Connington looks like a man who does not like waiting."

After finishing breakfast and kissing his wife's forehead as a goodbye, Jaime left the room with a pleasant feeling of fullness.

He walked towards the inner courtyard where the stables were, but he found Jon Connington already waiting in the main corridor connecting Maegor's Holdfast with the outer part of the castle.

The red-haired man was standing tall, talking to a guard soldier with his typical serious expression. Jon wore a grey and maroon riding tunic, with the Griffin sigil on his chest. He looked ready and a little impatient.

Seeing Jaime approach, Jon nodded to the soldier to dismiss him, then turned to Jaime with a thin smirk that was barely visible.

"Done preparing yourself?" asked Jon, his eyes sweeping over Jaime's neat yet casual appearance. "You look strong enough to face the day. Or at least, strong enough to mount a horse without help."

Jaime patted his own stomach. "My stomach is fully filled, and now still trying to digest it. I think the word 'bloated' is the most appropriate, not strong. Catelyn insisted I finish my bread ration as if there would be a famine tomorrow."

"A good wife," commented Jon briefly while starting to walk.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Jaime.

"Bread and eggs," he answered, adjusting his long strides to Jaime. They walked down the wide stone corridor, where servants were busy cleaning the floor that morning. "Soldier's food. Enough to keep me from fainting until night. No sweet cakes."

"You are boring, Jon. Life needs a little sugar," teased Jaime.

They walked past large open windows along the corridor towards the Great Hall. Sunlight entered, creating squares of light on the newly polished stone floor.

"I can feel that outside the weather will be scorching at noon," said Jon, glancing at the blinding white sky outside the arched window. "The King's Landing sun is never friendly in summer. These stones reflect heat like a grill."

"Indeed," agreed Jaime. "But yesterday the wind blew pleasantly from the bay. I hope today we get a little remnant of that wind. If not, the works will feel like a hell kitchen."

"Well, at least it makes us look like we are trying more, not just looking around." Said Jon as they continued walking.

"Ah, Lord Jaime, Lord Jon. It seems you two will be busy today?"

A heavy and familiar voice echoed in the front courtyard, stopping Jaime and Jon's steps before they could reach the carriage.

Jaime turned and saw Lord Steffon Baratheon descending the stone stairs with steps still gallant even though his age began to show. The man now served as Master of Laws, a position given by Rhaegar a year ago shortly after his son's marriage, Robert, to Lyanna Stark, a marriage uniting the North and the Stormlands.

"Lord Baratheon," they said in unison, bowing respectfully.

Jaime smiled, a sincere smile. He liked Steffon. The man had a charisma that made boring bureaucratic work feel a little more bearable.

"We are all busy lately, are we not?" replied Jaime. "No one truly rests from doing our respective duties. I hear the City Watch is recruiting many new men under your supervision."

Jon Connington nodded, adding with his usual serious tone. "We are going to check the supply of ash and sand at the new works by the river. Soon the ditch repairs will begin, and we must be absolutely sure that all logistics are still running smoothly."

"Duty, yes, duty," Steffon chuckled, a sound that sounded a little tired. "Nothing we can do but accept it so the kingdom remains standing tall. But that is good. Oh, along the way, I saw many people continuously trying to scoop rotten mud from those sewers. It smells and is disgusting, truly, the smell almost made my horse faint. But I am glad it will be gone soon. I wish you both success. That is a word of encouragement from me to you who dare play with filth for the sake of a fragrant future."

"You yourself should not be too stuck inside that stuffy solar, My Lord. It is not good for health," joked Jaime. "Sitting too long can kill a man as fast as a sword."

Steffon waved his hand, as if shooing a fly. "I have done this for decades. And guess what? I can handle it. This is just a small matter for a Baratheon. We are made of stone and storm, remember?"

They chatted a moment longer about the weather and the latest news from Storm's End, Robert seemed to be enjoying an endless honeymoon with Lyanna, then Steffon excused himself to attend the Small Council meeting.

Jaime and Jon entered the waiting carriage. The door was closed, and the clean palace world was left behind.

The carriage began to move down the hill, towards the denser and dirtier part of the city.

Along the way, scenes of construction activity were seen everywhere. Many workers were picking up trash piling up at street corners or digging the ground.

Jaime observed them from behind the window. Most of them looked fresh, wearing uniform work tunics, Jaime's idea to give a sense of identity and discipline. There were even those joking while passing buckets of soil, their laughter heard between the clinking of shovels. That was a good sign; decent pay kept morale high.

However, Jaime also saw the other side. Some others looked sleep-deprived, their eyes sunken and their movements slow. Perhaps they took other jobs at night for extra money, or perhaps this physical work was too heavy for them who used to be just farmers or beggars.

"They work hard," commented Jon, following Jaime's gaze. "That is good for the future."

"Yes." Answered Jaime, briefly.

The carriage continued, its wooden wheels clattering over the uneven streets. They passed through market crowds, passed people, and finally exited through the Mud Gate.

After traveling further, before them, the Blackwater Rush stretched wide, flowing swiftly towards the bay. But today, the river was not just a waterway; it was an industrial highway.

There were several large barges queuing at the newly built special docks. The ships were wide-bodied and low, laden with heavy cargo. Mounds of grey volcanic ash from Dragonstone, white limestone from the Vale mountains, and coarse river sand.

"They are already good at using it," said Jon. "What is its name? I forgot."

He pointed towards a giant wooden construction towering by the riverbank.

"That," said Jaime, "is a Treadwheel Crane."

The tool looked like a giant hamster wheel made of thick wood. Inside, two men walked continuously, turning the large wheel with their steps. The rotation of the wheel wound a thick rope connected to a long crane arm.

With that simple force, a large net filled with limestone, which usually required ten men to lift, now floated up from the ship's hold easily, swinging in the air, and lowered onto a cart waiting on land.

People operated it carefully, following the shouts of the foreman giving commands.

"This is truly crazy," commented Jon, but there was a tone of awe in his voice. "You make humans work like rats in a wheel, but the result... that one tool replaces twenty broken backs."

"Physics... logic, Jon. Not magic, not madness, someone can create more than this if they use their brain," answered Jaime.

The carriage stopped near the main building complex. They got out, greeted by the heat and fine dust coating the air.

Walking further, near the swift river flow, stood an elongated building for milling. A low rumble was heard from within.

It was operated by three large water wheels turned by the Blackwater current. Inside, wooden gears turned the water rotation into a pounding motion, crushing limestone into fine powder ready to be burned.

Further from the river, white smoke billowed into the sky.

The kilns.

Inside were rows of dome-shaped brick furnaces standing burning hot. Workers wore thick cloth masks on their faces. Next to it, the packaging warehouse stood busy. Finished cement powder was put into wooden barrels, ready to be sent into the city to build sewers, roads, and future foundations.

It took months for the workers to become proficient. They were also taught by a team of experts sent by Uncle Kevan from Lannisport, people who were currently quite expert in making roads in the West.

"Smells like hell," commented Jon, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Dust and smoke."

"You better start getting used to it, you will inhale it often in King's Landing," said Jaime, staring at the factory complex with mixed feelings.

The sound of cart wheels creaking and the shouts of foremen in the distance became a noisy background as Jaime and Jon stepped into the works administration area. Fine lime dust flew in the air, coating their leather boots with a thin white layer.

"Lord Lannister, Lord Connington. Good to see you here."

Someone approached them with quick but respectful steps. It was Andy, a former book copyist recruited by Jaime for his neat writing and quick calculation skills. Now, his job was to supervise and record everything here: how many people worked, how long their shifts were, how much raw material arrived, and how many barrels of cement were produced per day. It required serious precision, the kind of boring job for a knight, but very vital.

Andy was about thirty years old, with straw-blond hair that always looked a little messy from the river wind, but his smile looked friendly in his blue eyes. He held a wooden clipboard with a stack of papers clamped tight so as not to fly away.

"Everything is running smoothly, My Lord," reported Andy, his eyes scanning the notes in his hand briefly before looking at his master. "The new workers sent from the temporary settlement outside the gates have also been or are being trained. They still need time to get used to the strict work rhythm, of course. Their hands are still stiff. But they listen and try very well. Their working time became faster and more efficient after Foreman Gendry changed the mixing layout. This made twenty percent more cement produced than in previous weeks."

"Glad to hear it," Jaime smiled. "But remember, Andy. Do not push them too hard. If they get tired quickly it is useless. There will be more sick people, back injuries, or fainting from heat, and that will hinder production in the long run. Tools can be replaced, humans need time to be trained."

"With the slum situation like this, I am quite sure many of them were already very vulnerable to disease even before they set foot here," said Jon suddenly, his voice cynical but containing bitter truth.

"That is why the pay must be worth it," Jaime sighed, glancing at Jon briefly before returning to Andy. "And ensure the hygiene rules I set are obeyed. They must wash hands before eating their lunch ration. And drinking water... ensure the soup kitchen cooks boil the water first until boiling before cooling it for drinking. I do not want an outbreak of the flux crippling half my workforce."

Andy blinked, perhaps a little confused by Jaime's obsession with boiled water, something most people considered a waste of firewood, but he nodded obediently.

"They work according to schedule, My Lord. As instructed," Andy smiled awkwardly, adjusting the quill behind his ear. "If it is their break time they will get it, and if they work, they will work."

"Good," Jaime stopped the technical conversation. "Now, guide us to look around the new burning kilns. I want to see if the fireproof bricks are still functioning well."

"Certainly, this way, My Lords."

...

The atmosphere inside the Small Council room in the Red Keep felt far more stifling than the air outside, even though the high windows had been opened to let the sea breeze in. The room was full of the sound of rustling paper as well as the sharp scent of ink.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat at the head of the large wooden table, staring at everyone present with his tired purple eyes. He wore a simple black silk tunic, without a crown on his head today.

On his right side, sat Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and now his father-in-law. The old man still had the same expression as in previous years, a stone face impenetrable by emotion. There were new wrinkles here and there around his eyes and mouth, and grey hairs began to show more clearly among his thinning golden hair, marking the burden of power he never let go.

But Tywin still looked fierce. His gaze was the kind that could make an adult feel like a child caught stealing cookies. People would not start a conversation with him unless forced or ordered.

However, Rhaegar noticed a subtle change. Since the birth of Aegon, his first grandson who had Lannister and Targaryen blood, Tywin had become... calmer. Not softer, but more stable. He no longer looked like a lion looking for an opening to pounce on his prey's neck. He had secured the throne for his flesh and blood. If Rhaegar died tomorrow, Tywin would be Regent for Aegon.

Rhaegar himself held no grudge against that ambition. He knew what everyone's interest at this table was. It was fine as long as Tywin didn't directly want Rhaegar to die immediately, which didn't seem to be the case.

Rhaegar shifted his focus to the stack of documents in front of him. There were various reports that gave him a massive headache.

"So," Rhaegar spoke, breaking the silence only filled by the sound of Grand Maester Pycelle's quill. "A group of bandits just became bolder and destroyed many things? Not just robbing merchant caravans?"

His voice was heavy and firm, demanding an answer.

Denish Toland, the new Master of Whispers, straightened his body. He was a Dornish man who was quite stout but could not be called fat, with olive skin and eyes that always moved restlessly.

"Yes, Your Grace," answered Denish, opening a small scroll. "I received disturbing reports from various villages, especially on the border of the Riverlands and the Reach. For example, Lord Brackley's lands."

Denish pointed to a spot on the map spread on the table.

"They came at night, when everyone was asleep. Reports state they are organized. They have horses, many horses, also some men were seen wearing pieces of used armor or hardened leather."

"What did they do?" asked Rhaegar.

"They broke through field fences, Your Grace. They burned barns. And most specifically... they destroyed new agricultural tools. Seed drill machines, new model iron plows... everything was destroyed into wood splinters and bent iron. Only after that did they steal what could be taken. Several people who tried to resist were injured, and about fifteen people died as a result, mostly warehouse guards or field foremen."

"Are there specific details about their numbers?" Tywin spoke, his voice cutting the air like a knife.

Denish shook his head. "Very difficult, Lord Hand. According to rumors, attacks occurred in several different villages on almost the same night, showing coordination. Some panicked witnesses said fifty, others a hundred, others swore seeing two hundred men riding in the dark. Cannot confirm it because fear exaggerates reality."

"That is a very large number for mere 'bandits'," Steffon Baratheon frowned deeply. The face of the Lord of Storm's End looked concerned. "Bandits usually move in small groups, ten or twenty men, hiding in the woods. If they can mobilize a hundred men on horseback... that is already equivalent to a small mercenary company."

"And you said they appeared in close proximity of time?" asked Rhaegar.

Denish turned the paper to a new page. "Yes, Your Grace. They appeared a month ago sporadically, but this coordinated attack only happened this week. It seems they gathered members or sought resources first before conducting open looting."

"What is the response of Hoster Tully and Luthor Tyrell regarding this?" said Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships, who sat twirling the ring on his finger. The man cared more about sea routes, but chaos on land could affect his wine shipments.

Toland's expression didn't change. "No official response yet from Riverrun or Highgarden. This news is still new, my birds fly faster than Lord's official couriers. We will likely only receive letters requesting aid from them tomorrow or the day after."

"I must say, these might not be ordinary bandits," Steffon sipped his wine, then put it down hard. "If they can gather that many members in just a few months, and target specific tools... this smells of rebellion. Perhaps there are dispossessed nobles? Second or third sons with no land, using their remaining wealth, and funding this to create chaos?"

"Whatever it is," Rhaegar snorted, straightening his shoulders, "it does not change the fact that they dare to commit atrocities in this land. Burning fields while people in the city are starving is a grave crime. Destroying tools that can feed thousands is stupidity."

He looked at Tywin, then Steffon.

"Send three hundred light cavalry soldiers," ordered Rhaegar. "Take from the garrison not currently on duty. And assign the best knight we have as leader. Let them handle and scout for now. I want the leader of these bandits captured alive. I want to know who moves them."

If the rumor was true, the bandits had a large number of people. But bandits were still bandits. Some might only have makeshift combat training, unlike a trained soldier.

"Yes, Your Grace," Denish nodded, noting the order.

Steffon opened another paper in front of him, Rhaegar sighed a long sigh. He vaguely had a hunch about this one. Trouble never came alone.

"Riots occurred on the Street of Flour, in Flea Bottom, two days ago, Your Grace," reported Steffon with a heavy voice. "Citizens gathered in front of large bakeries and shouted demanding a piece of wheat bread. They threw stones and filth at the guards. Gold Cloaks managed to disperse them, but tension is still high."

Steffon glanced at Tywin briefly.

"The number of homeless has also increased drastically compared to the previous month. I have sent some people to calm them and find out the situation. Most of them are former farmers coming from outside the city, Riverlands and Crownlands. They came looking for work, but did not find it. Free bread from soup kitchens has been given every day by order of Queen Cersei, but it is not enough for thousands of mouths, and we cannot keep doing this forever."

Rhaegar's head throbbed violently. He massaged the bridge of his nose. He didn't like seeing people starving and desperate like this under his reign.

"Wheat," hissed Rhaegar frustrated. "The wheat we produced across the kingdom this year broke records. Granaries in Casterly Rock and Riverrun are full. It should be enough to lower bread prices to the lowest point. Why are they still starving?"

"Distribution, Your Grace," answered Wyman Manderly, Master of Coin, with his calm voice. "The wheat exists, but moving it takes time. Inadequate roads, unstable water flows, affect that. And... there are people holding stock, hoping prices rise."

"For now, what we can do is continue giving free food to prevent riots from spreading, and make them work when jobs are available," said Tywin, his voice without emotion. "Road and sewer repairs, require much manual labor. That absorbs some of them."

"But not all," argued Steffon. "Many are too old, women, or children."

"We cannot rely too much on construction projects alone, yes," continued Tywin, ignoring Steffon's interruption. "Therefore we must find other ways to create more jobs. We need more works like in Lannisport. We need them to make something that can be sold, not just digging the ground."

Rhaegar held his breath.. He looked around the table. Old faces waiting for his decision.

On one side, bandits burned progress in the countryside. On the other side, that progress sent waves of refugees triggering riots in the capital. He was riding a wild dragon, and he had to ensure he didn't fall.

"Expand the sewer project," said Rhaegar finally. "We must keep them busy. A hungry stomach makes a man lose his mind."

 

[Daario]

ARTHUR​

---

The midday sun burned the muddy streets of Flea Bottom, turning dirty puddles into foul-smelling steam. However, the heat of the sun was nothing compared to the heat of anger radiating from the sea of humanity before Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Do not push! Line up! Straighten out! Queue!"

A food distribution officer, a fat man with an apron already stained with flour and sweat, shouted with a hoarse voice that was almost lost, swallowed by the roar of the mob.

Arthur stood tall beside the bread cart, his brilliant white armor now covered in a thin layer of dust. He did not draw his sword, Dawn, but his hand wrapped in a steel gauntlet rested on the pommel of the greatsword, a deadly silent warning. Behind him, a line of Gold Cloaks stood with spears lowered, forming a human wall to protect the bakers from the rush of the people they were trying to feed.

The sight before him was not something any knightly training had ever prepared him for.

These people... they looked very pitiful. Their clothes were merely roughly stitched rags, dirty with mud and street dust. Their faces were gaunt, cheekbones protruding sharply under pale or sunburnt skin. But the most terrifying thing was their eyes. Those eyes were red, sunken, and filled with a horrific mixture of pleading despair and suppressed rage, like dogs cornered and ready to bite anyone's hand.

They stood jostling, the smell of sweat and disease emanating from their bodies. They stared at the pile of wheat bread in the cart with wild hungry gazes, as if the bread were pure gold.

"Can I go first?! My child hasn't eaten since yesterday!"

The scream sliced through the air. A thin woman with matted hair pushed forward, elbowing an old man. In her arms, a toddler looking like a small skeleton screamed uncontrollably. The child's cry was high and shrill, a trumpet of suffering worsening the already cracked atmosphere.

"You think we have all eaten? Hah?! Bastard!" retorted the man beside her, pushing the woman back roughly. The man's eyes were wild. "My stomach twists just as painfully as your child's!"

"You are a grown man! You can hold it, all of you can! Let a mother and child go first!" shrieked the woman, tears making clean tracks on her dusty face.

"I have children too, fool! They are waiting in the hovel!" shouted another man from the back row, triggering a new wave of pushing.

"Screw your children! My child is dying here!"

Chaos exploded. Elbows met ribs. Feet stepped on feet. The sound of the baby crying got louder, drowned in the curses of adults. Arthur saw a young man trying to climb the back of the person in front of him. This situation was on a knife-edge; one more spark, and this would turn into a bloody riot where people would die trampled just for bread.

Arthur couldn't take it anymore.

"SILENCE!"

Arthur Dayne's voice exploded like thunder, cutting through the noise. He took one heavy step forward, his armor clanking loudly.

The crowd gasped. Silence fell suddenly, leaving only the sound of the baby's sobbing echoing.

Arthur stared at them, his dark purple eyes sweeping over those fearful faces with the cold gaze he used before a duel of life and death.

"YOU WILL NOT GET ANYTHING IF YOU DO NOT QUEUE!" shouted Arthur, his voice echoing off the walls of the slum buildings. "THIS BREAD IS HERE FOR YOU. BUT IF I SEE ONE PERSON AMONG YOU CUTTING IN LINE, PUSHING, OR HITTING EACH OTHER... YOU WILL NOT GET FOOD! I WILL CLOSE THIS CART AND THROW THE BREAD INTO THE RIVER!"

It was an empty threat, of course. Arthur would never throw away food. But they didn't know that.

Their bodies immediately shrank hearing that. Shoulders slumped. Pushing stopped. However, as fear subsided, Arthur saw another emotion appear in their eyes.

Hatred.

More anger emerged from them, this time not directed at each other, but directed at him. At the knight in pristine white armor who dared to threaten them. They looked at him as if he were a demon.

Arthur didn't care, let that anger be directed at him. He had armor to withstand it. As long as this could make them calmer and prevent them from killing each other, he didn't mind being the target of those venomous stares. That was his burden.

He signaled to the food distribution officer. "Continue. One by one."

The queue moved again, this time with order enforced by fear.

Arthur stood still, watching loaf after loaf change hands.

How long will this go on? Arthur wondered in his heart, immense fatigue creeping into his bones.

Every day, this crowd seemed to grow instead of shrink. New faces appeared every morning. They flooded the city like a floodwater.

The logistics were a nightmare. The bread they could bake now wasn't enough in terms of time to distribute. They had raw materials.

They needed to be milled. They needed to be baked. And that was where the fault lay.

If they distributed raw wheat, the people had no means to process it in their slum hovels. Distributing flour was also risky; they needed firewood and ovens. So, the Crown had to bake it. Also, processing it could make it into more volume.

Of course there were many people willing to help in baking the bread, widows working day and night, but the capacity of ovens in the city was limited. Building new soup kitchens needed to be thought about too, and for that they needed more gold coins, firewood, and time. Time that hungry stomachs did not have.

Arthur felt bitter irony in his mouth.

He was grateful Rhaegar's wife, Queen Cersei, was a Lannister. It was Casterly Rock's wealth funding this mass feeding operation. Tywin Lannister's gold never ran out, and her father was willing to fund all this for his daughter's popularity and his grandson's stability. If there were no Lannister gold, these riots would certainly have burned the Red Keep already.

But... the chaos of all this also stemmed from their family.

The Lannisters were soaring high. Their innovation, their efficiency, their "progress". Arthur knew from Small Council reports. The agricultural tools developed by Jaime and Kevan Lannister were the cause of this wave of displacement.

Arthur knew that those tools indeed accelerated farming and produced a food surplus that would save them in Winter. Strategically, it was brilliant. The problem was not the tools. The problem was this transition was too fast, too brutal.

They had to make other lords open their eyes. Not to just discard their people like rice husks. But how? Lords cared about profit, not humanity.

Arthur saw a little girl receive a piece of bread. The girl immediately bit into it ravenously, even before she turned away. Her face was relieved, but her eyes were still wild.

This bread was only enough for a day. Tomorrow, she would be hungry again. And what about her sick family in the refugee tent? She had to share. A piece of bread divided by four. That was not eating; that was prolonging suffering.

Arthur gripped his sword hilt tighter, until the leather of his glove creaked. He was the greatest knight of his time. He could kill other knights in single combat. But he could not slash hunger. Never would be able to.

And it was driving him mad.

...

The thick wooden door of the King's Solar closed behind Arthur with a heavy sound. The silence inside the room was so sudden it made Arthur's ears ring. No screams of pleading mothers, no cries of starving babies, no coarse curses of men pushing each other. There was only the sound of rustling paper and the soft hiss of the fire in the fireplace lit to drive away the summer humidity.

Arthur Dayne took off his white helm and placed it on a side table. He walked towards the chair in front of the King's desk, his footsteps feeling heavy, as if he were dragging iron chains on his ankles. Physically, he was unhurt. But mentally? He felt hollow. Drained dry. Like a wineskin whose contents had been spilled onto dry ground.

"Your Grace." He said. Rhaegar just stayed silent, gesturing for him to sit.

Arthur immediately slumped his body into the chair, his armor creaking in protest.

Across the desk, Rhaegar Targaryen lifted his face from a stack of documents. The King looked neat, calm, and a sharp contrast to the chaos Arthur had just left. However, Arthur could see dark circles under those purple eyes. Rhaegar was also fighting, only his battlefield was made of ink and paper.

Rhaegar stared at him for a moment, his silver brows raised slightly.

"That bad?" asked Rhaegar, his voice trying to sound light, but failing to hide worry. "You look like a worm just dried under the Dorne sun all day. Or perhaps worse."

Arthur snorted softly, wiping his face with his hand. He could feel the rough stubble that had grown for seven days on his chin and cheeks. He hadn't had time to shave, and now it felt itchy and uncomfortable.

"You will not know what is actually happening if you do not see it yourself, Your Grace," answered Arthur, his voice hoarse. He looked at Rhaegar, trying to channel the urgency he felt without sounding panicked. "There are many people there. Thousands."

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, the image of those faces haunting him again.

"It took hours just to bring them to order, make them line up in a straight line. Their eyes... their eyes were red from dust and anger. As if they were ready to burn anyone who looked at them, even me. My white cloak no longer means protection to them, it is merely a symbol that I eat my fill while they do not."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, his expression becoming serious. He put down his quill, joining his fingertips on the table.

"How long do you think they will be able to queue peacefully like that before exploding?" asked Rhaegar.

Arthur opened his eyes, staring at the painted ceiling.

"Honestly? I do not know," he admitted. "Today I can hold them back with a loud voice and threats. But tomorrow? Or the day after? Many of them begged, saying they have sick families in their hovels. Wives with fever, children too weak to walk."

Arthur clenched his fist on the armrest of the chair.

"But we cannot check them one by one. And surely there are some of them lying, using sympathy to get double rations. Therefore, we cannot give them more rations than those present. We have to say 'no' to crying faces. That... that is killing me slowly, Rhaegar. This could explode anytime. One spark, one rumor that bread ran out, and Flea Bottom will become a sea of fire."

Rhaegar was silent for a long time. He twisted the ring on his finger, a nervous habit he rarely showed. He then picked up a sheet of paper full of handwriting, Tywin Lannister's sharp handwriting.

"Tywin suggested opening more jobs," said Rhaegar finally. "Not temporary jobs like cleaning ditches, but permanent jobs. Something that produces goods that can be resold, turning the wheels of the economy."

Rhaegar pushed the paper towards Arthur, even though he knew Arthur was too tired to read it.

"But for this we need a lot of capital," continued Rhaegar. "Manufactories need buildings, tools, raw materials. We must discuss with other Lords to invest. We cannot leave everything to the Lannisters. If Tywin owns all the manufactories, he will own this kingdom without needing to sit on the throne."

"What are you thinking?" asked Arthur, massaging his temples.

Rhaegar stood up, walking towards the window overlooking the city.

"I agree with Tywin on this matter. We must imitate, and modify," said Rhaegar. "Looking at Lannisport, they have textile workshops that are quite developed. Weaving, spinning thread. The quality is almost the same as those in Myr. That would help a lot considering producing these products requires many stages and many hands. Women, young children, old people... they can work there. Don't have to be physically strong like dock porters."

Arthur nodded. That made sense. Cloth was always needed.

"Then there is glass," continued Rhaegar. "This one is a bit difficult, because the learning requires a long time and special skills. But worthy to try, right? The profit is also worth it. We can make plates, cups, windows. Luxury goods to sell to other lords."

Rhaegar turned. "And paper. Of course paper. Parchment from sheepskin has started to be abandoned because it is expensive. And with the schools already built a lot here, literate people have greatly increased. Bureaucracy needs paper. Merchants need paper. This generates unlimited demand."

Arthur listened, trying to imagine King's Landing filled with workshops and manufactories, not just taverns and brothels.

"That is..." Arthur sighed, his head slightly dizzy imagining it. "Quite a lot. And complicated."

Laughing softly, Rhaegar shook his head. The laugh sounded a bit forced, but enough to melt the tension in the room.

"Quite a lot, indeed. Very much. But we have no other choice but to move forward. However, Arthur, there is one thing for sure. Preparing and building all that takes time. We cannot conjure a manufactory overnight."

Arthur stared at his best friend, and for the first time today, the corner of his lips lifted forming a tired thin smile. He realized the irony of this situation.

"In that case," said Arthur, "the job that will be quite popular and most needed this time is builders, right? Masons, carpenters, porters."

"Yes," Rhaegar smiled, sitting back in his chair. "Before we can weave cloth or print paper, we must build walls and roofs to shelter those tools. Jaime has started with his mortar. We will need thousands of people to build the new industrial district."

Rhaegar sighed a long sigh, leaning back.

"That will not solve the hunger problem today, Arthur. But at least, it gives us an answer for tomorrow. Better to have a plan than nothing at all."

"Better to have hope," corrected Arthur softly. "People can hold hunger a little longer if they know there is hope."

"Hope... a beautiful word." Rhaegar whispered.

Yes, indeed, beautiful.

 

[Daario]

JONOTHOR | JAIME
​

---

The earth trembled beneath the iron hooves of three hundred warhorses. Ser Jonothor Darry spurred his mount, cutting through the Riverlands grasslands soaked by last night's rain. They rode hard, smashing through everything in their path. Wild grass was trampled into mush, merging with the sticky black soil. Splatters of mud flew into the air like brown blood every time a hoof struck the earth.

Jonothor ignored the filth staining his white Kingsguard cloak. His mind was focused on one goal.

"Faster!" he shouted, his voice hoarse overcoming the roar of the wind.

They turned sharply at the bend of a muddy path, horses neighing in protest as they were forced to push their last remaining strength.

And then, they arrived.

Jonothor pulled his reins hard. His horse stopped, its front hooves clawing the air for a moment before landing with a heavy thud.

Before him, lay a sight that made his stomach turn.

The village, if this pile of rubble still deserved to be called a village, was absolute chaos.

Simple wooden houses had collapsed into pitiful charred skeletons. Livestock fences had been torn down and turned into piles of broken wood on the ground. A sharp smell of burning pierced the nose, mixed with the faint scent of blood unmistakable to a veteran.

Fortunately, not everything was razed to the ground. There were still a few stone buildings or houses whose frames stood intact. In the middle of the muddy village square, people gathered. They looked like ghosts in broad daylight, pale, dirty, and silent.

Jonothor gave a hand signal. His troops stopped, forming a defensive but non-threatening semi-circle formation.

He dismounted. His steel boots sank a few inches into the mud. With heavy steps, his right hand alert on the pommel of his sword, not to attack, but out of habit, he walked closer to the crowd.

The people there flinched back. Their eyes wide with fear. To them, a group of armed men arriving on warhorses usually meant one thing: certain death.

"Do not be afraid!" cried Jonothor, raising his empty hand. "We are the King's army."

The crowd was not immediately relieved, but the tension eased slightly. Then, two men separated from the group and stepped forward.

One of them, a tall man with messy black hair and tired brown eyes, stared at Jonothor with a mixture of hope and skepticism.

"Ser?" his voice was hoarse, as if he had shouted or cried too much last night. "You... you are here to help?"

Jonothor straightened his body, letting the emerging sunlight reflect off his white breastplate.

"Ser Jonothor Darry, of the Kingsguard," he introduced himself with a formal yet not haughty tone. "Sent by King Rhaegar himself. We were sent to drive away the bandits. Our ravens brought news that this village might be the next target in their attack pattern..."

Jonothor paused for a moment. He looked around, at the corpse of a dog lying near the well, at a woman crying while hugging her child.

"...but it seems we are too late," ended Jonothor with a bitter tone.

Frustration burned in his chest. It had been fourteen days since they were sent out of the gates of King's Landing. Seven days spent on the torturous journey to the Riverlands, due to roads damaged by rain. And seven more days spent tracking ghosts. These bandits moved fast, too fast, and they attacked coordinately in various places.

The tall man smiled wryly. A smile that did not reach his eyes.

"They came at night, Ser," explained the man. "We are just farmers. We were helpless to do anything when... when not even one of us is skilled in using a sword. They had steel weapons. We only had pitchforks."

Jonothor nodded, his jaw hardening. He did not answer those words because there was no answer that could comfort.

Damn it, he thought. If only the roads were better. If only we could spur horses faster without fear of breaking legs in mud holes. We might have crossed paths with those bastards.

But they had no magic to fly. Reality was his biggest enemy right now, not enemy swords.

"Are any of you injured?" Jonothor asked, shifting focus to impact management.

"Yes..." said the man, his shoulders slumping. "About most of us are injured. Bruises, broken bones, cuts. Two people died, Old Miller and his son who tried to hold the barn door. But they were buried this morning, before the flies came."

The man looked back, towards a makeshift tent made of scrap cloth. "We have treated the wounded with makeshift herbs and hope it will be enough."

Nodding, Jonothor felt his blood flow faster with anger. Attacking unarmed farmers was the vilest act of cowardice. This was not just robbery; this was terror.

He took a deep breath, calming himself. A Kingsguard must be a rock, not wild fire.

"I offer my condolences for your loss. In the name of the King, I apologize we did not arrive sooner," said Jonothor sincerely. "What about your buildings and barns? Is there anything left to eat? I heard they target granaries."

The man nodded slowly. He pointed to a stone building at the end of the village whose walls were blackened by soot, but still standing.

"Yes. Although the door was destroyed and part of the roof burned, the rain saved us from total destruction last night. The fire could not grow under the heavy rain. They left before they could burn down the wheat inside. They... they seemed in a hurry."

Good, thought Jonothor. At least mass starvation could be avoided for this village. It was not something to be happy about amidst death, but in war, small victories must still be appreciated.

Jonothor looked into the man's eyes again. He wanted to give assurance. He wanted to give a sense of security.

"I will look around to see how severe the damage they caused is," said Jonothor, his hand gripping his scabbard. "I will look for their tracks. Horses leave deep tracks in wet mud. They will not be able to run far. I will avenge this, I promise you. Their heads will be spiked at the gate of this village."

That was a knight's promise. A sacred oath.

"Yes, Ser," said the man.

He bowed slightly, polite yet hollow. His voice was flat, reflecting deep soul fatigue. In his eyes, Jonothor could see that the promise of vengeance did not mean much. Severed bandit heads would not rebuild his scorched house, and would not bring Old Miller back to life.

"Do what you must do, Ser. In that case, I will return," added the man, then he turned, returning to the crowd.

...

The afternoon wind blowing through the gaps in the buildings in The Hook brought dust and the scent of newly dug wet earth. Jaime stood on the edge of a large trench splitting the main road, his eyes fixed on a sheet of paper spread in his hands. The paper contained a map of King's Landing drawn in extraordinary detail. Not a map of streets or buildings, but a map of the city's veins: the sewers.

Black and red ink marked drainage lines. Bold lines showed completed parts, while dashed lines marked areas still under construction or in the planning stage.

"This is still too slow," muttered Jaime to himself, his finger tracing the red line in the Flea Bottom area.

On the map, Flea Bottom looked neat. In reality, the place was a nightmare. The alleys were too narrow for material carts, the population too dense, and the soil... saturated with human waste for hundreds of years. Digging there was like digging a giant latrine. They needed twice as long just to clear the work area before construction could begin.

That was why Jaime decided to move the main focus temporarily to The Hook. The streets were wider, curving up towards Aegon's High Hill, providing a perfect natural slope for gravity flow. Progress here was far faster, and worker morale was higher because they didn't have to work while holding their breath every second.

Below him, inside a trench five meters deep, dozens of workers were busy. Some of them leveled the base soil, compacting it with heavy wooden tampers. The rhythm of the pounding sounded like the heartbeat of the new city.

On the other side, a line of carts moved slowly out towards the gate. The carts were covered with tarps, but the foul smell wafting from them told their contents: black sludge dug from old sewers.

Jaime had given strict instructions. That filth must not be dumped into the river inside the city. It had to be taken far to the lowlands outside the walls, buried in deep pits, and doused with quicklime, to burn the disease before being covered with soil. It was expensive, but a plague was far more expensive.

Jaime folded the map carefully, putting it into the leather tube at his waist. He looked up, looking for his main foreman amidst the organized chaos.

"Daryl!" shouted Jaime, his voice crossing the construction noise. "How much has arrived?!"

A burly man with a face covered in grey dust turned. He was directing the unloading of a stone load from a cart.

"Thirty carts for gravel, Ser!" Daryl shouted back, wiping sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. "River sand will follow in an hour!"

Jaime nodded lightly. Thirty carts. That was enough to cast a base of fifty yards today if they worked fast.

He looked down, staring at the workers, the workers looked uncomfortable when being watched.

"Do not stop because of me," he said. "I am just looking around."

After a while, he nodded lightly, turned again and looked up. Rain seemed likely to fall again tonight, like previous nights this week. Strange summer weather.

This was troublesome. Rain meant the trench would be muddy tomorrow morning. If they poured the mortar now and heavy rain fell before the mortar hardened, the surface would be ruined. They had to cover it with oil tarps.

"Daryl!" called Jaime again. "Speed up the base gravel installation! And prepare the tarps! We don't know when the rain will fall!"

"Ready, Ser! Come on, you heard the Lion! Move! Just consider the rain your mother-in-law's spit!" shouted Daryl, spurring his men.

Jaime observed them working closely. He didn't just watch; occasionally he joined in lifting heavy wooden planks or kicking stones blocking the path. He wanted them to see that he was not afraid of getting dirty. That the hand holding a sword could also hold a shovel if needed.

Luckily, thought Jaime, although the nights were wet, days in King's Landing lately were very scorching. The sun's heat helped dry the concrete faster than estimated.

After ensuring all pouring preparations were ready and the temporary drainage system functioned to anticipate flooding later tonight, Jaime decided it was time to leave. He had a dinner promise with Catelyn, and he didn't want to be late again with the excuse of 'watching cement dry'.

"Good work today," said Jaime to the nearest group of workers. "Make sure you drink water. I do not want to see anyone fainting."

"Thank you, Ser Jaime!"

Jaime sighed. The city smell was still a mixture of earth and sweat, but behind it, he could smell the clean sea scent. One trench done. A thousand more awaiting.

And it was exhausting.

...

The sun had almost set completely when Jaime finally returned to his private chambers in the Red Keep. His body felt sticky and heavy, and the scent of wet earth from the sewer trench clung to him like an unwanted second skin.

He rotated his stiff shoulders, hoping Catelyn had prepared hot water. He missed the touch of warm water and the scent of soap, today was long and tiring, starting from supervising arriving goods and also ensuring workers did it correctly.

Jaime opened their room door with a little force.

"Cat? I'm home," he called, his voice slightly hoarse. "And I smell like a sewer, so hold your nose. I warn you."

Silence.

No answer. No sound of light footsteps that usually welcomed him.

Jaime frowned. He stepped in, his eyes sweeping the room. Empty. The bed neat, the fireplace lit small, and there was an open book on the chair near the window, but Catelyn was not there.

He went out again into the corridor, stopping a young servant passing by carrying a stack of linen.

"Where is Lady Catelyn?" he asked.

The servant jumped in surprise, her eyes widening seeing Jaime's messy appearance. "M-My Lord! Lady Catelyn... she went to Maester Baelin's room, My Lord."

"Maester Baelin?" repeated Jaime. "Why? Is she sick?"

"She did not say the reason, My Lord. She just looked... in a hurry. And I did not dare to press."

Jaime released the servant's arm. "Alright. Thank you."

His heart beat faster. That was bad. Very unusual.

Catelyn was a Lady of a Great House. If she felt unwell, usually she would call a servant to fetch the Maester to come to her room. She wouldn't walk alone to the Maester unless there was something urgent. Or something she wanted to keep secret.

Jaime's mind raced to the worst scenarios. Fever? Poisoning? Bad news from Riverrun?

"Damn," he swore softly.

He was supposed to bathe. He was dirty, sweaty, and smelled of sewers. But priorities shifted instantly. Cleanliness could wait; his wife could not.

Jaime turned and immediately went down the hallway with wide and fast strides. His heavy footsteps echoed in the silence of the stone corridor, a rhythm of urgency breaking the night's calm. He ignored the astonished gazes of several guards seeing Lord Lannister jogging in dirty work clothes.

He climbed the stairs to the workroom of Maester Baelin, the young Maester assigned specifically to serve the Lannister family's needs in the capital.

Jaime reached the heavy oak door. He knocked once, then immediately pushed the door open.

"Cat? Are you alri—"

His words stopped in his throat.

The scene inside the room froze Jaime's panic instantly.

Maester Baelin's room smelled of dried herbs and old paper. Near the workbench full of glass jars, Catelyn sat on a wooden chair. Maester Baelin, a thin man, stood beside her with a wide smile on his usually serious face.

But what made Jaime transfixed was Catelyn's face.

She was not in pain. She was not pale from fever.

Catelyn was laughing. A small laugh that sounded wet. Her hands cupped her mouth, and in her clear blue eyes, tears were welling up. Seeing Jaime enter panting with a dust-covered face, Catelyn's laughter broke even harder. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

"Jaime," she said, her voice trembling. "By the Seven, you look terrible."

Jaime blinked, confused. His adrenaline slowly receded, replaced by confusion.

"I... the servant said you ran here. I thought you were sick. I thought..." Jaime stepped in, closing the door behind him. He looked at Maester Baelin, demanding an explanation. "What happened?"

Maester Baelin bowed respectfully. "Joyous news, Ser Jaime. Very joyous."

Catelyn stood up. She walked towards Jaime, ignoring the lime stains on her husband's tunic or the wafting smell of sweat. She took Jaime's dirty hand with both her smooth and warm hands.

"I am not sick, Jaime," whispered Catelyn, looking straight into her husband's green eyes. Her smile was so wide it made her face shine brighter than any candle in the room.

She took Jaime's hand, and gently placed it on her flat stomach.

"Here," she said softly. "There is life."

Jaime felt his palm touch the fabric of Catelyn's dress, feeling the body heat underneath. His brain, usually fast and full of technical plans, suddenly jammed. He took a full second to process those words.

Life, in her stomach.

Jaime's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly.

"You..." his voice hoarse. "You are with child?"

Catelyn nodded, happy tears dropping on her cheeks again. "Yes. Maester Baelin just confirmed it. It has been two months, he says."

The world around Jaime seemed to stop spinning.

He was going to be a father.

Not just an uncle to Aegon. Not just a big brother to Tyrion. He would be a father. His own flesh and blood.

A warm feeling exploded in his chest, so strong he felt short of breath. It was a mixture of pure joy, pride, and a little fear, but he immediately brushed it aside. He would ensure Catelyn got the best care in the world.

"Oh, Cat," whispered Jaime.

He couldn't hold back. He pulled his wife into an embrace, lifting her slightly off the floor and spinning her slowly, not caring the dust on his clothes would dirty Catelyn's silk dress.

Catelyn laughed, wrapping her arms around Jaime's neck.

"We will have a child, Jaime," she said in her husband's ear. "Someone who might have your eyes or mine."

"Whatever it is," Jaime laughed, lowering Catelyn but still hugging her tight, burying his face in the crook of his wife's fragrant neck. "Thank you. Thank you."

Maester Baelin cleared his throat softly, smiling awkwardly seeing his masters' affection.

"I suggest Lady Catelyn start reducing heavy activities and start eating nutritious food, Ser," said the Maester. "And perhaps... avoid sewer smells that are too pungent."

Jaime laughed freely, a laugh full of relief and happiness. He released his hug slightly to look at Catelyn's face again, wiping the tears on his wife's cheeks with his rough thumb.

"You hear that?" said Jaime. "Starting tomorrow, you may only smell roses. I will bathe seven times a day if necessary."

"Once is enough, as long as clean," Catelyn smiled, touching Jaime's dirty cheek. "Now let us return. We must tell your Father. And write to my Father."

"Yes," said Jaime. "Tywin Lannister will smile today. I guarantee it."

---

 

[Daario]

TYWIN | JONOTHOR
​

---

The light streaming through the arched window in Queen Cersei's chamber bathed the room in a rich golden hue. And, the most precious gold in that room was not the jewelry scattered on the vanity, or the thread embroidered on the silk curtains, but the baby being held by her daughter.

"Rhaegar is always gloomy lately, Father," complained Cersei. Her voice broke Tywin's silence.

Tywin stood tall near the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. He observed his grandson. The baby was his greatest pride so far. This baby was physical proof that he had succeeded. He had catapulted the Lannister name to a level higher than anyone in their family history.

It took patience and tireless hard work for decades to see results like this. Ensuring Aerys didn't destroy everything, educating Jaime and Cersei, building wealth. And now, the result was before his eyes.

Aegon laughed, a pure and carefree baby sound. The laugh sounded sweet in Tywin's ears, a confirmation of a bright future.

Tywin shifted his gaze to his daughter's beautiful face which looked a little annoyed.

"That is your duty as a wife, Cersei," said Tywin, his tone flat. "You should be comforting him, not complaining about his mood. Rhaegar is King. His burden is heavy. The Kingdom, especially King's Landing, is in a painful transition period."

Tywin stepped closer. "Progress is being built. New foundations are being laid. This makes the smallfolk confused and the Lords panic due to change, although they can actually enjoy this in the next few years. Rhaegar must balance all those fears."

"I have tried, Father," replied Cersei defensively. "He smiles and talks to me at dinner, but he feels distant. His eyes look at me, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is always spinning in his own head, thinking of numbers and stones."

Cersei patted Aegon's back a little too fast.

"He is thinking of a way out for the current situation. And that is good," Tywin replied. "He accepted my advice to build more infrastructure projects to absorb labor. But still, it takes a long time to realize. He will get through this later. You just need to be his steadfast supporter, not his distraction."

Tywin respected Rhaegar. His son-in-law was a calm king, he thought rationally. He would accept what others suggested, provided it proved good for the people and the stability of the realm.

Rhaegar's rational nature made it easy for Tywin to spread his influence through Jaime's 'inventions'.

Tywin's mind shifted to those projects. For example, 'Casterly Mortar', that was the most advanced invention so far. The ability to create liquid stone, which could be shaped according to molds and harden as strong as granite, was a miracle.

Lannisport had used it extensively a few years ago. Kevan had coated defensive walls with concrete, paved main roads, and built new docks. Although it was not yet fully finished, the results were extraordinary. The city was clean and sturdy.

Now, Tywin brought that invention to the capital. Cement processing manufactories had been established on the banks of the Blackwater. It was just that, the key ingredient, certain volcanic ash that gave strength, required a long time to be brought from Dragonstone. And fortunately, it was Rhaegar who owned that island as his ancestral seat. If not, if Dragonstone were held by an enemy or an uncooperative Lord, they would struggle to find a cheap alternative.

So far, Lannisport was the most advanced city in the entire kingdom, the crown jewel of House Lannister. That progress was sparked by the brains of Maester Creylen and his son, Jaime.

It made Tywin more aware of the real power of applied knowledge. Learning and 'experimenting' were no longer just hobbies for idle people; they were strategic investments.

Even Tyrion...

Tywin frowned slightly when thinking of his youngest son. Tyrion did those experiments often now at Casterly Rock, spending his time in the library or workshop. Tywin wasn't sure yet what he was working on, and he didn't ask too much as long as the boy didn't embarrass the family name. But Kevan's reports said Tyrion had a useful sharpness in mechanics and water channel design.

Perhaps, thought Tywin, there was a use for the "University" Jaime proposed. A center of learning controlled by the Lannisters. They would have various departments: engineering, agriculture, economics. And from there, they would sponsor people smart enough to work for the advancement of House Lannister.

Of course, Tywin would also supervise it strictly. Knowledge was power, and power must be controlled. Do not let it go off track like the Maesters at the Citadel who felt they knew everything. People needed to know boundaries and who their masters were.

"Hopefully," said Cersei, breaking Tywin's reverie. "Aegon needs his father. I also need those people to calm down immediately, Father. I do not want chaos in my kingdom. It will mess up Aegon's growth."

"Aegon is a strong child, he has Lannister blood," snorted Tywin. He extended his hands. "Here. Let me hold him."

Cersei looked hesitant for a moment, her protective maternal instinct appearing. "Do not grip him too hard. He just finished nursing."

"I raised three children, Cersei. And I rule the Seven Kingdoms. I know how to hold a baby," said Tywin flatly.

Cersei handed the baby over carefully.

Tywin received the child. A little heavy. This child was healthy, solid, and warm. Too much eating, thought Tywin critically. Cersei pampered him excessively. Tywin had to ensure his daughter didn't kill this child's potential with suffocating affection and sweet food. He must not grow up spoiled.

If Aegon grew up only depending on and following Cersei's perspective, that could not be allowed. Cersei herself was still unstable in many things; she had Tywin's ambition but without his patience and self-control. Aegon had to be educated by Tywin and Jaime as soon as he could walk.

Tywin stared at his grandson's face. He stroked the child's hair with one finger, very fine silvery-blonde hair. Very Targaryen. But the face shape... there was Lannister firmness there. His purple eyes opened, staring at Tywin with bright curiosity, not crying.

Good. He was not afraid.

Someday this child would be King. And with Tywin's guidance, he would surpass all his predecessors, he would be supported by the infrastructure and wealth Tywin built today.

Aegon laughed a little as they stared at each other, his tiny hand reaching for the gold chain on Tywin's chest.

Tywin let their gaze linger longer, feeling that blood connection. It flowed through both of them.

...

The sun had set when Tywin came out of the Queen's chamber. The corridors of the Red Keep began to be lit by torches.

Afternoon was turning into night, and it was time for him to return to his solar. There were still stacks of documents to be signed, budget approvals for sewer expansion, intelligence reports on bandit movements in the Riverlands, and letters to Kevan.

His footsteps echoed on the quiet stone floor, his mind already hardened again. Then he heard other footsteps. Two pairs of footsteps, approaching from behind him at a fast tempo.

Tywin stopped and turned.

It was Jaime and Catelyn.

His eldest son was still wearing somewhat dusty clothes, although he clearly had tried to clean himself makeshiftly. His face looked tired but his eyes shone with a strange intensity. Catelyn Tully, now Lannister, walked beside him, her face flushed red and her hand clasped tightly on Jaime's arm.

They looked... agitated. But not the kind of agitation from bringing bad news.

"What is it?" asked Tywin, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "Jaime, why have you not changed clothes?"

"There is something we must discuss, Father," said Jaime. A wide smile blossomed on his face, a smile he couldn't hold back. "Now."

Tywin raised his eyebrows slightly. He looked at Catelyn, who smiled shyly but met his gaze with a courage he appreciated.

"Enter," said Tywin briefly, opening his solar door.

They entered. Tywin walked behind his desk, but didn't sit. He stood, waiting for the report.

"Speak."

Jaime took a deep breath, then embraced his wife's shoulder.

"Catelyn is with child," said Jaime. "We just came from Maester Baelin. He confirmed it. You will have another grandchild, Father. The heir to Casterly Rock is on the way."

The room was silent for a second.

Tywin stared at Catelyn's stomach which was still flat, then shifted to his son's face.

This news... this was the final piece he needed.

Cersei had provided an heir to the throne. And now, Jaime had ensured the continuation of the main line of House Lannister. His lineage was safe. His legacy was safe.

Tywin's lips twitched. The corners of his usually stiff mouth slowly lifted.

A rare smile, a sincere smile, without cynicism, without threat, was seen on the face of the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"Good," said Tywin, his voice warmer than usual. "Very good."

He walked around the desk, approaching them.

"Take good care of her, Jaime," ordered Tywin.

...

Rain fell heavily. The wind howled between the ruins of the remaining stone houses, creating a ghostly whistle that made hairs stand on end. Around the makeshift camp set up in the mud of the destroyed village, warhorses neighed restlessly, stomping their feet on the muddy ground, their reins straining against wooden stakes.

Ser Jonothor Darry sat alone under the shelter of a leather tarp stretched between two collapsed house walls. He sat on a cold and wet large stone, staring at the wooden cup in his hand with a blank gaze.

He was tired. Fatigue that penetrated to the marrow, the kind of fatigue that couldn't be removed just by sleeping one night.

His eyes, stinging from lack of sleep, looked around. Under the pouring rain, his soldiers looked pitiful. They were fighting against the elements, trying to fix tent pegs that kept coming loose from the soft ground, calming horses panicked by lightning, and keeping that pathetic campfire from dying completely. No one spoke. Their voices were swallowed by the roar of the rain.

This was the twenty-fifth day since they left King's Landing.

Twenty-five days of chasing shadows.

Since their first failure in the previous village, they had spurred horses across half the Riverlands. Yet those ghosts were always one step ahead. They had passed another destroyed village a week ago, the same sight: ashes, corpses, and empty granaries. They were late again. Always late a few hours, or half a day.

Impossible to catch the wind, thought Jonothor bitterly.

The direct pursuit strategy had failed totally. Their horses were exhausted, and enemy tracks were always lost in rivers or rocky roads. So, Jonothor changed his tactics. Instead of moving this entire slow large force, he decided to send small units first.

He had chosen his thirty best men, hunters, trackers, and fastest riders. He spread them like a spider web in all directions, with a simple order: Do not attack. Find the nest. And return.

Meanwhile, the rest of his troops were stuck here, in this nameless village, helping residents bury bodies and set up makeshift shelters. It was a noble duty, a knight's duty, but Jonothor felt like he was wasting precious time.

Jonothor exhaled a long breath, white steam coming out of his mouth. He lifted his wooden cup and gulped its contents.

Water. Cold, tasteless, and tasting of earth.

Lighting a fire big enough to cook or warm wine was impossible in the middle of this storm. Firewood was soaked. So he had to be content with rainwater and cold rations.

He opened his provision bag with stiff hands. Inside was a piece of dried smoked meat and leftover hard bread that had started to get damp. He took the meat, its surface rough and greasy.

He bit into it.

The meat was tough, like chewing boot leather. He had to pull it hard, using his molars to tear the hard meat fibers. It tasted excessively salty, savory, and smelled strongly of wood smoke. Not delicious, but it was food. It was energy.

Jonothor chewed in silence, his jaw working hard.

His mind drifted back to King's Landing, to the warm Red Keep. He thought of his brothers in the Kingsguard. If he couldn't solve a thing like this quickly, his pride would be tarnished forever. He didn't want to be remembered as a Kingsguard competent only in tournaments but useless in the field. Jonothor the Slow. Jonothor the Shadow Chaser.

His jaw hardened, teeth clashing.

He cursed those people. Those bastard bandits. They were not just thieves; they were monsters. The kingdom was experiencing a critical time. Food was gold. People killed for a piece of bread. And here, those bastards dared to burn the barns that grew it? They destroyed farming tools that could double the harvest?

Did they have brains? Or were they just mad dogs wanting to see the world burn?

Damn it.

Suddenly, faint footsteps were heard amidst the roar of the rain. The sound of mud being stepped on hurriedly.

Jonothor stopped chewing. His right hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt resting on the stone. He turned, squinting through the curtain of water.

Figures emerged from the darkness. Three men.

Jonothor frowned, then recognized the posture of one of them.

It was Duran. One of his best trackers. He was accompanied by two other soldiers. They were soaked, mud covering them from head to toe, and they looked like they had just risen from the grave. Their breath heaved, steam billowing from their hot bodies.

They were part of the thirty soldiers he sent north.

Jonothor stood up instantly, ignoring the stiffness in his knees. His wooden cup fell to the ground.

"You got news?" he asked directly, his voice sharp cutting through the sound of rain.

Duran stopped in front of him, bending slightly while resting on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His face was pale from exhaustion, but his eyes... his eyes lit up with victory.

"Yes... Yes, Ser," answered Duran panting. He wiped rain water from his eyes. "Our horses... we pushed them to the limit... but we managed to get ahead of them through forest shortcuts."

Duran swallowed, then straightened his body.

"We found a cave, Ser. Not far north from around here. In the hills near Acorn Hall."

Duran pointed north, into the darkness.

"We sneaked closer. We took a look. The cave is large, its mouth covered by bushes. But inside... there were many goods. Stacks of crates. Sacks of wheat. Swords, stolen armor... also mountains of food. We saw them going in and out, carrying loot."

Duran took another breath. "Then we retreated, observing for a few hours from the top of the hill. They didn't leave. They lit fires inside. They ate, drank, laughed. There are many of them, Ser. Hundreds. It is their base."

Jonothor's heart beat faster. Adrenaline flooded his system, erasing the cold and fatigue in an instant. Finally.

"Are you sure it is not their temporary hideout?" asked Jonothor urgently. He had to be sure. He didn't want to raid an empty cave tomorrow.

Duran looked thoughtful for a moment, recalling the details of his observation.

"I think not, Ser," he answered confidently. "Those goods... the amount is so large. Heavy crates, ale barrels. Those are not goods carried by a fast-moving force. Those are supplies. It is a permanent base, or at least their main warehouse."

Jonothor nodded slowly. He thought fast. What other choice did they have? The men he sent in other directions hadn't returned, and might not find anything. This was the best lead, the only real lead he had in twenty-five days.

He stared at the pitch-black sky. Rain was still falling heavily.

His instinct screamed to attack now. To mount horses and slaughter them while they slept drunk. But his rationality held him back.

Attacking tonight, in the middle of a storm like this, on unfamiliar terrain... that was suicide. Horses would slip. Arrows wouldn't fly straight. Torches wouldn't light. His troops would be exhausted and freezing before getting there, while the enemy was dry and warm inside the cave.

The risk was too great.

Jonothor made a decision.

"Tell the others," ordered Jonothor, his voice firm and authoritative, leaving no room for argument. "Wake the lieutenant captains. Check weapons. Feed horses with the best remaining grain we have. We move tomorrow morning, exactly one hour before sunrise."

He looked at Duran. "You and your men, rest. You have saved this mission."

"And leave two men here," added Jonothor. "To inform other tracking soldiers still out there if they return, so they follow us north."

...

Dawn came reluctantly that day. The sun seemed hesitant to show its face behind the blanket of thick grey clouds hanging low over the Riverlands hills. The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving a wet silence broken only by water dripping from tree leaves.

Ser Jonothor Darry stood behind the tree line, his eyes fixed on the cave opening on the opposite hillside, about two hundred yards from their position. Thin mist blanketed the small valley between them, providing natural cover but also adding a chest-tightening tension.

The bushes rustled softly beside him. Duran appeared from the tree shadows.

"They are still there, Ser," whispered Duran, his breath forming white steam in the cold morning air. "Their guards are asleep. I can hear their snoring from fifty paces. Ale cups scattered everywhere."

Jonothor gripped his sword hilt, his leather glove creaking softly when squeezed. A wave of immense relief washed away the fatigue that had haunted him for weeks.

This journey was not in vain. Twenty-five days of chasing amidst mud and rain finally led to this moment. "Good," hissed Jonothor.

He turned to face his troops, waiting in silence. They had led their horses carefully to avoid making noise, wrapping horse hooves with cloth. Their faces hard, their eyes cold. They were also tired of being played by these bandits. They were bloodthirsty.

Jonothor raised his hand, giving the agreed hand signal.

Archers, to the left and right flanks. Close the exit. Heavy cavalry, prepare in the center.

"Remember my orders," Jonothor whispered to his second-in-command, Ser Ryman. "The leader must be alive. The rest... if they surrender, bind them. If they hold weapons, kill them. Show no mercy to anyone who resists."

Ser Ryman nodded grimly, then passed the order to the back of the line with silent signals.

Jonothor took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cold air. He calmed himself, letting his heartbeat slow into a focused war rhythm. He drew his sword slowly. Metal clashing with leather, a hiss heard softly.

He raised his sword high.

Then, he swung it forward.

"CHARGE!"

His shout broke the morning silence like thunder.

Three hundred men shouted in unison, a terrifying sound designed to freeze enemy blood. The earth trembled as horses were released. They spurred out of the tree line, crossing the open valley at full speed.

At the cave mouth, panic occurred instantly.

Two sleeping guards jumped awake, but before they could reach their spears lying on the ground, arrows from the left flank were already lodged in their chests. They fell back without having a chance to scream.

Jonothor's troops reached the makeshift camp in front of the cave in seconds. Canvas tents were trampled by warhorses. Men just waking up, still dizzy from last night's alcohol, crawled out with wide eyes, only to be greeted by spear tips and the flat sides of swords.

Those people seemed mostly heavily drunk or still fast asleep due to their victory party last night. Their reactions were slow, their movements clumsy. Some tried to run into the forest, but were shot or chased by horsemen already waiting on the hillside. Some tried to fight with daggers or stolen swords, but they were no match for trained soldiers wearing full armor.

"Hold them! Do not kill if unnecessary!" shouted Jonothor as he jumped down from his horse in front of the cave mouth.

He parried a wild attack from a thin bandit with his shield, then slammed the man's face with his sword pommel, knocking him out instantly.

Jonothor didn't stop. He stepped into the cave, followed by his five best soldiers.

Inside, the air smelled musty, a mixture of torch smoke, human sweat, horse dung, and alcohol. The cave was large, high-ceilinged, filled with loot crates stacked untidily.

At the back of the cave, near the campfire still leaving embers, a group of men were trying to organize resistance. In their midst stood a tall man with a thick messy black beard but possessing an aura of authority. He wore pieces of chainmail, and held a large woodcutting axe with both hands.

That was him. The leader. The man described by the villagers.

"Back off, royal dogs!" shouted the man, his voice booming on the cave stone walls. "You will not take us alive!"

"That is your choice," said Jonothor coldly, stepping forward. Torchlight reflected off his white cloak now stained with mud, making him look like an avenging ghost.

Two other bandits lunged at Jonothor. Jonothor parried the first attack easily, spun his sword and slashed the second attacker's leg. They fell groaning.

The bearded man roared and swung his axe with desperate strength.

The attack was strong, but crude. Just pure rage.

Jonothor stepped aside with precision trained for years, letting the axe hit empty air. Before the man could recover his balance, Jonothor kicked his knee from the side.

The man screamed in pain and fell to his knees.

With a quick movement, Jonothor pressed the tip of his sword to the man's neck, right under his dirty beard.

"Drop the weapon," ordered Jonothor.

The man stared at Jonothor. His eyes red, full of burning hatred, but also fear. He looked around. His men had been neutralized. He was alone.

The axe fell from his trembling hands, clanking on the stone floor.

"Bind him," ordered Jonothor to his soldiers. "And make sure he does not swallow his own tongue."

As his soldiers dragged the bandit leader to stand and tied his hands behind his back roughly, Jonothor finally exhaled a long breath.

---

Thanks for reading! Oh, I also have a Discord now, so if you want to suggest anything, feel free to drop by.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR
​

---

"Your Grace."

The voice greeted Rhaegar as he turned the corridor towards the east of Maegor's Holdfast. It was a bright morning in King's Landing, the kind of morning that usually made poets write songs about eternal spring.

Rhaegar turned and saw Jaime Lannister standing there. The young man, his brother-in-law, looked very different from Rhaegar's own mood. Jaime wore simple all-black clothes, a tunic that fit his body, with a thick leather bag hanging from his shoulder. His face was fresh, his eyes bright green, and his posture radiated unstoppable energy.

"Jaime," Rhaegar smiled thinly. "You look very bright. Has something amazing happened lately without me noticing? Or are you just happy to see the sun?"

Jaime nodded, grinning broadly. "Yes, Your Grace. I do have good news, but that can wait. I came to report everything I have noted this week. Schools, sewers, and workers."

Rhaegar sighed softly, his shoulders slumping slightly under his silk cloak.

"You open the day with salt instead of sugar, do you?" joked Rhaegar. "Come, let us go to my solar. It is not pleasant to discuss heavy matters like this while walking in an open corridor. The walls here have ears, and the wind carries voices too far."

"Walking has its own advantages, Your Grace," argued Jaime lightly, stepping beside the King. "That is, you can feel a different atmosphere. Sea breeze, sunlight unobstructed by glass, and the sound of birds. It refreshes the lungs."

"Yes," answered Rhaegar quietly, his eyes staring out the arched window they passed. Out there, the world looked so free. "Which makes me unfocused, and feel like leaving my duties very much. Seeing birds fly only reminds me that I am tied to the ground."

They walked in silence for a moment until they reached the wooden door leading to the King's Solar. The guard opened the door, and Rhaegar stepped into his 'cage'.

This was the room he visited every day, from sunrise until late at night. His life lately always revolved between these four stone walls, behind a desk full of stacks of paper. He rarely spent time outside except for important matters like court sessions or religious ceremonies.

His mother, Rhaella, and his friends like Arthur often said he should rest. "Take leave, Rhaegar. Go hunting. Play your harp."

He had tried. Truly. But every time he tried to put down the quill and pick up the harp, shadows of the entire kingdom immediately entered his mind. All of it haunted him. The sense of responsibility was like an iron chain wrapped around his neck.

It made him uneasy, and that was bad. Rhaegar knew a stressed king was a king prone to making mistakes. But he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't be his father who ignored everything; he had to be the opposite of Aerys.

Rhaegar sat in his hard chair, gesturing for Jaime to take the seat opposite him.

"So," Rhaegar began, trying to focus his foggy mind. "We start from what you want to talk about first then. How about the schools? Is everything running smoothly?"

Schools. That was a safe topic. As far as Rhaegar last heard, it was the best project he could imagine. Something pure, constructive, and involving no death or filth. Hearing children starting to make significant progress always made his heart warm and feel a little lighter.

Jaime opened his leather bag, taking out a notebook with a thick leather cover. He opened it, flipping through pages full of neat handwriting and rough sketches.

"The children learn fast, Your Grace," reported Jaime, his tone changing to professional yet remaining relaxed. "They are like dry cloth thrown into water. They absorb everything. They also do not complain about the various new lessons we give. The teachers we trained are also patient enough in dealing with every student who cannot sit still or keeps shouting for permission to go to the privy."

Rhaegar smiled, imagining that small chaos. "Good. Most children are indeed quite troublesome to care for. I remember Viserys... he liked to run around here and there just to pick up a toy he threw himself. He would scream, laugh, then cry on his own in a matter of minutes. It gave my mother a headache, and the nursemaids almost gave up."

That memory brought a little warmth to Rhaegar's eyes. Viserys was a wild child, but he was his brother.

"I will just pray to the Seven," continued Rhaegar, his voice softening, "may Aegon be at least a little calmer than his uncle."

Jaime chuckled, closing his book for a moment with a finger marking the page.

"He does look like you already, Rhaegar," said Jaime. "Calm. Observant. When I hummed a little, a silly song about a bear, he stared at me. And by the Seven, he followed me humming. Baby sounds, of course, but the tone... he followed it."

Rhaegar was stunned. His silver brows raised high. "He did that?"

"Yes," Jaime nodded confidently. "It was clearly heard."

Rhaegar felt a sharp stab in his chest. Not physical pain, but emotional pain. Disappointment for missing that moment mixed with strong guilt. He rarely held the child. He was rarely in the nursery. He was too busy being King that he forgot to be a Father.

"He has your talent, it seems," added Jaime, smiling proudly. "He might become a musician in the future."

"That would be fun to see," Rhaegar laughed, but the laugh sounded a little fragile. "A King who can sing better than shout. Westeros needs that."

Rhaegar looked down, staring at his own hand holding the quill. I must make time, he promised himself. Tonight. I will see him tonight.

Jaime, who seemed to notice Rhaegar's mood change, cleared his throat softly and turned another page in his book. Back to business. Salt after sugar.

"For the sewers, Your Grace," Jaime began, his voice returning to serious. "We have obtained many additional workers. News of fair daily wages has spread. They keep increasing all over King's Landing, coming from slum settlements and refugee tents."

"Do we have enough tools for them?" asked Rhaegar.

"Barely enough, but the city blacksmiths work overtime making shovels and pickaxes," answered Jaime. "The filth accumulating for decades in the main trenches... most has been dug out. The smell is terrible, Rhaegar, you are lucky not to have to smell it. But it has been removed, transported out of the city, and replaced by a compacted clay base layer."

Jaime pointed to a diagram in his book.

"We keep maintaining the initial design. V-shape at the bottom for fast flow. The workers, especially those who were farmers and used to hoeing, have started to become proficient in following orders. Foremen I trained are starting to be able to be left alone."

"How many?" asked Rhaegar.

"How many what?"

"How many people do we employ now in those trenches?"

"About one thousand two hundred people, in rotating shifts," answered Jaime without looking at notes. "And about five hundred more in the cement works and material transport."

Rhaegar leaned back, exhaling a long breath. "One thousand seven hundred stomachs that can eat because of your wages. That... that is a good start. Very good. It reduces pressure on the soup kitchens."

"Correct. But that also means large treasury expenditure every week," reminded Jaime. "We must quickly build the jobs you approved before."

"Yes.... you are doing an extraordinary job, Jaime," said Rhaegar sincerely. "Truly. I do not know what I would do without you. Perhaps I would drown in a pile of complaints about feces and hunger."

Jaime grinned, typical Lannister style. "Well, someone has to ensure this capital does not drown in its own filth before my nephew is big enough to rule it. Consider this a very large and very smelly gift for Aegon."

Rhaegar laughed freely this time. "A strange gift. But very appreciated."

Jaime Lannister, who had just closed his notebook, changed his posture. His shoulders tensed slightly, and the relaxed expression he showed earlier when talking about Aegon faded.

"Is there further report regarding the bandits attacking those villages, Your Grace?" asked Jaime, his voice low. "Last time I heard, Ser Jonothor was chasing without result."

Rhaegar sighed a long sigh, leaning his back against the hard wooden chair. Bandits. Another thorn in the flesh of his reign.

"Yes," answered Rhaegar. "We received a raven last night."

Rhaegar took a small parchment scroll from the stack on his desk and handed it to Jaime.

"One of their leaders has been captured by Ser Jonothor Darry in a dawn ambush in the hills near Acorn Hall. It is a victory, of course. But what they found there..." Rhaegar shook his head, his eyes gazing far away. "The group numbered approximately two hundred and fifty men. Some died in battle, but most surrendered."

"And now they are being marched here, under heavy guard," continued Rhaegar. "But what makes me uneasy, Jaime... according to Jonothor's report, most of them are not mercenaries or criminals. They are former farmers. Their hands are rough from holding hoes. They are not even that skilled at swinging their stolen weapons."

Rhaegar massaged his temples. That fact hurt. His own people, the people he should protect, now took up arms out of desperation. Other bandits, splinter groups, had not been found, but Rhaegar had also sent other teams and asked for full cooperation from Riverlands Lords to hunt the rest.

"What do you want to do with them when they arrive?" asked Jaime, putting the parchment back on the table. "The rest of those 'bandits'?"

Rhaegar stared at the map of King's Landing spread on the wall. He thought of the big projects Jaime was working on. Trenches needing digging. Stones needing breaking.

"We need a lot of manpower to build roads and sewers, do we not?" Rhaegar proposed an idea that had been spinning in his head since last night. "What if we employ them? We can give them forced labor sentences. They build roads, we feed them. That is more productive than letting them rot in cells or beheading two hundred heads."

There was silence for a moment. Rhaegar hoped Jaime would agree, Jaime was always pragmatic about labor. However, Jaime shook his head firmly. His face hard.

"No, Your Grace. We cannot do that. Even if they were poor farmers before."

"Why?" Rhaegar frowned. "Didn't you say we are short of people to dig hard ground in Flea Bottom?"

"Correct. But think of the impact," said Jaime, leaning forward. "We are already troubled enough taking care of the honest unemployed here. People willing to work hard for fair wages. If we let those murderers and looters get jobs, even if the status is forced labor and only given food, the people who haven't got jobs will be angry."

Jaime looked into Rhaegar's eyes sharply.

"They will see that to get a full stomach under King Rhaegar's rule, you have to become a bandit first. It will trigger jealousy. Those starving will see those criminals eating royal bread, and they will ask: 'Why should I obey the law if criminals are treated better?'. Then they will rebel. We will create enemies from our own allies."

"You are right," muttered Rhaegar. "Justice must look just to those who obey the law."

"Exactly," said Jaime. "For now, we have no other choice. We can immediately send them directly to the Wall. The Night's Watch is always short of manpower. There, they will get food, purpose, and discipline. And they will be far from here, where their anger cannot burn the city."

Rhaegar laughed softly, a dry voice without humor.

"The Wall," he said. "It seems they will get thousands of new recruits this year. The Night's Watch will become the largest army in Westeros if this continues."

"Indeed," agreed Jaime. Silence fell between them again.

"We will get through this, Rhaegar," said Jaime suddenly, his voice softer, dropping formality for a moment. "You are a good king. Do not let doubt eat you."

Rhaegar stared at the Lannister youth. There was sincerity in his green eyes.

"We can only pray and try, Jaime. Humans are created for that," Rhaegar sighed tiredly, but there was a little relief in his heart. "I just hope this goes faster. But no, humans cannot play with time... Everything takes process."

Rhaegar twisted the ring on his finger, then asked about something bothering him.

"Lannisport," he said. "Lannisport and the Westerlands do not have refugee and bandit problems as severe as King's Landing and the Riverlands, do they? Reports from your uncle, Kevan, always show stability."

Jaime nodded. "We prepared early regarding this matter, Your Grace. My father... he listened to me, fortunately. Before we introduced those tools massively, we had built manufactories. We had prepared replacement jobs for farmers who would be displaced."

Jaime smiled wryly, a slightly cynical smile.

"This one is hard to imitate by other Lords, especially greedy ones. They see tools and only see gold savings. They fire their workers without thinking where those people will go. They just throw away most of their workers like trash, and now they are surprised that trash catches fire."

Rhaegar nodded, understanding that fatal difference. Vision. The Lannisters had vision, while others only had greed. Then, Rhaegar decided he had heard enough about problems, bandits, and sewers for one morning. He needed something else. He needed the light Jaime brought when entering earlier.

Rhaegar leaned forward, grinning a little, trying to recall his more relaxed side.

"Enough talking about this. My head is dizzy enough," said Rhaegar. "Earlier you said there was something amazing. Your face shone like the sun earlier, and I know it was not because you were excited to check feces in the sewer. What is your happy news? It makes me curious."

Jaime's face changed instantly. Political tension melted, replaced by a smile so wide and sincere it made Rhaegar almost jealous. It was the smile of a man who felt complete.

"Catelyn," said Jaime, mentioning his wife's name with a tone full of affection. "She is with child, Rhaegar. Maester Baelin confirmed it yesterday afternoon."

Rhaegar's eyes widened. For a moment, he was not King, and Jaime was not just his subordinate. They were just two young men, two brothers-in-law.

"With child?" Rhaegar smiled, a smile that reached his eyes this time. "Really? That... that is extraordinary news, Jaime! Congratulations!"

"Thank you," Jaime chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly but happily. "I am going to be a father. It feels... terrifying, but also extraordinary."

"A child," muttered Rhaegar, his mind drifting for a moment to Aegon in the nursery. "Children bring hope, Jaime. Amidst all this chaos... they are the reason we do all this."

Rhaegar stood up, walked around the table, and patted Jaime's shoulder firmly.

"May the Seven Gods bless him with health," said Rhaegar. "A small lion to accompany my small dragon. They will grow together, Jaime. Like us."

"Yes," answered Jaime. "They will have a better world than we inherited."

Rhaegar nodded. "That is our promise, and we will keep it."

 

[Daario]

TYWIN | CERSEI​

---

"Do you have a suspicion who is behind all this, Pycelle?" asked Tywin, his voice as cold as ice. His pale green eyes stared sharply at the Grand Maester sitting across his desk.

Pycelle shifted restlessly in his chair, the chains at his neck clinking softly. "The reports from Lord Redwyne and Ser Kevan are very... specific, My Lord," he said, carefully. "They confirm that pirate activity in the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea trade routes has increased drastically. Far beyond the level of nuisance we usually tolerate."

Tywin snorted softly. "Tolerate. We tolerate one or two ships lost due to storms or foolish captains. But this?"

Tywin pointed to the stack of loss reports on his desk.

Merchant ships carrying valuable cargo, machine-woven textiles from Lannisport, paper in large quantities for the Pentos and Braavos markets, as well as ships carrying volcanic ash from Dragonstone for cement manufactories, were being hunted.

In recent months, they had indeed lost one or two ships. That was business risk. However, two weeks ago, the situation turned into a slaughter. Three large Lannisport merchant ships were intercepted near Tarth. Their cargo seized, ships burned, and according to reports, the crew sold as slaves or thrown into the sea.

"This pattern is indeed troubling, My Lord," said Pycelle while adjusting his sitting position, his fingers stroking his beard. "These attacks have appeared so regularly and targeted since you began exporting paper in large quantities to Essos. And now, with the addition of high-quality textiles, and regarding the 'clear glass' already produced in the West... they have become wilder."

Pycelle leaned forward slightly. "I conclude that the situation across the sea is heating up. The Free Cities... they are afraid, Lord Tywin. They are afraid to compete with you."

"Continue," ordered Tywin flatly.

"Think about it," said Pycelle, looking to gain confidence from his own analysis. "For centuries, the economy of Essos, especially Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, relied on the export of luxury goods to Westeros. Glass, tapestries, lace, lenses. We are their biggest market. We buy, they sell."

Pycelle pointed to the paper sample on Tywin's desk.

"But now... news that 'inventions' coming from your son keep increasing, it shakes the economic foundations of the merchants there. If Westeros can produce on its own, who will buy their goods? And worse for them, if we start selling these goods to their markets at cheaper prices and better quality... it will shift their dominance."

Tywin nodded slowly. That analysis aligned with his own thinking.

"So," said Tywin, his voice sharp, "they all basically do not want us to advance? They want to maintain the status where we are just armored barbarians buying their trinkets?"

"Exactly," confirmed Pycelle. "They just want to keep us as cash cows, My Lord. It has become a common view that Essos is a place far more advanced in terms of knowledge than Westeros. To them, we are a market, not a competitor. If we no longer buy their goods, they will lose a large part of their revenue. This triggers panic. And panic triggers desperate acts like funding pirate fleets."

Tywin's jaw hardened. A deep dislike coursed through him. He hated arrogance. Especially arrogance from people he considered inferior.

Those people... with their colorful silks, oiled beards, and reliance on slaves. They thought they were higher than him? They thought they could strangle House Lannister and the Kingdom of Westeros just by hiring a few pirates in the Stepstones?

They were very wrong. Tywin Lannister did not build his power by letting others dictate trade terms. He destroyed House Reyne and Tarbeck because they dared to oppose him. He would not let a bunch of slave traders across the sea insult him.

They were lower than beasts in Tywin's eyes. Beasts at least hunted to eat; these people hunted to maintain rotting luxury.

If they indeed wanted to play, thought Tywin, I will entertain them.

He stood up from his chair and walked towards the large map of the world hanging on the wall. His eyes fixed on the Stepstones, the cluster of rocky islands that became a den of brigands between Dorne and Essos.

...

Tonight, the Queen's private chamber felt like a secret garden hidden from the harsh outside world. The room smelled fragrant, filled with the intoxicating sweet scent of fresh flowers picked just this afternoon. Porcelain and clear glass vases were placed in many corners of the room, on the vanity, on bookshelves, and lined up near the window opened halfway, letting the night breeze carry inside.

Cersei Lannister sat on the sofa, her posture relaxed and graceful. Opposite her, sat the Queen Mother, Queen Rhaella. Beside her, little Prince Viserys was sitting cross-legged on the thick carpet. The boy wore a loose black silk tunic, and in his hand was a biscuit he was chewing slowly, crumbs falling onto his lap without him caring.

But the center of attention in the room was not the beautiful women or the young prince. The center was on Rhaella's lap.

Aegon. Cersei's son. The heir to the throne.

The child was only one year old, yet he already possessed a charisma that attracted everyone's attention. He held his grandmother's index finger with his strong tiny hand, shaking it while laughing lightly. The sound of his laughter was pure, like small silver bells.

"He never gets tired, does he?" commented Viserys with his mouth slightly full, staring at his nephew with a mixture of awe and a little annoyance. "His laughter always fills the room. Even when I want to take a nap."

Rhaella smiled gently, her eyes shining full of affection as she looked at her grandson. "Spirit is a sign of health, Viserys. We should be grateful he has strong lungs."

"He always laughs at anything, Mother," complained Viserys, taking another bite of biscuit. "Even when I fall, he laughs. That is not polite, is it? A prince should not laugh at another prince's misfortune."

Cersei chuckled softly, a polite and amused laugh. She remembered that incident clearly; it happened a few days ago in the nursery. Viserys was playing war with a beautifully carved wooden dragon. He was too excited running around the table, his toy cloak fluttering, until finally he forgot that other block toys were scattered on the floor.

Viserys tripped and fell with a quite loud thud. Nothing was hurt but his pride, of course. But at that time, Aegon who was in Cersei's arms saw the incident, and instead of crying in shock, the baby laughed and clapped happily, as if his uncle had just performed a special acrobatic show for him.

"That means you must be careful when playing," said Rhaella gently, with an educating tone in her voice. "You must watch where you step. Or Aegon might imitate you later when he starts to walk. You are an example to him."

Viserys pouted.

"Let him imitate," muttered Viserys defensively. "We can fall and laugh together. At least it doesn't sound mocking if we both fall. We will be the duo of floor conquerors."

Rhaella held back a laugh, then reached out her free hand and pinched Viserys's cheek affectionately.

"You are very difficult when told, aren't you?" teased Rhaella.

"MOTHER!" cried Viserys, his face reddening from being treated like a baby in front of Cersei. But he didn't swat his mother's hand away; he didn't sound angry, only embarrassed.

"You are big now, so you must be given punishment if naughty," said Rhaella with a playful tone. "The punishment is you must finish your warm milk before bed tonight."

Viserys fell silent, his eyes widening slightly in horror, Cersei knew he hated warm milk. But then he saw his mother's smile, and he just nodded lightly, resigned. "Alright. For Aegon."

Cersei observed the interaction with a warm feeling she rarely showed to outsiders. She liked Rhaella. The Queen Mother did not try to dominate her, Rhaella knew her place, and she respected Cersei as the new Queen. And Viserys... the boy was harmless. He was just a spare. As long as Aegon existed, Viserys was just a funny uncle.

"He looks very much like Rhaegar," said Rhaella suddenly, refocusing on the baby in her lap. Her graceful fingers tidied Aegon's fine silver hair. "His face shape, his chin... that is pure Valyrian. But..."

Rhaella turned to look at Cersei. "...but he has your nose, Cersei. And your eye shape. This is seen very clearly when he is serious."

Of course, thought Cersei with satisfaction swelling in her chest. I was the one who birthed him, of course he has the same features as me.

Aegon indeed looked perfect. He was the best blend of two worlds. He had Rhaegar's refined handsomeness, yet there was the strength of Cersei's features there, a sharp and firm nose, as well as high Lannister cheekbones. He looked very handsome and adorable at the same time.

"His eyes are Rhaegar's eyes in terms of color," said Cersei, putting down her tea cup. She leaned forward, staring at her son. "And his gaze looks very deep. Like wanting to analyze everything. He does not just look; he observes. He is full of question marks, and like wanting to solve problems he sees early on."

Cersei touched Aegon's cheek. The baby turned, his purple eyes staring at Cersei with surprising intensity for a baby.

"He will be a thinker," continued Cersei proudly. "And a ruler. He will not be easily deceived."

"Yes," said Rhaella, her smile fading slightly. "But hopefully he is left to solve problems quickly..."

Rhaella bowed down, kissing her grandson's forehead. "His father has to shoulder a heavy burden at a young age. I hope Aegon has a longer childhood. A childhood full of laughter, like tonight."

"I will ensure it," promised Cersei, her voice sharp and protective. "No one will touch him. No one will burden him before he is ready."

"You are a good mother, Cersei," said Rhaella sincerely.

"A mother indeed must be good for her children," replied Cersei while smiling.

The atmosphere returned to quiet and comfortable. There was only the sound of Viserys chewing biscuits and Aegon's soft babbling.

Cersei felt very satisfied. This was the life she wanted. She was Queen. She had a healthy heir. Her husband was a King loved by the people. And her family held supreme power. Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door.

Knock. Knock.

Cersei and Rhaella turned in unison. Viserys stopped chewing.

"Enter," called Cersei. The heavy door opened slowly. And there, standing in the doorway with a black cloak draped over his shoulders and silver hair slightly messy as if he had just finished wrestling, was Rhaegar Targaryen.

However, as his eyes swept the room, seeing his mother, his younger brother, his wife, and his son laughing, that tired expression melted instantly.

Rhaegar said nothing. He just stood there for a moment, perhaps to let the sight wash away his fatigue, a thin and gentle smile slowly etched on his lips. He stepped in, closing the door behind him.

"You are having fun without me, are you?"

Rhaegar's voice was soft and full of warmth that made Cersei's heart flutter. The King stepped fully into the candlelight, closing the door behind him.

He walked towards the sofa where Cersei sat. His movements were graceful like flowing water. Rhaegar leaned down slightly, brushing a strand of golden hair from Cersei's face, then kissed her forehead. His lips were warm and dry. The kiss was simple, not a lustful kiss in the bedroom, but a kiss of respect and affection.

Cersei closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation. He always did this, giving small physical touches signaling possession, gestures that made Cersei feel special.

"We could not invite you because you always stay silent with your papers, Husband," teased Cersei, opening her eyes and looking at her husband's handsome face with a seductive smile. "I worry if I sent a servant, you would sign their forehead accidentally thinking they were a tax document."

Rhaegar chuckled, a low and pleasant sound. He sat on the edge of the sofa, beside Cersei, but his eyes were fixed on his mother and the baby on her lap.

"Perhaps I need forcing once in a while to get out of that hole, Wife," he admitted. "Sometimes I lose track of time and it is hard to stop."

Rhaegar then shifted his attention to the floor, where Viserys was trying to hide biscuit crumbs under the edge of the carpet.

"You make the carpet dirty, Viserys," admonished Rhaegar gently, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Later ants will come and carry you away while sleeping."

"Huh," Viserys gasped, his face reddening from embarrassment being caught by his brother. He hurriedly patted his crummy hands on his trousers. "I... I am feeding them, Brother. This is so they won't be mean."

"Good reason," Rhaegar smiled, ruffling his brother's silver hair. Then, his gaze softened as it shifted to the small bundle in Queen Rhaella's arms.

"And how is this little one?" he asked, his voice changing into the soft whisper he used when singing lullabies.

Aegon, hearing his father's voice, turned. His purple eyes blinked, then his toothless lips broke into a wide gummy smile. He reached out his chubby hands towards Rhaegar, making enthusiastic sounds.

"He looks very happy it seems," commented Rhaegar, tilting his head. "Does he not miss his father? He looks as if he can live with only milk and his grandmother."

Rhaegar made a face of pretend disappointment, his lower lip protruding slightly in a dramatic way that made Viserys giggle.

"He is just good at hiding his feelings," answered Cersei quickly, but her eyes glinted meaningfully. Actually, that sentence was intended as a subtle satire on Rhaegar himself, who often hid his emotions behind a mask. Rhaegar turned to her, catching the double meaning. He smiled wryly, acknowledging the attack.

"Oh, no. He is already good at acting!" cried Rhaegar, looking back at his son. "We cannot let him hold stage shows, he has duties! A King must not be a traveling actor."

"You are too dramatic, Rhaegar," Rhaella smiled shaking her head, seeing the interaction of her son and grandson. "He is still a baby. Who wants to see a show held by a baby?"

"Me," answered Rhaegar instantly. "And the ghosts of the Red Keep... I think they are bored of seeing violence. A little baby comedy will refresh the atmosphere."

Rhaegar then knelt on one knee in front of his mother's chair, leveling his height with the baby. He extended both his large and strong hands.

"Let me hold him, Mother," asked Rhaegar. "I need to see if he is still as heavy as last time. I suspect he grew two inches overnight."

"Should be so," said Rhaella softly, carefully moving the weight from her lap to her son's hands. "Watch his head."

Rhaegar received his son, he supported Aegon's neck and leaned him against his broad chest.

"Whoa, yes. He really got heavier," exclaimed Rhaegar, his eyes widening wittily feeling Aegon's solid weight. He lifted the baby a little higher, staring at his face. "Do you eat bricks or milk porridge, Little Prince?"

Aegon laughed, hitting Rhaegar's cheek with his tiny hand.

Rhaegar turned to Cersei. "What do you feed him, Cersei? Does your father secretly smuggle liquid gold into his milk?"

Cersei laughed, a clear and proud sound. She liked when Rhaegar joked about her family heritage without suspicion.

"Healthy food, of course. The best," answered Cersei, straightening her back. "Children need to grow, Rhaegar. He will be big and strong. He must have shoulders broad enough to carry armor."

"Or a warhammer," chirped Viserys innocently from the floor.

Rhaella joined in smiling. "He will be what he wants to be. But most importantly, he is healthy."

Rhaegar brought Aegon closer to the window, showing the star-studded night sky to his son.

"Look at that, son," whispered Rhaegar. "Those are stars. Big and beautiful."

Aegon stared at those small lights with wide eyes, mesmerized.

Cersei observed them, husband and son. The sight of Rhaegar holding Aegon under the moonlight was the most beautiful painting she had ever seen. This was her victory. This was her future.

 

[Daario]

JONOTHOR | RHAEGAR​

---

The wheels of the prison cart rattled over the cobblestone streets, parts of which had been torn up. On the left and right of the main road, the sight greeting Jonothor was organized chaos. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of bare-chested workers were digging deep trenches, carrying wicker baskets filled with black filth, or pouring gravel mixture into the excavated ditches.

Jonothor pulled his horse's reins, trying to calm the beast agitated by the noise of hammers and the shouts of foremen. He took a breath, and immediately regretted it.

The air of King's Landing, which since ancient times had been famous for the pungent smell of feces and kitchen smoke, was now worsened by sharp lime dust that dried the throat and stung the eyes.

"Cough," Jonothor coughed softly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand encased in a dirty steel gauntlet. He winced. The taste of lime clung to his tongue.

"The Lannister family and their obsessions," he muttered softly, his eyes squinting at the dust billowing from a cart that had just dumped a load of sand.

They said this was progress. The Lannisters said this was sanitation. But to Jonothor, who had just spent weeks on the muddy roads of the Riverlands, this looked like someone was dissecting the city's stomach and letting its guts spill out. The smell was fouler than a battlefield where corpses had not been buried for three days.

He turned to the side, checking his cargo.

Inside an iron-barred cart pulled by two tired draft horses, five men sat huddled. They were the remnants of the bandit group he had ambushed in the cave. Jonothor didn't bring all the prisoners; that would have slowed the journey and consumed supplies. Some had been hanged or sent to the Night's Watch.

But these five were different.

Jonothor had selected them specifically. One was their leader, the black-bearded man. The other four were those most vocal, most intelligent, or most cowardly willing to talk for a piece of bread.

Jonothor stared at them with unconcealed disgust.

They looked pitiful. Their clothes were tattered, their faces dirty with travel dust and despair. However, in their eyes, Jonothor still saw that flash of fire. The fire of rebellion.

During the long journey back to the capital, Jonothor had spoken with some of them, also listening to their chatter during night rests.

Most of them claimed to be just recruited farmers. They told stories with fiery passion about how they were fired by landlords, how their children starved, and how someone promised money and justice.

They were angry at the nobles. They blamed the King, the Hand, and anyone who had a roof over their heads.

That narrative made Jonothor's blood boil. He wanted to slap them with his steel gauntlet until their teeth fell out.

You talk about hunger, thought Jonothor, staring at the bandit leader who stared back at him with defiant eyes, but you are the ones who burned the barns. You are the ones who destroyed the tools that plant food. You are not victims; you are the disease.

The small convoy continued moving forward, splitting the crowd of workers who moved aside upon seeing the royal banner.

Near the outer courtyard of the Red Keep, another rider approached. He wore a pristine white cloak, a sharp contrast to Jonothor's cloak which was now brownish-grey from dust and mud.

It was Ser Mervyn Mallery.

The young black-haired knight was an addition to the Kingsguard brotherhood, replacing Ser Harlan Grandison who died peacefully in his sleep a few years ago. Mervyn was a capable man, skilled with a lance, but his eyes possessed a flatness that sometimes made Jonothor feel uncomfortable.

Mervyn stopped his horse beside Jonothor, nodding briefly as a greeting. His dark eyes immediately went to the prisoner cart.

"Welcome back, Brother," greeted Mervyn, his voice calm. "Long journey?"

"Felt longer than it should have," answered Jonothor, his voice hoarse.

Mervyn stared at the five prisoners with a flat expression, as if assessing cattle to be slaughtered. His gaze stopped on the bandit leader and one associate who looked thinnest and weakest.

"Those two there look like half-rotten trash, Ser," commented Mervyn without emotion. "You fed them?"

The question sounded like an accusation of waste.

"If not, how are they still alive to get here, Mervyn?" answered Jonothor sharply, slightly offended. He was tired, and his patience was paper-thin. "It took us weeks to get here at this cart's pace. King Rhaegar wants them alive for questioning, not as dried corpses."

Jonothor pointed towards the bandit leader who spat on the ground as they spoke about him.

"Those two were very stubborn," continued Jonothor. "They refused at first. They only ate when their stomachs could no longer withstand the pain. They said our food was dirty. Food from the hands of 'oppressors', they said."

Jonothor snorted, a rough laugh escaping his throat. "Very funny, isn't it? When they are the ones who burned villages and looted poor people. They talk about stomach honor while destroying other people's stomachs."

Mervyn shifted his gaze back to the front, his horse walking slowly alongside Jonothor's horse towards the castle gate.

"Most criminals indeed do not own mirrors, Ser," said Mervyn philosophically, but his tone was cold. "Their heads are empty and cannot think about what they have done objectively. They always believe they are heroes in their own stories. They believe they are doing good deeds, even if their methods are very barbaric. That is how they sleep at night without being haunted by their victims' screams."

Jonothor nodded wearily. Mervyn was right. Fanaticism was the best shield for a rotten conscience. They passed the Red Keep gate. The atmosphere here was quieter, far from the noise of sewer construction in the lower city.

"How are the others?" Jonothor asked, changing the topic. He felt alienated after weeks in the wild. He missed news of his brothers.

"Doing duty, as usual," Mervyn smiled thinly, a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. He started counting with his white-gloved fingers.

"Ser Gerold leads the main road patrol and goes around ensuring trade route safety. Ser Manly Stokeworth escorts the King wherever he goes, although the King is busy with meetings, so Manly mostly stands bored in front of the Small Council door."

Mervyn pointed towards the slum area in the distance.

"Ser Arthur... he is mostly in Flea Bottom. Supervising the distribution of free bread. He has become a guardian angel for bakers, ensuring the people don't kill each other for a crust of wheat."

Jonothor could imagine Arthur there. The Sword of the Morning, the greatest knight in the world, becoming a bread line guard. It was a waste of talent, but also the most noble duty right now.

"Oswell is assigned with Queen Mother Rhaella and Prince Viserys," continued Mervyn. "Keeping them safe and entertained. And Ser Harys... he has become the shadow of Queen Cersei and little Prince Aegon."

"And you?" asked Jonothor.

"Me? I oversee things in the castle. Inner castle patrols, maintaining order among servants and gossiping courtiers. Waiting for your turn to return so I can sleep," Mervyn laughed lightly.

"No one injured while I was away?" Jonothor ensured.

"No. Perhaps only pride is injured having to deal with stomach and sewer issues," joked Mervyn. "We are all tough, aren't we?"

Jonothor stared at the red stone fortress towering in front of him.

"Tough, yes. Tough," muttered Jonothor. He felt anything but tough right now. He felt old, dirty, and desperately wanted a hot bath. But he was a Kingsguard. He was not allowed to be tired.

...

The torches on the damp stone walls flickered, casting long shadows that danced like starving ghosts along the spiral staircase leading to the belly of the Red Keep.

Rhaegar Targaryen descended the slippery stone steps with careful steps. Behind him, Ser Manly Stokeworth followed with a hand never leaving his sword hilt, his white armor clanking softly in the narrow space.

The air here was heavy, smelling of moss and rotten brine. Rhaegar's breath felt tight, as if the darkness around him tried to compress his lungs. He hated this place. He hated what this place represented, the dark side of power, the place where law was replaced by chains.

But he had to do this.

He wanted to see the threat to his kingdom with his own eyes. He could not let his kingdom be destroyed by fools who burned without caring about anything. Not under his watch. Not as long as he was alive.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. A fat jailer with large keys at his waist immediately bowed deeply, his face pale seeing his King descend to this place.

"Open cell number four," ordered Rhaegar briefly.

The jailer nodded nervously and opened the heavy iron door with an ear-splitting sound.

Ser Manly preceded Rhaegar inside, his body tensing, ready to protect the King from any threat that might jump from the darkness. However, the threat turned out to be helpless.

There, in the corner of the dim cell, Rhaegar saw a man.

He no longer looked like a gallant rebel leader. He curled up and was chained to the stone wall like a mad dog just beaten. His appearance was filthy, his long black hair matted with dry mud, and his clothes wet with cell seepage water.

Two guards inside the cell pulled the man's chains, forcing him to kneel and face the light, face the King.

The man lifted his face.

He looked exhausted, his eyes swollen and lips split. However, behind all that physical damage, there was still a fire burning in his eyes. He stared at Rhaegar not with fear or regret, but with extraordinarily deep anger. A burning gaze, as if he wanted to jump and bite Rhaegar's neck if not for the chains holding him.

Rhaegar stared back calmly. He wondered, what had he done, to elicit such pure hatred in someone's eyes?

"What is your name?" Rhaegar asked coldly. His voice wasn't loud, but echoed with authority that made the other guards look down. He didn't look at this person with pity. This man had led attacks killing innocent farmers. He had reaped what he sowed.

"Arys," growled the man.

Good, thought Rhaegar. At least he didn't make this too troublesome by playing mute.

"Who ordered you to do all this, Arys?" said Rhaegar, stepping a little closer so Arys could see his face clearly. "Do you know how many you have killed?"

Arys laughed. A dry, hoarse, and forced laugh.

"What is the difference with you?" spat Arys, his voice full of venom. "You, the high Lords in white towers. You throw us away like trash. You let us starve in the streets, begging for bread crumbs, until finally dying of cold in the gutter. Do you know how many you have killed, King Rhaegar?"

Ser Manly stepped forward, his face flushed red from that insult. "Shut your mouth, bastard! How dare you—"

Rhaegar raised a hand, stopping his protector knight. His gaze did not leave Arys.

"I hear you are good with a sword, Arys," said Rhaegar analytically. "You have a warhorse. I doubt that you have any connection with those farmers who have lost jobs, other than using them as meat shields."

Rhaegar leaned forward slightly.

"Do not pretend to be a hero to the smallfolk, when you yourself have the intention to sleep on other people's suffering. You burned their food. You made them hungrier. That is not a savior's act."

Those words hit their mark. The fire in Arys's eyes flickered. The man fell silent for a moment, his breath sounding heavy in the quiet room.

"Will I be killed?" he asked finally, his voice losing its previous tone.

"Knowing what you have done? It is only a matter of time," answered Rhaegar honestly. "My punishment for arson and murder is death. There is no bargaining on that."

Rhaegar saw Arys's shoulders slump slightly.

"But," continued Rhaegar, "I can make your suffering end quickly. A clean death, without torture, if you tell all the truth there is. Who ordered you? Who paid you?"

Arys ground his teeth. He stared at Rhaegar, perhaps weighing his options. Tortured to death by the royal executioner, or a quick death with a severed head. A mercenary's choice was always pragmatic.

He laughed again, this time louder, the laugh of a man who had accepted his fate.

"Fine, fine, fine. You win," he said. "I will tell you. But before dying... can I get a glass of ale? My throat is dry as a desert."

"You will get it," said Rhaegar without hesitation. "After you speak."

Arys leaned his head against the cold stone wall.

"I am a mercenary." Arys began his confession. "I was hired by a man six months ago. He did not tell me his name, and he wore a silk mask when we met, and he also did not tell me where he came from."

"What I know," continued Arys, his eyes glinting remembering the payment, "is that he had a lot of gold. Enough gold to buy my loyalty, to buy weapons for those stupid farmers, and a remaining amount large enough that I could use to gamble and hire the best whores."

Rhaegar nodded slowly. Not interrupting.

"He said that people here were angry," related Arys. "He gave me ways to make speeches. He said that people did not deserve to be played with like animals. So, he ordered me to come to the Riverlands, recruit more desperate people, arm them, and create organized chaos."

Arys grinned wryly. "The goal was to make the rulers panic. Perhaps you would listen to those people to re-employ them and give them shelter out of fear. I knew it was a lie, of course. The rich man who hired me could not possibly care about the smallfolk. He just wanted to see those fields burn. But I accepted it anyway because it was my job. I disguised myself as a farmer, created a fake background about lost land... that was to make my opinion unquestioned by the sheep following me."

The hatred in Rhaegar's heart for this man deepened, yet his face remained flat. Arys looked thoughtful, trying to remember other details.

"That man said that we, scattered groups, must gather at a place in the next few months. When we had gathered enough members and enough loot. The plan was to attack a large trading town."

"Do you know where that gathering place is?" asked Rhaegar sharply.

"I do not know," Arys shook his head. "We were cut off. They only said that their messenger would come again later when the time arrived to give directions."

"How many people became leaders like you?"

"I do not know for sure," Arys ground his teeth. "What is clear is there are many. I only heard rumors about other groups. We were only ordered to create chaos, to destroy infrastructure, to make rulers think twice before doing something silly!"

Rhaegar asked a few more things, and after feeling satisfied, Rhaegar stood tall. He looked at the guard.

"Give him ale. As much as he wants. And tomorrow morning, hand him over to be beheaded."

"Thank you, Your Grace," said Arys, his sarcastic tone gone, replaced by strange relief.

Rhaegar turned and walked out of the cell. He climbed the stairs with quick steps, wanting to inhale fresh air immediately.

Ser Manly Stokeworth walked beside him, his breath slightly heaving.

"Do you know who ordered them all, in the end, Your Grace?" asked Manly with a quiet voice, as if afraid the walls would hear. Rhaegar did not answer directly. He continued walking until they exited the dungeon and returned to the castle corridor illuminated by afternoon sunlight.

Rhaegar had a strong suspicion. Very strong.

That much money couldn't fall from the sky. Mercenaries didn't work for charity. Someone funded this rebellion with a specific goal: destroying agricultural tools and burning barns.

Connecting those dots was not hard. The target was clear: The new economy of Westeros.

Westeros was rising, producing its own goods, cutting dependence on imports. And there were parties losing mountains of gold because of it.

"The merchants of Essos," muttered Rhaegar, they were the culprits.

 

[Daario]

JAIME | CATELYN​

---

Death. So much death.

The numbers were written in black ink on the paper that now felt so heavy in Jaime's hand. Fifty lives lost in vain. Men, women, and children. All dead: trampled in the narrow streets of Flea Bottom just fighting over a few pieces of free wheat bread from the royal carts.

The tragedy occurred yesterday afternoon. When the long queue was suddenly struck by panic due to a rumor that the bread had run out. The starving mob turned into a savage sea of humans. Several guards were also severely injured, their ribs broken, crushed between the stone walls and the push of hundreds of desperate people.

Now, the bodies had been taken away. The smell of summer rot spread too fast, the corpses were loaded into wooden carts like firewood. They were taken to a mass grave, in an open field far enough outside the city walls.

He stared at the report papers in his hand with a blank gaze. His chamber in the Red Keep was currently only lit by the dim light of two beeswax candles on the table, leaving plenty of room for shadows to dance in the corners of the room.

Catelyn sat opposite him, on the soft bed, watching him in silence with blue eyes full of empathy.

Jaime sighed, a sound that seemed fragile in the silence of the night. He placed the papers on the table.

"I expected that this would happen, Cat," whispered Jaime, pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "In my head, I knew the theory. But... experiencing it myself, seeing this report... it is a completely different feeling. It feels like I am the one holding the hangman's noose and executing them all."

Catelyn put her embroidery on the small table next to her. She looked at her husband with a grounded gentleness, typical of a woman raised in a harsh world.

"There is nothing you could have done in all this, Jaime," said Catelyn calmly. "You are not even anyone right now who can stop those Lords. You are not the King. You are not the Hand of the King. It is Rhaegar's and your father's duty to bring them to order."

Hearing that, Jaime chuckled. An empty and powerless laugh. Yes, what am I here? he thought cynically. A ditch and street foreman? A cement supervisor?

Rhaegar had indeed asked him to oversee all infrastructure projects in the capital, the same projects that had been built in Lannisport. Jaime was the architect of its construction.

But deep in his heart, Jaime knew the truth. Clearly, all this chaos was indeed his doing. His idea. He was the one who brought the seeds of that revolution. He was the one who wanted rapid progress. And this forced progress indeed had to be passed with several painful things. People were displaced because of the tools he created. And for the lives lost yesterday... some of that blood was on his hands.

At the same time, he could not turn back time. And he also didn't want to do it. This was a terrible price, and he chose to continue it, even though the guilt would continue to destroy him slowly from the inside.

All this will get better over time, Jaime reassured himself inwardly, a mantra he often repeated lately. Industry will absorb them. Manufactories will be built. He had to believe in that.

Jaime lifted his face, looking at his wife, forcing a wry smile.

"You are very bad at comforting, you know that, Cat?" joked Jaime, trying to lighten the overly heavy atmosphere. "Reminding me that I am a nobody. I know where my position is."

"Reality is still reality, my Husband," Catelyn spoke, unaffected by the joke. She seemed to know when Jaime was hiding his wounds. "I will not give you empty sweet words. You cannot control the circumstances of many people. The greed of those Lords... all of this is beyond your control as a human. You have done the best you could for this realm. Remember that."

Catelyn leaned her body forward, her eyes locking onto Jaime's eyes with full conviction.

"Lannisport and the Westerlands do not have an unemployment problem this large," Catelyn argued sharply. "The problem is the people from other regions who copy your inventions. They only see efficiency and profit. All the preparation processes, building manufactories to absorb displaced labor, giving severance, planning new jobs, they just threw them away because they didn't want to spend money. You cannot blame yourself for their selfishness."

Jaime fell silent. Catelyn was very smart. Her analysis was spot on. That was indeed the root of the problem. Innovation without social responsibility was a disaster. He nodded slowly, letting the truth of his wife's words sink in and slightly lighten the burden on his chest. He exhaled roughly, as if throwing away the remnants of the night's gloom.

"You are right," said Jaime finally. He stood up from his chair and walked closer to Catelyn. "Forget about all this. At least for tonight. The world will not end tomorrow morning."

He knelt on the carpeted floor in front of Catelyn. Very gently, he reached out and touched Catelyn's stomach.

The stomach was not yet noticeably enlarged under her nightgown, only a subtle curve, but as Jaime's hand made contact with the warmth of the skin beneath the silk fabric, he could feel the vibration of life. His own flesh and blood.

Jaime looked up, staring into Catelyn's blue eyes from below.

"I am sorry," whispered Jaime sincerely. "I am sorry for often coming home bringing a gloomy face, often complaining about sewers, poverty, and corpses. Sorry for making you uncomfortable with these sad stories."

Catelyn placed her hand on top of Jaime's hand which was on her stomach. "You do not make me—"

"Pregnancy should be filled with jokes and laughter," interrupted Jaime gently. "You must have a peaceful environment and a happy life so our little one is born healthy. Bringing you into a dark atmosphere... I am a bad husband."

Catelyn smiled, a smile so sincere that it made the dim room feel brighter.

"You are a man who cares about people you do not even know, Jaime. That does not make you a bad husband. That makes you a good man," said Catelyn softly.

Jaime returned her smile, feeling the burden in his heart truly lifted. He pulled his hand from Catelyn's stomach, then his eyes shifted to his wife's feet hidden under the hem of her gown.

"You said this morning your feet hurt because of standing too long in the garden accompanying Queen Rhaella, right?" Jaime remembered his wife's small complaint this afternoon. "Want me to massage them?"

Catelyn widened her eyes slightly, her cheeks flushed red under the candlelight. "Seriously, Jaime? Now?" She chuckled, looking surprised even though they had done this small intimacy several times before.

"You never seem to get used to this," said Jaime with a witty tone.

He lifted the hem of Catelyn's gown slightly, taking off the soft cloth shoes she wore with careful movements filled with adoration. He took one of Catelyn's petite feet and began to massage the arch of her sole with his thumb. The pressure was just right, relaxing the tense muscles.

Catelyn sighed softly, leaning her head back due to the comfort that instantly spread.

"In this world," said Jaime while continuing to massage, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "out there, I might just be a hated sewer builder. But here, in this room... I am an unrivaled massage master."

Catelyn chuckled, a sweet and happy sound.

...

Catelyn felt her husband's massage calmly. The pressure of Jaime's thumb on her soles was so right, slowly untangling the knots of tense muscles after a whole day walking down the stone hallways of the Red Keep, or just standing around.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the relaxing sensation spread throughout her body. Inside this chamber lit only by dim candlelight, with a small fire burning in the corner, the world felt safe. The thick castle walls seemed to isolate them from all the madness happening out there.

However, when Catelyn opened her eyes again and stared at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, reality crept back in.

King's Landing was no longer as pleasant as when she first arrived here. Before, this city was a giant stage filled with wonders: knights in white cloaks, thrilling court intrigues like singers' songs, beautiful gowns, and never-ending feasts. For a girl from Riverrun, this was the center of the world.

Now? She hated this place.

Behind the beautiful tapestries and fragrant perfumes, King's Landing hid an unbearable rot. The city was a starving monster continuously demanding victims. Riots, also desperate faces in the streets.

Nausea crept into Catelyn's stomach, not because of her pregnancy, but because of the reality of the place she currently lived.

She wanted to tell Jaime that they should leave. Pack their belongings tonight, prepare a carriage, and return to the West. To Casterly Rock. Forget all these things, smelly sewers, dusty manufactories, starvation, and suffocating politics.

Let King Rhaegar take care of his own kingdom, thought Catelyn bitterly. Let Lord Tywin handle it with his cold hands. Why must my husband bear this burden of conscience?

All this made her very sick. But what made her hate the most was not this city, but what this city did to her husband. Catelyn lowered her gaze, looking at Jaime's face which was focused on massaging her feet.

She hated how Jaime's eyes dimmed day by day. In the past, when they first spent time together, those eyes looked very bright. Green and sparkling beautifully, like leaves in the daytime illuminated by the summer sun. Those eyes were full of laughter, full of the confidence of a young man sure he could change the world with his two hands.

Now, the sun in those eyes had been covered by grey clouds. The green color faded, replaced by deep exhaustion and shadows of guilt. She could read every line on her husband's face, every heavy sigh. The progress Jaime dreamed of claimed lives, and Jaime secretly punished himself for it.

"Jaime?" called Catelyn softly, her voice breaking the silence only filled by the crackling of firewood.

"Yes?" answered Jaime. His hand did not stop moving, his thumb gently pressing Catelyn's heel. His voice sounded tired, yet still as soft as velvet when speaking to her.

"When will we go home?" she asked. Catelyn tried to keep her voice from sounding like a whine, but rather a sincere question.

Jaime's hand movements slowed, then stopped completely. The young man lifted his face, staring at Catelyn with slight confusion.

"To Casterly Rock?" said Jaime, confirming. He released Catelyn's foot gently and changed his sitting position, crossing his legs on the carpet. "Are you bored here, Cat? I thought you liked afternoon tea with the ladies and observing court drama in the hall."

Catelyn tilted her face, staring at the candle flame swaying blown by a little wind from the window crack.

"Maybe before," admitted Catelyn, her tone turning melancholic. "But now... yes. I miss the atmosphere there, Jaime. I miss the sea breeze that feels far cleaner than the wind here. I miss how sturdy and calm Casterly Rock is. Not many other great lords whispering to each other. There... there it feels like it is only the two of us. Our home."

Catelyn rubbed her still-flat stomach reflexively. And a safe home for our child later, she added internally. Far from plagues and starvation riots.

Jaime stared at her in silence. Catelyn could feel that gaze; a gaze full of understanding, but also attachment to duty. Jaime's jaw hardened slightly, a sign that he was at war with his own desires.

"Soon, Cat," said Jaime finally, his voice low and filled with regret. He reached out, covering Catelyn's hand which was on her stomach. His hand was warm and rough. "Just... give me a little more time. Rhaegar still needs me. I cannot leave him alone."

Catelyn swallowed. Words were stuck at the tip of her tongue.

I need you too, screamed Catelyn in her head. This child in my womb needs its father whole, not just the shell of a man exhausted from taking care of other people's problems. I need a time where you don't come home with a face that looks like you just buried your own best friend.

But Catelyn bit her inner lip. She swallowed her ego and fear back into her chest.

She was raised as a Tully. Family, Duty, Honor. She knew what duty meant to a man. If she forced Jaime to leave now, Jaime might obey her out of love. But Jaime would bring that guilt with him to Casterly Rock. The guilt of running away. And that guilt would eventually erode their marriage.

Catelyn would not be a wife who added to her husband's burden. If King's Landing was Jaime's battlefield right now, then Catelyn would be his healing tent.

Catelyn forced a smile. Not the brightest smile, but enough to convince.

"I know," said Catelyn softly, turning her hand to grasp Jaime's fingers. "I just... sometimes get carried away by my mood. Rhaegar indeed needs an honest friend right now. Do what you must do, Jaime."

Jaime stared at her intently, as if looking for a lie in her eyes. When he didn't find it, Jaime's shoulder which had been tense finally relaxed slightly. The young man sighed in relief and pulled Catelyn's hand to kiss the back of it.

"Thank you, Cat. You are far more understanding than I deserve," whispered Jaime.

Catelyn pulled her hand slowly and patted the empty space beside her. "Come here. You cannot stay on the floor like a guard dog."

Jaime chuckled softly, the first real laugh he let out tonight. He stood up, then climbed onto the bed and lay down beside his wife.

Catelyn leaned on Jaime's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. To prevent dark thoughts from creeping back in, Catelyn started chatting about trivial things.

She told stories about the latest letter from her uncle, Brynden, complaining about Hoster Tully trying to matchmake him again. She told how a Lady's gown accidentally got caught in a carriage door and tore. She even had a small debate with Jaime about whether their child later would prefer grilled fish or hunted venison.

Jaime responded to everything with a voice that grew heavier and heavier due to sleepiness. He chimed in on Catelyn's jokes, stroking his wife's hair with a soothing rhythmic movement.

Catelyn did not say what truly burdened her mind. She kept her own fears. And thanks to that light chat, the shadows of everything slowly moved away from them.

And she fell asleep.

---

 

[Daario]

HOSTER | TYWIN​

---

"May I come along, Father? I can be by your side and help."

That high-pitched voice echoed in the private dining room of the Lord of Riverrun. Hoster Tully stopped the knife over his plate, staring at his only son sitting across the table.

Edmure was still young. Although the boy always tried to puff out his chest to look like a grown knight, his cheeks were still round, adorned by the remnants of baby fat that hadn't faded. His blue eyes radiated a spirit and naivety that made Hoster want to sigh heavily.

Riverrun castle felt very quiet this morning.

Hoster looked at the empty chairs around the large wooden dining table. Usually, this table was filled with chatter and life. In the right chair, there would usually be Catelyn. His eldest daughter would sit with perfect posture, chewing her food gently, and occasionally scolding Edmure about his impoliteness if the boy spoke with his mouth full. Then in the left chair, there was Lysa who would giggle at her siblings' petty arguments, while Petyr Baelish would sit at the end, observing them all with his calm, calculating smile.

Now, that sight was merely a memory. They had all gone out into the world, fulfilling their respective duties and destinies.

Catelyn had become the wife of Ser Jaime Lannister. Remembering that alone was enough to make Hoster's chest swell with immense pride. It was the best, most perfect thing Hoster could give his eldest daughter.

Hoster loved Catelyn very much. She was a good girl, an obedient daughter who always listened when her father spoke, and comforted him when he was tired of dealing with the stubbornness of the Riverlands bannermen. Catelyn was always there. Her care was very gentle and warming, reminding Hoster of his late wife. And now, Catelyn was in King's Landing, married to the heir to Casterly Rock. Hoster had secured a future made of solid gold for his favorite child.

As for Lysa... Hoster chewed his sausage with slightly heavier thoughts. Lysa was his overly eager daughter, too easily carried away by emotion. Sometimes Hoster felt worried because his daughter was so close to Littlefinger in the past. He saw Lysa's gaze upon the boy, it was a gaze she should not have possessed...

Even after Hoster successfully agreed to the betrothal with Brandon Stark, uniting Riverrun with Winterfell, Lysa still had reluctance in her eyes. She cried and locked herself away.

But fortunately, the Gods were still kind to her. When Brandon came to visit Riverrun, the Northern youth was able to captivate Lysa's heart.

Brandon was indeed rough, his voice loud and his laugh booming, just like most Northerners raised amidst the cold winds. But the young man possessed a dangerous wild wolf charm, he was kind, gallant, and surprisingly very capable of giving sweet compliments that made a woman's cheeks blush. Lysa, initially reluctant, slowly began to smile every time Brandon looked at her. At least, Hoster hoped they would be fine and Lysa could find her happiness in that cold land later.

Hoster's gaze then shifted to the end of the table.

While his two daughters had flown the nest, Petyr Baelish was still here, cutting his bread and eating quietly. His lessons as a ward were not fully completed. Soon, in a year or two, he would become a grown man and could go back to his rocky origins in The Fingers. Honestly, behind his strict attitude, Hoster harbored a little affection for the young man. Of course, after all, they had shared the same roof for years. Petyr was smart, despite his low birth.

Hoster returned his attention to his pouting heir.

"You are still young, Edmure," said Hoster, his voice heavy and calm, leaving no room for argument. "The battlefield is not a playground to seek glory. Stay here at Riverrun, and be a useful squire to your uncle. When you manage to prove yourself in the training yard, when your shoulders are broad enough to bear the weight of iron armor without staggering, only then will I take you along."

"Is Uncle Brynden not coming either then?" Edmure pouted even more, putting down his fork a bit roughly so it clinked against the plate. "This is unfair. I want to see a real fight, Father! Not just hitting straw in the yard."

"Your Uncle Brynden is not coming, not because he cannot fight, but because he has a much more important duty here," Hoster said, staring at Edmure intently. "He is here to guard you. You are my heir, Edmure. The future of House Tully. And you must remain safe until you are big enough to protect yourself."

Edmure rolled his eyes, a habit Hoster disliked. The boy then turned to Petyr.

"And Petyr? Is he coming?" asked Edmure with an accusing tone, looking very annoyed. "He is weaker than me! He can barely even lift a longsword."

Petyr, who had only been listening silently, stopped chewing. He put down his knife, staring at Edmure with a pair of eyes that always looked like they harbored an amusing secret.

"Hey, you only beat me a few times in wooden sword fights, Edmure," said Baelish with a light tone that did not sound offended at all. "And even that was because my arm was a little sprained last week."

"Of course I won, I am younger but I am stronger than you!" Edmure snorted proudly, puffing out his chest.

"Exactly right," Baelish replied with a soft and soothing smirk, a smile that somehow always made his conversational partner feel like a child. "That is the point. You are younger, your bloodline is far more valuable. So a battlefield full of mud and blood is not yet suitable for you."

Edmure frowned, trying to digest Petyr's words, unsure if he was just praised or mocked.

Hoster sighed softly. He had no time to deal with children's squabbles this morning. His mind was already filled with strategies and maps.

They would leave today. The Riverrun forces had gathered outside the castle. Hoster would personally lead the soldiers to eradicate the bandits currently destroying many villages in his territory.

Hoster was very annoyed. No, he was more than annoyed, he was furious.

The bandits moved like water. They were too fluid, too organized to be handled by petty lords who only had a dozen guards. They were not just robbing; they destroyed, and terrorized the farmers trying to implement farming methods from the West. This was a direct insult to Hoster's authority and a real threat to the soaring prosperity of the Riverlands.

Hoster would not let his investments be burned to ashes by a bunch of street rats. He would get rid of them for good. He would hang every man who dared to raise a torch against the Riverlands' progress. Do not think they could get away with it after creating chaos.

"Enough," Hoster cut off the conversation, ending the debate with one firm word. He looked at Edmure who immediately fell silent.

"Just eat, finish your food, Edmure," ordered Hoster. "After this, meet Uncle Brynden in the yard. And do not make him angry."

...

Tywin and Steffon were currently outside, on one of the high balconies, observing the sea of workers moving large stones and tons of gravel into the giant sewer trenches below. White dust billowed into the air, obscuring part of the city view.

"You just agreed to it, Tywin?" Steffon asked him, standing beside him with a clear tone of disbelief. "Twenty percent of the profits, I thought you would ask for more... much more. Half, perhaps, considering you hold all the secrets."

Tywin did not answer immediately. His pale green eyes remained locked on the movement of carts in the distance. His face was hard and calm.

"My grandson will one day rule this realm, Steffon," answered Tywin finally. His voice was not loud, but its firmness pierced through the noisy sounds below them. "Aegon will sit on that throne. And I had better help him so the kingdom does not collapse first before he gets to wear it."

That was the fruit of an exhausting Small Council meeting. Rhaegar would build manufactories for cloth, paper, glass, and agricultural tools in King's Landing or the Crownlands with the investment support of other Lords, with Tywin providing the blueprints and the methods of production.

In return, Tywin received twenty percent of their net profits for the next ten years. Tywin did not care about the money directly, the gold in Casterly Rock was more than enough. He just wanted to make everyone know, without the slightest doubt, that it was the Lannisters who made all this possible.

Therefore, as one of the absolute conditions, he also proposed to Rhaegar that any other lords or merchant guilds wishing to make the same things must ask for official permission from him first. He did not want an embarrassing incident like the paper machine stolen and copied by the Citadel in Oldtown to happen again.

With this new rule, he could stop unauthorized competitors legally, without needing much violence, without needing to hire assassins or deploy armies. They named that legal concept 'Patent Rights'.

Of course, Rhaegar was not stupid. The young King requested further discussion regarding the terms. The King did not want Tywin playing loopholes in his laws to strangle the economy for an eternal monopoly.

Steffon fell silent for a moment, observing his friend. A smile slowly bloomed on the face of the Lord of Storm's End.

"Sometimes I am jealous that you can enjoy your life like this," Steffon laughed a little, his sigh sounding amused. "But I am also glad, because honestly since we were little you were always scowling everywhere. And seeing you able to release a little of that tension now, it feels so pleasant to see."

Tywin looked away, snorting softly. "Anyone would always scowl if facing every day with you. You are too noisy."

Steffon grinned even wider, not offended at all. "But that is my charm, is it not? I quickly became liked by many in this court."

"You are overconfident," Tywin replied flatly.

"Never mind, we had better go inside, the sun here is starting to feel hot making me uncomfortable," Steffon said while rubbing his neck, then turned entering the Red Keep hallway shaded by shadows.

Tywin followed beside him. As soon as they were free from the sun's heat, Steffon's facial expression was again pulled by the burden of responsibility.

"The chaos caused by the farmers in the countryside seems to be getting worse," Steffon continued the conversation, his tone now heavy. "Rhaegar strongly assumes they are funded by merchants in Essos. But there are many merchants in Essos. So far we are at peace with Braavos, the Iron Bank would not fund chaos here, although the others, like Pentos and Myr, are very doubtful."

"Those farmers won't have much of a chance," Tywin snorted, his voice filled with disdain. "They will be stopped soon by the Lords. Other lords wouldn't want to look weak in the eyes of their own people so they will handle this immediately... if only there wasn't a game of push and pull played by the rebels, and by those stingy Lords."

Tywin straightened his sleeves. Those rebels so far only messed up villages and petty lord territories. Even if their numbers were large, and even if they were funded with gold coins, they had no combat experience since childhood. Their bodies were weak from malnutrition, and their stolen food sources would eventually run out. It was only a matter of time before they finally exhausted themselves.

"Yes," Steffon nodded, massaging his throbbing forehead. "We will see how it ends later. Those remaining rebels cannot all be hanged and sent to the Wall, Tywin. Most of them surely just tagged along out of desperation losing their land."

Tywin didn't really think about it from a moral standpoint, but yes, practically it was indeed true. Killing them all was a waste of resources.

They might have to punish those people with working to build roads later. They needed a massive amount of manual labor to realize a network of cobblestone highways between kingdoms, who knows how long those roads would be built. This was the most ambitious project on a large scale, but its effects would also be massive.

Good roads meant transportation would move faster. Armies could move faster, food could be delivered faster, and it would make the realm increasingly advanced in terms of finances and stability.

"They will be useful later," Tywin agreed to the forced labor idea.

They talked about a few more things regarding taxation and port guarding, and then parted at a corridor junction.

Tywin continued his steps towards the Tower of the Hand. Midway, he saw Jaime walking from the opposite direction. His son was wearing a casual red tunic, and when their eyes met, Jaime smiled at him. A sincere and relaxed smile.

"Father, you seem to look happy," said Jaime when they faced each other.

Tywin observed his son. After years, this boy had grown into an adult man who dared to voice his mind directly in front of Tywin, without the paralyzing fear like before. It was a good development.

"Is there something you want to discuss, Jaime?" Tywin said, ignoring the comment about him looking 'happy'.

Jaime rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling slightly awkwardly. "A few things, you know. Catelyn is with child, right? She requested some strange unusual foods lately. It makes me a little dizzy."

Tywin raised one eyebrow. He was not used to being faced with domestic complaints. "What did she request?"

"Oysters," Jaime shook his head, a tired smile forming on his face. "She asked for oysters drenched in vinegar and pure honey. In the middle of the night. And when the servant brought ordinary roasted oysters, she cried as if I had just burned Riverrun. I had to go down to the kitchen myself and wake the cook."

Hearing his son's complaint, Tywin's face did not change, he maintained his flat expression. However, inside his chest cavity, something hard as stone suddenly softened.

A memory he had locked tightly for a long time broke in. A memory from decades ago, when Casterly Rock felt warm and full of light.

Joanna.

Joanna also did the exact same thing, thought Tywin, an aching and sweet longing rushing in his heart. When Joanna was pregnant with the twins, Jaime and Cersei, his wife once woke him in the darkest hour of the night. Joanna demanded sour peaches sprinkled with crushed black pepper. Tywin then found himself going down to the kitchen wrapped in a nightgown, looking for black pepper simply because he couldn't bear to see even a speck of tears in his wife's green eyes.

Those were the times when Tywin Lannister was willing to give the whole world just for a smile. Tywin took a slow breath, banishing Joanna's shadow back to its storage place, but the remnants of that softness still lingered.

He stared at Jaime, seeing the reflection of himself in his youth in his son.

"Just fulfill her request," said Tywin finally, his voice far softer than usual, almost sounding like ordinary fatherly advice... "No matter how strange it is. A woman carrying the successor of House Lannister in her body deserves all the oysters and honey in the Seven Kingdoms."

Jaime looked a little surprised by his response, then an understanding smile appeared on his face.

"Yes. Father. Of course," answered Jaime.

Tywin nodded slowly, then resumed his steps towards his solar. The burden of the realm was indeed heavy, but seeing his family's future secured, Tywin Lannister knew that all of this was worth it.

 

[Daario]

TYRION​

---

This morning, Tyrion Lannister felt bored. Very bored.

That feeling gnawed at him like a moth chewing on old parchment. He wanted to do something completely new. Usually, if this suffocating boredom struck, he would lock himself in the library, bury his nose in thick books smelling of dust, or write stories he thought of on paper. However, for some reason, right now he had no spirit to touch a quill.

He also had the thought that he really wanted to see a stage play. But lately, even the theater troupes coming to Casterly Rock could not raise his interest.

Why? Because their acting was stiff, their dialogue too dramatic, and the stories sucked, just the same old repetitions of knights saving maidens from dragons. Tyrion had a mind too sharp to be fooled by cheap stage props, and therefore, he could no longer find solace in something so shallow.

Sighing heavily, he shook his head. His short legs stepped along the stone hallways of Casterly Rock, walking around the castle just to overcome the emptiness in his heart. His age had reached one and ten namedays now, yet physically, he had stopped growing. His head was large, his legs stunted, and he did not look like other children his age. That was a sad fact he had accepted a long time ago. Crying over it would not make his leg bones lengthen.

Tyrion liked music. When he heard the plucking of a harp played expertly, he felt his soul could fly free, leaving his deformed body below. He wanted so much to be able to play the harp, lute, or even flute. But his thick and short fingers, as well as his small arms, made it impossible for him to do so gracefully. He always struggled to reach the right strings. Even when Uncle Kevan called a special craftsman to make a musical instrument adjusted to his size, the sound was still never satisfying. His fingers were too stiff.

It was very annoying. The world felt unfair.

"Why are you pacing back and forth like that, Tyrion? This has been going on for half an hour."

A voice broke his reverie. Tyrion stopped his footsteps and turned around.

It was his cousin, Cleos Frey. Cleos was a few years older than him, and of course, physically very tall compared to Tyrion. The young man had a face that could not be called handsome, but he was one of the few people in this castle who did not look at Tyrion with disgust.

"I am thinking," said Tyrion flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. "And when I am thinking, you had better not bother me, Frey."

Cleos was not offended. He just looked at him casually. "I have no intention of bothering you, Tyrion. But seeing you pacing staring at the floor like an old man who lost his gold coin just makes me feel restless. You make me dizzy."

"Sorry if I bother you with my existence. In that case, you better go inside and do... whatever it is you usually do. Counting flies, perhaps?" replied Tyrion with his usual sharp tongue.

Cleos shrugged, a gesture that was impolite according to the etiquette books Tyrion had read, but Tyrion himself often did it too.

"Honestly, I have nothing I want to do inside," admitted Cleos innocently. "So I am here, standing like a fool. So, rather than both of us doing futile things here, do you want to come with me for a walk outside? To the city?"

Tyrion thought about it for a moment. Staying silent in the castle clearly didn't help him. Breathing the sea air might clear his head. He nodded.

"Alright. Maybe I can find some inspiration there. Where exactly are we going?"

"Just walking around Lannisport. Looking around and finding something interesting, what else?" Cleos started walking, and Tyrion was forced to follow him.

"Not so fast!" grumbled Tyrion after a few steps, his breath starting to heave slightly because his legs had to take steps twice as fast to keep up with Cleos's long legs. "I have to run to keep up with you."

Cleos stopped and turned, grinning wittily. "Want me to carry you?"

Tyrion stared at him with a fake serious face. "A great idea. I will climb on your shoulders, make you wear a horse collar, and hold reins in your mouth. You can neigh when we reach the market."

Cleos chuckled loudly hearing that, then deliberately slowed his pace.

As they walked down the wide path towards the port city below, Tyrion observed his surroundings. King's Landing might be the center of power, but Lannisport was the heart of progress. Its streets were now made well, of concrete with stones on top.

In the distance, somewhat to the edge of the city, Tyrion saw a very vast construction area. There only stood a basic frame, a mixture of stone foundations hardened with cement and giant wooden pillars. There was no complete roof or walls yet, but its size was very impressive.

It was the 'University' project that Uncle Kevan often talked about.

Uncle Kevan said that the building would be a place that recorded history. It would allow anyone, not just nobles, but also common children who wanted to learn further after finishing primary school, to gain more knowledge there.

Uncle Kevan explained that they would create many 'departments', focusing on specific fields: there was structural engineering, agriculture, accounting, and basic medicine as well as others. The concept was not too different from the Citadel in Oldtown where the Maesters were. The only difference was that those who learned did not only have to be men, but women could too, and they didn't have to swear a lifelong vow, didn't have to wear iron chains, didn't have to abandon their family names, and weren't forbidden from having wives. After graduating, they could continue their lives as they wished, working for themselves or for the Lord who paid them.

This process over the past few years had opened the eyes of many in the Westerlands. Learning something to create new things was no longer just a hobby for eccentric people, but a necessity, because the effects could be massive and generate mountains of gold if their inventions were very useful. For example, just like cement or concrete.

Tyrion was born and raised amidst all this construction. Since childhood, he had been used to a Lannisport that was always changing, always noisy with the sound of hammers and saws, and always had progress that surprised many people.

And all of that was thanks to his brother Jaime, and his genius Maester, Creylen. Jaime was like a hearth god who brought new fire to this world. It was very amazing. Tyrion idolized his brother very much.

Because of that too, Tyrion wanted to be able to make something like them. If Jaime could find a way to make liquid stone, why couldn't Tyrion make something useful with his brain? He had no muscles, so he had to use his intellect.

In fact, there was one project he was thinking about and working on right now. It was top secret. He didn't talk about it to anyone, not even to Jaime. Currently, he had only reached the stage of drawing it on paper, and calculating its ratios, and of course it was very difficult for an eleven-year-old boy, no matter how smart he was.

It all started when he noticed the waterwheel at the milling manufactory. The large wooden wheel spinning due to the water current had protruding wooden pegs. Every time those pegs spun and hit the levers, they produced different sounds, depending on the length of the lever and the pressing force.

And Tyrion, with his constantly spinning brain, thought: If I could do something like that, but on a very small scale... He could create a new musical instrument. A mechanical music box.

What was clear, in his mind, he wanted the device to be able to play beautiful harp melodies automatically. If his fingers could not pluck the harp, then he would create a device that would pluck it for him. That idea was so thrilling that it often kept him awake at night.

He didn't know for sure whether this would work or not when made into a physical form. He could just ask the Maester in the castle, or send a letter to Jaime in King's Landing to ask for design help. But for now, he refused. He wanted to make it himself. He wanted to prove that 'The Imp' could also create miracles.

As they continued walking down the city streets quite crowded by cloth merchants, Cleos asked, breaking Tyrion's reverie.

"Well? Has this walk given you the inspiration you are looking for?"

"Not yet," Tyrion shook his head, sighing. "Very sad, isn't it? That we are in a city said to be experiencing the peak of progress, yet I still feel very bored."

Cleos stared into the distance, towards the busy port where ships were loading rolls of paper and cloth.

"Well, that is because the progress Jaime brought was not designed to provide entertainment, Tyrion," said Cleos with a casual tone. "It is all just to improve basic life needs. Food, roads, money. This might be very useful and amazing for common people who used to be starving. But for you? A Lannister who since birth has always lived in luxury and never worried about an empty stomach? All this concrete and these tools do not mean too much for your happiness."

Tyrion fell silent. He stared at his cousin with wide eyes.

That was true. A very sharp analysis from a Frey.

That was exactly why he felt empty. His stomach was full, but his mind hungered for something. That was why he was so obsessed with creating that musical instrument invention. It was entertainment, not a survival tool.

"You... you are right, Cleos," muttered Tyrion, impressed. "So... I guess we should also start making a new entertainment to balance this era?"

"Yes," Cleos nodded in agreement. "People's entertainment right now is still not far from things smelling of ancient violence. Like tournaments knocking each other down with lances, or dog fights. I don't understand why we can't make something more fun without having to make others bleed or get hurt. Music is good. However, it requires many days, even years, to learn it."

"Do you have an interesting idea for this new entertainment?" asked Tyrion, his boredom starting to evaporate, replaced by a spark of intrigue.

"Not yet," Cleos chuckled without burden, returning to his simple self. "That is your job. You are the smart one."

Tyrion fell silent for a moment. His brain started spinning fast, arranging the possibilities of the challenge Cleos had just spoken.

"Surely to rival something like you mentioned before," said Tyrion, "we must make that entertainment enjoyable for everyone, right? Not just for knights who have warhorses, but also for common people."

Cleos, who had to look down to stare at Tyrion, nodded his head enthusiastically. "Something like that, yes. And of course, that means we have to be in a large field. Maybe a new playing arena wider than a tournament arena, where people can gather en masse and watch the show?"

Tyrion fell silent again. He imagined a large arena, dust, and a shouting crowd. No, on second thought they were too hasty jumping into a massive scale.

"I think for the first attempt we don't have to make one that big and troublesome, Cleos," said Tyrion, starting to walk again.

"Up to you," said Cleos casually, shrugging as if he had handed all that intellectual burden back to his cousin.

They walked again, passing a tavern spreading the aroma of grilled fish and spices.

Tyrion then thought harder. He traced the hallways of his memory, looking for references from the thick books he often read in the Casterly Rock library. He remembered Cyvasse.

That board game was one of the entertainments that could truly challenge his brain. It was a game requiring deep strategy, deception, and strong memory, very fun. No real blood spilled, no bones broken, yet the tension when the opponent's dragon piece threatened your king was as thrilling as a real battle.

Perhaps, thought Tyrion, for these new things, he could follow that basic concept first. A strategy game about war, but without swords.

But what could he do? What could he use to make it different and more accessible? Cyvasse was made of wood. The board and pieces were heavy, took up space, and required skilled craftsmen weeks to carve them. That was a base material exclusive to nobles, too expensive for the smallfolk, and too slow to be mass-produced.

For something truly new, innovative, and reflecting the progress of its era... what should he use? Tyrion turned to the side as a cart passed by, carrying stacks of thick boxes towards the port.

Tyrion's eyes widened. His steps stopped again, this time with a gasp caught in his throat.

Paper!

An epiphany exploded inside his head, shining bright as a sun. He could use paper!

This was something extraordinarily good, wasn't it? Paper made in Lannisport manufactories was very versatile, now far cheaper, and easy to obtain. Paper could be drawn on using ink in contrasting colors. If he cut those thick papers to the size of a palm, then drew various symbols on them, for example, pictures of knights, kings, weapons, castles, or even the animal sigils of noble families with certain numbers representing their strength...

Then, he would create rules! Rules where people could pit those papers against each other on a table. A game where fate and intellect blended in the palm of a hand! This would be very cool. This could be played on wet tavern tables, in soldier tents, or in a Lord's solar.

But what exactly were the rules? How to balance its powers so it wouldn't be boring? His brain started working at full speed, stringing together mathematical probabilities and power hierarchies. It was a brilliant idea, but right now, designing all the rules in the middle of the street made his brain a little dizzy. He realized he would think about it further tonight, with some blank sheets of paper, a quill, and perhaps a small cup of warm milk.

"Are you really going to think about all that, Tyrion?" Cleos chuckled, breaking his reverie. His cousin saw Tyrion smiling to himself at thin air with a very serious and intense face.

"Yes, why not? I am bored," Tyrion replied with a wide grin displaying sincere satisfaction, something he rarely felt lately. His mind was already filled with images of red lions and dragons on sheets of paper.

Cleos nodded, looking like he didn't fully understand the depth of his thoughts, but still giving his simple support. "In that case, you better join the University in the future. That giant building Uncle Kevan is making. There, I hear there will be many classrooms as well as books. You will surely find many friends like you. People who like staring at books for hours without speaking."

"I do want to enroll there when I am of age," said Tyrion, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. "Uncle Kevan said that inventors will be funded directly by the Lannister treasury to make something new. From there, I will surely see many fun things and maybe show off this invention of mine. What about you, Cleos?"

Cleos stared at him for a moment. His laughter faded into a slightly resigned smile.

"Me?" Cleos pointed to himself, then shook his head. "I will be married before that building is finished, Tyrion. And before its contents are tidied up. My father has already planned some betrothal talks. My future is not to learn new things or create games."

Tyrion fell silent. "Ah, yes, right. You will marry..." he nodded slowly, his voice losing a little of its cheerful tone. He stared at the street in front of him. "In that case, I will make sure the game I create later will be your wedding gift. At least it will make you remember these times."

Cleos laughed again hearing that, and they resumed their walk.

 

[Daario]

DALE​

---

"Boy, don't just stand there like a stone statue! Take my sword and clean it!"

That hoarse voice interspersed with phlegm broke Dale's reverie. It was Jarett, an old man with a face full of scars and yellowing teeth. Jarett was the definition of a rough, annoying person lacking even a speck of mercy. If possible, Dale would love to punch that ugly face, crush his crooked nose, and tell him to shut up. However, that was impossible. Dale himself was just a scrawny boy not even twenty namedays old.

Standing on legs that ached and trembled from exhaustion, Dale approached the old man sitting leaning against a fallen tree trunk. He took Jarett's longsword, trying with all his might to ignore the pungent sour sweat smell from the man's body.

Dale returned to his previous spot, a large rock near the camp's dying fire. He sat down, took a piece of cloth rag, and began rubbing the steel blade lightly.

The sword felt very cold in his hands. Dale had only held a real sword a month ago. Before that, the sharpest things he had ever held were a sickle and his father's old bread-cutting knife. He was just a boy from a small village on the outskirts of the Riverlands, a boy who joined this chaos because of the anger burning in his chest.

He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to show that they too could change something. When those recruiters shouted in his village inn, making speeches about how the Lords had oppressed them, Dale's blood boiled. He felt called. He imagined himself as a hero, a knight who would slash greedy rulers and bring justice to the smallfolk.

However, reality apparently never went according to fairy tale expectations.

Here, in the middle of a damp forest camp filled with outcasts, he was no hero. He did not lead armies. He was only given a makeshift wooden spear with a dull iron tip, and his main duty was merely being a lowly servant: cleaning armor, brushing horses, and also polishing swords.

Dale kept rubbing the sword blade. His hands felt stiff, several blisters on his palms bursting, leaving reddish flesh that stung when touched by lubricating oil. From rubbing with force, his movements slowly began to change into just wiping aimlessly. His mind drifted away.

The glint of the increasingly clean steel sword reflected a ray of sunlight. On the metal surface, Dale saw his own face. A face dirty with earth dust. His eyes looked sunken, and his cheeks gaunt. In the background of that reflection, tall forest trees and the sky, as if confining him in a cage without bars.

Staring at his own reflection there made his stomach churn. He felt like the most useless person in the entire history of Westeros.

What would his mother think now if only the old woman knew what he had done? If his mother knew that Dale now sat among rebels, polishing weapons used to kill fellow farmers... the woman's heart would surely shatter into pieces.

She would not be proud. Dale knew that very well.

But if he returned now, running away in the middle of the night, all these sacrifices would just be in vain. He could not stand imagining returning to his village, becoming a failed loser, and returning to live under the shadows of the Lords who always belittled them. Thinking of his suffocating old life, where they were treated worse than hunting dogs, always made his heart run hot. He wanted so much to teach those Lords a lesson. He wanted them to feel the same pain. But this way... this way felt very wrong.

"Don't just daydream like a fool, Dale!"

Jarett's shout echoed again, loud and rough, thrown together with a pig thigh bone that had been gnawed clean. The bone hit Dale's shoulder, making him flinch.

"You know you will not receive your ale ration tonight if you keep working like a crippled snail!" continued Jarett, immediately met by hoarse laughter from several other men around him. "What are you thinking about, eh? A girl? Or are you imagining that milkmaid with the big arse?"

Jarett and his friends laughed even harder. They started chatting about bawdy things that made Dale's stomach even more nauseous. They talked about women as if they were just pieces of meat in the market.

Dale's heart sank. He bowed his head deeply, hiding his eyes that started to feel hot, and began rubbing the sword harder. However, his ears could not be closed. Inevitably, he listened to their conversation shifting topics.

"I got a gold necklace from our visit last time, lads."

The voice belonged to Walt, a man in his thirties who had a burly build. Dale could hear the clinking sound of small metal as Walt pulled something from the leather pouch at his waist.

"Look at this? Very shiny!" Walt boasted of his loot, holding it high to catch the light of the newly lit campfire. "Real gold, not cheap brass! Who would have thought a small house smelling of cow dung like that could have gold like this under their floorboards? They must have stolen it from someone!"

"Definitely," answered Jarett, agreeing with a dismissive tone. Dale heard the sound of a long and greedy gulp as the old man drank his ale. "That last village was very unconvincing. Their houses were very ugly, their thatched roofs already full of holes. One of the people there might have worked as a servant in their Lord's castle and then took that necklace from the drawers while their master was sleeping."

"Hah, but it seems they were not such master thieves, because this is the only valuable item I found in that whole rotten village. Very sad," Walt snorted in disappointment, weighing the necklace in his hand. "I almost burned down their entire hut just out of annoyance."

"Then what will you do with that necklace?" Another man asked. Dale recognized that voice, Lyman.

"He will sell it, of course, what else? What would he keep it for?" Jarett laughed loudly. "Are you stupid? That necklace very clearly belongs to a woman! Walt cannot possibly wear it around his neck!"

"No, why would I sell it?" Walt frowned, defending himself. His tone rose slightly. "I will give it to my wife when I return home later. She always dreamed of wearing gold. She will look very beautiful and extraordinary when wearing this, I know it!"

"Well, well, you are truly a good husband, Walt!" Lyman teased with a tone laden with sarcasm and mockery. "Model husband of the year! But do you really want to do that stupidity? Think about it. With the money you can get from that gold necklace, you can hire the three best whores and have fun for a whole week without having to think about your wife's nagging!"

"That is your sad dream, Lyman, because unfortunately you do not have a wife waiting for you at home," Walt grinned, feeling victorious. "My wife is very beautiful, her hair is long and black, and she will beat any whore you can find. I don't need whores if I have her."

From the corner of his eye, Dale saw Jarett roll his eyes dramatically, as if he had just heard the most absurd joke.

"Do not overrate yourself as a pure and faithful man, Walt," sneered Jarett, "Do not act like a knight in shining armor in front of us. The proof is you joined in when we bedded that girl together in the village yesterday."

Dale's hands stopped instantly. The rubbing on the sword ceased completely.

His heart felt like it stopped beating for a beat, before then pounding at a painful speed. His breath caught in his throat. This conversation made him feel deeply uncomfortable, a disgust so thick it made him want to empty his stomach. He wanted to drop this sword, cover his ears with both hands, and run as far as possible into the darkness of the forest.

He didn't know how the event happened. He only heard it, the screams, the laughter, from those people after they finished raiding the last village.

Many houses were destroyed there. Huts were burned, and the men in this camp laughed with satisfaction watching the fire burn red in the distance, illuminating the night.

That night, they returned to camp, drinking ale as usual, and proudly, with alcohol-stinking mouths, they told in detail how they had committed that despicable act. They did it in front of the woman's own husband who had been beaten to a pulp, bleeding, and crying begging for mercy.

They said that the man was very pathetic for crying like a child, and that the man deserved it. Dale that night pretended to be asleep under his blanket, covering his head tightly, pretending not to hear.

"A man has needs on the battlefield, Jarett." Walt defended himself. "Besides, that is different! Especially when a man works risking his life eradicating evil in this land, I deserve a little prize for my entertainment!"

"A little prize, you say? Hah! You almost cried when her husband tried to bite your leg!" Lyman's laughter exploded.

The conversation continued, interspersed with rough laughter and gulps. They had no guilt. No remorse. They had changed the narrative in their own heads, justifying rape, murder, and robbery as a form of "struggle".

Dale kept listening to their chatter in silence. His body was stiff. He stared at Jarett's sword which was now clean, realizing that the blood of innocent people previously clinging to this blade could never truly be erased.

...

Dale shook his head vigorously, trying to banish the sound of Jarett's and Walt's laughter from his mind. Without saying a word, he put down the dirty rag, took his wooden spear leaning against a tree, and walked away from the campfire.

He kept stepping through the undergrowth, going deeper into the depths of the forest. Up there, the sun had started to descend past the tree line, turning the sky color into a sweep of reddish-orange. Arriving at a small clearing hidden by giant trees, Dale stopped. He took a deep breath, gripped the shaft of his spear with both hands, and began to move.

He swung the spear, thrusting it into empty air, then pulling it back. His feet stepped forward, backward, trying to imitate the movements of soldiers he had glimpsed in the past. His movements were a little better now, more powerful than a month ago, but he knew he was still very bad. The tip of his spear often wobbled, and his stances were unstable. If this were a real fight, one sword slash from a knight would be enough to split his belly.

This frustrated him; of course he was bad, he had no teacher.

Most of the people in this camp were former farmers or manual laborers like him. Although now they had swords, axes, and horses, most of them only knew basic ways to fight. Hitting with all their might, ganging up, and shouting. They were a mob of poor people, the brief training they did was merely how to hold a weapon so as not to injure oneself.

They had never experienced significant difficulties so far, because their tactic was attacking at night, robbing unguarded villages, burning, and leaving quickly before dawn. They rarely met official forces of the lords. If they saw the banners of armed forces from a distance, they would run and hide in the forest like rats.

But Dale did not want to be a rat. He kept training every day in this quiet place until sweat soaked his entire body. His logic was simple: if one day they actually faced a lord's army, he must be able to fight. If he could survive, or perhaps get lucky and kill a few armored soldiers, his status would rise.

He didn't do this out of bloodlust. He did this because he wanted to be respected. He wanted his voice heard more in this camp. Right now he was just a greenhorn ordered to polish swords. But if he proved deadly, he might be able to have influence. And if he had influence, maybe... maybe he could stop people like Jarett and Walt from doing barbaric things to innocent women in the villages they attacked.

Tired. Dale's breath panted. His arm and shoulder muscles screamed for a rest.

He lowered his spear. Near the clearing, there was the sound of trickling water. Dale walked closer and found a clear small stream. Without hesitation, he stripped off his dirty clothes smelling of sweat and dust, his stained trousers, then entered the water.

The river water was very cold, piercing his skin like thousands of needles, but it was the sensation he needed. He submerged himself, feeling the freshness cover his body, washing away mud as well as sweat.

He soaked there, closing his eyes, leaning against a smooth river stone. Very comfortable. Here, far from the noise of people, he could pretend that the world was still fine. He could hear the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, also the chirring of crickets.

However, that peace never lasted long. The orange sky slowly faded into dark blue, then pitch black. Night had fallen. The chill started to seep into his bones, and worse than that, his stomach started to rumble.

Dale got out of the river, put his dirty clothes back on with a feeling of reluctance, and shouldered his spear back to camp. The moment he arrived there, the noisy sound of rough laughter, curses, and out-of-tune singing immediately greeted him.

"Dale! Where have you been, you little brat?!" shouted a fat man in charge of supplies. "Light a big fire in the middle! Chop those woods! Quickly!"

Dale didn't argue. He was ordered, and he did it without much talk. He piled dry wood, lit it with flint, and not long after a large flame blazed, illuminating the rough faces around him.

That night was his schedule to help cook. Dale took a large black iron cauldron, hung it over the fire, and started cooking porridge. He put in abundant wheat, mixed various fresh vegetables, carrots, turnips, and onions, and poured thick meat broth from beef bones that had been boiled all day.

The aroma was very appetizing. In this camp, they never lacked food. They ate far better than when they were still farmers. They always got fresh and luxurious food ingredients again and again by seizing them from villages or merchant carts.

At least, thought Dale bitterly while stirring the cauldron with a giant wooden spoon, that was a good thing for his stomach. He hated hunger very much. The twisting pain of an empty stomach, which made the head dizzy and vision blurry, was the worst thing in the world. That desperation was what drove him here.

After the porridge was cooked, Dale distributed the food. The men thrust their wooden bowls greedily. After everyone got their share, only then did Dale take the rest for himself.

He sat on a small log near the fire, slurping his porridge. It tasted warm, savory, and very satisfying. When the atmosphere started to quiet down and only the sound of food slurping was heard, Jarett who sat not far from Dale cleared his throat loudly, attracting the attention of their small group.

"You better eat your fill and gather your strength tonight, lads," said Jarett, his voice heavy and full of anticipation. His eyes reflected the campfire light. "Tomorrow we will act again. The leader has given the order. We will launch an attack at sunset."

Several men stopped eating, staring at Jarett enthusiastically.

"Where to this time?" asked one of them.

Jarett grinned. "We will attack the nearest village from here, and... a small castle on its hills. Belonging to House Bellamont."

Whispers were immediately heard among the group. Attacking a noble's castle, even a small one, was a much bolder move than looting farmer huts.

Jarett raised his hands to calm them down. "Don't panic yet! I heard news from our scouts. The other nobles have indeed started raising banners and gathering forces to hunt us. However, it will take quite a long time for them to reach this remote territory. Meanwhile, House Bellamont is a poor nobility. Their castle is old, many of its walls are crumbling."

Jarett stared at his comrades sharply. "We need better weaponry, So, the stronger we are, the better it will be."

"Makes sense. But, how many soldiers does that Lord Bellamont have?" asked Walt, a little caution appearing on his face.

"About a hundred men, I heard," Lyman chimed in before Jarett had a chance to answer. The man laughed dismissively. "And most of them must be old men whose knees are already trembling and snot-nosed boys who have never seen blood."

A hundred, thought Dale. His heart beat a little faster.

The number of people with Dale in the camp and its surroundings now was three hundred and fifty men. If attacked with a human wave at night, those hundred unprepared castle guards would have no chance to hold out for long. Their walls would collapse by numbers.

"A hundred... hah," Walt nodded slowly, his doubts evaporating completely. His smile widened, a smirk that made his face look like a demon under the firelight. "That means tomorrow night we will feast again."

"Very fun," replied Lyman, joining in the laughter.

Their laughter exploded. Around them, other men joined in raising their cups. Dale held his bowl tightly.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

The grain finally arrived.

From where he stood on the jutting stone balcony, Rhaegar Targaryen looked down, observing the scene laid out on the streets of King's Landing on that scorching afternoon. The sea breeze blowing from Blackwater Bay seemed to carry a different scent.

The convoy of grain transport carts from the Westerlands stretched long, looking like a giant wooden snake creeping in through the gates. The carts, pulled by heavily muscled and exhausted draft horses, creaked heavily under the loads they carried. There were so many transports ordered. Thousands of sacks of rough wheat stacked high, ready to be placed in giant granaries.

Rhaegar rested both hands on the balcony railing, his dark purple eyes sweeping over the sea of humanity gathered along the main street. The people came out of their hovels. The sight became a spectacle for several full minutes. Tens of thousands of starving eyes stared at those sacks with a mixture of relief and disbelief.

The royal guards, keeping a strict watch, formed a living barricade with spears at the ready. These grains were planned to be sold at a quite cheap price, subsidized directly by the royal treasury. The goal was to forcefully normalize market prices, so that the lords who were currently hoarding would not be able to exploit the situation unfairly.

Then, for the sales themselves, Rhaegar had set strict rules. Sales would be limited to keep the stock maintained and prevent someone from buying everything up. Families in the capital would only be able to buy a maximum of two sacks of grain per week.

In that period, economic logic would strangle the hoarders. If the hoarders were still stubborn and refused to lower prices, then they would certainly get no income at all. The people would buy from the Crown. The lords' coin influx would freeze, and their grain would rot in the warehouses. Like it or not, they would be forced to follow the set market price.

Rhaegar took a long breath, then turned from the balcony and stepped back into his cool solar.

Inside the room, Lord Wyman Manderly was already waiting. The massive man stood near the table, wearing a sea-blue tunic with silver embroidery.

"Is everything prepared?" Rhaegar, who was standing near the balcony doorway, asked Lord Manderly in front of him.

Wyman smiled, a wide smile that made his folded cheeks lift.

"Yes, Your Grace. Everything is running exactly as we planned," reported Manderly, his deep voice rumbling in the room. "We have spoken with several main local merchants on the Street of Flour and other market areas to cooperate as distribution points. They were also very happy when they found out they were getting grain much cheaper to resell with a fair margin."

Wyman took a pause, his smile turning a little sly. "But of course, for the leech merchants and petty lords who still possess and already bought grain at high prices before our operation started... they feel very betrayed. I have heard their complaints in the taverns. They feel we are robbing them of their potential wealth. Although, of course, they dare not show it directly to you, Your Grace. They know who holds the reins now."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, walking closer to his desk.

"It is indeed difficult when faced with the reality that they have to lose more gold coins they had already imagined in their coffers," said Rhaegar firmly. "But the welfare of the people is far more important than thinking of oneself. A kingdom will not survive if its foundation is starving. Be thankful if they finally accept this as a lesson."

"True, Your Grace," Wyman agreed with a heavy nod. "It would be very difficult for you to rule if chaos continues due to hungry stomachs. From the start, those lords should not have used such deceitful methods just to get more money. Especially when they actually have other, more honorable ways to do it."

Rhaegar snorted softly, shaking his head bitterly. He touched the edge of the map of Westeros spread on his desk.

"That is the root problem of our realm, Lord Manderly. Most lords in Westeros do not have the ability to trade, and worse, they consider it a weakness."

Rhaegar looked out the window for a moment. "All of us, since childhood, were only educated to use swords, ride warhorses in tournaments, and how to rule the people with strength. Knightly pride, they say. But matters of counting coins? Managing harvests? Building something? They always say: 'Let the people beneath us do that.'"

Wyman chuckled, a laugh laden with experience.

"And the Lords like that, who try to change things," Rhaegar continued, "most will be labeled strange. They will be given the demeaning moniker of 'copper counters'. They will be mocked and scorned at feasts for being considered not true Lords. This has been common in the Westerosi mindset since ancient times."

Because of that toxic prestige, rarely did nobles utilize their lands as they should. They let potential pass by just to maintain the image of a warrior.

"We must open their eyes, then, Your Grace," Wyman smiled, his eyes glinting with conviction. "We must show that the future is not won only with swords, but with production."

"To do that, we need undeniable examples," Rhaegar chuckled softly, crossing his arms over his chest. "And coincidentally, this time we have more real examples. You, with the ever-growing port in White Harbor... and of course, Lord Tywin, my good-father is one of them."

Hearing that name, Wyman nodded with unconcealed respect.

"Ah, yes. Lord Tywin Lannister," muttered Wyman in awe. "Time flies so fast that it seems, in the eyes of the world today, Lord Tywin is already very famous for it now. Innovator. Builder."

"Very much so. No one expected that this would happen," Rhaegar agreed.

Lord Tywin, before all these changes rolled out, was the most feared man in the entire land. He was famously cruel for what he did to House Reyne and Tarbeck. He was a man who scorched his enemies without mercy. Even though that memory still clung tightly to him, because the stain of the Castamere massacre could never be erased from history, the reputation currently beginning to form around him was something completely different.

No longer just war, but paper, quality cloth, concrete, and schools. Tywin had become the architect of progress, driven by the miraculous ideas of his son, Jaime.

Strange enough for anyone who heard it, right? The difference was so contrasting and unbelievable. The bloodthirsty Lion had now become an industrial pioneer. However, it was real. And if the proudest man in Westeros was willing to be a 'copper counter', other lords had no more reason to feel too prestigious.

"Because of all that has happened, and this building reputation, I have sent ravens to various great and minor Houses, Your Grace," Wyman leaned forward, bringing the conversation back to their future plans.

Wyman pointed to several spots on the map. "These past few days we have seen and surveyed several suitable places to establish new manufactories as you ordered. All of them are quite good and the foundations have been prepared. We are just waiting for the time to get everything running."

"Has anyone replied to those ravens?" Rhaegar was curious. "Are there any lords willing to throw away their pride and invest their gold?"

"We can expect that soon," Wyman looked very confident, his chest puffed out. "I myself, on behalf of House Manderly, am ready to invest fully in this. It is an effortless thing to think about for someone who knows how to read trade currents. And I am also sure, even the least clever among those Lords will see that this is an opportunity not to be missed, Your Grace. They will not let others eat all the profits alone."

"Good," Rhaegar nodded, feeling the heavy burden on his shoulders feel much lighter. "Your words truly calm me, Lord Manderly. Continue your work. Ensure the grain distribution today runs flawlessly."

After chatting about a few more things regarding tax schedules and port security, they parted ways. Wyman bowed and left the room to return to his solar.

Rhaegar tidied up some papers on his desk, then decided he had dealt with numbers enough for one morning. The air inside this solar felt stuffy again, and he needed an escape.

He stepped out of his room. The air in the Maegor's Holdfast corridor felt cooler, illuminated by pillars of sunlight sneaking in through the arched windows. As he walked through the corridor towards the royal private wing, his eyes caught a sight that instantly erased all burdens.

There, standing near one of the windows overlooking the garden, was his wife, Cersei Lannister.

She wore a maroon silk gown that fell perfectly, her golden hair left loose. Her beauty always made Rhaegar's breath catch a little, but what made him smile broadly right now was the small figure in the woman's arms.

Cersei was holding Aegon.

The months-old baby was squirming a little cheerfully, his chubby hands trying to pull the ends of his mother's hair. Cersei didn't scold him, instead, she smiled with a gentleness she very rarely showed to others.

Rhaegar's footsteps made Cersei turn. Her smile widened seeing her husband approach.

"What are you two doing in this hallway?" Rhaegar laughed lightly, approaching them. He reached out his large hand and touched his son's chubby cheek affectionately. Aegon responded with happy babbles and showed off a smile with a few teeth.

"I was thinking of taking a walk," Cersei said, her voice melodious. She shifted Aegon's heavy weight in her arms so Rhaegar could see his son's face more clearly. "The air today is very pleasant. And Aegon needs a new view. We cannot let him stay silent in his room constantly staring at the ceiling, can we? He needs to see the outside world."

"Yes, you are very right," Rhaegar nodded in agreement. His mind drifted to his own past, mostly spent among the dust of books rather than under the sun. "Don't be like me who always stays silent in the solar. Confined among suffocating papers."

Rhaegar couldn't resist anymore. He opened both his hands. "Let me hold him."

Cersei handed the baby over carefully. Rhaegar received the warm weight with increasingly practiced skill. He supported Aegon comfortably against his chest.

"He must be better than me," said Rhaegar to his son, his nose touching Aegon's small nose. "He needs to interact with nature, feel the wind, and see the colors of flowers to stay healthy and keep his mind sharp."

Cersei stepped closer, standing by Rhaegar's side until their shoulders almost touched. The scent of rose and lemon from her perfume smelled very refreshing.

"If nature and fresh air are good for him, then you should also do the same now, Husband," Cersei said with a teasing yet attentive tone. Her green eyes looked at Rhaegar with warmth. "You look too pale. And I know you just finished a heavy meeting with Lord Manderly. Want to walk with us? To the lower gardens?"

Rhaegar momentarily remembered the stacks of documents still waiting for him. But seeing his wife's face, and feeling Aegon's tiny hand now gripping his tunic tightly, he knew those documents could wait. And from the start, he indeed wanted to take a walk.

Rhaegar had nothing urgent to do, so he nodded.

"Alright, let's go," Rhaegar smiled in relief. Because his arms still felt a bit stiff, he handed Aegon to Cersei again. "Lead the way, my Queen."

Cersei received Aegon back, slipped her free arm into Rhaegar's arm, and the two of them began walking down the hallway towards the exit. As they stepped out, the warm afternoon wind greeted them, bringing the scent of blooming flowers. The white gravel path crunched beneath their steps.

"Guess what Jaime told me yesterday when he visited," Cersei started the conversation, her laugh bubbling softly. "He complained that Catelyn forces him to eat wheat bread every morning. He said he was a bit bored with it, but Catelyn said it is good for breakfast."

Rhaegar laughed freely. "I heard from Ser Arthur, Jaime's sword has been getting sharper lately in the training yard. Maybe that wheat bread from Lady Catelyn indeed has good magical properties to start the day."

"Or maybe he is just afraid his wife will nag." replied Cersei with a mischievous smile. "Catelyn can be very... firm, if she wants to be. I think she is suited to discipline my brother who is sometimes too reckless."

"A good marriage complements each other," Rhaegar agreed, looking at Cersei meaningfully. Cersei looked down slightly, her cheeks blushing slightly, before looking back at Aegon who was now staring at a blue butterfly flying past him.

"Look at him, Rhaegar," whispered Cersei, her voice filled with a mother's admiration. "His eyes are very focused. He pays attention to everything. When he grows up, I want Ser Arthur to try training him to use a sword. He must become the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, as tough as a dragon."

"Arthur is a very good choice for a sword master," Rhaegar nodded, gently stroking his son's silver hair. "But a sword is not a King's only weapon. I will also teach him to play the harp, so he knows how to feel harmony. And of course, Lord Manderly and Jaime might have to teach him about numbers. Aegon will live in a world very different from the world we inhabited when we were little, Cersei."

"A world filled with printing presses and clean sewers?" Cersei teased.

"Something like that, which certainly won't smell." Rhaegar replied.

Cersei rested her head for a moment on Rhaegar's shoulder as they walked.

"You think too much for other people, my Husband. Sometimes you have to stop and enjoy what you have around you."

"I am enjoying it now," said Rhaegar sincerely. He inhaled the scent of garden flowers and his wife's perfume. "Right now. Here with you and Aegon. I feel... very peaceful."

It was the truth Rhaegar spoke, he felt very peaceful, and he just hoped this would last for a very long time.

 

[Daario]

HOSTER | CATELYN​

---

Hoster Tully turned the roasting spit over the campfire flame with slow and steady movements. Above it, a large piece of venison, hunted by his scouts this afternoon, hissed softly as it touched the licking flames.

It was currently night, and the sky above the Riverlands was clear of clouds, showing off an expanse of shining stars. The air felt so cold, biting the skin through the gaps in the armor, due to the gentle breeze coming continuously without end from the north.

The sound of night insects could be heard chirring everywhere, filling the silence of the forest. Earlier there were many mosquitoes buzzing annoyingly around their ears, but since the fire was lit and the thick smoke spread, those insects retreated, making the atmosphere of this small camp much better and bearable.

Yellow fat oozed from the meat's pores when Hoster pressed it with his dagger. The fat fell into the embers, creating a momentarily dancing flame and evaporating fragrant smoke that immediately entered the olfactory senses. The aroma was very savory, wild, and mouth-watering, making Hoster's empty stomach rumble slightly, demanding to be filled immediately.

But this meat was not perfectly cooked on the inside yet, and honestly, Hoster really enjoyed this process. Staring at the burning fire and listening to the sounds of nature provided its own tranquility for him. It made his usually tangled mind clear again amidst the many things.

He turned slightly across the campfire.

"Do you think we can wipe out one of their groups tonight, Petyr?" Hoster asked.

Opposite him, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, his ward was wiping the blade of his longsword using a piece of oiled cloth. Petyr Baelish looked down, his eyes focused on the glint of metal in his hands.

Hearing Hoster's question, Petyr lifted his face.

"Based on the reports we received from the scouts? Yes, My Lord, of course," answered Petyr calmly. "The information we got is quite recent. They carry a lot of heavy loot, and based on the nearest unattacked village, their movements are very easy to predict. They are definitely camping in the valley near here."

Hoster turned his meat again, nodding slowly accepting the analysis. "Are you afraid to face them later, Boy?"

Petyr's hand slightly stopped its movement on the sword. A thin smile that was often difficult to interpret appeared at the corner of his lips.

"Not really, My Lord," he answered. "They are just former farmers rebelling out of hunger and anger. They swing swords like swinging hoes, and they have no skills, discipline, or formations that can match us. Honestly, we could probably even defeat and slaughter them all with fewer troops than we brought now. But, there is no use in underestimating the enemy, is there?"

Hoster snorted in agreement. Yes, Hoster would never underestimate the enemy, even one as small or weak as whatever. Desperation could make humans do crazy and irrational things.

The Lord of Riverrun stared at the boy with an assessing gaze. Petyr Baelish might not be very skilled in swordsmanship, his swordplay was very ordinary, far from the word talented knight, but the boy had a brain and self-control that made him dangerous in a different way. Petyr was very calm under pressure, never letting emotions rule him, and he was able to think faster than most adults in his castle.

"You look very sure of that," said Hoster, the hiss of falling meat fat heard again, signaling that their dish was almost ready.

Petyr chuckled softly, putting his cleaned sword into its scabbard.

"Previously rebellions like this have happened several times in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, My Lord. Although never as widespread and severe as this time," Petyr began to explain. "Only one or two villages at a time rebelling due to taxes or bad harvests. But they all lost, and they never won. Fighting a lord who has armor and horses is a futile act for the smallfolk."

Petyr leaned forward, bringing his hands closer to the fire seeking warmth.

"But this one doesn't seem too futile," continued the young man. "Because some lords, have started listening to them, haven't they? They all started considering creating jobs so things like this don't happen again in the future. They rebel, and they indirectly force the rulers to adapt."

Hoster nodded slowly. Some lords under his rule indeed as reported through letters, had started creating many small construction project jobs or expanding their new fields. This was something they should have done from the start, instead of just firing the farmers and washing their hands of it.

"This time the numbers are quite large. Rumors estimate tens of thousands of people joined and became bandits," said Hoster with a grim voice.

"And I think that is actually a good thing. Anyway," said Petyr suddenly.

Hoster raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised by the cold tone in that statement. "A good thing?"

"For now, My Lord, the production and distribution of foodstuffs in our kingdom is not fully stable in every region, especially in big cities," Petyr explained, his eyes unblinking staring at the fire. "And because of this act of rebellion, as well as disease and starvation in the streets, the population of poor people will decrease drastically. Because of that, we don't need to worry too much about food supply shortages for people who truly deserve it or can afford to buy it."

Hoster fell silent. It was a very brutal, calculating, and merciless perspective. Letting the problem solve itself by reducing the number of mouths to feed. But, in the realm of politics, it was an undeniable fact.

"Then," Petyr continued with a lighter tone, "the remaining defeated rebels later we can send them all to the North, to the Night's Watch. I heard that they are very short of members. And looking at the territory of The Gift, vast land that is never used to the maximum due to lack of manpower... that is very unfortunate. These rebels can work that land for the Wall."

Hoster had indeed heard from Lysa's letters in Winterfell that the Night's Watch was always asking for new members. They took them from city prison inmates, rapists, thieves, murderers, and so on. As far as Hoster knew from his childhood tales, long ago the Night's Watch was an honorable place that had tens of thousands of knights to eradicate Wildlings... or according to the tales, The Others.

Truly heartbreaking, thought Hoster, that the organization said to be so legendary and respected before could now become so degraded and merely a dumping ground for the dregs of society.

"So, from all these things and chaos, the one benefiting the most in the end is the Night's Watch," Hoster snorted roughly.

He checked his meat; its color was perfectly browned. The meat was cooked. He took two wooden plates from his provisions, placed those thick pieces there, and handed one plate to Petyr while he took a larger portion for himself.

Petyr received the plate and inhaled the aroma of the roasted meat with closed eyes.

"Well, they at the Wall will also be quite troubled to manage thousands of these angry rebels arriving suddenly at their headquarters, My Lord," Petyr chuckled opening his eyes. "But yes, once they wear black clothes, it is no longer our business in the South, right?"

"I cannot wait to eradicate them and finish this business," Hoster agreed.

He cut his venison into pieces and devoured it. The meat was a little tough when chewed, requiring more effort from his aging jaw, but it tasted very delicious. Salt, meat juices, and smoke flavor blended perfectly. Not bad at all for the size of a dinner in the forest. He saw Petyr also doing the same thing, cutting his food into neat small pieces before eating it.

"Have you considered what you will do when your duties here are finished and you return to your home later, Boy?" said Hoster, opening a new topic.

Petyr swallowed his food and nodded. "Yes, My Lord. I am considering opening some businesses at the port and utilizing the location of The Fingers. I want to make that rocky land prosperous. This might be very difficult and take a long time because we do not have mines or fertile soil, but we will see how everything will develop as time goes by."

"Good. You are smart," said Hoster praising sincerely. Even if not as smart as Jaime Lannister. Of course the last part went unspoken. But Hoster knew what intelligence could achieve.

"You can create or make everything better with that brain of yours, Petyr," continued Hoster. "I have seen what can be done with a brilliant mind, and you had better make the best use of your abilities."

"I thank you for your trust and upbringing all this time, Lord Hoster," Petyr smiled, bowing slightly from his sitting position.

After they finished eating and emptied their waterskins, the camp atmosphere began to turn busy. Hoster's subordinates came to give reports. It was time.

They all put out the campfires, kicking dirt onto the embers until no more smoke billowed. Everyone prepared to leave.

The sound of horse hooves and soft neighs were heard as they were mounted. The large Riverlands army began to move slowly, walking, then occasionally trotting through the dense trees. The air immediately felt colder and pierced the face due to the windbreak they created while riding. In the sky, the moon hung high and created a silvery light bright enough to let them move forward without needing to light torches.

After about an hour's journey, the vanguard suddenly stopped. Hoster spurred his horse forward.

A dirty-faced scout approached Hoster panting.

"We have found them. We can see many of them, my lord."

"Great," said Hoster. "Let us get rid of these pests ruining my land."

When they arrived at the top of the hill directly facing the valley, the sight down there was visible, they were moving. Hundreds of men in tattered clothes and armor seemed to be marching in a messy formation, walking through the darkness of the night, guided by torches flickering blown by the wind. Hoster Tully squinted his eyes, observing.

Without wasting time, Hoster raised his hand high. Along the tree line, a line of archers was immediately prepared. They moved, pulling arrows from their quivers and nocking them on the bowstrings. Hundreds of bows were drawn taut, awaiting the command. The atmosphere suddenly became very quiet, only filled by the sound of held breaths and the creaking of curving bow wood. Hoster let that be for a few seconds, ensuring every target was in optimal range, before finally he lowered his hand with one quick jerk.

The night air was instantly torn by a loud whizzing sound as hundreds of arrows were launched simultaneously. They shot arcing through the night sky, reflecting moonlight on their iron tips.

However, that deafening whizzing sound immediately became a warning to the mob below. The bandits, who apparently were indeed already on alert from the start, reacted with surprising speed. As soon as those shadows fell from the sky, they immediately raised leather-coated wooden shields and iron bucklers above their heads. A barrage of loud thudding sounds echoed throughout the valley as arrows hit shields, stuck into the ground, and some pierced the flesh of those less fortunate. Even though their formation was messy, that defensive reflex saved far more lives than Hoster expected.

From the midst of that chaos, instead of fleeing, the leaders of the bandit group started giving commands. Rough trumpet sounds and loud shouts echoed, organizing the rest of their forces. With drawn weapons, they actually changed direction and started running up the hill, charging towards Hoster's forces' position recklessly.

Hoster was undaunted. He spurred his horse forward, leading his heavy cavalry to meet the attack. Close quarters combat broke out immediately. Hoster swung his greatsword. His opponents were full of blind rage, their movements predictable and full of openings. Hoster parried an axe slash from a dirty-faced man, then spun his sword and slashed his attacker's neck in one motion. His warhorse joined in kicking and trampling enemies daring to approach.

He cleaved through the enemy lines like a sickle cutting wheat. His sword kept swinging without mercy, taking life after life.

...

"This embroidery looks very beautiful, Cat. You are truly skilled at this."

Jaime's voice sounded warm in their private room. The young man was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning broadly. In his hand, he held a handkerchief that Catelyn had just finished embroidering. In the corner of the cloth, there was an image of a roaring golden lion, stitched with very neat and precise thread details.

Jaime held the handkerchief with a gaze radiating pure pride, as if Catelyn had just created a precious treasure out of thin air. Catelyn, sitting leaning back in her sun chair with soft pillows supporting her back, could not hold back a smile.

"The practice I did for a long time is what did all that, Jaime," Catelyn answered softly. "The Septa taught me to hold a needle since before I could even read fluently. It is the basic duty of a lady."

Jaime lowered the handkerchief, his smile not fading. He stared at Catelyn with his bright green eyes.

"If one day we have a daughter," said Jaime, "I want you to be the one teaching her how to embroider. I am not too confident in entrusting such an important task to a septa or other nurses. I want her to learn from the best."

Catelyn laughed. "You are exaggerating too much, my Husband. This is just embroidery. Thousands of women in Westeros can do it."

"Not 'just' embroidering, Cat," Jaime argued, stroking the gold thread on the cloth. "This is an extraordinary skill. An art. It takes high-level patience and precision. I couldn't even do it. If you gave me this needle, I would probably sew my own fingers together."

"Of course you cannot, because you are a man," Catelyn laughed harder. "You are not supposed to do that. Your hands are created to hold sword hilts and pens to lead."

"Who decided that? Where is it written that a man cannot sew his own clothes if they tear?" Jaime frowned, joking.

"The people, Jaime. Tradition. The Seven Gods," Catelyn chuckled, shaking her head slowly.

Her laughter slowly subsided, leaving a gentle smile. Catelyn stared at Jaime with a clearer and deeper gaze.

Since the arrival of the grain from the Westerlands easing the tension in the capital, Jaime had become much brighter. The burden perched on his shoulders for the past few weeks seemed to be lifted slightly. His green eyes again radiated the spark of life. However, Jaime became very busy. He lacked the time to be here, in this room with her.

Every morning, Jaime would leave for a meeting with Rhaegar or his father, then spend the afternoon supervising the cement manufactory or sewer expansion. Sometimes Catelyn wanted so much to come along with him, out of the walls of this Red Keep, accompanying whatever her husband was doing. But she knew it would look improper for a pregnant lady, and Jaime would surely forbid her due to reasons of dust and exhaustion.

Catelyn loved him. The Gods knew she loved this man more than she had ever imagined when their betrothal was first announced. And because of that deep love, she sometimes felt very afraid. Afraid that something bad would happen to her happiness.

With all the current problems, especially the invisible tension with the people of Essos, Catelyn's mind often wandered to the worst-case scenarios. Catelyn was afraid that someone across the sea there would try to send assassins.

She had read and heard about terrifying assassin guilds: The Sorrowful Men and also the Faceless Men who could change their faces like changing clothes. Was she exaggerating for thinking this?

It's impossible those foreign merchants would dare to do it, right? Catelyn thought inwardly, trying to calm herself. Jaime was the heir to Casterly Rock. He was the son of the Hand of the King and the King's good-brother Committing an assassination against him would result in open war that would destroy Essos's trade routes themselves.

However, cunning was not always in the form of blatantly drawn swords. At this time, there hadn't been many real actions King Rhaegar had taken to retaliate against Essos because they didn't have strong enough evidence to accuse them directly. But in the air, Catelyn could feel that right now something was brewing. A storm was gathering. And Catelyn only hoped that her feelings were not true.

She had already lost her mother when she was a little girl, a memory still leaving a hole in her heart until now. The pain of that loss was very real. She did not want to lose Jaime, someone who had just become her world.

And also... her father.

Catelyn bit her lower lip. May the Seven protect Father.

Lord Hoster Tully was currently far from the comforts of Riverrun. Her father had gone leading troops to eradicate the troubling bandits. Her father had indeed done such things before, he was a war veteran, but still, she was afraid something bad would happen. One stray arrow, one sword slash in the blind night... that was enough to make Catelyn an orphan.

THUMP!

Suddenly, a sharp yet dull jolt was felt in Catelyn's stomach.

Catelyn winced holding it in, her hands reflexively clutching her stomach. She felt the pressure again, a sudden movement from within.

Jaime, who had been watching her, immediately approached her in two long strides. He knelt straight on the floor beside Catelyn's chair, his face paling instantly. His panic was a sharp contrast to his fearless reputation.

"Cat! Are you alright?" asked Jaime, his voice rising, his hands hovering near Catelyn's stomach, hesitant to touch. "Does it hurt? Should I call Maester Baelin?"

Seeing the man usually so calm now panicking just because of this, Catelyn could not hold back her smile, even though the dull throbbing pain was still slightly felt. It was just a soft jolt, maybe their baby was moving or maybe kicking her womb walls.

"Yes, my Husband, I am alright," Catelyn laughed softly, grabbing Jaime's hand and placing it on her stomach so the young man could feel it himself.

Jaime sighed a long sigh, his shoulders slumping in relief feeling the subtle vibration from behind his wife's stomach. "By the Seven... you almost made my heart stop beating."

"But, you are with child, Cat." said Jaime after his breath returned to normal, his gaze becoming softer and probing. "Are you thinking about something bothering you?"

Catelyn looked down, sighing resignedly. She could hide nothing from Jaime.

"Only about my father," admitted Catelyn, letting her fingers stroke the back of Jaime's large hand. "I am thinking about his position right now. I am worried something will happen to him as he eradicates those rebels."

"No need to worry," Jaime assured her. "He is a lord very experienced in matters of war. His forces are large and well-trained. Those bandits will not stand a chance against him."

"Yes, I know that logically," Catelyn smiled sadly. "But these are just my thoughts as a daughter. I cannot stop it. I do not know how to make myself not worry."

"I will be here," said Jaime, pulling up a small stool to sit closer to her. "We can talk. About anything. Or I can read something for you. I will distract you until you forget it."

Catelyn shook her head slowly. "No need. It is just a small issue, like I said. Look, I don't even feel the pain anymore."

"You must rest a lot. Do not move too much or think heavy thoughts," said Jaime.

"You mean I have to stay sitting like this like a display statue?" Catelyn shook her head again, this time looking straight into her husband's green eyes with full seriousness. "Jaime, you treat me like I am made of thin glass that will shatter if blown by the wind. I am strong."

She stopped her speech for a moment, gathering her courage.

"Also, if we are talking about who should rest... it is you, Jaime."

Jaime frowned, disagreeing. "I am fine—"

"You are the one always running here and there taking care of many things every day," Catelyn cut him off with a firm tone. "Sewers, schools, road repairs, the King's security, your father's requests... I see it, Jaime. And I know that at night, when you stare at the fireplace, you have many thoughts you keep to yourself. You are slowly torturing yourself with all this."

"What we are discussing here right now is you, Cat, not me," dodged Jaime, trying to change the focus of the conversation back.

"I am discussing both of us," Catelyn continued, unwilling to back down. "I have seen what all these responsibilities do to King Rhaegar. He becomes alienated. He seems to have no time with his own son, you told me that yourself, didn't you? He rarely goes out, very rarely has intimate time to just see his wife relaxing, or just socializing freely."

Catelyn looked at Jaime with a pleading gaze, a gaze showing her biggest fear. "Will you become like that too in the future, Jaime? Will your projects and inventions take you away from me?"

Catelyn grasped both of Jaime's hands that were on her stomach, pulling them tighter.

"Your child later will need you, you know? They don't just need an heir and a castle; they need a father."

Hearing those words, Jaime's defensive expression collapsed instantly.

"By the Seven, Cat," said Jaime with a hoarse voice full of emotion. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Catelyn's forehead. "I am not going anywhere. I promise you. I will be here when this child is born, and I will always accompany them every step of their life wherever they are. You do not have to think like that."

Catelyn closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of her husband's breath hit her face. Small tears she hadn't realized dropped in the corners of her eyes.

"I know..." whispered Catelyn, her voice trembling slightly. "This pregnancy makes my emotions less stable lately. I think about assassins, wars, and loneliness... Forgive me for accusing you."

"There is nothing to forgive," answered Jaime, kissing the tip of Catelyn's nose. "You can accuse me anytime if it means I can prove that you are the most important thing to me."

Catelyn nodded in silence, grasping her husband's hand even tighter, letting the warmth of Jaime's embrace drive away the cold from her fears.

 

[Daario]

DALE​

---

Dale felt pain. A sharp, tearing pain that spread through all his bodily nerves and seeped into his bones.

He groaned softly, his voice sounding hoarse and pathetic in his own ears. His eyes were tightly shut, crinkling to endure the torment centered on the right side of his head. A burning heat throbbed there, as if hot coals had been deliberately pressed against his skin. He desperately wanted to pour a bucket of water over his head to feel even a bit of relieving cold, but his remaining common sense knew that was a stupid idea. It would only add to the endless suffering.

He panted, his chest rising and falling with difficulty as he tried to control himself. He held back with all his might so the tears welling behind his eyelids wouldn't flow down. I am stronger than this, he thought, trying to convince himself.

Slowly, he forced his eyelids open.

The bright morning light immediately pierced his vision. At first, everything looked blurry, only a dazzling colorful shadow, until finally the world became clearer as the seconds passed.

Above him, green leaves from the trees filled the view. The leaves swayed gently blown by the wind, looking very peaceful and full of life. The clear and bright blue sky was visible through the gaps. The sounds of forest birds chirping back and forth, singing a melodious morning melody.

Dale moved his eyes. Around him sat the remnants of his group. Hundreds of men who the night before were still shouting about feasts and loot, now sat huddled with bowed heads. Their faces were dirty, smeared with blood as well as mud.

Many of them were severely injured, there was no longer the fire of rebellion in their eyes. No spirit. Dale knew why. Everyone here knew that the fate of their life and death would be decided in just a matter of hours.

Dale's defenses collapsed. A tear escaped, falling down his cheek. He hurriedly raised his trembling hand and wiped it away roughly.

He had made a choice. He would not cry just because his choice failed and ended like this. He had to face this like a grown man.

But... thinking of his mother in the village made Dale feel a deep guilt, squeezing his chest tighter than the pain in his head. He had left his mother alone. His mother was old, her back already hunched from working in the fields all her life. And Dale ran away instead, disappointing her, and now might leave her forever without having the chance to say goodbye.

Steeling his jaw, Dale stood up with difficulty.

As soon as he stood upright, the morning wind hit the right side of his head. Dale winced, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth. His right ear had been sliced off last night by a sword slash from an enemy cavalryman, and was now only wrapped in cloth. He remembered the glint of steel under the moonlight, the sound of tearing flesh, and his own shrill scream. He was still struggling to digest the reality of it.

He forced himself to walk with a limping step towards the edge of the prisoner group. He looked around. Outside their area, enemy soldiers stood watching with flat faces. Then, Dale's gaze fell on something in the distance.

There, near a large tent, was a row of wooden spears planted lined up in the ground. A foul stench was suddenly smelled, carried by the wind in his direction. The smell stung Dale's nose, similar to iron soaked in water, but much fishier and thicker.

Neatly severed human heads were spiked at the tips of those iron spears. Blood still dripped slowly from their necks, staining the spear wood blackish-red. Swallowing hard. He recognized some of those faces. The leaders of their group. And on one of the spears, Dale could see Jarett's head.

The eyes of the old man who always mocked him were now wide in disbelief, frozen in his final moment. His mouth was slightly open, and the fear on his face could no longer be hidden.

Dale just stared at the head in silence. He stared straight into those open and empty eyes. And strangely... he didn't feel a shred of pity. But he also didn't feel victory or satisfaction. Only a cold emptiness.

Jarett deserved it, thought Dale. The man was a monster. Many innocent people, especially the women and children in the villages they looted, had suffered and died by the dirty hands of that bastard. If Dale had had just a little courage before, if he wasn't a coward who only stood guarding the horses, maybe he would have been the one to slit Jarett's throat when the man slept drunk.

Dale gritted his teeth, turning his face away from the spectacle, and looked towards Lord Tully's main camp.

"Don't just stand there, Boy. Or those guards will think you are trying to resist and punish you. You know that, right?"

A rough voice was heard from behind him, making Dale flinch and turn around.

The man speaking sat on a tree root. He looked very thin, his cheekbones protruding, and his hair and beard messy. His age was probably mid-thirties.

Dale stared for a moment at the guard soldier who started noticing him, then immediately followed the man's advice and sat on the grassy ground beside him. His back touched the rough bark.

"What will happen to us?" asked Dale softly, wincing slightly as the friction nudged the bruises on his back.

The man looked into Dale's eyes, chuckling humorlessly.

"What do you think? Maybe killed? Beheaded, or hanged?" The man shrugged casually. "We can also consider other options. That they might burn us alive. After all, that is what we did to the previous villages, isn't it?"

"Are... are you not afraid?" Dale asked.

The man snorted. "Afraid? Yes, of course there is fear somewhere in there. Pain is unpleasant. But there is no use making all this complicated in your head, right? Before I joined this group, I was already so broken. I have long been prepared for this thing called death."

The man stared at the blue sky above them. "I used to always think that I would die of starvation. Slowly, cold, and very painful. Your stomach eating itself. Because of that, I will accept it. Whatever happens after this, let it happen."

The wind rustled again, a little stronger, carrying a few leaves flying and falling onto Dale's lap. Dale's gaze occasionally glanced back at the row of severed heads in the distance.

"Do... do you not have family waiting for you at home?" asked Dale carefully.

"No," the man sighed. "All my family died long before all this happened. They all died from an illness. Sometimes, when the night is very quiet, I ask myself... why I can still survive until now. What am I breathing for?"

Dale fell silent. He didn't know how to respond.

Dale's mind drifted back again. His father also died of an illness. A stomach illness when Dale was still little. He remembered very clearly how his mother panicked back then, searching for medicinal plants in the forest here and there, pounding bitter roots. But nothing worked.

Every day, Dale could only see his father getting weaker. He could only sit huddled on their straw bed, his hands constantly holding his stomach tightly bound by a cloth. The cloth was tied so tight it looked ridiculous on his body that was getting thinner like a skeleton. But his father said the wrapping could slightly reduce his stomach pain. And indeed there was nothing they could do but wait.

His father then died not long after on a cold dawn. When Dale saw his corpse, his father's face looked very peaceful. Very relaxed and different compared to when he was still breathing and always groaning in pain in his sleep.

"I... I still have a mother," Dale said suddenly. "And now, it seems I will never see her again."

"You love her?" said the man without turning.

"Of course, she is the one who took care of me since childhood, it's impossible I don't love her, right?"

"You can try to go and run away from here tonight, you know. Sneak away when those guards are sleepy. But of course, the risk is very great."

"The risk is dying instantly on the spot. At least for now I am still sure we have a chance to live. They couldn't possibly execute everyone here, right?."

"You are still very afraid of death, aren't you?"

"There is nothing more terrifying than death," Dale muttered softly, hugging his own knees. "No one truly knows what will happen there. At least, no matter how bad this world is... this world is familiar."

Suddenly, the sound of loud clapping echoed across the camp.

Dale looked up. A knight stood in front of the tent. Behind him, several fully armed soldiers began dragging dozens of men from Dale's group. The commotion made all the sitting prisoners immediately lift their faces.

There would be another trial. This apparently was still not over.

The knight stepped forward, his voice booming and echoing loudly throughout the valley.

"You all have seen what happened previously to your leaders, haven't you?!" shouted the knight while pointing to the row of spears adorned with heads.

"This is absolute punishment for you thieves, rapists, and murderers! This is the consequence you must pay for daring to lead destruction and chaos in this land! You made many innocent families suffer because of your savagery!"

The knight drew his sword, pointing it towards the men being dragged by force to kneel on a piece of wood placed on the ground.

"Now, in the presence of Lord Hoster Tully and under the watch of the Seven Gods, you will be judged! The punishment is death!"

Another man stepped forward. In his hands was a long and heavy sword. Dale held his breath. His heart beat so hard it felt painful in his chest.

He watched the people about to be beheaded. Some of them sobbed uncontrollably, begging for mercy. Some took deep breaths, closing their eyes with difficulty, their faces pale as death and almost fainting from terror.

The man raised his greatsword high into the air, then the sword swung down. The sound of flesh and neck bone being slashed sounded horrific. Blood sprayed like a small fountain, soaking the surrounding grass.

Then one by one, their heads were beheaded. Again. And again.

Dale stared at the spectacle without blinking, his body trembling uncontrollably. The metallic smell of fresh blood smelled stronger in the air, as he saw those heads rolling on the ground.

...

Those heads were spiked on the tips of rough wooden spears, lined up neatly facing towards the prisoners. While several other heads, had their hair tied using hemp rope and hung on the low branches of ancient oak trees around the camp.

Blood dripped slowly from the severed necks, staining the green grass below into blackish-brown. Forest insects began to swarm, buzzing with noisy sounds.

The purpose of the spectacle was very clear: to frighten and teach a lesson to them all. And indeed, Lord Tully's tactic worked perfectly.

The horror had silenced hundreds of mouths. Not a single prisoner dared to make a sound. Even the wounded held back their groans of pain as much as possible, afraid of attracting the attention of the guards pacing back and forth with spears in hand.

As the sun crawled up to its peak, lunchtime arrived. The soldiers threw baskets filled with makeshift roasted root vegetables into the middle of the crowd of prisoners. Exactly like a farmer feeding pigs.

Dale got two medium-sized root vegetables. The skin was charred black, leaving charcoal stains on his trembling fingers.

He ate the root vegetable slowly, peeling the skin with his nails. Honestly, he had absolutely no appetite. The image of slashed necks and spraying blood earlier still danced behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Nausea churned his stomach contents.

But his stomach kept rumbling loudly and forced him to finish the food. Fortunately the inside of the root vegetables was quite soft and sweet, making it easy to chew and swallow past his dry throat. It was not too bad food, if only there hadn't been that mass neck-cutting session previously.

"How long... will that hang there?" said Dale with a voice that almost resembled a whisper. His eyes glanced towards the tree branches, not daring to look straight.

He spoke to the man beside him again. Dale still didn't know this man's name, but in a place like this, it didn't mean it was important.

"Until we leave here, maybe?" The man shrugged. "Those hanged corpses will soon rot and cause an unbearable stench if left too long in the open air. Especially with that many corpses. Flies and crows will feast. Perhaps Lord Tully's army will burn them all later, or bury them en masse in one big hole?."

"If... if we don't die beheaded today," Dale started again, his voice trembling slightly. "What do you think those people will do to us, in the end?"

"The punishment for rebels and thieves like us, besides a quick death, is going to the Wall," replied the man. "I heard from travelers' tales, the Wall is made of solid ice. Very cold, and very, very high, so you cannot see the top from below. They have many members there, the Night's Watch, they call it. Murderers, rapists, and thieves wearing black cloaks, whose lifelong duty is to fight the barbaric wildlings from the North."

"That is far from here, isn't it?" asked Dale.

The man nodded. "Very far. At the edge of this continent. In the deepest place in the North. I heard the snow never truly melts there. The ground freezes hard as iron. There, you will never truly be able to breathe spring air like now again."

"In that case..." Dale swallowed. "Better we try to start getting used to the cold from now on, right?"

Dale tried to joke, a pathetic attempt to raise the morale of both of them. But the joke fell apart, sounding tasteless and heartbreaking.

"Yes," sighed the man. "The wind there must be very strong and freeze the blood."

Hour by hour passed slowly like drops of tree sap. They sat on the ground, talking constantly in whispered voices about anything, about food, about past memories that would never return, just to keep their sanity.

Until finally, as the tree shadows began to lengthen in the afternoon, the sound of a trumpet shrilled from the direction of the soldiers' camp.

They were suddenly ordered to stand and gather. The sound of soldiers' barks and spear tips pointed forced the injured and exhausted prisoners to move. They were herded by the soldiers like a herd of worthless cattle, pushed and hit if they moved too slowly.

They were taken to a wider and flatter grassy yard. There, the hundreds of prisoners were roughly sorted. The soldiers separated them into two large groups, forming two square formations surrounded by armed guards.

Dale was pushed into the left group, his body stumbling and bumping into the back of the person in front of him. As he turned, the thin man he talked to earlier was also pushed into the same group, standing not far from him. Dale didn't know what the criteria for this separation were. Would one group be pardoned and the other killed? Or would they be sent to different destinations? The ignorance tore at his nerves.

They were forced to wait there for hours.

While they stood enduring hunger and sore legs, Dale noticed the scene in the distance with a twisting stomach. In the soldiers' camp area, the troops' dinner time had arrived.

White smoke billowed from large campfires, and the incredibly delicious smell was carried by the afternoon wind, approaching the prisoners' olfactory senses. It smelled like thick-fleshed river fish grilled over charcoal, mixed with the sweet aroma of sautéed onions, and also a strong sprinkle of black pepper. The aroma of spices and meat felt very torturous.

Hour by hour passed again, and night finally truly fell covering the world. The sky turned starry black.

The prisoners were again given rations of the remaining cold root vegetables, then ordered to sleep on the open ground, still in the heavily guarded square formation. Luckily for Dale and the others, grey clouds did not appear. There was no rain tonight, so he could lie on the dry ground, curling up hugging his own knees to withstand the night wind. The extraordinary physical and mental exhaustion finally overcame his fear. He fell sound asleep without dreams, sinking into a peaceful emptiness.

However, that peace was short-lived.

He was forcefully awakened by someone. A hard kick to his leg made Dale jolt awake, his eyes opening wide in panic.

"Wake up, bastard! Stand up!" barked a torch-bearing soldier.

In the sky, the day was still very dark, perhaps just past midnight or approaching dawn. The air felt very freezing. Dale stood up staggering, his muscles all stiff and sore. His eyes were still half-closed from exhaustion, he rubbed them and started to observe his surroundings.

There was something strange.

The people in the two large groups had slightly decreased in number. And as he turned towards the soldiers' camp, many tents that previously stood tall had now disappeared, dismantled and placed on baggage carts. Part of the troops seemed to have moved away while he was asleep.

Before his brain could process what happened, he was already herded again with his group. This time they were pushed more hurriedly, jostling each other in the darkness illuminated only by the swaying torchlight.

They were directed towards a row of large wooden cargo carts, which were usually used by farmers to transport straw or wheat harvests in large quantities.

Dale was forcefully pushed to climb onto one of those carts. The soldiers kept putting prisoner after prisoner onto the wooden cart, not caring if they had to sit stacked or stand crowded. They were separated into several small groups for each cart, continuously put in until the cart Dale rode was truly packed tight, shoulder to shoulder, without the slightest room to move freely.

"Move!" shouted a soldier.

Whips cracked, and the large draft horses neighed softly. The wooden carts jerked forward, their thick wheels creaking loudly as they began to turn on the rocky ground.

Dale staggered, forced to hold onto the wooden edge of the cart so as not to fall onto other prisoners. He looked back, staring past the crowd of heads on the cart.

In the slowly fading darkness of the night, Dale noticed the remnants of other prisoners and soldiers left on the grassy yard slowly fading away. The further the cart drove, their shapes became smaller, until finally they became just faint dots swallowed by the morning mist and the shadows of the trees.

The cart kept driving through the cold night.

And Dale didn't know where he would be taken.

---

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[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

The King's Solar felt warm today, illuminated by the sunlight entering through the arched glass windows. There were four men sitting on the sofas encircling a low wooden table. King Rhaegar Targaryen sat in a relaxed posture, a silver goblet in his hand. Opposite him, Lord Steffon was leaning back with crossed legs, while Jaime sat in an armchair, tapping his fingers on the armrest to a rhythm only he himself knew.

And Tywin Lannister sat among them all, his eyes focused on a piece of paper that had just arrived this morning.

It was a report from Lord Hoster Tully. His handwriting was firm and slightly hurried. The report detailed the results of the cleanup operation in the Riverlands. The Riverrun forces had successfully destroyed several troublesome rebel groups. Most of their leaders had been beheaded, and the surviving remnants had been put in chains.

Hoster reported that most of them were being marched towards the North, sent to the Wall to take the vow and join the Night's Watch. But not all of them.

Tywin turned the paper over, looking at the note on the number of prisoners. Most of them would be sent to the Crownlands first at Tywin's own request.

He folded the letter and placed it on the table. In his head, numbers had already started spinning. Hundreds of pairs of extra hands. Hands that were at least only paid with rations of porridge and bread. They would begin to accelerate the execution of the Kingsroad construction project, the main highway that would connect King's Landing to all corners of the continent. That construction required massively extraordinary manual labor, and these people were the answer.

At least, thought Tywin while sipping water, these people were not doing futile work by rotting on the gallows. At least, their blood and sweat would make this realm's infrastructure easier and faster to complete.

"With the arrival of these prisoners from the Riverlands," said Tywin, cutting the pleasantries, "we will have more than three hundred extra laborers in the Crownlands next week. That will save many gold dragons from the royal treasury."

"Three hundred men," Rhaegar mused, putting down his glass and staring out the window, his mind clearly working hard. "With the large number of people coming, we also need many people to supervise them, do we not? They are forced-labor prisoners, not hired coolies who come voluntarily. If unsupervised, they will escape or trigger new riots along the Kingsroad."

"Yes, we need to record many things about them," Steffon nodded. "Especially with every kilometer of road we will build simultaneously. If we split them into ten different camps, we need to build secure encampments, record a constant flow of supplies, and then... of course we need capable foremen. Very capable. So that this road truly meets straight and merges flawlessly."

"That is the most pressing problem," Rhaegar agreed, sighing softly. "Even though schools have been built for a few years, I am quite sure we only have a few graduating classes decent enough for such a task."

Rhaegar turned back towards the table. "Most of our graduates today are still very young. Children who have just learned to count and read basic instructions. They are not yet experienced enough to lead projects or supervise thousands of rough men. So, from the school projections, we might only be able to recruit half of them at most, right? That is also if we are very certain that they currently indeed want to take on rough duties outside the city."

"So you mean a quarter, Your Grace," Tywin added flatly. "If you target half, prepare to get only a quarter who are truly competent. And the rest will cry in the first week from sleeping in leaky tents."

Rhaegar smiled bitterly. "Yes, it seems quite clear. Your math never misses, Lord Tywin. What must we do then? This work cannot be delayed, but we lack educated supervisory staff. Any suggestions?"

Opposite Tywin, Jaime leaned forward. The young man's elbows rested on his knees. He knew that posture. It was the posture that always preceded a new idea. His son had an idea, and he was not surprised at all.

"The duties of supervising supplies, recording workers, and counting materials like this certainly cannot be taken by just any coolie," Jaime began, his voice calm. "We need someone who understands numbers quite well, or at least understands most of basic management. What if we recruit the sons of nobles?"

Rhaegar's eyebrows raised slightly. Steffon looked at Jaime with great interest.

"Not the heir sons, of course," continued Jaime, laying out his plan. "But second, third sons, and so on. Landless cousins. Most of them currently do not have a clear life purpose. Especially for young men coming from a poor House. But we can agree that all of them, due to their birth status, at least can read writing, count coins, and also have a little understanding in terms of leadership because they were raised in castles."

Tywin understood where this conversation was heading, and he immediately agreed in his head. It was indeed a very interesting idea.

The Lannister family themselves had many such 'useless people' in Lannisport, distant cousins expecting allowances from Casterly Rock. Most of them were certainly useless on the battlefield; they were all arrogant, only knew how to waste money in brothels, and complained about wine quality. But, they were indeed far more capable in an administrative task compared to commoners who had just learned to hold a pen.

"Ah," Rhaegar smiled thinly, shaking his head slightly. "Your idea is good, Jaime. But most of them will definitely refuse fiercely. After all, in their eyes, this is just road-building work. It is dirty work. They are knights and lordlings. Their prestige is too high to camp with criminals."

"I think... not so, Your Grace," said Steffon, his heavy voice making them all look at him.

"Yes, those haughty young men will whine and refuse at first," continued Steffon, stroking his beard. "But most will eventually accept it. I have a strong guess how their fathers will react to this. It might sound like just road-building work, but the invitation comes directly from you, Your Grace. The royal seal. And they also don't have many choices."

Steffon laughed softly. "Especially for a petty Lord who has too many sons but his land is too small. Trust me. Those fathers will definitely force and push this onto their children. Of course, rather than letting those children keep sitting idle in the castle without producing anything."

Tywin saw a gap to perfect the plan. He knew the biggest weakness of lesser nobles: vanity.

"And let us give them uniforms," Tywin snorted. "Make them official-looking uniforms, perhaps with the royal sigil on the chest. Give them important-sounding titles, like 'Royal Logistics Overseer'. This will trick their prestige. The uniform will make them look luxurious and confident, making them feel they are carrying out an important state mission rather than just supervising piles of gravel and road construction."

Rhaegar frowned. "With such special treatment, they will become more arrogant. What if they act arbitrarily towards the workers instead? We are dealing with desperate people; unreasoned torture will trigger bloody riots."

"That will not happen if we place them in the correct chain of command," said Jaime quickly. "What we need most directly in the field are foremen. And those young nobles will not be the main foremen holding whips or giving direct instructions."

Jaime tapped the table. "Those nobles are only tasked behind the camp desks. Recording bricks, handling food supplies, and smaller administrative things. They are beneath or technically equal to the main foremen. And those expert foremen are mostly from the common folk, senior workers. So we can rely on those foremen to manage the course of the project and report if any noble crosses the line. And as double insurance, we certainly send a few veteran soldiers there to oversee security and ensure no young master acts overly authoritative."

Rhaegar listened to the explanation intently. He looked at Tywin, Steffon, then back at Jaime.

"Ah, very well," Rhaegar nodded, the tension on his face fading slightly. "For now, we will focus on that method first, and see how it is implemented in the field. If there are flaws, we can think of a better solution later. But at least, for now, it sounds very reasonable and can be executed immediately."

Rhaegar raised his goblet. "Let us make those young nobles work."

Steffon laughed, shaking his head. "I came to think of Stannis because we are talking about this."

Tywin raised one eyebrow. "Stannis? You want to make him work overseeing roads?"

"Yes," Steffon nodded firmly. "I know that in Storm's End right now, the one working hardest managing the ledgers and the castle is actually him. Robert... well, he is capable, but still, Robert is Robert."

"Also," he continued, "maybe if I pull Stannis to the Crownlands and make him take this big responsibility, Robert will be forced to get out of his bed and try harder in terms of ruling. He won't have a younger brother he can burden with dirty work. Plus, I think this could also help get Stannis out of his brother's shadow. He needs his own place to prove himself."

"Ah," Rhaegar smiled, looking at Steffon with approval. "I think that is a very good thing, Lord Steffon. If indeed that will happen, I will welcome it. Stannis looks very capable and meticulous in matters smelling of discipline like this."

"Yes, he is indeed like that," said Steffon. "And this can also make him socialize further with nobles from other regions. You know yourselves how he is, right? If he is left continuously in Storm's End, he will turn into a rock that always scowls."

"He is a stern boy," interrupted Tywin.

It had been a long time since Tywin saw Stannis, but that was indeed the impression he remembered most about the boy. A man like Stannis would never accept bribes from foremen, and he would not hesitate to whip a prisoner who tried to run. He was a perfect overseer.

...

Tywin walked out of the King's solar, Jaime walking beside him, adjusting his steps to his father's steady rhythm. One by one, internal problems had started to be resolved today. However, inside Tywin's head that never slept, he still had to think of various ways to overcome external enemies trying to strangle him.

First, the pirates in the Stepstones and Narrow Sea funded by the merchants. Tywin had handled that for now. Their merchant ships were now heavily guarded more than ever; every trade galleon was escorted by fully armed warships.

But just defending was never Tywin's style. He wanted to strike back.

Tywin had considered discussing with Rhaegar, then sending a raven to Pyke, ordering the Ironborn fleet to conduct retaliatory raids on the coasts of the free cities in Essos. Letting mad dogs loose from their chains to bite the enemy. But currently, he was still thinking about the positive and negative impacts. The Ironborn were too hard to control. If they felt too powerful, they might turn around and raid Lannisport. That risk was still too great.

Second, and more subtle. A few weeks ago, without the Small Council's knowledge, he had sent several of his confidants, to infiltrate the free cities.

The people in those free cities relied heavily on slave labor to run the economy and luxury of their cities. Farms, mines, even their beds, everything was driven by slaves. So, Tywin decided to see how those fat men would react if they felt the same panic as happened here.

Tywin instructed his men to distribute cheap weapons and gold coins in the slave districts. He would try to make those slaves rebel. Tywin knew that such an operation would cost a lot, and as a realistic man, he also didn't really expect the rebellion to successfully topple those cities.

But Tywin was not aiming for military victory; he was aiming for psychological terror. He just thought it might at least teach them a lesson and could send a very clear message: 'I know what you have done in Westeros, and I can destroy the foundation of your house from the inside.'

So, if those Essos merchants dared to continue funding the remnants of the bandits in Westeros, Tywin would not hesitate to play more seriously and destroy their market permanently.

"I didn't expect that Lord Steffon would really let Stannis do that job," said Jaime suddenly, breaking the silence between them as they descended the stairs. His voice was calm, halting Tywin's thoughts.

"Why wouldn't you expect it?" asked Tywin without turning.

"It's just that, well, he is not just any Lord's son, a second son indeed, but still," Jaime smiled. "This will convince other nobles faster to send their children. Because a Lord Paramount's son, Baratheon blood himself leads and accepts the job. This will create a wave of trend among young nobles. Not that it is bad, of course. It makes my idea run smoother."

"Steffon will not let Stannis go too far from his supervision," answered Tywin flatly. "At most he will be assigned to Kingsroad camps not far from King's Landing. And also, it is indeed true what Steffon said about his heir. Robert, needs to serve his own duty managing his territory. He is the heir to Storm's End, he cannot continuously waste day after day just to honeymoon with that Stark girl while his own land demands attention."

Jaime laughed softly. "They just got married and are in love, Father. You don't have to be so cynical about other people's happiness."

Tywin stopped his steps for a moment. He turned, staring at his son with a pair of cold green eyes.

"Love should not displace duty," snorted Tywin. "Obligations to family and a great name always come first. Remember that well."

Jaime nodded slowly, his smile fading slightly. He then cleared his throat, changing the subject.

"Speaking of the Stark family," said Jaime. "Have you considered forging a closer cooperation with them, Father?"

Tywin resumed walking. "Of course. Lord Rickard Stark has vast territory and countless sheep. They have a lot of raw wool. That is very useful to be processed in our textile industry manufactories in Lannisport. Why do you ask this specifically?"

"I am just thinking ahead," Jaime rubbed his chin, formulating words. "With you having agreed to share the recipe for glassmaking and other building techniques to King Rhaegar, can we also bargain directly with Lord Stark?"

Tywin glanced at his son, waiting for the continuation.

"The North is very freezing, Father," explained Jaime. "They struggle to grow decent food as winter approaches. They desperately need greenhouses to be able to grow vegetables amidst the snow. And because of that, our clear glass can become our diplomatic weapon."

Jaime leaned his body slightly closer to Tywin. "We can build greenhouses for Winterfell and several main Northern castles at a subsidized price, or even give them as goodwill. This can be our bargaining chip to secure a monopoly on wool and timber from them at a much cheaper and easier price. Northerners are famously holding fast to honor, they say. A service this great, saving them from winter starvation, will not simply shrink from their minds, will it? They will owe a debt of gratitude to Casterly Rock."

Hearing that explanation, Tywin's steps slowed invisibly. The North was indeed very vast, even though its climate was so cold and sparsely populated compared to the South. But they had untouched natural potential. Potential that might become very useful and highly valuable in the future once science and distribution routes also continued to develop.

Well, that would certainly take a long time, maybe decades... but if executed, there was nothing to lose.

"We will think about that later, Jaime," snorted Tywin. He stopped the conversation.

 

[Daario]

HOSTER | GERION​

---

Fuck. Hoster groaned through his tightly clenched teeth. He cursed inwardly, enduring the wave of throbbing pain in his right shoulder. The pain from the sword slash felt hot, as if a piece of glowing iron was deliberately pressed and left to burn his skin on a grill.

Inside the dim tent, the late afternoon air turning to evening felt very cold. The damp wind slipped through the gaps in the tent fabric. The light from three candles clustered on a wooden folding table created long dancing shadows.

His wound had actually been treated by the Maester a few days ago. The torn flesh had been cleaned, roughly stitched, and covered by white linen wrapping his shoulder to part of his chest. The binding was so tight that his right arm was currently slightly numb and could not function fully. Hanging uselessly at his side.

They had defeated that bandit group again. However, Hoster knew his age was no longer young. He was too tired after days in the saddle, and at one fatal moment, his guard dropped. He let someone slip from his blind spot and wound him.

Now, his bandages needed changing because fresh blood was seeping through again, staining the linen a dark red. Because Hoster had ordered the Maester to go heal other soldiers whose wounds were more severe, he had Petyr Baelish take over this task.

Besides, he was quite capable of small things that didn't require much brute force.

"Slowly, Boy," hissed Hoster, hardening his jaw.

"Hold on, My Lord. Your wound is not that dry yet. The stitches are still vulnerable," said Petyr with a very calm voice. The young man stood beside him, his face illuminated by candlelight.

"The blood around here is dirtied by sweat and dust," continued Petyr. "We must clean it thoroughly and apply more salve so it does not rot."

"Just do it, do not talk much," Hoster squeezed his eyes shut. "May the foul bastard who did this rot in the deepest hell. Bastard!"

"I have no doubt that will happen, My Lord. Considering you yourself beheaded him after he wounded you," Petyr replied lightly. He took a clean cloth that had been dipped in warm water. Petyr began to clean the wound, rubbing the remnants of dried blood at the edges of the reddened slash.

The touch made Hoster wince softly, his body tensing. His hands clenched into fists.

Petyr's hands danced among the wounds with careful precision. "This is a very unfortunate mistake, My Lord. You are a Lord leading thousands. Many lives and families depend on you, the Seven must surely hate the person who did this to you."

"You and your words..." Hoster sighed roughly, opening one eye. "Just pray that those bandits are prepared for the wrath of the Seven Gods. We have stopped enough of them in this region. Hundreds of them we have sent to the Wall and to King Rhaegar. So, certainly their plan to gather somewhere will not happen."

Hoster swallowed saliva that tasted bitter. "That is good. Very good. Because I swear, I desperately miss the abundant hot water for a bath in Riverrun. I miss my featherbed. Here, everything feels very sickening to me right now."

"Raise your arm a little, My Lord. I must clean the underside," said Petyr, ignoring his complaints.

Hoster obeyed. He raised his right arm a few inches. That small movement sent a flash of blinding pain to his neck.

He hated this very much. Hated the feeling of helplessness. Every day of his life, Hoster Tully had always held control. He controlled his army, he held the future of the Riverlands in his hands. So, when faced with a situation like this, sitting half-naked and shivering, he felt fragile and useless.

Petyr took a small container from the table. Inside was the medicinal salve from the Maester.

The boy used a small wooden spatula to apply the foul-smelling medicine onto Hoster's open wound. The smell immediately stung Hoster's nose. The aroma was rancid, like a mixture of wet moss, and something sweet yet rotten. Whether it was made from leaves or what sap. Why must a medicine meant to heal smell like poison?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoster didn't answer. He was too tired to argue about salve. Petyr might be right. Pain often played tricks on an old man's mind. After Petyr finished tying the last knot and cleaning his hands with a rag, the young man looked at Hoster who was still leaning back limply.

"Would you like me to bring warm water to drink, My Lord? Or perhaps a glass of mulled wine?" offered Petyr politely.

"No," Hoster shook his head. He pointed with his chin. "I need you to fetch the letter on that table. The letter that just arrived."

Petyr followed Hoster's gaze.

"That is a letter from Catelyn," he continued. "Still neatly sealed with red wax. I haven't had the chance to open it because I was busy. I will read it now, and after that, you will help me write the reply. My right hand right now is as useless as a piece of firewood for writing."

Petyr obediently nodded. He walked to the end of the table, taking the scroll in question. Petyr's eyes stared for a moment at the wax seal bearing the Lannister lion. Hoster couldn't see Petyr's expression because the young man had his back to him, but Petyr's shoulders seemed to tense for a second before he turned and came back.

Petyr handed over the letter, and Hoster signaled with his head to break the seal. Petyr broke the wax with his thumb, then gave the opened paper to Hoster. He took the letter with his left hand, bringing it closer to the candlelight, his eyes squinting adjusting to Catelyn's handwriting.

"Father," Hoster began reading silently.

"May you be in good health and protected by the Seven when reading this. Because you are now often moving from one camp to another to hunt those bandits, I had to ask the Maester first, if there were any ravens left for the current destination. Fortunately the Maester always has them and is very helpful, even if it takes longer to find them."

Hoster smiled. "I hope you do not push yourself too hard there. You are no longer a young man who can sleep on wet rocks. I know how things are out there, even though I am now mostly just in the chambers and gardens."

"I have eyes and ears always open in this court. Conditions in the city are indeed worsening due to the flow of refugees, and I do not know when this will truly improve. Jaime is always out from morning to night. He also always looks very tired, his clothes dusty. In this castle, everyone is busy with their respective work."

"To pass the time, I have mostly just been with Queen Cersei lately. We sit in the garden, and I often play with her son, Prince Aegon. The child looks very cute and chubby, with his silver hair. Seeing the little Prince... it makes me wonder and dream... what my child will look like when born later."

Hoster stopped reading for a moment. His heart swelled. He continued reading the last paragraph.

"If everything has improved and those bandits are gone, come home soon, Father. Get a proper rest, and eat more decent food. The food in camp must taste bland and hard, right? Jaime often tells me about it while laughing when reminiscing about when he was still a squire for Ser Tygett."

"Perhaps later... after my baby is born and strong enough to travel, I can also visit you. I honestly am a little sick of the smell and noise of King's Landing. I desperately want fresh air, and the first thing that crosses my mind is Riverrun. It seems I underappreciated the beauty and tranquility of our home when I was a child. I want to write more, tell you many things, but I realize that now is not the right time. You must be tired too."

"So I will end it here. May the Seven keep you."

"Greetings and full of love, Your daughter, Catelyn Lannister."

Hoster gripped the edge of the paper tightly. His chest was now filled with a strange and suffocating swirl of feelings. He hated this emotional reaction. The thick nostalgia, the deep longing for his daughter, for the sound of Catelyn's laughter in the halls of Riverrun. This feeling sickened him because it couldn't be eliminated just by shouting orders. This feeling made him feel old and sentimental.

Hoster took a long and deep breath, filling his lungs with cold air. He consciously stopped all emotions that were about to spill over and ruin his facial expression. Here, standing just a short distance from him, was Petyr Baelish staring at him in silence. Hoster Tully would never show weakness in front of his subordinates, let alone a ward.

Folding the paper stiffly with one hand, Hoster placed it back on the table. He looked at Petyr Baelish.

"Don't just stand there like a statue," ordered Hoster firmly. "Get ink, quill, and a fresh sheet of paper, Boy. Prepare yourself."

With Petyr obeying wordlessly, pulling up a small stool and preparing his tools, Hoster thought of the words he would convey. Once the boy held the pen, and the tip hovered over the paper, Hoster began speaking.

"Your father is currently carrying out an unavoidable duty, Cat," Hoster dictated the opening sentence. He heard Petyr's pen scratching over the paper, copying his words.

"It is engraved in our family words, isn't it? Family, Duty, Honor. We cannot avoid it even if we want to bury ourselves in comfort. We have great responsibilities to undertake to keep this realm intact."

Hoster stared at the dimly dancing candle flame. The yellow light reflected in his eyes. He said all that slowly and clearly so Petyr wouldn't be overwhelmed while writing.

"And honestly, Cat, conducting this pursuit is quite easy. You don't need to worry about me. I have been through much worse things before. I am still as solid as a rock..."

Hoster paused, took a breath, continued. "It is a very good thing for you to spend time with the Queen. She is your good-sister, which in the bonds of marriage, is family. Maintain that relationship. So, at least you will not be too lonely in a court full of strangers."

Hoster smiled thinly, imagining his pregnant daughter.

"And for the child in your womb... I have not the slightest doubt that the child will be born with the most perfect features. You and Jaime have that. Unrivaled handsomeness and beauty. Blood cannot lie, Cat. I have no doubt that the child will be the pride of two great Houses..."

The scratching sound of the pen on the paper suddenly sounded different.

Hoster glanced over. Petyr's handwriting, looked drastically slowed down when he dictated the part about Jaime and Catelyn's baby. The tip of Petyr's pen seemed pressed too hard onto the paper, leaving thicker ink trails than usual. Petyr's grip on the quill looked so rigid that his knuckles tensed.

"Keep writing," Hoster reprimanded softly.

Petyr took an inaudible breath, loosened his grip, and resumed writing at a normal speed. "Done, My Lord."

"Good." Hoster leaned his head back again. "In closing... I cannot wait to see you again, Cat. If the situation permits and your body is strong enough... visit Riverrun. The door to your home will never be closed to you. Do not hesitate. Your father loves you."

…

The room looked messy, as if just hit by a small storm. Clothes scattered on the uneven wooden floor, and an overturned chair in the corner. Pale morning light entered through the cracks of windows tightly closed by a thick, dusty curtain.

On a creaky bed in the middle of the room, there was a thick wool blanket that looked to be covering something. That something rolled, then groaned softly.

It was Gerion Lannister, his eyes opening slowly, trying to fight the heavy drowsiness and piercing ache. He stared at the ceiling of his room made of dull wooden boards in the morning silence, his brain still spinning slowly searching for a sliver of spirit.

His head throbbed, hot, and also ached.

He shouldn't have drunk too much last night. He knew his body's limits, but a Lannister's ego sometimes clouded common sense. The effects were only felt now, as the sun rose, and he absolutely hated this.

Trying to get up, Gerion shoved the blanket aside roughly. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only thin trousers, and scratched the back of his slightly itchy neck. He stood up swaying slightly, took a clay jug on the small table beside the bed, poured water into a cup, then drank it in large gulps. The water was cold, and slowly chased away some of the remaining fog.

After feeling a bit more stable, he grabbed his shirt lying on the floor, put it on haphazardly, left the room, and walked down the narrow wooden stairs to the public latrine on the lower floor.

Midway down the stairs, he crossed paths with a fierce-faced Braavosi man hurrying up. Their shoulders touched roughly. The man growled, but Gerion just ignored him, too tired to start a brawl early in the morning.

In the urine-smelling public latrine, Gerion quickly unfastened his trousers. He closed his eyes while exhaling a long breath as he emptied his bladder. The uncomfortable feeling from holding his urine after drinking beer for so long finally faded, it felt very satisfying when he released it.

Finished with his business, Gerion scooped water from a wooden barrel and splashed it directly onto his face and tangled hair. The cold from the water truly woke him up now. He rubbed his face roughly, stared at his wet and slightly pale reflection in a puddle, then smirked. Still handsome, he thought narcissistically.

He walked out, down the hallway, and arrived at the inn's spacious, low-ceilinged common room. This was where guests usually gathered, ate, and gossiped.

Gerion took an empty table near the dead fireplace. Waving a hand at the innkeeper's boy wiping a table across the room, he signaled his order. He had been renting a room here for seven days, so the boy must have memorized by heart what he usually ordered for breakfast.

While waiting, Gerion stared outside. The inn's double doors were left wide open, displaying the damp streets of Braavos. The hustle and bustle of the outside world could be heard clearly. Braavos basically never truly went quiet or slept. This was a city where every fisherman, sailor, and merchant sought coin before sunrise, and sold tirelessly in the fish markets and water canals.

Someone stepped up, then walked approaching his table. It was his subordinate and distant cousin, Donnell Lannister. Donnell was a few years older than him, had darker blond hair and a much stiffer demeanor.

"You look very tired, Gerion." Donnell chuckled while pulling a chair and sitting across from him. "I heard from the guards that you accepted a drinking challenge from those people last night and drank like a thirsty pig?"

Gerion smiled thinly, leaning his back against the wooden wall.

"I couldn't let those fat merchants demean the Lannister name, could I?" dodged Gerion, defending himself. "When there's a challenge, especially one wagering gold and pride, I accept it. And look, I came out as the victor. They all fell under the table before midnight. And where were you last night? Why weren't you here to witness my glory?"

The man in front of him had indeed disappeared during the party. Gerion actually had several other Lannister guards who went with him; they were currently around the inn, keeping watch. But those guards were all boring and uninteresting to talk to about trivial things.

Gerion suddenly remembered his old friend. Prince Oberyn Martell had gone home a few years ago, returning to Oldtown to avoid suspicion. A pity. Gerion really enjoyed their adventures together in Essos.

"I have real work here. Something called responsibility," said Donnell with a slightly reprimanding tone. "The monthly report I must send to Ser Kevan needs to be summarized in a few days. So I ventured out since yesterday afternoon, visiting markets, ports, looking for the latest information, ship movements, and so on. I do not want to be labeled an incompetent envoy at work."

"Impressive, impressive. Very honorable and very boring," joked Gerion, tapping the table lightly. "But you didn't secretly visit one of the famous brothels while looking for 'information'?"

"I really wanted to, honestly," Donnell smirked mischievously. "However apparently I can control my lust very well lately, so the temptations of those Braavosi whores didn't affect me. My purse is thankful for that."

The innkeeper's boy approached their table. He placed a large wooden cup filled with thick frothy ale in front of Gerion.

Seeing that, Gerion's body instantly froze. His stomach suddenly churned. Damn. He did order ale as a starter drink every morning, but today, his stomach wasn't ready to receive the same poison.

He shook his head quickly, pushing the ale cup across the table, handing it to Donnell who accepted it happily.

Gerion turned to the innkeeper's boy who was about to turn around. "I want a cup of warm water instead."

The boy nodded in understanding and ran back to the kitchen.

Then Gerion turned to look at Donnell, trying to refocus. "So, let's talk seriously. Did you find anything interesting while digging for information at the port? Because the news had better be worth it. You missed a very lively party with annoying foreigners."

Donnell lowered his ale cup. He leaned forward, his voice lowering into a whisper.

"Of course it's worth it," said Donnell. "I heard these rumors from the mirror merchants. This news just arrived brought by a fast-sailing sea ship. Do you know that massive chaos is happening in Myr?"

"What kind of chaos?" Gerion frowned, his dizziness starting to be replaced by curiosity.

"Word says that several merchants were murdered in their own homes. Dead due to chaos caused by their slaves."

Gerion's eyes widened slightly. "How is that possible?"

Donnell shrugged. "Well, I don't know the exact details, information from the sea is always fragmented. But think about it, Gerion, how is it impossible? They have more slaves than the population of free men in the city itself. Maybe ten to one. I am sure in the past there must have been small ripples like this. But certainly, the time span since the last one has been too long, so the news happening now is causing a great uproar throughout the port."

Donnell sipped his ale again, then continued. "So, furthermore... now I hear to quell the riots, the mercenaries in Myr slaughtered back. Many slaves were captured, tortured, killed, and beheaded in the city square. Their heads spiked on spears along the streets. That's to make the remaining slaves more disciplined, they say."

Right as Donnell finished speaking, the inn boy returned. The young boy placed a wooden plate of food, two thick pieces of toast smeared with salted butter, and three soft-boiled eggs still emitting steam, complete with a cup of warm water.

Gerion stared at the food. The sight of the semi-liquid egg yolk now mixed with the image of severed heads in his mind. His gaze did not shift from the plate.

"You are quite skilled at choosing conversation topics to make someone lose their appetite, aren't you?" quipped Gerion.

"You yourself wanted the information." Donnell chuckled softly, feeling no guilt at all.

Gerion snorted softly. His hand reached for a small knife, his brain starting to connect invisible dots from the information.

Recalling again, he remembered a warning letter from his brother, Kevan, a few months ago. Kevan suggested that Gerion should not leave Braavos in these current times. Besides the ongoing trade war heating up between Westeros and the Free Cities, this might be the cause and effect of those things.

Now, Gerion was not truly directly involved with the ongoing intrigues. He knew that sending too many details only via sea ravens could be very dangerous; letters could be intercepted by spies. Besides, he was on another continent.

So, to find out more about his family's strategies, he usually waited for an envoy or ship captain from Lannisport to bring verbal messages.

The last time the envoy came, he received information that King Rhaegar and Tywin strongly assumed that merchants in Essos were the ones financing and causing massive riots in Westeros, especially in the Riverlands.

Cutting his toast to distract his mind, Gerion devoured the first piece. He tasted the salted butter melting on his tongue. He then cut a piece of egg and chewed it too. His stomach felt a little better.

Seeing Gerion had started eating, Donnell drank his ale again, then chuckled, trying to break the previously tense atmosphere.

"Anyway," said Donnell enthusiastically. "I went to a very good eatery near the eastern port district last night. The food there is incredibly delicious, you know? The owner of the place is apparently a merchant from Yi-Ti who settled here... so well, their faces and eye shapes are quite unique, their language is weird too. But the cooking... Gods, you must try it."

"I have eaten a whole grilled fish before, by a chef from Yi-Ti as well," Gerion nodded, his mouth half full of bread. "Indeed very delicious. Their spices are strong."

"Ah, you surely haven't tried this one dish, Gerion. This is a food I have never seen before in all of Westeros!" Donnell looked increasingly excited, his hands moving mimicking something. "Chewy, the shape is long like small ropes, served in a deep bowl, and very brothy! Very warm and delicious!"

"What is it?" said Gerion, swallowing his food. His culinary interest was instantly aroused. "Explain more specifically. Small ropes in a bowl don't sound appetizing if you explain it like that."

"They call it 'Mian'," answered Donnell. "It is made of fine wheat flour kneaded for hours, then cut or pulled by hand until it becomes very long and small, resembling thick thread. Then the dough is boiled in boiling water. Once cooked, they serve it in a bowl, then add very thick chicken or beef broth, thin slices of meat, sesame oil, and some spicy herbs that warm the body. Oh, truly, Gerion... you must try it yourself to understand."

Gerion tried to imagine it in his head. Mian... Mian... a very strange language on his tongue. But the shape and description, warm broth, meat, and long chewy dough, indeed made him very curious.

His dizziness was momentarily forgotten by a new hunger. Gerion smiled broadly, pushing aside the remaining bread on his plate.

"You have successfully convinced me, Donnell," said Gerion, tapping the table cheerfully. "You must take me to that place for dinner later. Of course, I'm paying."

---

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[Daario]

RICKARD​

---

The forests of the North always had their own way of reminding men how small they were. The air here felt cold as usual, and it forced Rickard Stark to wear thick clothing of multiple layers of leather and animal fur, just to keep himself warm.

He was currently stepping stealthily over the ground covered in fallen leaves, holding a sturdy wooden bow in his hand. Behind him, his two sons, Eddard and Benjen, followed, accompanied by several guards keeping their distance behind.

"Slowly, Ned. We don't want to scare the deer away, do we?"

White mist evaporated from Rickard's mouth as he whispered. The sky above the trees currently had many low-hanging grey clouds, making vision slightly impaired as the afternoon sunlight failed to pierce through the gaps in the branches.

They shouldn't be hunting at a time like this, but, this hunt had been planned long ago. Rickard felt that father-and-son time had to be done, regardless of everything.

Ned had lived in the Eyrie for too long. He needed the Northern air. More than that, they needed to strengthen their blood bond outside the confines of the castle's stone walls, far from formal events and political affairs. Besides, a wolf must stay with its pack to remember its scent.

"Yes, Father," Ned nodded slowly.

The young man's face looked very serious. His eyes stared observing every curve of the bushes and also the shadows behind the pine trees. His son had a good pair of eyes; he could catch every small detail present, and was ready to take swift action.

Rickard had absolutely no doubt that Ned would swiftly release his bow and hit the target dead on when seeing a deer later. But still, as a father and Lord of Winterfell, he felt he had an obligation to continuously remind and guide his children.

"It seems there is nothing here. We have been walking and sneaking around long enough that my legs are cramping," complained Benjen in a whispered voice.

"There are many deer and other game animals in this forest, Benjen. It's impossible that you wouldn't find them after walking for hours if you were paying proper attention," said Ned, correcting his younger brother.

"Just keep your eyes open," Rickard cut off the small debate. "Stay alert. The forest will not give its prizes to those who lose patience."

They resumed walking in a silence broken only by the faint sound of the wind and rustling leaves.

As they stepped further into the dense forest, Rickard's mind slowly drifted elsewhere. He looked at Ned from the corner of his eye. His second son was quite grown now, a young man worthy of leading his own household, yet he did not have a prospective bride to marry.

Honestly, there had been many Northern lords approaching Rickard lately. Whether through subtle conversations amidst feasts or blunt requests, they all implied one thing: offering their own daughters to become Eddard's wife.

His bannermen's interest was not without reason. Because of the recent marriage of Brandon, the heir, to Lysa Tully of Riverrun, some loyal followers of House Stark felt dissatisfied with it. They grumbled behind Rickard's back. They thought that Southerners were very fragile, full of flowery and silken deceits, and completely unsuitable to birth a generation of wolves. To them, binding the main Stark line to a Southerner was a betrayal of tradition.

Rickard only snorted softly in his heart when remembering those complaints.

They were all fools. Those Northern lords were too proud of their isolation and still clung to narrow ancient words and thoughts.

For too long the North had confined itself and not followed the political games in the South, so that they became left behind economically and in influence as they were now. Northerners should realize that the climate of their land was disadvantageous. Winter could kill more lives than war. If they did not want to open up and cooperate with their neighbors who had fertile lands, they would forever experience losses, starvation, and regression. Marriage was the bridge that would save the Northern people later.

"There is movement."

Rickard's voice cut the silence suddenly, pulling his mind back to the present. He stared sharply at the thick bushes behind two large oak trees, gripped his bow tighter, and signaled everyone with his hand to slow their movements until coming to a complete stop.

The sound of bowstrings being drawn was heard almost simultaneously. The taut strings creaked softly. Ned and Benjen were also preparing on his left and right sides, their breaths held.

They frowned, focusing their gazes.

Then, something came out from behind the bushes. A stag with beautiful antlers stepped into the open area, its nose sniffing the air, trying to figure out the danger it didn't realize was already surrounding it.

The whizz of three arrows immediately pierced the cold air.

The shots were very precise. Their arrows hit the stag's body, piercing its ribs, and another one lodged deep in its neck. They immediately paralyzed the animal, making it stagger and instantly fall to the ground.

Rickard smiled. He lowered his bow, feeling pride welling up in his chest as he glanced at his two sons. Their hunting instincts were sharp.

They stepped forward approaching the fallen deer. The animal's eyes looked wide from shock and sudden pain, its mouth slightly open spewing white steam, and its body twitched slowly trying to struggle. Fresh red blood dripped and flowed heavily where the arrows were lodged.

"This is a healthy-looking deer. It's fat even though not too big and tall. Good job, boys," said Rickard praisingly, as he crouched down and observed their prey from up close.

He took off the leather glove from his right hand, immediately feeling the biting cold seeping into his pores, then stroked the deer's face with his bare palm.

The animal looked to be in great pain in its remaining breaths, but Rickard felt not a shred of pity in his heart. This was not cruelty; this was an inevitability. This animal was prey. This was food that would become blood and muscle for his family. This would keep them alive in a harsh world. In the wild, there was only the law of hunt or be hunted. This deer was not alert enough, so it became a victim.

But still, he didn't have to make the animal suffer longer than it should.

Rickard ordered Ned and Benjen with a nod of his head to pull out their arrows. He then drew a dagger from his scabbard, positioned its blade, and slit the deer's throat in one smooth and unhesitating motion.

The sound of blood spurting out sounded wet, the thick red liquid dripping in large amounts until it colored the earth and dead leaves beneath it into a dark red puddle. The deer's body went completely limp.

They then let the guards step forward to carry the deer on tied wooden poles.

Benjen laughed in satisfaction as they started walking back towards the camp. "That was great! We took down a stag with just one simultaneous bow shot. It feels very fun hunting like this."

"Well, the deer was indeed just unlucky," Ned replied, shouldering his bow. "It seemed to have just woken up from sleep and didn't pay attention to the wind direction carrying our scent."

"Therefore, this is a lesson for you both," said Rickard. "Even when you are sleeping or resting, you should never truly fall fast asleep and turn off your instincts. Danger can come at any time, and often it comes when you feel safest."

Upon arriving at the camp set up under the shelter of a rocky cliff, Rickard did not hand over the task to his guards. He skinned the deer himself.

Once finished, he cut the meat into large pieces. He dried the surface of the meat with a clean cloth, rubbed it with the coarse salt they brought, and rubbed in some simple dry spices to add flavor and preserve it.

Meanwhile, Eddard and Benjen were busy preparing a pile of firewood and lighting a fire. The sky had turned completely dark now, night had fallen in the North, and the air became much colder, freezing their ears and the tips of their noses.

Ned took water from a waterskin, put it into a small iron pot, boiled it over the growing fire, and then poured it into a wooden cup, handing it to Rickard to drink.

The warm plain water felt very refreshing to his body as it passed his throat. The warm feeling melted most of the cold that had frozen inside his chest.

They then skewered some of the best rib and thigh meat pieces, roasted the meat over the embers, and started sitting on a fallen log. The stars in the clear night sky had started to become visible. They shone and twinkled brightly, it felt very beautiful.

"It's a pity Brandon and Lyanna didn't come with us," Benjen broke the silence, staring at the crackling fire. "Those two are always noisy. If they were here, this forest wouldn't feel too quiet like it is now."

"Brandon has obligations. He must remain at Winterfell, learning to manage and guard the castle while I am gone," said Rickard. "Meanwhile, Lyanna now has duties as a wife and Lady of Storm's End. They are no longer little children who can run around whenever they want, Benjen. And you two are no longer children either. Duty will always follow you wherever you go, and you cannot run from it."

Unfair indeed to say such a heavy thing during times of rest like this, but for a Stark, reality must still be spoken so it would not be forgotten.

"Well, besides it is very cold out here right now," Ned chuckled softly, patting his younger brother's shoulder to lighten the mood. "I am sure Brandon and Lyanna in their respective places right now are sitting comfortably in front of a large fireplace, drinking something warm, and then will sleep soundly under soft featherbeds."

"That does sound pleasant," said Benjen, whispering with a small smile. "But honestly... I prefer to be here. In times like this. Being in the great outdoors. Living silently inside castle walls continuously feels boring."

"Well, hearing the chatter of many people every day can indeed make your head dizzy, can't it?" Rickard laughed softly. He really wanted to reach out and ruffle the youngest child's hair like he used to do, but the boy was big now, so it felt like that action was no longer very appropriate.

Benjen didn't answer, only nodded in agreement. Then, the direction of his conversation shifted, his tone changing to slightly melancholic.

"But, I do really miss Lyanna. We haven't seen her in a long time since she went to the South. It feels very strange when you run back to the training yard and don't find her there swinging a wooden sword. She does often send ravens with letters here... I'm just glad she feels at home there, with that Baratheon man."

"Robert Baratheon has a very strange charisma," replied Ned. Among them all, Ned was the one who knew the heir to Storm's End best. "He is big, loud, but he can quickly captivate someone's heart..."

Rickard nodded, staring deeply into the licking flames.

"That is charisma. A thing every high noble must possess," explained Rickard. "Charisma greatly helps a leader to be respected by the people, liked by allies, and lead them through difficult times. It is one of the many things that are truly important in ruling. Because of that, a person must also continue to maintain it. The way? By not embarrassing oneself in public and not doing something silly that could destroy that authority."

"But what truly matters in this world is power, isn't it?" Benjen fanned the fire, his eyes reflecting the red light. "If you are strong, you have a large army or a sharp sword, all that respect and obedience will be obtained easily. They will bow out of fear."

"Indeed, military and physical strength are important. But it is very fragile if you only rely on those things alone," answered Rickard. "Power without charisma and honor will only birth tyrants. And tyrants always end up with a knife in their own backs."

"Whatever it is, I'm just glad Lyanna seems to be pampered by her husband there...." whispered Benjen again, still looking a little sad.

Well, Rickard understood very well. Benjen and Lyanna were always together since childhood, inseparable like a pair of wolf pups. Losing a sister to a faraway place must leave a big hole in the boy's heart. Rickard understood how his son felt.

"The meat will be cooked soon. You better get the plates from the provision bag, Benjen," Ned broke the conversation, turning the position of the meat over the embers so it wouldn't burn.

The younger brother agreed, immediately stood up, and walked away towards their horses.

When Benjen was out of earshot, Rickard stared at Ned intently through the thin smoke.

"Brandon and Lyanna are already married," said Rickard softly. "And later, of course, it will be your turn, Ned. Do you have any specific desires for your future wife?"

Eddard didn't look at his father immediately. He kept turning the venison, his face unreadable.

"Why do you ask that now, Father?" answered Ned finally. "I do not have any preferences. As long as she is a good girl and her honor is maintained, I will love her and treat her right."

Rickard sighed. "Everyone surely has personal desires in their deepest heart, Ned. And you are no exception. Speak honestly to me when it's just the two of us."

Silence for a moment. There was only the popping sound of firewood eaten by fire. Ned finally lifted his face, staring straight into the campfire flame.

"If possible... I always wanted to marry for love, Father," admitted Ned, his voice very quiet, almost blown away by the night wind. "But I am not stupid. I know that true love preceding marriage is a luxury rarely possessed by families with a standing like ours, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Rickard agreed. "We cannot marry just anyone without considering advantages. Every marriage will directly affect the power, security, and future of our family name."

"In that case," Eddard turned, forcing a smile, "I will leave all those decisions to you, Father. I will obey your choice as a son and a Stark."

Rickard nodded, feeling grateful to have such a dutiful son. A peaceful silence crept back enveloping their camp, until finally Benjen returned bringing wooden plates and placing the sizzling pieces of roasted venison there.

The aroma of roasted meat coated in salt wafted very fragrantly, richly, and soothingly in this ice-cold air, which instantly made their mouths water. Rickard cut a piece of venison that had been roasted perfectly using his dagger, then devoured it.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he felt the flavor explode on his tongue. The meat was a little tough, its juices savory, mixed with the saltiness from the coarse salt and the aroma of wood smoke, creating an extraordinary combination.

As Lord of Winterfell, he often ate foods far more luxurious than this. His castle cooks could serve many things and would not bore him. But it was undeniable that the simple piece of meat currently in his mouth tasted more delicious than most banquet dishes. Perhaps because he hunted, cut, and roasted it himself over the fire he built. Or perhaps, the deliciousness came because he ate it after being so tired, sitting on a fallen log with his children, taking shelter under the starry Northern sky.

What was clear, he liked it very much. This was the taste of survival.

He opened his eyes and looked at Benjen and Ned sitting across the campfire. His two sons were eating quietly and looked very ravenous, occasionally blowing on the meat pieces still billowing hot steam before putting them into their mouths. Rickard smiled seeing that sight in silence, letting the warmth of the fire and togetherness seep into his aging bones.

After a silence of a few minutes, where only the sound of chewing and the crackling of firewood was heard, Ned opened his mouth again.

"This is very delicious food, Father," praised Ned sincerely, wiping leftover grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "You are good at seasoning it."

"This is just basic seasoning, Son. A little salt and pepper we brought. You flatter your father too much," Rickard laughed softly. He took his waterskin and drank a few gulps to clear his throat.

"It takes years of experience to know how close the meat should be placed to the fire, I guess," joked Ned, a thin smile forming on his usually stiff face.

Then, Ned's gaze lowered back to his wooden plate. The smile faded slowly. "I am thinking about something, Father."

"What is it?" asked Rickard.

"It's about the news you shared with me last time," Ned began, staring at the swaying fire. "With the many prisoners coming marching from the South... the Night's Watch will have many new members, more than ever before. How many are there? Five hundred? Seven hundred? What's clear is, that large group will continue to grow into more as time goes by, right?"

"Exactly almost eight hundred men if rounded up, according to the estimate of the last letter," answered Rickard, nodding in confirmation.

Rickard knew those numbers well. Every few weeks, ravens always came bringing letters from King's Landing, Riverrun, and Castle Black, giving him information regarding the latest waves of Night's Watch members being marched.

It was relieving news, of course. Night's Watch officers usually liked to come to Winterfell with tired faces to check the castle dungeons, begging if Rickard had one or two thief prisoners to hand over to them. At times like that, Rickard often sympathized with them greatly, because there were very few free men in this era who truly wanted to take the vow and throw their lives away to guard the freezing borders of the Wall.

Getting a windfall of eight hundred grown men was an extraordinary blessing for the Lord Commander at Castle Black. At least, the Wall would not lack hands to hold bows if the Wildlings acted up again.

"Why are you thinking about that, Ned?" Rickard asked.

"Because we are eating hunted meat in the middle of this forest, I am thinking about their stomachs," said Ned. "I am wondering if the food supply there... will be enough with the sudden relocation of hundreds of people? Mouths to feed doubled overnight, and winter might not be too far away from coming."

"Of course their supply is more than enough, Ned," Rickard reassured, eating his last piece of meat. "You must remember that those prisoners travel on foot, in chains, under the escort of armed soldiers. They need a very long time, weeks, up to a full month and a half, just to reach their destination gates."

Rickard pointed to the north with his dagger.

"That time gap is more than enough. The Night's Watch must have received warning ravens and are preparing to increase their granary stocks. And they also have their own ways to get independent supplies. Do not forget The Gift, the vast land managed directly by the Watch. The food harvested there is quite a lot. And of course, the Lords in the North, including us, will donate extra grain. It is our tradition to support the crows."

"Ah, that is good then," Ned nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly from relief. "There will be no mass starvation incidents at the Wall that could trigger new rebellions from the recruits. I... I was quite worried the same thing would happen here, in the North, like the disaster that happened in the South."

Ned looked at his father. "Especially in the Riverlands and King's Landing. That is where the worst riots are, right?"

Yes. It was very severe there, and bloody.

Rickard knew that from the Maesters and from Hoster Tully's private letters. Dozens of lives were trampled in the capital just because of free bread queues. Barns were burned in the countryside.

Rickard truly couldn't fathom it and didn't know why those Southern nobles did such very stupid things. Firing their farmers and farmhands who had served for generations, then just throwing them out onto the streets to starve, just because they had recently bought one or two seed drills. It was greed blinding common sense.

Tools should exist to help lighten the workload, not to replace humans entirely, thought Rickard sharply.

The North also got those innovative tools. With their strong connection through the marriage of Lysa Tully and Brandon, Winterfell had imported dozens of new-style plows and seed sowers. But Rickard Stark didn't fire a single one of his farmers.

Why should he? The North's demographics were very different from the South's, they had a territory larger than all the other kingdoms combined, infinite empty lands, yet they severely lacked human labor to work them.

Now, with the new machines working ten times faster, Rickard led his farmers to open and plow new fields that were previously too wild to touch. They expanded the Northern agricultural area massively. The people kept working, but now one village could harvest three times as much.

Even so, because of the climate that could not be fought, the North still had to buy a lot of additional food supplies from the South, even though prices were somewhat more expensive than before due to market fluctuations. But now, with Winterfell's granaries filled fuller than in any history thanks to land expansion, they didn't need to worry too much about starving to death when winter arrived later.

It was a quite ironic and strange situation. The same inventions caused starvation and riots in the fertile South, yet brought stability and hope in the freezing North. It all boiled down to how a Lord decided to rule.

"You are right," Rickard responded. "This is a valuable lesson. This makes us all have to think that every advancement of civilization or new invention must be planned carefully in its application. If you only see gold coins in front of your eyes and ignore the fate of your people, this is the consequence that will certainly be experienced."

"Very terrible, Father," Benjen finally spoke up. "Do not let the North experience such a thing. If Northerners rebel, it will be far more brutal than the farmers in the Riverlands."

"No," Rickard smiled reassuringly. "Of course that will never happen in our lands. Not as long as I am still alive and breathing. I will ensure every man in the North has a place near the hearth and food in his bowl."

Rickard patted his knees then stood up, feeling the increasingly biting night air.

"Never mind, let us end this conversation. Finish your leftovers, it's not good to eat when it's already cold and the fat is frozen," ordered Rickard gently.

His sons obeyed without argument. In a few minutes, they finished the remaining meat and cleaned their plates using leftover drinking water and dry leaves.

Once everything was settled, they kicked wet dirt onto the campfire, ensuring every ember died completely so as not to cause a forest fire. The last smoke billowed white into the night air before disappearing.

...

The horses raced cutting through the morning mist still hanging low in the air.

Rickard Stark felt the wind hit his face hard. Around him, giant trees flashed by quickly like shadows of silent guards. They had departed shortly after dawn broke.

The journey back to Winterfell always felt faster than when departing. Or maybe it was just Rickard's feeling already missing the warmth of his castle's hearth.

When finally the towering double grey walls of Winterfell started to become visible through the trees, Rickard sighed a long sigh. The small party slowed down as they passed through the main gates opened wide, entering the castle courtyard which was already starting to get busy with the morning activities of servants, blacksmiths, and guards.

Rickard pulled his horse's reins to a graceful stop. He dismounted from the saddle with practiced movements, his knees popping slightly in protest. He handed his horse's reins to a stableboy who immediately bowed respectfully, then parted with his sons. Ned and Benjen walked away towards the armory to put away their bows, still chatting enthusiastically about yesterday's hunt.

Then, from the direction of the Great Hall's double doors, Rickard saw Brandon walking approaching him.

His eldest son wore a grey tunic with a direwolf sigil on the chest, his hair combed back and still looking a bit wild. Brandon smiled broadly, a smile that always managed to melt the tension around him.

"Had fun in the woods, Father?" greeted Brandon. "I see that meat is quite big. Ned caught it or Benjen?"

"They both shot it, a very good shot," answered Rickard, stepping closer to his son. "And you? You didn't destroy this castle or accidentally burn something while I was gone, did you?"

It was a joke, something Rickard very rarely did. Brandon laughed out loud. The laugh echoed in the cold courtyard.

"You underestimate me too much, Father!" Brandon shook his head with amusement. "How could I destroy this castle when my wife lives in it? Lysa would kill me instantly before the first stone could fall!"

"Well, she had better do exactly that if you really do something stupid," Rickard chuckled softly, a sincere smile expanding on his face.

The two of them walked side by side across the yard, exchanging light conversation for a moment regarding minor reports from castle servants and today's weather. It felt pleasant. Brandon had grown into a reliable man, even though his wild soul was still there. At least, the marriage to Lysa Tully had provided an anchor holding his son back from acting impulsively too often.

After that brief conversation was finished, Rickard patted Brandon's shoulder and resumed his steps towards the main keep.

He desperately wanted to bathe. His muscles screamed for mercy. A night in the woods was indeed fun and full of deep peace, yes. But, by the Gods, it was very exhausting. Sleeping on hard ground with only a blanket and blowing wind made his bones ache. Sometimes, in moments like this, Rickard forgot that he was old. He was no longer a youth who could climb cliffs in the middle of a blizzard without feeling pain the next day. His body needed warmth.

Upon arriving at his chamber, servants had prepared everything.

When a round wooden bathtub filled with steaming hot water was ready, Rickard immediately stripped off his thick clothes and his smoke-smelling leathers. He stepped in slowly, letting his body sink into the water.

That hot sensation immediately attacked his skin, but quickly turned into an embrace that relaxed the stiff muscles in his shoulders and legs. The hot water indeed made him very calm. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the edge of the wooden tub, and loved it. Warm steam surrounded his face, melting the remnants of frost from the journey.

For a moment, he felt very much like closing his eyes completely and falling asleep again right here, in this soothing warmth.

However, a Lord's discipline overcame drowsiness. Instead, he took a rough brush and a piece of soap, then began scrubbing his body vigorously. He removed the dirt and dust clinging to his skin. After feeling truly clean and the water around him started to turn lukewarm, he stood up.

A servant immediately handed a thick towel. Rickard dried his body, then put on the clean clothes that had been prepared: a soft white linen shirt, thick wool trousers, and a comfortable dark grey tunic.

Feeling much fresher and energized, he left the chamber and walked towards his solar. Warm air from the brightly burning fireplace greeted him. The room was neat, the smell of old books and wax dominating the air.

Rickard walked closer to his large writing desk made of black wood. He pulled a chair and sat down with a sigh of relief. He began sorting through the stacks of parchment and reports waiting for him while he was away hunting. However, amidst that routine of sorting documents, his hand suddenly stopped.

His grey eyes squinted, raising one eyebrow with full attention.

Among the stack of ordinary parchments, there was a letter that stood out. Its paper was thick, very high quality. And what caught the most attention was the large wax seal locking its folds.

The wax was a deep blood-red color, and stamped clearly upon it was the sigil of a roaring lion.

It was a letter from House Lannister.

---

And, thanks for reading, you can read 5 chapters ahead on my Patreon! and, if you enjoy the story, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi.

If you have any further suggestions, feel free to drop by the Discord!

 

[Daario]

RICKARD | TYRION​

---

Rickard stared at the letter in silence. His large hands touched the edges of the paper carefully. He wondered what the Lannisters had sent this time.

The last communication he received from Casterly Rock was from Ser Kevan Lannister, months ago. That letter contained the final agreement to buy more waves of seed drills and iron plows to expand the Northern farmlands. Since that large transaction was completed and those tools proved to work very well in Northern soil, they had no other pressing matters.

Until today.

Using a dagger, Rickard broke the wax seal. The cracking sound was loud in the quiet room.

The paper opened, smelling faintly of high-quality ink. Its surface displayed very neat, straight, and firm handwriting. A perfect reflection of its writer.

Rickard began to read.

"To Lord Rickard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

"As you have surely observed from afar, the progress of House Lannister in the Westerlands has grown more rapidly and exceeded all expectations in recent years. We no longer just mine gold from the belly of the earth, but have also created value from the mind. We have produced many advanced agricultural tools, paper manufactories with massive capacities, and also an invention we call Casterly Mortar, which is currently rebuilding the face of the capital and the kingdom to be sturdier.

"We have had a highly profitable previous cooperation in the distribution of agricultural tools. Because of that good history, this time I intend to offer a proposal that will help you out of most of the chronic problems that always haunt your people due to the unfriendly Northern climate.

"In the past, to buy greenhouses, the lords in Westeros had to rely entirely on the artisans in Myr, across the open sea. The prices they offered were also very unreasonable, squeezing our gold just for a few fragile sheets of glass.

"With the advancement of science and smelting that we sponsor, the Lannisters have now successfully produced clear glass of the same quality, perhaps even stronger. If you are interested, I can supply and build those greenhouses in the North for you and your bannermen. The price we offer will be far cheaper than Myr. Half, or even with certain methods and agreements, it could drop to a quarter of the Essosi market price.

"Of course, I am no philanthropist, and there is something I want in return from your land. To drive our new manufactories and fleets today, I need a massive supply of wool and quality timber. If you are interested, we can discuss this further.

"I await your answer.

"Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock."

Finishing the last line, Rickard did not react immediately. He placed both hands on the table, continuing to stare at the object in his hands with an unchanging expression.

Inside his chest, however, his heart beat at a faster rhythm. This was a very big thing. Too big to be decided in a single breath.

He took a deep breath, his lungs expanding, then he placed the paper on the table. He leaned his back against the chair, directing his gaze upwards, staring at the iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Since ancient times, the North had always been shadowed by the ghost of starvation. The fluctuating, extreme weather and blizzards arriving earlier than expected were the deadliest causes of death.

The very wealthy lords, indeed, would drain their gold treasuries to buy greenhouses. With that luxurious facility, they could grow vegetables, medicinal plants, and fruits even in the middle of a blizzard, warmed by geothermal hot springs. Therefore, if only for the main Stark family, Rickard didn't need to worry too much about starvation.

But what about the poorer lords and the others? They had absolutely none of that luxury. Often, if the harvest was truly depleted by frost, they would not have much storage to survive.

So, if Tywin Lannister's offer was true and could be realized on a large scale... this could change many things. A much cheaper price for glass meant Rickard could make building greenhouses for his bannermen much easier.

Shaking his head to banish his reverie, Rickard stood up from his chair.

He walked towards the solar door, opened it slightly, and looked at the two guards standing tall outside.

"Summon Maester Luwin," ordered Rickard. "And find my sons. I want Brandon and Eddard to meet me in the solar right now."

"Yes, My Lord," answered the guards in unison, immediately hurrying to carry out the order.

Rickard closed the door again. He walked towards a small table where a jug of dark ale sat. He poured a full cup for himself, waiting. He felt he had to discuss it, because for a matter that truly changed the map of economic power, a Lord must not act based solely on his single instinct. This decision would bind the North in the coming decades.

After a while, the door opened again. They all entered and gathered in the sitting area near the fireplace.

Under the sunlight still hanging from the window, Brandon and Ned took seats next to each other on a long leather sofa. Brandon looked relaxed, crossing his legs, his face bright after sword practice. Ned, as usual, sat with a stiffer, upright posture, his eyes sweeping the room calmly. Maester Luwin, a small-built man with chains of various metals clinking softly at his neck, took an armchair on the left. While Rickard sat in the main chair facing them all.

"I received a message from the South today," Rickard began without pleasantries.

"Read this, Maester Luwin," ordered Rickard, handing the paper to the Maester. "Read it loud enough so my sons here can hear it and understand every written word."

Maester Luwin nodded obediently. Cleared his throat softly, and began to read. His voice was deep and echoed in that quiet study, articulating every word exactly the same as what was written in Tywin Lannister's letter.

As Luwin read about 'Casterly Mortar' and 'a quarter of the price', Rickard secretly observed his two sons' reactions.

He saw Brandon and Ned simultaneously frown, looking like they were trying to digest the implications of that offer. When Luwin finished his reading and refolded the letter, the two brothers exchanged glances for a moment.

Staring at the two of them, Rickard placed his hands on his knees, then smiled thinly.

"You heard for yourselves what Lord Lannister just said, didn't you?" asked Rickard, his eyes moving from Brandon to Ned. "What do you think?"

Brandon was the first to break the silence. He nodded firmly, rubbing his rough chin.

"Honestly, it is an extraordinarily good offer, Father. To build a greenhouse right now, we usually can only get those glass panels from Myr. And because of the geographical distance, as well as the risk of crossing the ocean... the price becomes very expensive. The transportation cost alone can strangle the neck."

"And with this facility existing on a wider scale, we can indeed plant even in extreme weather," Ned added with a more measured tone. "At least we won't worry too much anymore if snow suddenly falls freezing the fields. The availability of fresh food will save thousands of lives."

Ned looked at his father intently. "And I am sure that the other vassal Lords will also be very happy to accept it. Sure, some of them out there might grumble at first about accepting kindness from 'cunning Southerners', but a full stomach will always silence a noisy mouth. Considering how they were initially skeptical too but ultimately heavily relied upon when we got new farming tools from the Lannisters before."

"They won't complain much," Brandon snorted softly, grinning confidently. "We are not accepting this as charity. We are doing this by way of trade, and that is an honorable thing. Lord Lannister also desperately needs us, as he himself said in his letter, wool and timber. The North has many very valuable things that even we ourselves often don't realize the value of."

"So, in conclusion, you think this is an offer we cannot and should not refuse?" Rickard confirmed, his tone testing their conviction.

"Yes, of course," answered Brandon without hesitation.

"But, with all due respect, we must also look further and more keenly at what conditions the Lannisters demand, My Lord," Maester Luwin finally spoke up, interrupting them.

Luwin placed the letter on the small table between them. "Lord Brandon is right that this is a trade. But the promise of price cuts down to 'a quarter' of the Myrish price... that is a promise too sweet. No merchant, let alone Tywin Lannister, would slash prices that far without asking for commensurate concessions. If the material price is cheap, we must make sure if it is truly worth the invisible bonds he will wrap around us."

Rickard understood perfectly the point of caution Luwin meant. In this world, nothing was truly free, especially from a Lannister. A Lion always demanded the lion's share. He chuckled softly, they echoed it.

"An offer at a quarter of the price indeed teases common sense," Rickard agreed, leaning his back again. "Perhaps he wants an exclusive monopoly over all our timber exports. Or perhaps he wants special privileges to import his goods tax-free in the North in return."

"But, I am also very sure that these negotiations are still entirely within your ability to control, My Lord," Luwin nodded. "It is unlikely Lord Lannister will ask for things that are too far-reaching or detrimental to your sovereignty. He is the Hand of the King, a very astute politician. He fully understands the values of mutual benefit. He knows his limits. The offer he gave should be designed in such a way that, ultimately, it will not allow you to refuse without looking foolish."

"He needs us just as much as we need his glass," muttered Ned softly, summarizing the core of the entire meeting.

Rickard nodded slowly, agreeing with all their assessments. The North was indeed harsh, but they had abundant resources that now, perhaps, were being targeted by the Lannisters.

This economic alliance, if managed correctly, would make House Stark unrivaled in the North and secure their future in facing any threat.

Rickard stood up, walking to his desk while holding the cup filled with ale he had poured earlier. He stared at the dark liquid inside the glass for a moment, seeing the reflection of the firelight on its surface.

He raised the glass slightly, as if toasting the letter on the table, and drank it empty.

...

Tyrion Lannister lay flat on his back on the large bed, sinking into a mattress too vast for his small body. He stared at his room's ceiling without blinking. His eyes followed the grooves and patterns of the wood carved up there.

Some of the wood patterns looked interesting to him, forming an abstract pattern. If he squinted, one of those wooden swirls looked like his father's scowling face. In another corner, a fine crack line reminded him of a river on a map. And near the window frame, he could see a line of small ants moving with discipline. They were carrying crumbs of small white objects, towards some secret nest who knows where...

Tyrion snorted softly, he tilted his heavy body, a piece of thick paper lying carelessly on the mattress touched his cheek.

He stared at the paper with a flat gaze, then sighed heavily and picked it up.

On the paper was drawn the concept of a new game he was developing. For the past few days, his boredom had reached a critical point. While pondering in the library, he thought about the betting culture that was always present at every tournament, in every tavern, and in every soldier's camp. Fools liked to throw their money away to bet on which horse was fastest or which knight would unseat his opponent.

But tournaments required large fields, expensive warhorses, and blood. What if he could shrink all that tension and gambling sensation into something that could be held in the palm of a hand?

So, he began to create a game concept based on stiff sheets of paper that relied on a blend of absolute luck and mathematical strategy. Currently, he had just finished thinking of some card designs and certain combinations. His tiny hands traced the rough drawings he made with charcoal.

The symbols on the cards themselves had four kinds, representing the four pillars of the world he observed. Among them were: Swords, Coins, Cups, and Ravens.

In his design, each suit would have numbered cards from one to ten, which he would use as base power values. Then, above those numbers, there were high-level cards: King, Queen, and Knight. He called them 'Face Cards'.

And of course, among all that rigid hierarchy, there was one special card.

Tyrion stared at the design of the last card he drew very carefully. This was a card that was... strange, not bound to any one suit. In the rules he was compiling, this card had the absolute power to break the rules. This card could turn into anything according to the desire of the lucky player who got it to complete a certain winning combination. A wild card that destroyed the opponent's probability.

He called it The Imp.

Tyrion's lips curled into a wry smile full of bitterness yet pride. If this game was later mass-produced and played by everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, they would all know who made it!

Every time a player won a pile of gold coins by using The Imp card, they would see and indirectly acknowledge that a man who was not tall, a 'monster' they often mocked in songs and whispers, could also create great things that controlled their amusement! It was the sweetest form of revenge Tyrion could imagine. A conquest across the gambling table.

However, he shook his head in frustration, banishing that premature euphoria.

Tyrion was not done with the rules. Everything still had logical flaws. He had to recalculate the mathematical probability of the number of cards dealt. This deadlock made him a little frustrated, like an itch inside his skull that couldn't be scratched.

Moreover, his day had been interrupted by another task. Uncle Kevan, this morning, sent a servant to tell him to get out of his room and inspect the industrial buildings still being built around Lannisport.

Why did he order an eleven-year-old boy to do that supervisory work? grumbled Tyrion inwardly. Very annoying. Does he lack adults who can tell the difference between bricks and horse dung?

But, deep down in his heart, rarely admitted, Tyrion knew the real reason. Uncle Kevan did it because he trusted him.

It's just that... Tyrion was very lazy today. He just wanted to fall asleep alone here, rolling around surrounded by the scattered concept papers of his game, some snacks, and unread books.

With a long and dramatic sigh that no one heard, Tyrion finally got up.

He struggled to slide his body to the edge of the bed, his stunted legs looking for a foothold on the small stool always prepared there. Getting down from the mattress was a physical job in itself. Once his feet touched the stone floor covered by a thick carpet, he walked towards his wooden desk. He tidied his messy pale blond hair a little, put his concept paper rolls into a drawer, then took a small leather bag he always carried, a blank notebook, and a few sticks of writing charcoal.

He dragged his steps towards the heavy chamber door, opened it slightly, and called the guard specifically assigned to accompany him today.

"Will!" shouted Tyrion.

A man stepped forward from the shadows of the hallway. Will was the opposite of Tyrion in every physical aspect. The man was very tall, perhaps reaching over one hundred and eighty centimeters, with shoulders as wide as a door and a face that never smiled. His muscles bulged under his leather armor. Obviously, with a posture like that, he would easily protect Tyrion if there were street thugs or drunk laborers who dared to mess around.

"Do you know where we are going today, Will?" asked Tyrion, tilting his head up until his neck ached a little.

Will looked down at him, his thick eyebrows joining together. His voice sounded heavy and confused, like grinding stones. "No, My Lord. I was only told to escort you wherever you go until sunset."

"Of course you don't know. Why did I expect you to have mind-reading abilities?" Tyrion chuckled, a dry-sounding noise. "We will tour this dusty port city. My uncle, in his infinite wisdom, ordered me to supervise the construction projects of the surrounding manufactories and record whatever I see with my own eyes."

Tyrion began walking down the hallway, his steps rhythmically uneven due to his legs, while Will followed behind with slow steps so as not to overtake.

"He wants the report in great detail today, Will," continued Tyrion, his hand swinging in the air. "As if he is scared to death that one of the carpenters is missing a single nail, or some lazy construction worker is hiding behind a pile of straw for a nap."

"Yes, My Lord," answered Will, his voice flat.

Tyrion stopped his steps, turning to look at his guard.

"So," said Tyrion. "I also order you right now to help me keep watch. Your eyes are higher than mine, you have a height advantage. See something strange, a cracked stone, a person looking like they want to steal tools, and report to me. If not, if you just walk behind me like a decorative statue, you are no more than a giant piece of meat who only knows how to swing a sword."

Will fell silent for a moment. His jaw hardened, processing the insult.

"I will do that as you command, My Lord," answered Will formally, bowing stiffly. "I will tell you if I see anything strange no matter how small."

"Good," said Tyrion, ending that one-way conversation.

He turned and resumed walking towards the castle gates. By the Seven Gods, complained Tyrion inwardly. The man is so stiff and boring. However, Tyrion was also smart enough to know that the man was just trying hard to maintain the boundary between superior and subordinate. Will was probably just afraid of getting fired from this high-paying job, or worse, sent to the dungeons, if he said something wrong or tried to be too familiar with lion's blood. Being the guard for 'The Imp' of Casterly Rock was a duty requiring much patience and few words.

They exited the gates of Casterly Rock, descended the winding stone path, and entered the belly of Lannisport city.

The streets of Lannisport this afternoon were very crowded as usual. People were everywhere, merchants from various regions, porters, and street children running around. The population of Lannisport had multiplied month by month. This was the pillar of the Westerlands, a paradise for anyone with two strong hands and a desire to seek coin.

Tyrion looked around the row of new buildings being built along the industrial district. It was very noisy here. The sound of wood-cutting saws and creaking carts echoed endlessly. The air was very dusty with flying brick and lime particles, making Tyrion have to squint his eyes constantly and cough softly.

He reached into his cloak pocket, taking out a face covering cloth or thick linen mask commonly used by all factory workers to protect their lungs. A health idea from Jaime, of course. Tyrion tied it covering his nose and mouth, then opened his leather bag, taking out a thick book and a stick of charcoal to prepare to take notes.

They arrived at the first location. In a vast clearing, there were about thirty to forty workers busy erecting the framework of a large building.

From the blueprints Tyrion had seen on his uncle's desk, this was a project intended to be a place for weaving cloth on a massive scale. The red brick walls had started to rise as high as a grown man's shoulder. The foundation looked very thick and straight. The workers were installing wooden scaffolding in an organized rhythm. They looked to be working very well, no one was sitting around, and no one looked confused.

Tyrion stood on the side of the road, observing the structure for a few minutes. His large head nodded slowly. The quality of work was good. He just opened his book and jotted down straight lines without needing to correct anything. Uncle Kevan really didn't need to worry; these people, these specially trained master builders, knew exactly what they were doing.

"Do you see anything strange, Will?" asked Tyrion with a muffled voice behind his mask, without turning.

"No, My Lord," answered Will obediently from up there, his voice booming over the noise of hammers. "They all seem to be working well. No one is fighting or sleeping."

"How do you know? Do we share the same pair of eyes? Or did you happen to see a worker steal a nail into his pocket from your height?" Tyrion joked, his tone testing.

Will frowned deeply. He took the order literally. He stared at the workers more intensely, squinting his eyes, observing the movement of every hand holding a hammer once again with precision.

After a minute passed, Will gave up. "Forgive me if I do not have eyes as sharp as yours to see their hidden flaws, My Lord. I found nothing."

Tyrion rolled his eyes to the sky. "Yes, good then. Because honestly I also do not see any mistakes. I was just making sure you were not sleeping standing up."

He then walked stepping into the construction area, avoiding piles of gravel and mounds of sand. He approached one of the men wearing a slightly cleaner tunic with a piece of paper in his hand. The project foreman.

The foreman was a middle-aged man whose body looked very fit and sweaty. And most importantly, he was very tall, perhaps reaching over one hundred and ninety centimeters. This was very annoying for Tyrion, because it meant he had to bend his neck backward, looking up painfully constantly if he wanted to talk to him.

"Everything running smoothly?" said Tyrion loudly, cutting through the sound of saws in the background.

The foreman was startled for a moment hearing the voice below him. However, he immediately knew who the figure standing there was just by seeing his unnaturally short height and golden blonde hair. There was no other dwarf in this city escorted by a flashy armored guard. The man immediately bowed politely and smiled gently.

"Yes, My Lord," the foreman answered respectfully, lowering his voice so it sounded clearer. "We have started building the main support wall section. A few days prior, we had measured the foundation three times, so this is all under control and very precise."

"Good," Tyrion noted that in his book with one quick charcoal stroke. He then looked at the foreman's face again. "Then what about the food and water for the workers? You are not short? Are your drinking water barrels frequently replaced?"

"No shortages, My Lord." The foreman shook his head with certainty. "They have all been well-provided every morning by the soup kitchen. We never lack rations of dried meat or bread, and water is always available. That is the most important thing emphasized. If that were to happen, if rations were cut, those workers would certainly start complaining. They all need full energy intake to lift bricks that heavy every day."

"Well, that is a very good thing to hear. A miracle where rulers actually feed their laborers before ordering them to sweat," Tyrion nodded.

"If you lack anything, be it raw materials, scaffolding wood, or just drinking water supplies, make sure to report it immediately to your superiors at the port. I do not want any project hindered just because of logistical negligence."

"I will certainly do that, My Lord," the foreman nodded firmly.

As Tyrion prepared to leave and note down the final part, his attention was diverted. He heard strange noisy sounds, not construction sounds, but the creaking of ships and shouts of command echoing loudly from the direction of the docks down there.

He turned his body and squinted, trying to pierce the thin sea mist. In the distance, at the vast harbor, there were many people running around preparing something.

He saw large red sails unfurled. Warships were preparing. It was certainly the largest part of the Lannister naval fleet being put on standby. Those ships with long prows and thick hulls moved into position to escort dozens of merchant ships whose bellies were bloated with cargo.

The foreman also saw the same thing Tyrion saw. He folded his muscular arms, staring sharply towards the sea, then spoke.

"Pirate activity in the Stepstones archipelago seems to be getting worse lately, doesn't it, My Lord?" asked the foreman, shaking his head. "I have worked building manufactories in this port for the last few months, and this is the largest deployment of a warship fleet I have ever seen in a single trade escort. As if they are preparing for a naval war, not just trading."

Tyrion did not take his eyes off the ship masts towering arrogantly challenging the sky. His brain immediately assembled the fragments of political information he heard from Uncle Kevan.

"Yes. That is indeed what we should do, Foreman," Tyrion was still staring at the sea, his voice losing its joking tone. "If we let those water rats pirate even one ship without retaliation, they will be the ones laughing and we will be the ones bearing the loss. Reputation is everything."

Tyrion gripped his notebook. "Since we sent these armed escorts, we have burned and sunk many pirate ships to the bottom of the ocean. My father does not tolerate thieves. Let us just see how far those people across the sea have enough gold to keep funding this stupid game, before the Lion's fleet levels their islands."

---

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