Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Tywin Lannister sat alone in the vast silence of his solar in the Tower of the Hand. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound to break the thick quiet. Outside, King's Landing pulsed with its filthy, noisy life, but here, in this center of power, the world seemed to be held at bay. On his massive oaken desk, among the reports and royal decrees, lay a letter from Casterly Rock.

He felt a strangeness in the medium he held. This was not parchment. It was whiter, almost flawless, and its texture, though smooth, had a slight fibrous roughness that felt alien under his fingers. It was light, almost weightless, yet the words written upon it carried an immense weight.

He had read the letters from Kevan with the efficiency that had become his trademark. The first part was as expected: reports on Casterly Rock, the health of his vassals, and meticulous details of taxation. Kevan was always thorough, a reliable man who kept the Westerlands running smoothly while Tywin was occupied by the larger, though often more foolish, duties of the realm.

Then, at the end of the letter, he finally found it. The part written in a slightly different tone, a tone of barely restrained astonishment that was very unusual for his calm brother.

"Since this letter was sent, Jaime and Cersei are still preparing their things for King's Landing. And Tywin, he has created something that might change the structure of this kingdom."

Tywin paused for a moment, his pale green eyes narrowing.

"What you are holding now is 'paper,'" the letter continued. "Jaime made it himself, with the help of theory from Maester Creylen and the labor of Jon, his sworn sword."

Kevan then explained the details of the paper, about how it was made from cheap cloth, not from expensive animal hides. He explained its potential for mass production. And then, he got to the heart of the matter, to the strategic thinking he knew Tywin would understand.

"Jaime explained that with cheaper paper, information can be spread more easily and more quickly. And perhaps later, when they can create a 'printing press,' a concept he is still developing, House Lannister might be able to hold and control what information is spread throughout the kingdom. He also explained the income that could be generated from the sale of this paper. It would be like a new, endless stream of gold."

Tywin set the letter down, but he did not release the sheet of paper itself. He was silent. Of course, Jaime had mentioned his "project" in the brief letters he sent every fortnight. Tywin had read about what he was doing with the metal blocks. He had dismissed it as the amusement of a clever boy, a way to occupy his restless mind. He had given it his tacit permission, wanting to see where his son's curiosity would lead him. He had not expected this.

He had not expected a tangible result, a result he could hold in his hands.

A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Tywin's lips.

Jaime, at the tender age of nine, was already thinking about information control, mass production, and new revenue streams. The boy was everything Tywin could have wanted in an heir. Sharp, ambitious, and able to see beyond the sword and shield. The proof he now held, this paper, made Tywin trust him even more. The boy wasn't just talking nonsense. He had potential. A real and frightening potential.

Tywin valued brains. He had used his own to drag House Lannister out of the disgrace his father had left it in and return it to the pinnacle of power. But even he had never thought like this. He had never thought of "invention," of creating an entirely new source of wealth and power from nothing. Tywin used his brain to think rationally, to politic with clarity, to look into a man's soul and find his weakness. Jaime… Jaime was thinking of changing the very foundations of that world.

He set Kevan's letter down, but his hand still held the sheet of paper, feeling its new and possibility-filled texture.

Jaime was nine years old. He was still young. But in their world, the sons of great Houses were assets to be managed from an early age. And the most valuable assets had to be secured with the strongest alliances. The people around Tywin, the Lords from various places, had already begun their initial maneuvers, peddling their daughters like the finest horses at a fair.

Until now, Tywin had not given it much thought. But now, with such tangible proof of Jaime's potential in his hands, the thought came to the surface.

There were several potential candidates. He could marry Jaime to a daughter of House Crakehall, or Marbrand, or one of the other powerful Houses in the Westerlands. It would be a safe move, one that would strengthen his grip on his own territory. But Tywin Lannister never played it safe. Playing it safe was for men who were afraid to lose.

Then there were the others, the daughters of the great Lords. Catelyn Tully, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. A match with the Riverlands would be a strategic move, securing the center of the kingdom. Hoster was an ambitious man, and his daughter was said to have her mother's beauty and her father's spirit. A solid asset.

From the North. Lyanna Stark, Rickard Stark's daughter. Uniting Casterly Rock with Winterfell would be an unprecedented move, tying the vast North into Lannister's power.

And then there was Janna Tyrell. Twelve years old, already beginning to blossom. A match with House Tyrell would unite the gold of Casterly Rock with the fertile fields of the Reach. Gold and food. Wealth and population.

His thoughts naturally turned to his other twin. Cersei. His most perfect prize. He had planned her destiny since the day she was born. Cersei would be Queen. She would sit beside Prince Rhaegar on the Iron Throne, and the blood of the lion would merge with the blood of the dragon.

But Aerys… the King was truly unstable now. Every time Tywin carefully suggested the match between Cersei and Rhaegar, the King would just change the subject, or mutter about "thinking about it," his violet eyes flickering with paranoia. As if there were someone better than a Lannister for the Iron Throne. As if his gold and his daughter's intelligence were not enough. The insult felt like a hot coal in Tywin's gut.

He forcibly pushed the thought from his mind, returning it to the steel box in his mind where he kept all his frustrations. He could not control the madness of a King. But he could control his son's future.

Tywin decided to go out. The same walls that usually gave him a sense of power and control now felt suffocating, as if the echoes of the King's growing madness were seeping through the cracks in the stone. He needed to think, and fresh air, even the polluted air of King's Landing, sometimes helped to clear the mind.

He walked down the vast corridors of the Red Keep, his steady footsteps making no echo on the Myrish carpets. The white-cloaked Kingsguard guards bowed respectfully as he passed, their faces expressionless behind their helms. Courtiers and servants moved out of his way, bowing their heads in a mixture of fear and respect. He was the true power in this castle, and everyone knew it.

Everyone, it seemed, except the King himself.

His mind drifted back to the past, to a time that felt simpler, clearer. Aerys, Steffon, and himself. Three young men, bound by ambition, war, and a genuine friendship. Steffon Baratheon, with his booming laugh and his easy strength. Aerys Targaryen, once charming and full of spirit, his violet eyes sparkling with the promise of a golden age. And himself, Tywin, the quiet strategist, the anchor for his more spirited friends. They were an inseparable trio, bound by their shared experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was on the bloody battlefields of the Stepstones that he had truly earned Aerys's trust. That was why, when the throne became his, Aerys had called on him to be his Hand. It wasn't just because Tywin was competent; it was because he was his close friend.

But where was that warmth now? Lately, whenever Aerys looked at him, the King's eyes were different. The warmth of friendship had long since died, replaced by something else. Something flickering, restless, and filled with a poisonous suspicion. Tywin no longer understood what he was thinking. There was only one conclusion his logical mind could draw: madness. The King was going mad.

However, Tywin was not a fool. He understood the root of that madness, at least the part that was directed at him. Aerys might feel threatened. Threatened by him. Tywin had ruled this kingdom in Aerys's name. He had refilled the royal coffers that previous kings had emptied. He had built new roads, suppressed rebellious vassals, and enforced the King's justice with merciless efficiency. The kingdom ran smoothly under his watch.

And that was the problem. People saw it. When it came to this, people spoke of the Hand of the King, not of the King himself. Lords from distant lands came to him first to ask for permission or help. His voice carried more weight in the small council than the King's.

But this was his duty. The duty of a Hand was to rule. Aerys should have been grateful to him for bearing this burden, allowing the King to enjoy his feasts and tourneys. Aerys should have been grateful to him for repaying the crown's debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos, debts that his own father had accumulated.

But instead, Aerys slapped him in the face. Every day, in small, cunning ways. Rejecting his suggestions in public. Making demeaning jokes about lions and gold. And worst of all, the most painful, was the constant stalling regarding the match between Rhaegar and Cersei.

Once, this plan had been a foregone conclusion in Tywin's mind, a logical certainty. The Crown Prince would marry the daughter of his Hand. The blood of the dragon and the blood of the lion would unite, creating a dynasty that would rule for hundreds of years. It was the smartest, most powerful move. Even Aerys, in his saner days, had agreed to it in principle.

His aimless steps had taken him across the inner courtyard and towards the only place in the Red Keep that offered true silence. The Godswood.

He stepped under the shade of the ancient trees. Here, in this small pocket, the noise of the court seemed to vanish. The air felt cooler, smelling of damp earth and wet leaves. He was not a follower of the Old Gods, but he appreciated the silence and the age of this place.

As he stood there, in the silence, he heard it.

The sound of a harp.

The music drifted through the trees, a complex and melancholy melody filled with an indescribable sadness. Each note was played with perfect precision, yet filled with a raw emotion. A harp in the night. There was only one person in the entire Red Keep who could play like that.

Prince Rhaegar.

Tywin did not move. He remained in the shadows, hidden from view. He listened, his usually racing mind now calm, focused only on the music.

In that sad melody, he heard the echo of all his frustrations. He heard the beauty he wanted to claim for his daughter. He heard the dragon's blood he so desperately wanted to unite with his own. He heard the son of the man who stood in his way, the son of the man who had betrayed their friendship. The music was everything he wanted and everything he could not have, all woven into one heartbreaking song.

He felt no anger. Anger was a useless emotion. Instead, he felt something far colder, far harder. Determination.

The music stopped, leaving a silence deeper than before. Tywin did not move. He just stood in the growing darkness, listening to the echo of the last note fading in the air.

 

[Daario]

CERSEI

---

After a long and grueling month's journey, they finally arrived at King's Landing. The cramped, swaying carriage finally came to a halt, and for the first time in weeks, Cersei felt a silence that wasn't accompanied by the creaking of wheels or the whinnying of horses. What first came to Cersei's mind, as she peeked through the small window, was how magnificent the buildings were.

Oh, Casterly Rock was a marvel, certainly. Lannisport was a rich and bustling port city. But the Capital had a uniqueness all its own. The towers of the Red Keep soared into the sky like the petrified fingers of a dragon, the Targaryen banners fluttering majestically in the wind. Even from a distance, she could feel the pulse of this city's power, a wild and untamed energy that the orderly Westerlands lacked.

Perfect. This suited her. This was a stage worthy of a queen. A stage where she would one day rule alongside her prince.

As the carriage door opened and she stepped out, a wave of warmth greeted her. It was a different air from the cool sea breeze of Casterly Rock. This air was thicker, filled with a thousand different scents—spices from other parts of the world, the smell of woodsmoke from a thousand hearths, and beneath it all, the faint, unpleasant odor of too many people living in close quarters. But Cersei did not care. She breathed it in deeply, tasting her new world.

Then, she felt Jaime's gaze on her. She turned and immediately met it with a flat look. She would not show her excitement to Jaime. Not now. She walked towards him, her gown swishing over the stones of the courtyard. There, beside Jaime, stood Addam Marbrand, looking a little overwhelmed by the scale of the place, and the ever-present sworn sword, Jon.

"Don't wander off anywhere. We need to go see Father," Cersei said flatly, her tone sharp and commanding. She deliberately spoke to him as if he were a three-year-old, not her twin brother.

Jaime didn't retort sharply. Instead, there was a weary expression on his face, as if Cersei were just another annoyance on his long journey. "Yes, boss," he said quietly.

Boss? That strange word sounded foreign to Cersei's ears. What did it mean? It sounded like a word a dockworker would use. She wanted to hit him for using strange words she didn't understand, for having changed into someone she no longer recognized.

They were led by a captain of her father's guard, a man with a hard face whose name was unimportant to Cersei. They walked through corridors that felt darker and older than those in Casterly Rock, past tapestries depicting fighting dragons. After a while, they finally arrived at the door to the Tower of the Hand. The captain knocked.

Lord Tywin's deep and unmistakable voice, which always managed to make the hairs on Cersei's neck stand up, echoed from within. "Enter."

Their father was sitting behind a massive desk, looking like a king himself. The room was the embodiment of power: silent, orderly, and intimidating. Cersei and Jaime sat in the chairs before the desk, their backs straight and erect.

Tywin looked at them in a long silence, his pale green eyes assessing every detail of their appearance. Finally, he broke the silence.

"You arrived later than expected."

It was not a question. It was a statement, an accusation.

"The roads were rough and full of disruptions, Father," Cersei frowned, letting a note of complaint enter her voice. "The mud slowed the carriage wheels. I still remember when one of the horses neighed loudly in the blind heat of the day. The atmosphere felt like it wanted to kill me."

Father looked into her eyes for a few moments, then he turned to Jaime, as if Cersei's complaints were unimportant.

Jaime opened his mouth. "It was indeed like that," he agreed, which surprised Cersei. "But it was something interesting, because along the way I could see each village and its inhabitants more clearly."

Cersei almost snorted. Typical Jaime. Of course he would find something "interesting" in suffering. Of course he cared about the "villagers."

"You know why I summoned you here, don't you?" Tywin's tone was flat, ignoring their comments about the journey.

'To meet Prince Rhaegar,' Cersei thought instantly, her heart beating a little faster. She nodded gracefully. "Of course, Father. To learn. To socialize and make connections."

"To see how you lead," Jaime added, his tone calm.

"You are both correct," Tywin confirmed, and Cersei felt a wave of satisfaction. She had given the right answer. "All that you have mentioned is useful for a ruler. A solitary ruler will not be respected by their followers, even when they are from a prominent family. They still have to socialize and make connections to keep the sheep in the pasture."

Yes, Cersei thought, pleased. The sheep will continue to eat grass until the lions come and eat them. They exist only for us.

Tywin then did something unexpected. He opened a drawer in his large desk. Cersei leaned forward slightly, thinking he would take out a scroll or perhaps a piece of jewelry. Instead, he took out a stack of sheets of… that thing.

The thin white thing that Jaime had proudly shown off at dinner a month ago, before they left.

Paper!

Cersei's heart sank. The air seemed to be sucked out of her lungs. She knew now. She knew exactly where this conversation was going. Her moment, the discussion of her future, of Prince Rhaegar, had been hijacked. Again, this was all about Jaime and his stupid, dirty invention.

"You made this well."

The words were directed entirely at Jaime. Father didn't even glance at Cersei. It was as if she were just another piece of furniture in the room, a gilded ornament with no purpose other than to be sat upon and be silent. A cold, familiar anger began to creep into her stomach. This was supposed to be her moment, their moment. The moment when Father would see his daughter, his future queen, and begin to lay the plans for her destiny.

Jaime, of course, accepted the praise as if it were his birthright. He nodded, completely unfazed by Father's sharp gaze that could usually make even the most powerful Lords tremble. "After years of theorizing and planning various things, it was finally worth it."

Years? Cersei almost snorted. A few weeks ago you were still playing with a wooden sword and stealing cakes from the kitchen. Don't act like you're the Grand Maester.

"You said you could make tens of thousands in a few weeks?" Father's voice came again, still completely ignoring Cersei. And this time, there was a different note in his voice. Not just approval, but genuine interest.

Cersei hated it.

"Yes. Uncle Kevan has taken care of everything I asked for, Father. The waterwheel is being built. If everything is done correctly, it's not impossible," Jaime said, the calmness in his voice making Cersei even more sick. He spoke as if he were discussing a wheat harvest, not an impossible invention.

"With the price of parchment these days," Father tapped a long, well-manicured finger on the polished wooden desk. It was a sharp, calculating sound. "If we start selling this for just half the price, it will disrupt the market."

Jaime smiled, a small, sly smile that reminded Cersei of a fox. "Not just that, Father. A lot of paper means there will be a lot of useful writings. There we can make people read more. When many people are literate, a kingdom will be more prosperous. Administration more structured, information easier to obtain." He leaned forward, his green eyes sparkling with a strange enthusiasm. "And most importantly, as Lannisters who hold all that, information can be spun solely for our own benefit. Then, Lannisport will get many visitors from many places to get this 'paper.' There, money will flow like the tide."

Cersei listened, and though she hated every word that came out of Jaime's mouth, a small part of her, the cold, calculating Lannister part, understood. Power. This was about power. Not the grand power of a crown or a sword, but a creeping, unseen kind of power, that controlled what people thought and knew. It was a powerful idea. And it was Jaime's idea, not hers.

"You would need many scribes to copy a book," Father said, his voice flat. It was not a refutation, but a test. He was testing the depth of his son's thinking.

Jaime was ready for it. "What if we don't need to copy it by hand?" he asked, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "As I mentioned before, there are the small metal blocks I have hidden in the workshop. The ones with the reversed letters carved on them. Imagine if we arranged those letters to form a page, coated them with ink, and pressed them onto the paper."

He paused, letting the image form. "We could create a printing press, not a worn-out wooden one. This is different, this could make hundreds of copies of the same page in a single day. Thousands in a week. A book that would normally take a maester a year to copy could be finished in a few days."

Cersei stared at him, truly stunned for a moment. The concept was so large, so… impossible.

Father just nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "A printing press," he said. "An ambitious concept. But there are many details to be perfected."

"Of course," Jaime said, not at all intimidated. "And I have already found the next biggest problem. It's not the machine, Father. That's just mechanical, levers and screws, we can handle that. The real problem is the ink."

Cersei saw Father raise an eyebrow slightly, a silent invitation for Jaime to continue.

"The ink we use for quills won't work," Jaime explained, now completely lost in his own explanation. "I've tried it on a small scale. It's too watery. It won't adhere well to the smooth metal surface, and when pressed, it will bleed into the paper fibers, creating an unreadable smudge and ruining the sheet. We need something completely different."

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Something thicker, stickier. Something oil-based, perhaps, that will adhere to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper when pressed. I have already asked Maester Creylen to look for information, to be able to make the ink adhere. That is the next problem to be solved before the printing press can become a reality."

Cersei sat there, trapped in silence, as Father and Jaime continued to talk. No, Jaime talked and Father listened. She saw the way Father looked at her twin brother, and it was a look Cersei had never seen before directed at anyone, not even Uncle Kevan. It was not cold approval or reluctant praise. It was respect. The genuine respect of one strategist for another.

After what felt like an eternity, during which Cersei could only sit in silence while Father and Jaime spoke in a language of invention and profit that she did not understand, the conversation finally ended.

"That is all. You had better go to your respective chambers first." Father's voice came, cutting off the discussion about ink as if it had never happened. His tone was back to being flat, cold, and final. The audience was over. "The guard who brought you here will show you the way. You are dismissed."

"Yes, Father," Cersei said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

She rose gracefully, every movement controlled, hiding the storm of anger and humiliation churning within her. This was shameful. Absolutely shameful. She had traveled for a month, enduring the discomfort of muddy roads and mediocre inns, all with one image in her mind: arriving at King's Landing, facing her father, and taking the first step towards her destiny as Queen. She had come here to talk about Prince Rhaegar, about her future at court, about her role at the center of power.

And all she got was to be a mute spectator to her twin brother's endless rambling about paper and other infuriating things. She had been ignored, dismissed, in front of Father.

As she turned, she glared at Jaime, a sharp look full of a rage that promised retribution. Jaime, who was also rising from his chair, caught her gaze for a moment before subtly looking away, his eyes shifting to the floor as if there were something interesting there.

Good, Cersei thought cruelly. At least he is aware that he has ruined my day. That small awareness gave her a sliver of bitter satisfaction.

The same hard-faced guard was waiting for them outside the door and escorted them in silence through the corridors of the Red Keep. Cersei walked with her head held high, refusing to show how disturbed she was. She didn't glance at Jaime once. The silence between them was heavy and tense. Every step that took them further from Father's solar felt like a step that took them further from each other.

Finally, the guard stopped at a junction in the corridor, pointing in one direction for Jaime and another for her. Their chambers were adjacent, but not connected. A small detail that felt very significant to Cersei at that moment.

She was glad to be separated from the book-eater. The moment she was inside her own chambers and the door was closed behind her, she could finally let out a breath. She was alone. At least she could breathe peacefully, away from Jaime's annoying presence and Father's judging gaze.

Her chambers were luxurious, of course. A large four-poster bed dominated the room, with deep red velvet curtains. A thick carpet covered the floor, and the furniture was made of polished dark wood. But Cersei didn't notice any of it.

She walked straight to the large, arched window that overlooked the city. From this height, the view was magnificent. She could see the red rooftops of King's Landing stretching out to the bay. She could see the grand domes of the Great Sept of Baelor glittering in the afternoon sun. She could see the ships that looked like toys entering and leaving the harbor.

This would all be hers.

A smile slowly returned to Cersei's lips as she gazed at the view. Her anger and humiliation began to recede, replaced by the cold, hard ambition that had always been her core. Father might be distracted by Jaime's little inventions for now, but that was just a diversion. The real game was a marathon, not a sprint. And in that game, she held the trump card.

She turned from the window and looked into the large, gold-framed mirror that leaned against the wall, a mirror that showed her full-length from head to toe.

The girl who looked back at her was stunning. Her hair was molten gold, purer and brighter than any coin ever minted. Her eyes were glittering emeralds, filled with intelligence and fire. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, and her figure, even at nine, already showed the promise of a beauty that would make men kneel.

This was her power. Not some dirty contraption or strange ideas about paper. This was pure, real, and undeniable gold. This was the asset that would win her a crown.

She lifted her chin, looking at her own reflection with cold satisfaction. Father would soon realize his mistake. He would see that true power did not lie in spreading information to the smallfolk, but in uniting the most powerful bloodlines. He would see that his daughter, not his strange son, was the true key to the eternal legacy of House Lannister.

It would all pay off. Her current frustration, the humiliation of being ignored, all of it was just a small obstacle on her path. In the end, she would get what she wanted. She would be Queen. And from upon the Iron Throne, she would look down on everyone, including Jaime.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

Breakfast passed in silence. A heavy, dense silence that felt like a physical weight in the room. On the long, polished wooden table, a feast fit for gods was laid out: spiced eggs from Dorne, thick and savory bacon, warm bread fresh from the oven, fruits from the Reach glistening with dew, and silver pitchers filled with milk and sweet wine. The aroma of delicious food filled the air, a cruel contrast to the cold, lifeless atmosphere.

Rhaegar Targaryen stared at his plate, but he didn't see the food. He saw his father, King Aerys Targaryen, sitting at the head of the table, chewing on a piece of bacon with vacant eyes. It had been like this for months, and Rhaegar felt a sense of unease every time he saw it. The emptiness in his father's eyes was frightening. Sometimes, it was the blank stare of a man whose mind was miles away. Other times, like now, it was the deceptive calm of a sleeping dragon, gathering fiery heat within its quiet self.

His father had become more short-tempered lately, more unpredictable. His outbursts could be triggered by the most trivial things: a servant pouring his wine too full, a dog barking in the courtyard, or, most often, a report from the small council. He would snap at everyone, his shrill voice echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Including Mother.

It hadn't come to blows, thank the gods. But words could wound just as deeply. Rhaegar knew that every shout, every unjust accusation, chipped away at his mother, piece by piece.

He glanced at his mother, Queen Rhaella, who sat opposite his father. She was a beautiful woman, with the same silver-gold hair as his own and gentle violet eyes. A soft smile usually graced her face, a smile that could soothe the most restless of lords. But now, that smile was gone, replaced by a mask of forced neutrality. She ate with small, controlled movements, her back straight, a queen to her fingertips, but Rhaegar could see the tension in her shoulders and the way her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup.

Rhaegar thought about laughter. Once, this table was filled with laughter. His mother's melodious laugh, his own, even his father's laugh, which had once been so charming and full of life. That laughter hadn't been here lately. Silence had consumed it, just as a shadow consumes candlelight.

Suddenly, his father put down his knife and fork with a sound that was a little too loud on the porcelain plate.

"I saw the new sewers on the street yesterday," Aerys said suddenly, his voice hollow, but with a hidden undercurrent of bitterness. "So orderly. So efficient. Tywin has always been efficient."

Rhaegar and Rhaella both stopped eating, sensing the sudden shift in the mood.

"The people... they clapped as I passed," the King continued, his violet eyes staring blankly at the wall behind Rhaegar. "But they weren't cheering for their King. They were cheering for the 'Hand's sewers'." He let out a small, dry, humorless laugh. "I wonder if they'll build a statue for him there later, next to a pile of rubbish."

"But that was a task you commanded him to do, Aerys," Queen Rhaella said gently, trying to soothe him. "It is a sign of your successful reign. The city is becoming a better place."

"A successful reign is one where the people love their King, not his subordinate," Aerys retorted sharply, his bitterness now more apparent. "Tywin... my good friend. Sometimes I feel he works too hard for his own good... and for mine." He said the words "my good friend" with a subtle, painful irony. "He shoulders so many burdens that there is nothing left for me."

The tense silence returned to the room. Rhaegar could feel his heart pounding in his chest. This was dangerous territory. Lord Tywin's competence was the surest trigger for his father's rage.

"No one thinks that, Father," Rhaegar said quietly, choosing his words carefully. "Lord Tywin is merely performing his duty as the Hand. Improving the city is part of that duty. He does it in your name."

"In my name?" Aerys turned to him, and for a moment, Rhaegar saw a flash of wild paranoia in his eyes. "Is that so? Or does he do it to show everyone how incompetent their King is without him? He builds roads and sewers, he fills the coffers, while I... I just sit here, looking like a Targaryen." He pointed his fork at Rhaella. "And you! Don't you start defending him! You always think I'm too harsh, too suspicious. You don't see how he is slowly taking over my kingdom, piece by piece, with stones!"

"I only think you shouldn't burden yourself with such details of construction," Rhaella said, her voice still calm, but Rhaegar could see how much effort it took her to remain so.

"Burden myself?" the King exclaimed, rising from his chair with a sudden movement. The chair scraped back with a loud screech. "This is my kingdom! Every stone laid, every sewer dug, is my burden! I am the King! I decide who is loyal and who is a traitor! And I see more and more traitors every day!"

He stood there, towering over them, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his violet eyes wild and unfocused. He stared from Rhaegar to Rhaella, then to the untouched food on the table as if it too had betrayed him.

Then, without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room, his dragon-embroidered cloak swirling behind him.

The door slammed shut.

The returning silence felt a hundred times heavier than before.

Rhaegar let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands, which had been clenched into tight fists under the table, slowly relaxed. He felt a wave of helpless anger on his mother's behalf. This wasn't fair. Mother had done nothing but try to calm him.

He looked at his mother. The Queen's mask of composure had finally cracked. Just for a moment, but Rhaegar saw it. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her hand was trembling slightly.

"Mother..." Rhaegar whispered, reaching a hand across the table.

Queen Rhaella took a deep breath and straightened her back, the remnants of her fragility disappearing as quickly as they had come. She was the Queen again. "I'm fine, Rhaegar," she said, her voice barely trembling. "Finish your breakfast. You need to eat."

The command was so ordinary, so motherly, in the midst of this madness that it almost made Rhaegar laugh bitterly. Finish your breakfast. As if his appetite hadn't turned to ash in his mouth.

He looked down at the plate in front of him. The delicious food, painstakingly prepared, now seemed repulsive. It was a symbol of their lives, a facade of luxury and wealth that hid the rot within.

A breakfast for rulers, he thought bitterly. A feast in a beautiful golden cage.

Rhaegar ate only a little. Every bite felt like a chore, the delicious taste of the food turning bland in his mouth from the bitter morning atmosphere. When he finished, he stood up, bidding a quiet, respectful farewell to his mother, who only replied with a small nod, her eyes still staring blankly at her father's abandoned plate.

He needed to clear his head. The tense silence and the unexpected outburst had left an unpleasant residue in his soul, like a slow-acting poison. There was only one remedy he knew for this kind of ailment. He went to his room and picked up his small harp, a beautiful instrument of light-colored wood with carvings of small dragons coiling around its frame.

Then he walked to the garden, a pocket of peace within the bustling Red Keep. He found a stone bench under the shade of an ancient oak tree, away from the main path. He sat down and placed the harp on his lap. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the warmth of the morning sun touch his face and listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves.

Then, his fingers began to move. Not the sad melodies he often played when contemplating prophecies or the fate of his kingdom. No. This morning, he needed something else. He played a tune, a cheerful melody from the Reach, a song about spring and the dance of maidens in the meadows. Its fast, light notes jumped from the strings, a deliberate rebellion against the darkness he had just left. For a moment, the music worked, washing away the madness that haunted the castle's corridors.

He played with a peaceful touch, letting himself get lost in the simple, happy melody. Then, as the song reached its peak, he slowed his movements, letting the final notes hang in the quiet air before fading into silence. The music was finished.

"You have an impressive skill, Prince."

The voice came from behind him, calm and appreciative. Rhaegar turned. It was Jaime Lannister. The boy had been in King's Landing for two days, but with all the tension at court, Rhaegar hadn't had a chance to speak with him. The boy stood there, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, looking a bit awkward, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to approach.

"I hope the song didn't disturb you," Rhaegar smiled, a genuine smile.

"Disturb me? No, no," Jaime smiled back, and the smile seemed to light up his face. He walked closer and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down on the other end of the stone bench. "It was a hundred times better than the deafening silence around here. When I listened to you play, I could immediately feel the notes in my soul. It was impressive."

Rhaegar was slightly taken aback by the boy's choice of words. Deafening silence. It was a very accurate description of the atmosphere in the Red Keep lately. "You seem to know a lot about music," Rhaegar replied.

"Blah," Jaime laughed, a free and pleasant sound. "No, I'm just an admirer. I'm good at playing a few instruments, but only 'good', not 'skilled' like you. I prefer to sing."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Then try it. Sing something. It's always nice to have someone who shares the same interest."

Jaime looked hesitant, his smile fading slightly. "Are you sure? My voice isn't good, you know? The only one who's ever heard me sing is my little brother, and he's just a baby."

"I've heard worse," Rhaegar laughed, trying to put him at ease. "When I first started learning, my voice sounded like a war hammer."

"At least it was loud and strong," Jaime teased, and Rhaegar saw a flash of sharp intelligence in his eyes.

"Go on," Rhaegar said, his smile widening.

"Alright, alright, but don't laugh." Jaime glanced around quickly, as if he didn't want anyone else to see him do this. He took a deep breath.

Then he sang.

"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me..."

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

"And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me..."

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows. The melody... it was strange. Simple, yet haunting. And the lyrics... he had never heard a song like this before. It wasn't a song about war, or heroes, or lost love. It was something else. He had expected Jaime to sing something he knew, or worse, The Rains of Castamere.

And his voice... Jaime's claim that his voice was "bad" was a blatant lie. His voice lacked the power of a trained singer, but it was melodic, rhythmic, and most surprisingly of all, filled with a genuine emotion. An emotion that felt much older than the nine-year-old boy singing it.

"And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree..."

"There will be an answer, let it be..."

"For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see..."

"There will be an answer, let it be..."

Rhaegar found himself completely drawn into the song. The words resonated within him in an unexpected way. The broken-hearted people living in the world. He thought of his mother, sitting alone at the breakfast table, swallowing her tears along with her food. He thought of his father, trapped in his own paranoia and rage. He thought of himself, burdened by it all. This simple song from a boy from Casterly Rock, somehow, seemed to understand the sorrow of his kingdom.

"You're a very good liar," Rhaegar said after the song was finished, a genuine smile slowly forming on his lips. The tension from the morning seemed to melt away under the warmth of this strange moment. "That was a beautiful song. Where did you get it?"

Jaime looked a little relieved that Rhaegar hadn't laughed at him. He smiled back, a shyer smile than Rhaegar had expected. "I often visit the port in Lannisport," he answered. "There are many people from all over the country. They bring many songs that are not well-known among the nobility. They have many stories and their own meanings... this one? The person who sang this didn't want to tell me his home country."

"A mysterious person then," Rhaegar chuckled, fascinated by the idea. He imagined a bustling port, an anonymous singer bringing songs from an unknown land. It was the kind of romance he usually read about in old books.

"You could say that," Jaime said. "I didn't want to pry too much. He was a good singer, and his privacy should be respected."

Rhaegar nodded, his curiosity growing. This morning, which had started with anger and tears, had suddenly turned into something else. Something interesting. "Well then," he said, leaning a little closer. "Tell me. What other songs do you know."

Jaime smiled, this time his smile was wider, more confident. It was as if he had been invited into his own world, and he was happy to have a guest. And he began to talk.

For Rhaegar, this was an escape. He was used to the songs of the Seven Kingdoms: epic ballads about heroes and kings, mournful songs about lost love, and the rough drinking songs of soldiers. Those songs were part of the fabric of his world, each with its own place and purpose.

But the songs Jaime told him about were different. They were the songs of common folk, sung not in great halls, but on the swaying decks of ships and in dimly lit taverns. Jaime didn't just sing the melodies; he told the stories behind them.

Rhaegar listened, completely captivated. He was a musician. He understood the power of a song to convey emotions that words could not express. And in Jaime Lannister, he had found an unexpected connoisseur of music, a collector of forgotten songs.

This boy was more than just golden hair and a powerful name. There was a depth to him, a rich inner world that Rhaegar had never expected. And Rhaegar felt that, in some ways, they were alike.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

The afternoon arrived quickly, bringing with it the suffocating heat so characteristic of King's Landing. Rhaegar walked through the crowded streets, an act that always felt like a performance. Though he wore a simple, unadorned traveling cloak, his silver hair was a curtain that could not be hidden. People moved aside, bowed, and whispered as he passed, their gazes a mixture of awe, curiosity, and fear.

Today, however, Rhaegar barely noticed them. His mind was not filled with the ever-darkening shadow of his father. Instead, he found himself constantly replaying the strange melody from that morning, the song about letting things be, sung in the clear, unexpected voice of a young boy. There was a peace in that memory, a brief respite from the storm that was his life. A faint smile touched his lips without him realizing it.

Beside him, walking with long, easy strides, stood Arthur Dayne. There was an empty space around Arthur, an aura of deadly competence that made even the most audacious pickpockets and merchants keep their distance. His eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning the crowd, the rooftops, and the dark alleyways.

Arthur noticed the smile. "You've been scowling a lot lately," he said, his deep, calm voice cutting clearly through the city's noise. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Rhaegar shrugged, his smile fading slightly at being caught.

Arthur was not fooled. He knew Rhaegar better than anyone, perhaps even better than Rhaegar knew himself. They had grown up together, first as fellow wards at court, and now as friends. "You must have spoken with the Lannister boy, haven't you?" Arthur guessed.

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking at his friend. "How did you know?"

Dayne smirked his typical thin smile, one more often seen in his eyes than on his lips. "Oh, come on, it's not hard to figure out. The boy has only been here for two days, and this morning you came back from the garden with an expression I haven't seen in months, the look of someone who has just discovered something good, not your usual lament." He paused for a moment. "I also heard he's an avid book reader, just like you."

"Jaime... a book reader?" Rhaegar was genuinely surprised to hear this. This morning, he had only thought the boy was merely interested in folk songs, an unusual music enthusiast. He had never imagined him as such. Boys from great Houses were usually more interested in swords and horses, not dusty scrolls.

Arthur chuckled, a low, pleasant laugh. "I was training with his guard, Ser Jon of Clearwater, this morning. He's a capable and skilled knight. I was impressed by his skill. He has an honest strength and perseverance. We talked afterward." Arthur paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "And he spoke of his 'Young Lord' with a passion usually reserved for discussing a new warhorse or a tournament victory. Especially about the prospect of 'paper'."

"Paper?" Rhaegar frowned, the word sounding foreign.

"It's a parchment-like material they've created," Arthur explained. "Jon described it as something born from 'two weeks of suffering in a hell of cloth pulp', but the result, according to him, was worth it. They claim it's thinner and more practical than parchment, and honestly, Rhaegar, it looked quite good." Arthur nodded to himself, as if remembering it. "Jon showed me a sheet his master gave him as a 'bonus'. It was white, smooth... I won't describe much, but when I saw that one sheet, the first thing that came to my mind was, 'Oh, Rhaegar would love this.'"

Rhaegar's mind immediately started racing. A new writing medium? Made not from animal hide, but from... cloth? "Then you should have brought some," Rhaegar said, his curiosity now fully piqued.

Arthur smiled. "It was just his personal 'sample', and I doubt he would part with it; he held it like a sacred relic. If you're interested, you can see it for yourself. He's at your court now, you know that, right? He's not going anywhere."

"I'll try to see it then," Rhaegar nodded, a plan beginning to form in his mind. He wanted to see this thing. He wanted to talk to Jaime again, not just about music, but about this. About ideas. He felt a wave of intellectual excitement he hadn't felt in a long time. "And to be honest," he added, "we just talked about songs this morning."

"Impressive," Arthur joked, his tone light. "One more person in the kingdom has managed to impress the gloomy Prince Rhaegar."

Rhaegar laughed, a free and genuine sound. "It wasn't just that. He sang songs I had never heard before. Strange and beautiful songs. He said he got them from people coming in and out of the port at Lannisport."

"Is he a good singer?" Arthur looked up at the evening sky, as if trying to imagine it.

"Very," Rhaegar affirmed. "His voice is melodious, and the lyrics... the lyrics are moving. I like his taste. It's not like the usual heroic songs we hear. It's more... real."

They walked in silence for a moment, Rhaegar lost in his thoughts. Jaime Lannister. Two days ago, he was just another name on the guest list, the son of his father's Hand, one half of a pair of twins famous for their beauty. Now, he was something else. An enthusiast of folk music. A secret singer. A book reader. And an inventor.

"He seems different from what I've heard," Rhaegar said quietly, more to himself.

"How so?" Arthur asked.

"Everyone talks about the Lannisters as proud, power-hungry lions. They talk about gold and debts and The Rains of Castamere. But this boy..." Rhaegar paused, trying to find the right word. "He feels... older than his years. Calmer. He doesn't have the overflowing arrogance I expected. There's a seriousness to him, but also a strange cheerfulness."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Ser Jon said something similar. He said his master sometimes talks like a maester, and the next moment, he'll be roaring with laughter at a story about a guard slipping in the mud. He said it gives him whiplash."

Rhaegar smiled. He could understand that. This morning, he had seen both sides: the musician and the shy boy.

…

Night fell with the usual noise within the Red Keep. The clinking of armor from the changing of the guard, the echo of hurried footsteps of servants in the stone corridors, and the faint hum of the city below that never truly slept. But inside Prince Rhaegar's private solar, there was a pocket of peace. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden light on the tapestries depicting Targaryen hunts and battles of old.

Jaime Lannister arrived on time, escorted by a servant. He was not alone. His sworn shield, Ser Jon, followed him, standing silently near the door, his sturdy figure a quiet reminder of the dangerous world outside. Rhaegar had invited him and allowed Ser Jon to enter as well; he understood the bond between a young Lord and his protector.

Across the room, in a comfortable armchair near the fire, Ser Arthur Dayne was seated. For a rare moment, he was not standing guard. Instead, he was reading a book, his head bowed, his presence calming. What book he was reading was anyone's guess; Arthur always had an unexpected depth.

"I didn't think you'd actually want to see me again, Prince Rhaegar," Jaime smiled as he approached, the same easy smile as in the garden that morning. "I thought you were just being polite about my voice this morning."

Rhaegar chuckled, motioning for Jaime to sit in the chair opposite him. "I never lie, especially when it comes to that. The songs you brought are so beautiful that I've prepared parchment to memorize the lyrics, if you don't mind?" He pointed to a small table beside him, where a clean scroll of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill had been prepared.

Jaime's eyes widened with surprise and delight. "Not at all." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm genuine. "I'm very flattered you'd want to do that. It means all my efforts to sneak through the port weren't in vain. After all, if I do it again, I can make an excuse. 'Hey, the Prince likes this, these songs will bring peace to the kingdom!'"

Rhaegar burst out laughing, a free and genuine laugh he hadn't felt in a long time. From the corner of his eye, he saw even the usually serious lips of Arthur Dayne twitch into a slight smile.

"Alright, let's begin," Rhaegar said, unrolling the parchment and dipping his quill into the ink.

And so their evening began. Jaime, with an incredible memory, began to sing or recite the songs he knew, one by one. He sang again, and this time, Rhaegar could write down the lyrics, the words feeling just as powerful on parchment as they did when he heard them. He recited another, about a pair of lovers, and Rhaegar wrote quickly, trying to capture the simple sadness in the words.

The scratching of Rhaegar's quill on the parchment became the only rhythm in the room, accompanied by Jaime's clear and rhythmic voice. It was a strange and unexpected situation, a moment of pure creation in the midst of a world filled with destruction.

"With all these songs you know," Rhaegar spoke between verses, without lifting his head from his work, "have you ever thought of creating your own?"

Jaime fell silent for a moment. "I'm not very good at making this kind of thing," he said with a smile. "Every note I compose is always a mess."

"So you have tried?" Rhaegar continued to write, but his ears were now fully focused on Jaime's answer.

"Sometimes when I'm alone, when I'm lying down to sleep," Jaime said. "I always imagine things along the way then. The scenery, the people, the feelings... Then I would turn them into words. The words I create, I have to admit, are quite good. But when it comes to the melody, it's very disappointing. It feels like trying to fit an eagle into a canary's cage."

Rhaegar stopped writing. He put down his quill and looked straight into the boy's eyes across from him. He saw a flicker of frustration there, the frustration of an artist whose vision surpasses his ability. Rhaegar understood that feeling all too well. "Perhaps we could collaborate," he said softly. "You create the lyrics, and I'll create the melody. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

Jaime's eyes lit up, all remnants of doubt vanishing, replaced by pure, boyish excitement. "Really? Of course, I'd love to! It would be an honor."

Rhaegar laughed again, delighted by the genuine enthusiasm. He looked at the half-filled parchment, and it reminded him of his conversation with Arthur. He decided to change the subject. "By the way, I've heard about your 'paper'. Are you really sure it's better than parchment?"

Jaime raised an eyebrow, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He knew exactly what Rhaegar was doing. "Yes. You can try it for yourself, Prince."

He then reached into the small leather pouch that always hung at his waist and took out a few neatly folded sheets of white paper. He handed them to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar took them. The first thing he noticed was how light the paper was. Then, he felt it. The surface was smooth, but not slick like the most expensive parchment. There was a faint texture of fibers underneath. "This is good," he said, his voice filled with sincere admiration.

"Thank the hard work of Ser Jon of Clearwater," Jaime joked, winking at his sworn shield who stood near the door. Ser Jon only gave a small, awkward nod.

Without hesitation, Rhaegar picked up his quill again, dipped it in ink, and began to write on the new medium. The stroke felt different. Easier. The tip of the quill glided over the surface with little resistance, and the ink absorbed quickly, creating sharp, clean lines. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

"You can make a lot of these?" Rhaegar asked, raising his head, his eyes shining with new possibilities.

"It's still in the planning stage, but yes. Are you interested in them, Prince?"

"Of course. This is amazing." Rhaegar placed the sheet down as if it were a jewel. "How many can you produce?"

"When everything is running smoothly, with a water mill and enough workers," Jaime confirmed calmly, "it's not impossible to produce ten to twenty thousand in a month."

Rhaegar was stunned. He put down his quill. Across the room, he saw that even Arthur Dayne had lifted his head from his book, his eyes fixed on Jaime with the same shocked expression.

"That many?" Rhaegar's voice was barely a whisper. The number was almost incomprehensible. The library in the Red Keep, which had been collected over centuries, probably didn't even have that many sheets of parchment.

"Yes," Jaime said simply. "This could change a lot of things, couldn't it?" His smile returned, the smile of a dreamer who had thought about all of this for a long time.

"'Change a lot of things' is an understatement," Rhaegar said slowly, his mind racing. "Jaime, with numbers like that... we could copy every book in the Citadel. We could send royal decrees to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms in an instant."

"And not just that, Prince," Jaime said, leaning forward again, his voice filled with the same passion. "Think about knowledge. Right now, knowledge belongs to the maesters and the great Lords. It's a closely guarded treasure. With cheap and abundant paper, knowledge could become... water. Something accessible to more people. Merchants could learn better accounting. Builders could share new designs. Even farmers might be able to learn to record all their harvests."

Rhaegar listened, mesmerized. This was an echo of his own thoughts, thoughts he often kept to himself. He had always believed that the true strength of a kingdom lay not just in its dragons or its armies, but in its people. An educated people, a prosperous people, a united people. And here, a nine-year-old boy was offering him the tool to achieve that.

"You're talking about a revolution," Rhaegar whispered.

"I'm talking about progress," Jaime corrected gently. "A smarter kingdom is a stronger kingdom. And a stronger kingdom is harder to destroy."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his mind filled with images: new libraries being built in major cities, merchants' children learning to read and write, more accurate maps, better-recorded history. He saw a future, a future he might be able to build himself.

He looked at Jaime Lannister, at the boy who had walked into his life and, in two days, had given him more hope than he had felt in years.

"You're right," Rhaegar said finally, his voice filled with a newfound conviction. "This will change everything."

"But it will take time. A very, very long time," Jaime continued, his expression becoming more serious, more analytical. "To make it happen, paper is just the first step. It's the tool. But a tool is useless if no one knows how to use it. First, we have to make people literate."

"How do you do that?"

The voice was deep and calm, cutting in from the side of the room. It belonged to Arthur. He had put down his book, and he was looking at Jaime with the intensity of a soldier assessing a battle plan. "By having every Maester travel from village to village? The Citadel would never agree. They don't have enough men, and the Lords wouldn't like a maester teaching their peasants to read complaints."

Jaime was slightly surprised by Arthur joining the conversation, but he didn't seem fazed. Instead, he smiled, as if pleased with the challenge. "No, of course not. The Maesters serve the Lords, not the common folk. We'll teach people to read in a different way. We'll build a 'school'. A place of learning." He said the word as if he were introducing a completely new concept. "A school for people who are not just nobles."

"That would require a great deal of capital," Rhaegar said, deliberately pouring a little oil on the fire, wanting to see more of the boy's thinking. He wasn't trying to shoot down the idea; he was testing it, like a blacksmith testing a new blade.

"Yes," Jaime said. "That's why we have to start smart. We have to build these schools in the major cities first. Lannisport and King's Landing, for example. Places where there's already a thriving merchant class, people who already understand the value of numbers and words. They will be the first to see the benefit."

"And who will teach?" Rhaegar asked, continuing his role as the devil's advocate.

"We don't need a Maester to teach children how to write their names," Jaime said. "There are many educated people who need work. Younger sons of minor Lords who will inherit nothing. Septons in the cities who can spare a few hours a day. We will pay them. It will be an honorable job."

"So you're asking House Lannister to fund all of this indefinitely?" Arthur asked. "Even the gold of Casterly Rock has its limits."

"Initially, yes," Jaime admitted. "It's a startup investment. But the long-term goal is for the schools to be self-sustaining. Even better, over time, they will become free."

"Free?" Rhaegar frowned. It was a foreign concept. Nothing was free.

"Think of it as a long-term investment, Prince," Jaime explained, his eyes sparkling as he explained the mechanics. "At first, we'll charge a very small fee to the merchants and craftsmen who send their children. Just enough to help cover the costs. But, over time, what happens when you have a more educated population? Trade becomes more efficient. New businesses emerge. Prosperity increases."

He leaned forward. "The taxes from that increased trade, the revenue from a busier port of Lannisport, all of that will flow back into the coffers. That extra profit will pay for these schools many times over. After a few years, we won't need to charge the students anymore. For the farmers and craftsmen, it will be free. For us, it's a profit. An investment in the people that yields the greatest return..."

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his mind spinning. He was thinking about many things.

And he was so engrossed in it.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Tywin Lannister exited the Small Council chamber for the umpteenth time with a sour taste in his stomach. The meeting, like so many before it, had been an exhausting exercise in futility.

Today's problem was the same as last week's: piracy. They had lost another merchant ship, this time a large cargo vessel carrying silks from Myr, swallowed by the pirates who hid like rats among the rocks of the Stepstones. The solution was obvious and tedious: build more warships, order stricter patrols. And of course, it all had to be funded by the royal treasury, a treasury that was steadily dwindling due to the King's reckless spending and endless ambitions.

As if that wasn't enough, there was the problem of King's Landing itself. The construction of sewers for every street in the city was costing an immense fortune, a bottomless pit for the royal coffers. Yet, it was necessary. The stench of human filth and rotting garbage in the streets was overwhelming, especially in the summer. It wasn't just a matter of discomfort; it was an economic issue. The stench and disease would drive away skilled merchants and craftsmen. Disturbing their comfort meant people would leave, and their departure meant the economy would stagnate.

It was astonishing, Tywin thought as he walked down the cold corridor. This city, the base of Aegon the Conqueror, was built on ambition, not planning. King's Landing had no concept; it just grew organically like fungus on rotting wood, becoming the tangled and inefficient mess it was today. Perfect. And he was the one who had to clean it up. Looking at history, the Targaryen kings mostly only knew how to destroy with fire, never learning how to build.

He was lost in his dark thoughts when he saw her. His daughter, Cersei, standing alone in a hall overlooking one of the inner gardens. She wasn't doing anything, just standing by a tall, arched window, staring into the distance. Her eyes were unfocused.

Tywin disliked seeing anyone, especially his own child, daydreaming and lost in thought. Daydreaming was a sign of weakness, a sign of an undisciplined mind. So, he approached his daughter, his silent footsteps on the carpet not announcing his arrival.

"Why are you standing here, Cersei? Do you have nothing else to do?"

Cersei blinked, startled from her reverie. She turned to face him, and for a fleeting moment, Tywin saw something unusual in her eyes: vulnerability. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the mask of composure he had taught her. "Nothing, Father," she replied. "My other activities are finished. I have nothing interesting to do."

"Then try harder," Tywin said, his voice sharp and unsympathetic. "The world will not hand you entertainment. You must take it. Learn whatever you can. Learn the names of the Houses at court, learn their weaknesses, learn who owes whom. Never waste time."

Cersei nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yes, Father." She paused, and Tywin could see she was wrestling with something. Finally, she raised her head again, hesitation clear on her face. "Father," she said, her voice a little softer, "I always cross paths with Prince Rhaegar. In the garden, in the library. But we rarely speak... you are going to do something about that, aren't you?"

Tywin looked at his daughter. He saw the anxiety in her eyes, the impatience of a young girl who wanted her prize now. 'Does she think I've been idle?' he thought. He had been doing 'something' for her since before she was born, since the day he decided that his perfect daughter would be Queen.

"That is my concern," he answered coldly. "You will simply have to wait."

"But," Cersei said, and now her tone was filled with a barely controlled frustration, "he's practically with Jaime constantly! I saw them this morning, walking with Ser Arthur Dayne. I heard they spent the previous evening in the Prince's solar, talking about music. It should be me he's seeing!" She gritted her teeth, an unladylike habit that Tywin detested.

Tywin knew that. Of course, he knew. Jaime reported every interaction with the Prince to him each night, a concise and efficient report. It was good. Jaime was laying the groundwork. He was using their shared interest in books and music as an entry point, a way to gain the Prince's trust and interest. Tywin knew Jaime had planted his initial ideas about 'paper' with Rhaegar, framing it as an intellectual revolution, not just a business venture. Schools... it was a foreign idea. But when he thought about them, House Lannister, being able to control the curriculum, print the books, and subtly shape the minds of the next generation of rulers and merchants... it was tantalizing. It was a form of power far more enduring than that of the sword.

"Jaime is doing his duty," Tywin said flatly, deciding to give his daughter a small fraction of the truth. "He is gaining the Prince's interest. That is a necessary first step. And it will make the match with you easier." Tywin doubted that last sentence. He knew perfectly well that the biggest obstacle wasn't a lack of interest from the Prince, but the madness of the King. Aerys was a wall he could not breach. But Cersei didn't need to know about that doubt. Doubt was poison.

Cersei seemed to think for a moment, her anger subsiding slightly as she processed the logic of her father's words. She no longer saw it as a betrayal from her twin, but as a maneuver in a larger campaign. "Does that mean I should be with Jaime to talk to the Prince?" she asked, her mind already shifting to tactics.

Tywin looked at his beautiful, ambitious daughter. He had given her a goal. Now, he would see if she had the intelligence to achieve it.

"Do what you think is right," Tywin said, his voice sharp, each word both a command and a test. "But do not make a mess of it."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. He left Cersei alone with her thoughts and her burden. He had given her permission, but also full responsibility for the outcome. That was Tywin's way of teaching.

And it was the way the world worked. Results were all that mattered.

Tywin Lannister's footsteps made no sound. He walked alone, his mind then shifting to one thing. The matter of Jaime.

He thought about the conversation in his study. About paper, and about the logical next step his son had conceived: the "printing press". An idea so transformative that at first, it sounded like a fantasy. But Jaime had broken it down into a series of solvable problems, a series of technical challenges. And the first problem, as his son had correctly identified, was the ink.

Jaime had mentioned they were only lacking the right ink. The ink they had now wouldn't work. It was too fluid. It wouldn't adhere to the cold, smooth metal surface of the letter blocks. Under the pressure of a printing press, the ink would spread like a water stain, ruining the paper and making the words illegible.

No, they needed something different. Something Jaime had described with surprising precision, quoting from his research with Maester Creylen. An oil-based ink. Something thicker, stickier, that would cling to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper. The basic formula, according to Jaime, would likely involve oil boiled from flaxseed until it thickened, mixed with fine soot collected from burning oil lamps as the black pigment, and perhaps stabilized with something to aid in drying.

Tywin didn't understand half of that science. That was the business of maesters and craftsmen. But what he did understand was logistics.

If they wanted to produce this printing on a large scale, it meant they needed a large and stable supply of oil-based ink. And to make that ink, they needed its primary raw material: flax plants. A great many flax plants.

His mind immediately turned to the Westerlands. Who had suitable land? Who could be trusted to meet production quotas without asking too many questions? A raven would be sent to Silverhill. Lord Serret was a practical man; he would understand a profitable business order when he saw one. House Serret and other Houses with extensive farmlands would be ordered to significantly increase their flax production. They would be compensated well, of course. Well enough to ensure their compliance and low enough to maximize Lannister profits. The gold of Casterly Rock would turn fields of wheat into waving fields of blue flax.

That was the first problem solved.

Then there was the second problem: the paper itself. The production at Casterly Rock was a good start. The watermill Kevan had ordered would increase the yield dramatically. Lannisport was indeed a bustling market, the perfect place to introduce this new product. But to achieve something greater, to truly dominate the market and, as Jaime had said, "control information," they had to promote this thing throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And beyond.

They needed an emissary. Not a maester who would talk about its technical merits, and not a knight who would look out of place. They needed someone who could speak to the merchant princes of Essos in the language of profit, and to the Lords of Westeros in the language of charm. Someone who would not arouse suspicion, someone whose arrival would be met with a smile, not a raised shield.

Tywin's mind immediately went to his brother. Gerion.

The man had been doing nothing useful lately, other than spending Lannister gold on wine and women in Lannisport. He was the laughing lion, the family joke, a man without purpose. But it was precisely those qualities that made him perfect for this task. His charm and his ability to make people laugh, usually a source of annoyance for Tywin, could now be the perfect tool. He could travel to the major cities: Oldtown, Gulltown, White Harbor. Even across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, Pentos, and Myr. He would go not as an official envoy of the Hand of the King, but as Gerion Lannister who happened to be carrying samples of "an interesting new invention from his nephew."

He would show the paper, let the merchants and scribes feel it, let them see its quality and imagine its lower price. And while he did so, he would also perform another task. He would use his charm to open doors that were normally closed. He would listen to gossip in taverns and in the palaces of merchants. He would seek information about ship movements, commodity prices, political intrigues. Sending Gerion on this journey would give him a purpose, give him a way to finally serve House Lannister in a meaningful way. It was an efficient solution to two problems.

These thoughts, which had been swirling in his mind, had now become a clear plan, a series of logical steps. Flax. Ink. Gerion. Each piece had its place.

Tywin arrived at the door of his own solar, the quiet and secluded tower of the Hand of the King. He had been walking aimlessly, and his feet had brought him back to the center of his power. The fresh air had done its job. His mind was now clear, his actions decided.

He saw the guard standing silently by his door, an unmoving statue.

"Find my son, Jaime," Tywin commanded, his voice flat and emotionless. "Bring him to me."

Entering, Tywin took up a stack of documents, reading and filling them out while waiting for the boy. Fifteen minutes later, he appeared.

"Are you done playing with the prince?"

Tywin's voice cut through the silence of his study as Jaime entered. It was a deliberately dismissive question, an opening test. Tywin observed him, assessing his son's posture, the expression on his face.

Jaime did not seem intimidated. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and walked to the chair in front of his father's desk. "The Prince is truly enthusiastic," Jaime replied, his voice calm. "He remains composed on the surface, but his eyes... you can see it in his eyes, Father. All the songs I sang, all the stories I told, it all captured his interest. It was like giving water to a very thirsty man."

"Spending so much time with the common folk has its uses, apparently," Tywin said flatly, his pale green eyes locking with his son's.

Jaime met his gaze without flinching. "Everything has its use, depending on how and on whom you use it," he said. It was a Lannister's answer. It was the correct answer. "What is it, Father?"

"Here. Help me read these reports." Tywin pushed a stack of parchments across the desk. They were trivial reports he had set aside: harvest yields from a small farm near the Golden Tooth, a petty dispute over grazing rights between two low-ranking knights, cargo manifests from ships carrying wool to Lannisport. It was tedious work, but suitable for training the boy's mind without giving him too much sensitive information.

Jaime nodded, taking the stack without further comment. He pulled his chair closer and began to read, his sharp eyes moving quickly from line to line.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth and the rustle of parchment. Tywin feigned returning to his own work, but he watched his son from the corner of his eye. He saw the way Jaime didn't just read the words, but absorbed the information, a small frown creasing his brow as he processed numbers and facts.

Tywin put down his quill, breaking the silence. "What do you see in those reports?"

Jaime didn't look up immediately. He finished the page he was on, then carefully placed it on top of the stack. "Lord Clark's harvest report is ten percent lower than last year's," he said. "But the land around there should be fertile. The report from Lord Swain, whose lands are adjacent, shows a five percent increase in harvest."

"Continue," Tywin said, keeping his voice neutral.

"Lord Swain mentioned in his report that he built a small dam upstream three months ago to irrigate his new fields," Jaime explained. "The same river flows through Lord Clark's land. It's likely the dam reduced the water flow to his lands, causing his harvest to decline." He paused for a moment. "And in the report, both men are vassals of House Lefford. This should have been settled by them, not brought to Casterly Rock. It shows a weakness in how Lefford manages his own vassals."

Tywin did not smile. He never smiled. But inside, he felt a flicker of cold satisfaction.

"A good lord," Tywin said quietly, "knows his lands not by riding through them, but by reading them. Every report is a window. Never forget that." He paused, letting the lesson sink in. Then, he moved on to the real business. "We will build the 'school' you spoke of."

Jaime lifted his eyes from the parchment, his composed face finally showing a hint of reaction. Tywin could see a quick spark of excitement in his eyes before he managed to control it. "In Lannisport?"

"Yes," Tywin nodded. "We will try it. Build one. Supervise it closely. If it goes as well as you say, if the merchants are truly willing to pay, it's very possible to expand it."

A smile finally broke on Jaime's face, a genuine and triumphant smile. "That's excellent, Father. Knowledge has always been held by the Citadel and the Maesters. If we do this, we can change the game."

"But it will also antagonize the Maesters," Tywin stated the obvious logic. He didn't care for the opinions of those foolish grey-robed maesters. He just wanted to see Jaime's thinking, to see if his son had considered all the angles.

"Let them think what they will," Jaime replied instantly, and there was a steel in his voice that reminded Tywin of himself. "They depend on the Lords for protection and funding. They wouldn't dare oppose us openly. House Lannister will always be at the top." He paused, and added his trump card. "Plus, now Prince Rhaegar shares the same idea. He sees its value."

It was a smart move. Using the Prince's interest as a political shield. Tywin nodded slowly. "We'll just have to wait for him to become king then."

"Yes," Jaime commented, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a thin, cold one. "But that will take time."

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

"So this is how you meet all sorts of people?" Rhaegar asked, his voice barely audible above the din of the bustling tavern on River Row.

He sat on a rough wooden bench, feeling the stuffy warmth of dozens of bodies around him. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, smoked fish, and something cloyingly sweet from a cold meat pie. The sounds of rough laughter, arguments in various accents, and the clinking of cups created a deafening symphony of common life. To disguise his identity, Rhaegar had covered his conspicuous silver hair with the hood of a simple traveling cloak, an act that felt strange and liberating at the same time.

Across from him, around a sticky table, sat his companions. Arthur Dayne, who even in this crowd seemed calm and alert; Addam Marbrand, who looked deeply uncomfortable, his nose slightly wrinkled; and of course, Jaime Lannister, who looked completely at home, with his sworn shield, Jon, standing silently behind him.

"Places like this usually have a lot of interesting stories," Jaime nodded, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the crowd. "People from all over the country gather here. Sailors, merchants, sellswords... every face has a song."

"And those interesting stories seem to make them forget what 'bathing' is," Addam grumbled, grimacing as a large dockworker passed him, leaving a strong odor in his wake.

Arthur chuckled softly behind his cup. "I've heard some call it the smell of a 'real man'."

"A real man wouldn't make women avoid you," Addam sighed.

Jaime teased him. "Is that why you always wear perfume?"

Rhaegar sniffed the air discreetly. Yes, there was a faint, expensive scent of perfume coming from Addam's direction, a futile attempt to combat the tavern's stench.

"Shut up," Addam said, his face flushing slightly as he quickly drank his ale.

"So," Jaime leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's play a guessing game. Let's guess what the people here have been through."

"Troublesome," Addam muttered after swallowing his drink. "Honestly, I don't care what they've been through, as long as they don't spill their drink on me."

"Now, that's interesting," Arthur countered, joining the game. He lowered his voice and subtly pointed to a middle-aged man standing anxiously near the door. "That man over there. His clothes are good, made of decent wool. His posture is straight, not stooped like a laborer. His face isn't bad. But right now, he looks terrified. Why?"

Rhaegar frowned, whispering along, intrigued by it. He observed the man. Arthur was right. The man looked out of place, his anxiety palpable amidst the casual ruckus. "The first answer that comes to my mind is that he might be a swindler," Rhaegar said. "Clothes, face, and posture are their weapons to gain trust. And someone is about to expose him."

"The second," Rhaegar continued, "is that he's the victim of a swindle. He's lost his money and now doesn't know what to do."

Jaime nodded, considering the possibilities. "Or," he said, "he's just a skilled craftsman from out of town. Maybe a stonemason or a cabinetmaker. He came to King's Landing to meet a Lord who promised him a big project. His nice clothes are his best, worn to make a good impression. But the Lord didn't show up. And now he's alone in a city he doesn't know, his money is running low, and he's afraid of having to go home empty-handed."

Rhaegar fell silent. Jaime's explanation was far more detailed, more... human. He didn't just see a role swindler, victim he saw a life.

"More likely the last one," Addam added flatly. "Waiting for a Lord is the most frightening thing of all."

"What about her?" Arthur pointed again, this time to an old woman sitting alone in a dark corner, sipping a small glass of red wine. She stared into her cup as if the whole world were inside it.

"A widow," Rhaegar said instantly, the image of his mother at the breakfast table flashing through his mind. "Perhaps her husband was a soldier. She comes here every year on the anniversary of his death to remember him."

"Maybe she's just tired," Addam said with a shrug.

"Look at the pendant on her neck," Jaime whispered. "Small and made of silver, worn down. It's shaped like an anchor. Maybe her husband wasn't a soldier. Maybe he was a sailor. Maybe he sailed out of the harbor twenty years ago and never came back. And she still comes here, to the first tavern they ever visited together, hoping that one day the door will open and he'll walk in, smelling of salt and adventure."

A silence fell over their table for a moment. Jaime's story, whether true or not, felt so real. It turned the nameless old woman into a symbol of enduring loyalty and sorrow. Rhaegar felt a pang of ache in his heart for her.

"You read too many fairy tales," Addam muttered, though his words lacked their usual bite.

"And you?" Jaime turned to Rhaegar. "What about the young man near the hearth? The skinny one with the lute on his lap. He hasn't played a single note, just keeps tapping his restless fingers on the strings and staring at the door."

Rhaegar looked at the young man. He recognized that look. The look of desperate hope. "He's a musician," Rhaegar said, feeling a familiar connection. "He's hoping the tavern owner will give him a chance to play for a few copper coins. And he's afraid of being rejected."

"He's not just hoping to play," Jaime corrected gently. "He's hoping for dinner. There's a big difference."

And Rhaegar understood. For Rhaegar, music was an escape, a noble art form. For that young man, music was a tool for survival.

They continued the game for nearly an hour. Every face in the crowd became a story. A sellsword with a scar on his face wasn't just a killer for hire; perhaps he was saving up to bring home a gift for his daughter across the sea. A serving girl who laughed too loudly wasn't just cheap; perhaps she was just trying to forget the ache in her feet and the emptiness in her stomach.

Slowly, Rhaegar began to see. He began to truly see.

He had always viewed the kingdom as an abstract concept. A vast map with the names of Houses and border lines. Its people were a faceless mass, the "smallfolk," a collective entity to be ruled, fed, and controlled.

But here, in this smelly tavern, there were no "smallfolk." There were only individuals. The anxious man, the grieving woman, the hopeful musician. Each with their own fears, dreams, and hungers. Each the center of their own world.

He glanced around his table. Arthur, the embodiment of honor and duty, his unwavering protector. Addam, who behind his posturing just wanted a comfortable life and maybe a smile from a pretty girl. Jon, the knight of common birth, who stood silently, his loyalty an unseen bedrock.

A kingdom is not the Iron Throne, or the Red Keep, or even an army of dragons. A kingdom is the sum of all these stories. All these hopes and fears. To rule them, you cannot just sit on a throne and issue decrees. You must, somehow, understand them. You must see them, not as the "smallfolk," but as people.

It was a frightening and humbling thought. Its weight felt far heavier than that of any crown.

Rhaegar looked at Jaime, who was now laughing at a crude joke he'd overheard from the next table. A lord, he thought to himself, must not only be able to sit on a throne. He must also be able to sit on a sticky wooden bench in a common tavern and, at least for a moment, understand the heartbeat of his kingdom.

Therefore, a lord must also think with utmost clarity so as not to sacrifice them in vain…

For example, in the wars of the past, how many of these people have perished because of greedy and foolish lords?

How many lives, dreams, and stories were extinguished?

So many…

They were all songs, never sung by anyone.

…

Word by word, a verse had formed in Rhaegar's mind. As they left the crowded tavern and returned to the wider streets of King's Landing, a melody began to weave itself around the words. It was a lyric born from his observations, a first verse about the faces in the crowd, about the hope and despair hidden behind a stranger's eyes. He had a lyric, and it was a more exhilarating feeling than anything.

Glancing at his friends walking beside him, he smiled.

They walked home as the sun began to set, painting the sky above the city in soft hues. The afternoon atmosphere felt different now. The noise that had been deafening now sounded like the heartbeat of a living city. The stench that had been overpowering now seemed like the honest smell of life itself. For a moment, Rhaegar forgot all the madness within the walls of the Red Keep. He forgot his volatile father, and his silently grieving mother.

The concept was so pleasant and warm. Friends. Arthur, of course, was more than a friend; he was a part of him, his loyal shadow. But Addam, with his amusing complaints about smells and perfumes, and Jaime, with his strange and unexpected insights... yes, Rhaegar thought he could call them friends. It was a new and welcome feeling.

When they finally reached the gates of the Red Keep, passing the guards who bowed respectfully, reality began to creep back in. The warmth of the streets faded, replaced by the familiar coolness of the long stone corridors. Their relaxed laughter subsided into quieter conversation. The golden cage, however beautiful, was still a cage.

And there he was, standing in the middle of the inner courtyard as if he had been waiting for him. His father.

King Aerys Targaryen stood speaking in a low voice to Ser Barristan Selmy. His father looked immaculate as always, wearing a doublet with the three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest. From a distance, he looked regal, majestic, as a king should. But as they drew closer, Rhaegar could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his violet eyes constantly darted around.

Their small group came to a halt a few paces away. Rhaegar, Arthur, Jaime, Addam, and Jon all gave a slight bow to their king.

"Where have you been, Rhaegar?" His father's voice was deceptively calm, the kind of calm that often preceded a storm.

"Out for a walk, Father," Rhaegar explained, keeping his voice respectful and neutral. "Seeing the people."

"Find anything interesting?" His father's restless eyes moved from Rhaegar, swept over his companions, pausing for a moment on Jaime with a calculated air of indifference, before returning to his son.

"Yes," Rhaegar replied, deciding to be honest. "I've just learned a lesson I believe to be valuable."

His father smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Valuable in what way? Something that will help you rule this kingdom one day? Or something for your pleasures again?"

Rhaegar heard the slight mockery in that last phrase. Your pleasures. His father always referred to his music and his books as "pleasures," as if they were a child's hobbies with no weight in the real world.

"Both, thankfully, this time," Rhaegar answered patiently, refusing to take the bait. "I came to understand some corners of the kingdom that I didn't know before. So small, so narrow that I doubt most Lords would discuss them in the Small Council. And from there I also found an idea for a new song I will write."

"Ah, a song," Aerys said, his bitter tone now more pronounced. "How fortunate for the realm. While my Hand is busy building sewers to prevent a plague, my son is busy composing a song. A perfect balance." He glanced at Jaime again, this time with a hint of scorn. "I'm sure your new friend from the West, with all his songs, is a great inspiration."

Jaime remained silent, his face a mask of neutrality, but Rhaegar could feel the boy tense beside him.

"Understanding the people is not a pleasure, Father," Rhaegar said, his voice still calm but with a slight edge of steel. "It is a duty. Perhaps the most important duty of all."

"Is it?" Aerys raised a thin eyebrow. "I was always under the impression that the most important duty was to ensure the Lords remain obedient and the coffers remain full. But perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps what the kingdom truly needs is more musicians." He paused, letting the insult hang in the air. "Tell me, what valuable lesson did you learn amongst the stench and poverty out there?"

Rhaegar took a deep breath. "I learned that the 'smallfolk' are not a monolith," he said, choosing his words carefully. "They are individuals. Each with their own hopes and fears. A king who does not understand that can never truly rule them. He can only control them."

Aerys stared at him in a long silence. For a brief, fleeting moment, Rhaegar saw something else in his father's eyes. Not paranoia, not anger. Something that looked like... regret? A memory of a young man who once held similar ideals?

But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold cynicism. "A very poetic lesson," the King said. "Very suitable for a song. But songs don't fill hungry bellies or stop rebellions. Gold does. Iron does." He turned to Ser Barristan, as if Rhaegar were no longer there. "It is time for the council meeting. There are reports to be heard."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, bowing.

Without another word to his son, Aerys turned and walked away. He did not look back.

The small group was left in an awkward silence in the middle of the courtyard. The warmth and camaraderie of the afternoon had completely vanished, sucked away by the chill the King had left behind.

Rhaegar watched his father's retreating back, and a familiar weariness settled over him. He had tried. He always tried. But talking to his father was like trying to hold smoke. The more you tried to grasp it, the faster it disappeared.

He felt a gaze on him and turned. Jaime Lannister was looking at him, not with pity, but with a strange, quiet expression of understanding in his green eyes. As if he had seen this kind of performance many times before.

Rhaegar gave a small, tired smile. The new song in his mind was still there, but now the melody felt different. The cheerful notes he had imagined had faded, replaced by a lower, more melancholic tone.

…

That night, Rhaegar could not find peace. He left his warm solar and walked out onto his private balcony, where the cool night air from Blackwater Bay could touch his face. Below him, King's Landing was spread out like a dark tapestry sprinkled with a thousand flickering lights torches, lanterns, and bonfires, each one a sign of a life.

He leaned against the cold stone balustrade, his small harp lying on a nearby bench, untouched. The music wouldn't come to him tonight. His mind was too full of the day's echoes, especially his father's cold gaze.

The soft, steady footsteps behind him did not startle him. There was only one person who would approach him with such familiar silence.

"A beautiful night," Arthur Dayne said, his deep voice a comfort in the midst of Rhaegar's unease. He didn't come close, just stood in the doorway of the balcony, giving him space.

Rhaegar didn't turn. "The stars always seem brighter here than they should be," he replied. "As if they're trying to compete with the city's lights."

A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment, the kind that can only exist between two people who have shared more battles and secrets than can be counted.

"You're going to be a good king, you know that right?" Arthur said suddenly, his voice filled with a simple, unshakeable conviction.

Rhaegar laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh, a bitter sound in the night air. "How so?" he asked, finally turning to look at his friend. "Is it because I anger my father just by stating an obvious truth? Or is it because I write songs while the kingdom slowly rots from within?"

Arthur walked closer, leaning on the balustrade beside him. He didn't look at Rhaegar, but out at the same city. "It's because you have a gentle heart," he said quietly, "and at the same time, you are strong in the convictions you believe are right. That alone is enough to be loved by the people."

Rhaegar shook his head, a familiar frustration rising in him. "Love can't build buildings, Arthur. Love can't defeat enemies, let alone rebels. Love can't fill the royal coffers." He paused, his voice becoming quieter, more bitter. "More importantly, love alone will not bring prosperity."

"No," Arthur agreed, and Rhaegar was slightly surprised by his quick agreement. "But that's why the kingdom has a Small Council. That's why a king has vassals. Even if you are king, you can never handle everything yourself. Aegon the Conqueror had his sisters." He turned to look at Rhaegar, his eyes serious in the moonlight. "You need loyal and skilled vassals in their respective fields. A king's duty is not to know how to build a sewer. His duty is to find the best man in the kingdom who knows how to build a sewer, and then trust him to do his job."

"And what if you choose wrong?" Rhaegar countered, his voice barely a whisper. "The history of our House is filled with betrayal. Trust is a luxury a Targaryen cannot afford."

"Then don't give your trust blindly," Arthur said. "Test them. Observe them. Listen to them. You did that today in that tavern. You looked past their clothes and their accents, you tried to understand who they really were. Do the same with the Lords around you. That gentle heart I spoke of, it's not a weakness, Prince. It's your weapon. It allows you to see into the hearts of others, to understand their motivations. Use it."

Rhaegar was silent, pondering his friend's words. He often possessed a wisdom sharper than any maester's.

"You see that Lannister boy," Arthur continued, as if reading his mind. "He's clever. Perhaps too clever for his own good. But you saw past his Lannister arrogance and found a musician, a thinker. You were drawn to him not because of his gold, but because of his ideas."

"His ideas... his ideas are big," Rhaegar admitted. "Big and dangerous."

"All big ideas are dangerous," Arthur said. "But you also see their value, don't you? A man who thinks about how to make his lands more prosperous through knowledge, not just through conquest. Isn't that the kind of man you'd want by your side?"

"He is Tywin Lannister's son," Rhaegar reminded, more to himself than to Arthur. "His father is a man who burned a House to its roots."

"And his son is a man who wants to build a place of learning," Arthur countered. "Men are not always their fathers. You are proof of that."

Those last words hit Rhaegar with an unexpected force. You are proof of that. He had spent so much of his life trying not to be his father that he'd forgotten it was a choice, a battle he was winning every day.

He looked out at the city again, at those thousands of little lights. They were no longer just nameless dots. They deserved a king who would fight for them.

He couldn't do it alone. Arthur was right. He would need a Master of Ships who could clear the seas of criminals. He would need a Master of Coin who could refill the coffers without squeezing the people dry. He would need a Hand who could advise. He would need men and women who were loyal, who were smart, who were brave.

He would need men like Arthur. And maybe, just maybe, men like Jaime Lannister.

"I will try," Rhaegar whispered, the words more a promise to himself than to Arthur.

Arthur placed a hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "I know you will."

Rhaegar turned from the cityscape and walked to the bench where his harp lay. He picked it up. The wood felt cool and familiar in his hands. He sat, positioning the instrument on his lap.

He didn't play the cheerful song from the Reach. Nor did he play a sad song about destiny. Instead, his fingers found the strings and began to play a new melody, the one that had been forming in his mind that afternoon.

It was a melody of sorrow.

---

Not much happens in this chapter, but it is necessary to establish the story and the characters in the future. As always, thanks for reading!

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

Jaime sat in his room as the first dawn began to break. The morning air was cool through the slightly open window, bringing with it the dampness from Blackwater Bay and a thin blanket of mist that still clung to the lower parts of the city.

Sitting on a wooden chair at his writing desk, Jaime unfurled a parchment scroll that displayed the fiery handwriting of Prince Oberyn Martell. This letter had actually arrived last night, but Jaime hadn't opened it. Yesterday had been long, the meeting with Father, the conversation with Prince Rhaegar, and he hadn't had the energy left to deal with Oberyn's typically exaggerated prose.

But now, in the silence of the morning, he felt ready. Reading the letter slowly, a smile began to appear on Jaime's face as the characteristic opening lines came into view.

"King's Landing, ugh, King's Landing," Oberyn wrote. "You are in King's Landing while I am cooped up here? May this letter reach its destination correctly, because the ravens in this cursed place seem as lethargic as the maesters. Oldtown is so stuffy and cramped that I believe it is the true hell on earth."

Jaime chuckled softly. That was so typical of Oberyn.

"I met Baelor Hightower yesterday," the letter continued. "Do you remember him? The tall, awkward one who farted right in front of Elia when we visited? That memory is still so seared into my mind that I still laugh every time I see his serious face. Luckily, I managed to hold it in (this time)."

"Honestly, he's a good man, though dull as a rock. And I feel a bit bad for laughing, well, just a little. He was kind enough to show me around, playing the part of my personal tour guide in this ancient city. It's quite nice when I have a local 'friend' who can show me the interesting places, which means hidden taverns, rather than just spice merchants and the maesters' dusty libraries."

Jaime turned to the next page, shaking his head in amusement. Oberyn's thoughts always made him laugh. The man was so blunt, so unconcerned with propriety, reminding him of some friends from his other life, Steven's life. A world that felt blurrier every day.

"Oh, also, your paper is finished?" The letter's tone shifted to one of more interest. "That's good. You have talent, boy. I will guard this secret as tightly as a maiden's thighs, so that when you actually start selling it, it will be a huge explosion! It will be interesting to see everyone's reaction, the arrogant Maesters, the pious Septons, the greedy Merchants! Haha! Imagine their faces!"

"I honestly wish you could show me that thing sooner, but yes, life sucks and doesn't always go our way, does it? Like that damn Yronwood, for example. How can I be accused of killing Edgar? The man was as weak as a newborn kitten. I wouldn't need poison to kill him if I really wanted to. He'd probably just trip on a stone in the street and die of embarrassment."

"Anyway, enough complaining. See you again, little lion. Next time we meet, you'll have to tell me a lot so I'm not too shocked by what you'll make next. A flying machine? A potion of immortality? I wouldn't be surprised."

Jaime laughed again, a genuine laugh. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the table. He would write his reply tonight, when the time felt right, when he could find the right words to answer Oberyn's mix of mockery, support, and complaints. Their strange friendship, forged through letters across half the kingdom, was one of the most unexpected yet enjoyable things in this new life of his.

He rose from the chair and walked to the window, gazing at the mist that was slowly beginning to thin over the city. Today he had plans with Prince Rhaegar again. The Prince had invited him to discuss "something related to music." Musical instruments... Jaime sighed inwardly. He was completely blank there. As Steven, he had tried to learn the guitar a few times, driven by a fleeting desire to look cool, but his packed work schedule quickly extinguished that spark. He had only managed to master a few basic chords before giving up. He could enjoy music, he could feel it, but he could not create it. That was Rhaegar's territory.

Speaking of Rhaegar, there was something relieving about the Prince at the moment. As far as Jaime could see, Rhaegar had not yet become obsessed with "the prophecy."

A Song of Ice and Fire.

Jaime's memory of the TV show was like scattered shards of glass, sharp in some places, but mostly blurry and incomplete. He only remembered vague parts. Rhaegar and the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised. Rhaegar and the "abduction" of Lyanna Stark at Harrenhal. The war that tore the kingdom apart. Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar's death at the Trident. And then... Jon Snow. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The question of his heritage. Then the Zombie King... did Jon kill him? Steven couldn't remember. It all felt like a forgotten nightmare.

What was certain, if he could stop Rhaegar from obsessing over that prophecy... if he could divert the Prince's attention to more tangible things, like music, or paper, or even actual governance... maybe, just maybe, Robert's Rebellion could be avoided. And if the war could be avoided, fewer people would die. Hundreds of thousands of lives. It was a massive thought, a terrifying burden.

But what about the Mad King? Aerys was a different problem. He couldn't be left on the throne. He was a ticking time bomb. They had to depose him, right? Yes! Of course. Somehow. That was another puzzle for another day.

Jaime pushed those dizzying thoughts aside. Step by step. Right now, the focus is on building a relationship with Rhaegar, planting different ideas, offering another path. And focusing on his own projects.

He smiled as he thought about Father finally agreeing to build a school in Lannisport. That was a huge victory. His first real victory. This was the first step in his larger plan. After years of discussing the history of bookmaking from parchment, and the dissemination of knowledge with Maester Creylen, all under the guise of research for his paper project, this gave him the perfect excuse. A new excuse where he could randomly "rediscover" or "develop" ideas, like the printing press, schools, ink, that a nine-year-old boy in Westeros shouldn't know about.

Yes, Jaime thought as he turned from the window and began to get ready to meet the Prince. Everything is going according to plan. At least, for now.

Jaime opened his chamber door and stepped out into the still-dim corridor. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint scent of extinguished candles and ancient dust. Outside his door, as he had expected, stood Ser Jon, his sworn shield, as steadfast and silent as a rock.

"Quite cold, isn't it?" Jaime said with a smile, rubbing his arms.

"Feels like being in the North," Jon replied, his gruff voice echoing in the quiet. "Not that I've ever actually been to the North."

"One day, Jon," Jaime reassured him lightly, "you'll be leading an army against the undead."

Jon made a face, a comical expression of discomfort flashing across his usually stoic features. "Uh, it's bad enough fighting the living, young master. I'd rather not add the undead to the problem."

Jaime laughed lightly. This was why he liked being with Jon. With him, he didn't have to hide himself as much. He could toss out strange jokes about a future he shouldn't know, and Jon would just chalk it up as another quirk from his eccentric master. It was different from being with Father, where every word had to be calculated, or even with his friends like Addam, where he had to constantly try to sound like a nine-year-old boy.

Well, maybe not try that hard. The original Jaime's memories, the instincts and habits of the boy whose body he inhabited, had helped him blend in well enough. He still enjoyed sword practice, though now with a much deeper tactical understanding, he could still laugh at a crude joke, and he still had a child's characteristic impatience. But sometimes, Steven would surface, in his choice of words, in the way he analyzed a situation, in the strange references he made. And people would definitely look at him strangely.

At least Jon never showed it. Maybe he thought him odd, but he hid it well behind his quiet loyalty. And Jaime was grateful for that.

They walked through the labyrinthine corridors. Jaime, despite only being here for a few days, was already beginning to memorize the route, his sharp mind mapping every turn and tapestry. They arrived at the appointed place, a smaller, more private room near the library, which Jaime knew was where Prince Rhaegar often escaped to play his music.

The door was slightly ajar, and the soft sound of a harp drifted from within. Jaime knocked softly. The music stopped.

"Enter," Prince Rhaegar's voice called out.

Jaime and Jon entered. The room was warm and comfortable, lit by the morning light streaming through a high window and a crackling fire in the hearth. Prince Rhaegar sat near the fire, his small harp resting beside his chair. Across the room, in an armchair, sat Arthur Dayne, though this time he wasn't reading. He was simply observing their arrival with his calm eyes.

"Ah, you found your way," Prince Rhaegar teased, a friendly smile on his face. "I hope you didn't get lost?"

Arthur added in his typical deadpan. "At least he had Jon as an adult to guide him."

Jaime laughed, feeling instantly at ease. The atmosphere here was so different from Father's cold study. "Rest assured," he said. "Jon would have carried me if we were truly lost. He doesn't like to see me tired, you know?"

Jon, behind him, just gave a small, almost inaudible huff.

"A true man. Helping children," Rhaegar laughed as Jaime sat in the plush chair opposite him. On the low table between them, a spread of morning snacks was laid out: small cakes, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of fragrant herbal tea. Rhaegar leaned forward slightly. "I hope you haven't had breakfast, as I told you yesterday. We can finish all of this."

"I could do it with my eyes closed," Jaime said, not hesitating to pick up a small lemon cake. The taste exploded in his mouth, sweet, tart, and incredibly soft. This cake was made with a skill one could only find in the royal kitchens. Something he was grateful for in this current life was this: he could eat good food without having to think about his sometimes-pitiful wallet in his previous life. He savored that simple luxury.

"We've already written the first lyric and its tune, haven't we?" Rhaegar interjected, in between sips of his tea. He seemed excited, his violet eyes shining.

"Yes. Is there anything you want to change, Prince?" Jaime said, putting down his cake.

"Nonsense, the lyrics are quite good," Rhaegar said. "I just need your opinion on the music. I tried a few variations last night. I'm thinking we'll use the harp as the base, of course, but maybe add a bit of flute for the chorus? To give it a lighter, more hopeful feel."

"Opinions, I'm good at giving opinions," Jaime smiled. "But don't expect me to be able to play anything in this matter."

"You can learn," Rhaegar grinned, a challenge in his eyes. "But yes, later. We'll finish the song first."

After they finished eating a few more snacks, feeling a new energy from the sugar and the warmth of the tea, the mood shifted to one of more focus. Jaime watched Rhaegar pick up his harp, the instrument looking so natural in his hands. The prince closed his eyes for a moment, as if summoning the melody from within himself.

Then, he began to pluck the strings. The first notes opened softly, a simple yet beautiful sequence, flowing like a calm river. The rhythm was consistent, melodic, capturing the melancholic yet hopeful mood of the first verse's lyrics they had written together.

Jaime listened intently, not just with the ears of Jaime Lannister, who might only have heard a beautiful melody, but also with the ears of Steven, who had been exposed to thousands of songs from another world, with different structures and harmonies.

Rhaegar finished the opening section and looked at Jaime, waiting.

"It's beautiful," Jaime said honestly. "Very... Targaryen. Majestic yet sad."

Rhaegar smiled faintly. "But?"

"But maybe a little too... polished?" Jaime hesitated, searching for the right word. "The lyrics speak of common people, of their difficult yet hopeful lives. Maybe the music could be a little more... grounded? Perhaps some simpler notes at the beginning, before building to the more complex melody as the lyrics speak of hope?"

Rhaegar frowned, not in offense, but in deep thought. He plucked a few different notes, trying to feel what Jaime meant. "Like this?" he asked.

"Yes!" Jaime said, enthusiastic. "That feels more... honest. Closer to the song's theme."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, absorbing the feedback. He played the opening part again, this time incorporating Jaime's idea. The simpler notes provided a more solid foundation, making the more intricate melody that followed feel more impactful, like a sliver of beauty emerging from a rougher background.

"Better," Rhaegar admitted.

They continued like that for almost an hour. Rhaegar would play a section, then look at Jaime. Jaime would offer his opinion.

And the most amazing thing was, Rhaegar understood. The prince was a true musician, able to translate Jaime's abstract ideas into real notes. He would try different variations, experimenting with rhythm and harmony, until they both felt it was "right."

In the corner of the room, Jaime occasionally glanced towards Arthur and Jon. Dayne was listening intently, his expression calm but clearly interested. Jon, on the other hand, looked a little sleepy, but he remained standing straight, doing his duty with the patience of a saint.

Slowly but surely, the song began to take shape. The first verse now had a strong yet touching melody. They started working on the chorus, where Rhaegar truly incorporated the idea of the flute, playing a light, soaring counter-melody over the harp's foundation, creating a feeling of fragile optimism.

There was a strange synergy between them, a shared joy in the creative process. Jaime felt as if he were helping to paint a beautiful picture, even if he couldn't hold the brush himself. He only could suggest a color or the shape of a shadow.

As the sun began to climb higher in the sky, they had managed to complete the basic framework for the first verse and the chorus. Rhaegar played it all from beginning to end, and this time, it felt complete. It was a sad song, yes, but also a song filled with a quiet beauty and a glimmer of hope.

"This..." Rhaegar paused, searching for the right word, his violet eyes shining. "This feels right."

Jaime smiled widely. "Yes," he said. "It really does."

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

Jaime walked with Jon down the long corridors of the Red Keep, a quiet feeling of satisfaction still lingering from his morning music session with Prince Rhaegar. Creating something new felt like an antidote to the often suffocating atmosphere of the court.

Then, he saw her. At the end of the hall, standing like a statue of ice in the afternoon warmth, was Cersei. She was not alone; there was a Lannister guard nearby. Her face was creased in a familiar expression of dissatisfaction. Then, she looked up when she heard their footsteps and immediately approached him, her movements quick and determined.

Jaime's feelings were immediately mixed. He was always resigned when dealing with this child. As Steven, he had met people like Cersei, people whose worlds revolved around themselves, whose belief in their own superiority was so absolute it blinded them to reality. Unstoppable narcissism, coupled with a surging anger if their desires were not met. Usually, Steven believed that children like that tended to be changeable, directable towards better traits, though it would take time, patience, and firm boundaries.

But Cersei… Cersei was very difficult. Her armor of arrogance was so thick. Jaime had tried giving her advice, tried sharing some perspectives he had gained from Steven's life, tried to show her a world beyond her own mirror. But Cersei only saw him as her twin brother, her rival, and, worst of all, just another strange little boy.

She did not take him seriously. Maybe if their Father had done it, if Father was willing to take the time to shape her character as he shaped their House's legacy, Cersei might have turned out better. But Father was too busy with his work, and Cersei was left to grow wild in the garden of her own arrogance.

"Jaime."

Cersei's voice sounded, and there was a hesitant tone in it that was very unusual. Usually, she would immediately attack with accusations or demands.

"Yes?" Jaime replied, keeping his voice neutral. He wanted to add, 'It's not like you to greet me gently,' but he held his tongue. Triggering her anger would achieve nothing.

Then, something changed in Cersei's eyes. The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, steely determination. "Teach me," she said, the words coming out like a command, not a request.

Jaime was completely confused. "Teach you what, do you mean?"

"Everything," Cersei insisted, stepping closer so only he could hear. "The stories you tell the Prince. The strange songs you sing. The knowledge from those books." She stared straight into his eyes, her intensity almost burning.

"Are you sick?" Jaime asked, a little worried despite his annoyance at being interrupted. After all, she was his twin sister, and although their relationship was complicated, he didn't want to see Cersei become truly insane.

A twitch appeared at the corner of Cersei's mouth, a classic sign that she was restraining her anger. "I saw you with Prince Rhaegar," she said, her voice low and hissing. "Talking constantly. Laughing. I want that. I want to be able to talk to him like that. So, teach me the things you know so I can talk to him."

"Ah." Understanding formed in Jaime's mind. So this was not about a sincere desire to learn. This was about Rhaegar. This was about jealousy. This was about her ambition to be Queen. She saw Jaime getting the Prince's attention, and she wanted a shortcut to get the same. She saw Jaime's knowledge not as something valuable in itself, but as another tool to achieve her goal.

Jaime's mind raced. Honestly, he did not want Cersei to be Queen. Remembering what he vaguely recalled from that TV series, her madness, her cruelty, the destruction she brought, the idea of Cersei on the Iron Throne made his skin crawl. He would block her, no matter what. For now, Jaime's power in terms of influence, especially with Father taking a greater interest in him, allowed him to obstruct Cersei's path. Especially knowing Aerys was not interested in the match.

But this request... this was an opportunity. A dangerous opportunity, but an opportunity nonetheless. Would he teach Cersei stories? Maybe. He could choose the stories carefully. Disney stories from his other world, for example. Stories about kindness, sacrifice, and the consequences of arrogance. Stories designed for children, but carrying strong moral messages. Maybe he could instill things that were so human and emotional that it would slightly change Cersei's nature. Maybe he could wear down some of the sharp edges of her character.

Songs too. He could teach her simple folk songs, songs about the lives of ordinary people, not just songs of war and power. Other things as well, basic knowledge of history or geography that was not too strategic.

Yes, he could do that. It was a gamble. But if there was even a small chance he could change her, make her a little more empathetic, a little less cruel... shouldn't he try?

However, even if Cersei's nature changed, even if she became a better person, Jaime knew he would still try to keep her away from the throne. If she remained the same character as in the TV series, putting her near power would be a disaster. No. Changing her was one thing. Letting her rule was another.

"Of course," Jaime said at last, putting on a thin smile. "I will teach you."

Cersei looked a little surprised by his quick agreement, but she quickly hid it behind a mask of satisfaction.

"But," Jaime added, raising a finger, "if you really want this, you must promise to obey everything I say. Every lesson, every reading assignment, every song I choose. You will do it without question and without complaint. If you break this even once, the deal is off."

Cersei thought for a moment, looking hesitant. She hated being ordered around, especially by Jaime. But then Jaime saw the ambition flare up in her eyes again. Her determination to be with 'her Prince', to secure her destiny, was apparently stronger than her pride. "Fine," she said reluctantly. "I break a rule and you'll stop. But you must really teach me what you talk about with Prince Rhaegar."

"I will only teach you the things I think you need to know," Jaime corrected gently but firmly. "And I will not bring you directly to him." He nodded to himself. This was important. "You want a conversation? Find your own opportune time with him. Show him what you have learned."

This was the right thing. He would give her the tools, but he would not open the door for her. He would not let Cersei come with him, using his closeness to Rhaegar for her own advantage.

Cersei frowned, her frustration returning. "Why are you making this difficult for me?"

Jaime smiled, this time a more genuine smile. He decided to use one of the old sayings he often heard. "People say effort does not betray the results," he said. "So if you work hard and are sincere, then you will get it."

Cersei stared at him intently for a few moments, as if trying to read his hidden intentions. Then, she nodded stiffly. "Fine. You get what you want. Teach me a song first then."

Jaime pretended to think for a moment, even though he already knew exactly which song he would start with. He nodded. "Let's find a suitable place," he said. "Like the garden. It fits the song I'm going to teach you."

He motioned for Cersei to follow him, and with Jon behind him, they began to walk towards the garden.

…

"You sing it well."

The words came from Jaime's mouth, and he meant them. They had spent nearly an hour in this secluded corner of the Red Keep's garden. Jon and the other Lannister guard stood far enough away to provide privacy, yet close enough to keep watch. Jaime had chosen a song he remembered from his previous life: "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins. It was a song one of his friends used to play, a soothing melody with lyrics about protection and unconditional love. He thought it was a good start, something that contrasted with the songs of war or intrigue usually sung in Westeros. And honestly, Cersei had a good voice. Clear, strong, and when she concentrated on the melody, she could convey the song's emotion quite well.

Cersei smiled at the compliment, a proud smile that was so typical of her. "Of course," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "It was easy."

Nodding, Jaime decided it was time for the real 'feedback'. This lesson was not just about singing. "Now," he said, keeping his voice calm and neutral, "your goal is to impress Prince Rhaegar, isn't it?"

"Of course," Cersei snorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I will use this to impress him. These strange songs of yours. I've already memorized the famous songs, but I heard the Prince likes 'unusual' songs. That's why he's always talking to you." There was an annoyed tone in that last sentence.

"The Prince is like that," Jaime confirmed, ignoring her annoyed tone. "He values authenticity. He's bored with the same things he hears every day at court." He leaned in slightly. "But do you want to know what he likes besides just unusual songs?"

Cersei's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but her curiosity was piqued. "What?" she moved closer.

"He likes women who are graceful and gentle," Jaime said, observing her reaction carefully. This was the dangerous part.

As expected, Cersei immediately straightened her back, looking offended. "I am graceful and gentle," she said, her voice hissing slightly.

"No, no," Jaime calmly refuted, shaking his head. "You hear yourself just now? That hiss? That's not gentle. You are graceful, yes, no one can deny that. You move like a cat, and you know how to carry yourself. But gentle? Far from it." He decided to be honest, as brutal as it was. Their deal depended on honesty. "I've lived with you my whole life, Cersei. I know how you are. You are stubborn, cynical, and arrogant."

"What did you say?!" Cersei's voice rose, anger flaring in her green eyes. The Lannister guard in the distance seemed to tense up.

"See! You see for yourself, don't you?" Jaime pointed calmly at her reaction. "That. That's what I mean. That burst of anger. That impatience. The contempt in your voice. Prince Rhaegar is a calm and considerate man. He will not be impressed by that. He will be disturbed."

Cersei stared at him, her chest rising and falling with anger, but Jaime's calm argument and the direct evidence of her own behavior left her speechless. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She looked like an angry cat soaked in water, helpless for a moment. Jaime could see the struggle within her, between her wounded pride and her burning ambition.

After a brief silence, where the only sound was the chirping of birds in the trees, Cersei finally turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. "Suppose you are right," she muttered, the words coming out with difficulty. "So what should I do to 'dampen' all this?"

This was progress. An admission, however reluctant, that something needed to be changed. Jaime straightened his voice, adopting the role of the teacher he had set for himself. "First, if you want to erase all that, you must learn to control your mind. Every time your mind churns, with anger, annoyance, contempt, you must try to return to calm. Take a breath. Count to ten if you need to."

He continued, "Second, don't always think that others are beneath you. That thought is toxic. It makes you underestimate others and makes you look arrogant. Try to see other people as... people. Not as pawns in your game or servants for your desires."

"And most importantly," Jaime stressed, "keep thinking good thoughts about everything. Or at least, try. Don't jump to the worst conclusion or see hidden motives in every action."

Cersei listened in silence, her expression unreadable.

"For example?" she finally asked, her voice still flat.

Jaime had expected this question. "For example, right now," he said calmly. "You are talking to me. I am your twin brother, but right now I am also your teacher in this matter. And I know your mind must be spinning. Something like, 'He's so stupid. I can't believe I have to listen to this nonsense. I just need these songs to get closer to the Prince, after that he's completely useless.' At least close to that, right?"

Cersei was silent, but the faint blush creeping up her neck was answer enough.

"Cersei," Jaime said, his voice firm but not judgmental. "I want you to answer honestly. This is part of our deal. If you can't be honest, even about your own thoughts, then our deal is off. Remember?"

Cersei stared at him, the struggle clear in her eyes. Her pride warred against her ambition. Finally, ambition won. "Fine, fine!" she said with frustration, stomping her foot slightly. "Yes! I was thinking you are useless and incredibly arrogant! You are just a little boy acting like you know everything, trying to tell me what to do! Satisfied?"

"Good," Jaime nodded, completely unfazed by her outburst. He almost smiled. "You're honest. I like that. Now, erase that thought. For now, accept me as at least your teacher. What should you do when a teacher is teaching? You don't argue with him. You don't underestimate him. You empty your mind, and you follow him. You listen. You try to understand."

Cersei stared at him, her breathing still a little ragged from anger.

"Try this," Jaime said, his voice softening. "Close your eyes."

Cersei hesitated, looking at him suspiciously.

"Just close them," Jaime urged gently. "No one will see."

Reluctantly, Cersei closed her eyes. Her long, dark eyelashes contrasted starkly with her pale skin.

"Now, take a deep breath through your nose," Jaime instructed. "Feel the air fill your lungs. Hold it for a moment... then exhale slowly through your mouth. Feel the tension in your shoulders relax."

Cersei did it, albeit stiffly at first.

"Again," Jaime said. "Breathe in... hold... exhale. Focus only on your breath. Let those angry thoughts go. Let the annoyance flow out with your breath."

He watched her as she took several more deep breaths. Slowly, he could see the tension in her face ease slightly. The lines between her brows softened. Her jaw was no longer clenched so tightly.

After a few moments, Jaime said, "Alright. Open your eyes."

Cersei opened her eyes. Her expression was still wary, but there was a new calm there, a fragile one. She looked a little confused, as if she had just woken up from a dream.

Then, she tried to smile, a forced smile but an attempt nonetheless.

"Done."

"Good," Jaime agreed, nodding. "Now," he said, taking a breath of his own. "Let's try that song again. This time, focus not just on the notes, but on the feeling behind them. The feeling of protection. The feeling of tenderness. Try to feel it as you sing."

Cersei looked at him for a moment, then she nodded. And they began again.

The lesson with Cersei ended with a fragile promise to meet again the next afternoon. The time was set by Jaime.

As he walked back to his chambers, with Jon following behind, Jaime felt a deep exhaustion seeping into his bones. Not the physical fatigue from sword practice or horse riding. This was a different kind of mental exhaustion, one that came from having to be constantly on guard, constantly analyzing, especially when dealing with his twin sister.

Facing Cersei was truly mentally draining. It was like trying to hold back a storm with a paper umbrella. He had to constantly anticipate her outbursts, deflect her cynicism, and try to plant ideas that contradicted every fiber of her being, all while maintaining a mask of patience.

"You look tired, My Lord," Jon said, his gruff voice breaking the silence of the corridor.

Jaime chuckled softly, a dry laugh. "If you had to face someone like Cersei for a full hour, trying to teach her about patience, this is what would happen."

Just as he said that, a Lannister soldier in a red cloak appeared from a corridor intersection ahead of them. He bowed respectfully to Jaime. "Young Lord," he said. "Lord Lannister summons you to his solar."

'Oh,' thought Jaime, his fatigue instantly mixing with a hint of anxiety. He hoped this conversation would just be a normal one about his progress at court or perhaps about the paper again. He was not in the mood to act, to play the role of the perfect, obedient son, to follow the cold, calculating flow of his Father's thoughts.

Facing his Father always required a different level of mental alertness. Jaime had learned that the best way, the only way, to get Father's approval for his ideas was to frame them in the language of power, profit, and legacy. Like the school, for example. He couldn't just say he wanted the people of the Westerlands to be smarter for their own good.

No. He had to wrap it in the idea of 'printing Lannister propaganda', of creating a more controllable populace because they read the narrative he provided. He had to emphasize how the school would increase economic efficiency, which in turn would increase tax revenue for Casterly Rock. He had to talk about controlling information.

Something always had to be sacrificed. His idealism had to be veiled by profit for that man. He just hoped he could minimize the negative impact, ensure that the ultimate goal, a more educated and prosperous society, was not completely lost in the process.

Jaime took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Alright," he said to the soldier. "I'll be right there."

Arriving there. With Jon waiting outside the Hand's solar. He entered his Father's study without knocking this time; he had been summoned. There, as usual, his Father was sitting behind his large desk, bent over a stack of documents, his quill moving quickly across the parchment. The room was silent, save for the scratching of the quill and the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth.

"You called, Father?" Jaime said.

Tywin did not look up immediately. He finished the sentence he was writing, set down his quill carefully, then raised his head. His pale green eyes met Jaime's, assessing as always. "Sit," he said.

Jaime sat in the chair across the desk, keeping his back straight. He waited. With Father, it was always better to wait.

After a few moments of tense silence, Jaime ventured. "What did you want to talk about?"

Tywin looked straight into his eyes. "You are nine years old," Father said, his voice flat. "And time keeps moving. You are growing bigger."

"That's what happens to living beings," Jaime replied, trying to sound indifferent, though he felt a bad feeling start to creep into his stomach.

Tywin paused for a moment, as if considering his words. "I've been thinking about some things."

"What things?" Jaime asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"It's... about your marriage."

'Shit.' The thought exploded in Jaime's mind with surprising force.

And he rarely ever cursed.

---

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Tywin watched his son, who looked back at him calmly, but for a moment Tywin could see a brief twitch at the corner of his eye. Yes, this was big news. Tywin knew it. Discussing marriage at the age of nine indeed seemed premature, but this was not about romance or childhood. This was about the future of House Lannister, about securing power for generations to come.

"I have thought of several candidates," said Tywin, placing his interlaced hands on the table. "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, and Janna Tyrell of Highgarden. Who do you think is the most suitable for you?" He was not truly asking for his son's opinion in the sense of seeking approval. He wanted to test his mind, to see if Jaime could see the strategic implications of each choice, beyond just names and titles.

Jaime did not answer immediately. Silence hung for a moment between them, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth. "Isn't this too soon, Father?" he finally asked, his voice quiet and measured.

Tywin frowned. That was an evasion, not an answer. He did not like evasions. "This is a plan," he said sharply, his voice as sharp as a dagger's point. "A well thought out plan takes years before it is executed. Securing an alliance is the foundation of enduring power. The strongest oak takes decades to grow, Jaime. You cannot plant it when the storm has already arrived. Also, I did not ask you to return the question. I asked you to analyze. Do you understand that?"

Thinking for a moment, weighing his words under his father's sharp gaze, Jaime finally nodded.

"Lyanna Stark is a good candidate, Father." For the first time, Tywin saw a slight hesitation in his eyes. "The North is vast and has many resources."

"Timber and wool, you mean?" Tywin interjected, unimpressed. Resources that are difficult to extract and low in value compared to the gold of the West.

"They are part of it," Jaime confirmed, undaunted. "But there are also many regions that may be unexplored due to their vastness. I suspect there might be many undiscovered metal mines there, iron, silver, maybe even gold. That is very important for the future."

"Yes, unexplored," Tywin countered coldly. "And how can you be sure there will be many 'mines'? The North is a harsh and poor land. They are strong in battle, yes, their soldiers are as tough as their winters. But their wealth is insignificant. They have no large cities besides White Harbor, their trade is limited."

"According to my theory, Father..."

"Theories do not fill coffers," Tywin cut in, his impatience beginning to show. "Let us assume your theory is correct. It would require enormous capital just to search for those mines, sending expeditions into that frozen wilderness. And with the North's harsh climate and its small population, scattered across a vast territory, it would take years, even decades, just to start any meaningful production. The return would not be worth the cost, Jaime."

He paused, adding his true assessment of the North. "They are also too backward. Too bound to their ancient traditions of the Old Gods and trees with faces. They are indeed famously loyal, like good hunting dogs, but loyalty alone is not enough to build true power in this world. Blind loyalty is often a sign of a lack of ambition."

He saw Jaime accept his rebuttal without further argument. Good. The boy was learning to distinguish between interesting theories and harsh reality. "What about Tully?" Tywin pressed, moving to the next option.

"House Tully holds a vital strategic position," said Jaime. "Riverrun controls the Trident, the great rivers that flow through the heart of the kingdom. Any significant land and river trade between the North, the Vale, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands must pass through them." He glanced at his father. "If we want to ensure smoother passage for our paper and printed goods when marketing them throughout Westeros, securing the routes through the Riverlands is a good move. An alliance with Tully would give us direct influence over the course of this trade."

"However," Jaime continued, and Tywin listened intently to see if his son could see both sides of the coin. "Compared to the others, the return is smaller in terms of wealth or direct military strength. The Riverlands are often a battlefield. Their lands are fertile, but they do not have gold like us or an army as large as the Reach."

Jaime shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward. "For example, if we were to invest heavily there, building infrastructure to support our trade, but if war breaks out, our investment would be a total loss. As I said before, the Riverlands are the 'heart' of the kingdom itself. And the heart is the first thing stabbed in a fight."

"But that means we would have a bulwark ourselves," Tywin countered. "If the Riverlands are the heart, then controlling them means the enemy must pass through them first. They would become our shield."

Jaime smiled bitterly, a smile too cynical for a nine-year-old boy. "A human bulwark, yes," he said quietly. "When at war, their soldiers would be the first to be spent, absorbing the first attack. And we, with our fresh troops, would come as a hero to save the day. That is indeed a valid strategy, Father."

Tywin stared at his son in silence. The observation was cruel, but strategically correct. Jaime saw the game for what it was: a cold calculation of lives and profit. He was not swayed by naive ideas of honor or inter.House friendship. He saw allies as tools, as shields, as assets. That was the thinking of a Lannister. That was his thinking.

"Lord Hoster is a cunning man," said Tywin, returning to the analysis. "But his ambition is great. He wants to see his family rise. He would see his daughter's match with the heir of Casterly Rock as a great victory."

"And a man like that can be controlled," Jaime added, understanding his father's line of thought. "Their ambition is a leash we can hold."

"Precisely," said Tywin. He considered the Tully alliance. It was solid. Strategic. Not too conspicuous. It would secure vital trade routes and create a useful buffer zone without provoking needless alarm among the other Houses or, more importantly, at the King's court. It was a measured step, a wise step.

Tywin nodded, accepting Jaime's analysis of House Tully. Logical and seeing the potential profits as well as the risks. That was good. Now, it was time to test his understanding of the greatest prize in the South.

"Now, Tyrell," said Tywin, his tone neutral.

Jaime leaned forward a bit more, his eyes now gleaming with a clear appreciation for raw power. "House Tyrell," he began, "possesses immense strength. Perhaps the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms if measured by the number of soldiers and food. The Reach is the breadbasket of Westeros, Father. They can feed an army far larger than any other House, and for much longer."

"Quantity does not always mean quality," Tywin interjected. "The armies of the Reach are famous for their proud, flowery knights, more concerned with tournaments than actual battle."

"That might be true for some of them," Jaime admitted, "but their sheer numbers alone are a force that cannot be underestimated. They 'might' be able to field sixty thousand swords if needed. Sixty thousand, Father. Even if only half of them are competent, that is still a formidable army." He paused for a moment, adding another important detail. "And do not forget Olenna Tyrell. She is a Redwyne."

Tywin nodded again. Of course he had not forgotten. That woman, it was said, was the true brain behind Highgarden. "The Redwyne fleet," he said.

"Exactly," said Jaime. "One of the largest fleets in Westeros. If we ally with Tyrell, we not only get the largest land army, but also easy access to significant naval power through their Redwyne connections. Imagine, Father. Our gold could fund their ships. We could control the sea and the land."

The image was indeed tempting. Very tempting. Nearly limitless power. Total domination. That was a language Tywin understood.

"They are also rich," Jaime continued. "Not as rich as us, of course, but their wealth from the wine, fruit, and grain trade is substantial."

Tywin said coldly. "The Tyrells are known for their boundless ambition. They rose to Lord Paramount after the fall of House Gardener because they knew when to bow to Aegon. They are stewards who became Lords. Their blood is not as ancient or as pure as ours." There was a slight tone of contempt in his voice.

"But their ambition also makes them motivated allies," Jaime countered. "They want to rise higher. They want recognition. An alliance with us would give them that. They would be eager partners."

"Eager partners, or dangerous competitors?" Tywin asked quietly. "Olenna Redwyne is not a woman easily controlled. And her son, Mace Tyrell, while not as clever as his mother, possesses an arrogance just as large."

Jaime was silent for a moment, considering that. "Every alliance has its risks, Father. Great power always comes with great challenges."

Tywin let the silence hang between them. He let his son contemplate the implications. Internally, Tywin had already weighed the pros and cons of the Tyrell alliance long before this conversation.

The Tyrells were indeed strong, yes. Very strong. A combined Lannister. Tyrell force would be like an unmatched giant in Westeros. But it was precisely that strength that was its biggest problem.It would be too conspicuous. Too threatening.

An alliance that large would immediately create opposing blocs. Stark, Arryn, Baratheon, maybe even Martell, they would see it as a blatant attempt to dominate the kingdom, a direct threat to the balance of power. They would unite against it, creating instability, suspicion, and possibly even civil war.

And that would be very disruptive to the paper and printing projects. Those projects required stability, open trade routes, and at least the illusion of cooperation between the great Houses. If the kingdom was split into suspicious factions, how could they sell their paper widely? How could they get supplies of flax from other regions? How could they control the flow of information if every great Lord built walls around their own lands? The Tyrell alliance was too risky for this much more subtle and potentially more powerful long term project.

Besides, the Tyrells are ambitious. Very ambitious. Olenna Tyrell is a masterful player of the game of thrones. They would not be content just being Lannister's partner. They would have their own agenda. Uniting the two most powerful Houses in the kingdom could easily turn into a destructive internal rivalry. They are hard to control.

Whereas the Tullys... they offered almost the same in terms of strategic position, control over the heart of the kingdom. Their military strength and wealth might be only half of the Tyrells, but they were far easier to control. Hoster Tully has dreams, but his dreams are more measured, more predictable. He wants status and security for his family. He can be managed. An alliance with the Tullys would significantly strengthen the Lannisters without making the entire kingdom panic. It was not a reckless move.

And most importantly, there was Aerys. The King was already wary of Tywin's power. If Tywin married his son to a Tyrell, Aerys would see it as a declaration of war. It would be the end of his position as Hand of the King, and the end of any hope of marrying Cersei to Rhaegar. The Tyrell alliance was too costly in terms of political consequences in King's Landing.

Tywin had already made his choice even before this conversation began. This discussion was merely a test for Jaime, a way to ensure his son understood these complexities. And Jaime had passed that test. He saw the strength of the Tyrells, but he also was beginning to understand the risks.

"Tully," Tywin said to his son, his voice flat and final.

He saw confusion flash across Jaime's face. After all the discussion about the unrivaled strength of the Tyrells, this decision must have seemed ridiculous. "Huh?"

"Catelyn Tully," Tywin affirmed, leaving no room for doubt. He had weighed all the variables, all the possibilities, and this was the most logical, the most strategic step for the long term. "She will be your wife."

---

Honestly, from the start I wanted Jaime to be with Lyanna, but here Tywin is the one who weighs the pros and cons, this would be OOC. At least that's what I think.

 

[Daario]

WHISPER IN THE WIND​

---

The sight was so grand, so large, that Gerion himself felt as if this were a dream. The ship loomed before him on the busy docks of Lannisport, its hull gleaming in the morning sun. Its size alone was astonishing, far larger than the usual merchant ships that filled the harbor. Its tall masts pierced the blue sky, its neatly furled sails promising wind and adventure.

Gerion stood among the crowd, the dockworkers, merchants, sailors, who had also paused for a moment to gaze at this newborn masterpiece. Whispers and murmurs of admiration sounded around him. They might see an impressive new ship, another symbol of the limitless wealth of the Lannisters. But Gerion saw something far more personal. He saw freedom.

For these past few months, he had felt as if he were living in a golden cage. Yes, the cage was beautiful, its walls made of the mighty stone of Casterly Rock, its bars coated in pure gold. He had a long chain, allowing him to wander the taverns of Lannisport, flirt with women, and tell his jokes. He could go wherever he wanted within the Westerlands, enjoying all the pleasures that could be bought with his name and fortune. But still, there was a limit. An invisible wall that separated him from the real world, the world of adventure he dreamed of in the quiet of the night.

But now, standing here, on this dock that smelled of salt and fish, looking at the ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea, he realized that the cage had been shattered to pieces. The chain was broken. And he, Gerion Lannister, was finally free.

A ship. Not just any ship, but one designed for long voyages, capable of holding more than fifty men, crew, guards, and of course, himself and his small retinue. This ship was fast, sturdy, and most importantly, new. He got this because of that funny, strange nephew of his, Jaime. Who would have thought a ten-year-old boy's obsession with rags and paper pulp could lead to this? Whatever invention Jaime was working on might change the world one day, but it started by changing Gerion's world. A world that was once dull and grim, now filled with the promise of new horizons.

With a step lighter than usual, Gerion climbed the wooden gangplank connecting the dock to the ship's deck. The workers bowed respectfully as he passed. He entered the ship, leaving the noise of the harbor behind. The atmosphere inside was damp, filled with the smell of freshly planed pine and oak and the sharp scent of varnish. Sunlight streamed in through the open hatches, illuminating the remaining construction chaos.

The interior was a bit of a mess. Pieces of wood were scattered on the floor, a few nails lay in the corners, coils of rope piled up like sleeping snakes. Sheets of unfolded sailcloth were folded over crates, and there were even a few used drinking glasses and leftover food from the workers left on a barrel. However, Gerion didn't mind. This chaos was the chaos of creation. In a few days, all this would be clean, replaced by crates of supplies, trade goods, a cover for his journey, and of course, the precious samples of his nephew's invention.

He walked down the narrow corridor below deck, imagining how this place would soon be filled with life, the sound of sailors' footsteps, the aroma of cooking from the galley, and perhaps occasionally, the sound of singing at night. This ship would be his home for months, maybe even years. And that thought, instead of scaring him, filled him with overflowing joy.

Tywin's order had come a few weeks after Jaime's return from King's Landing. Returning with stories of Prince Rhaegar being captivated by his ideas. Tywin immediately saw the golden potential in his son's discovery. And he also saw the potential in Gerion.

"You will go to the Free Cities," Tywin had written in the letter. "Bring samples of this paper. Show them to the merchant princes, the magisters, the scribes. Make them want it. And while you are there, keep your ears open. Listen to the gossip. Learn the trade currents. Report back anything of interest."

It was a command, but to Gerion, it felt like a gift. A mission. A purpose. And a new ship to do it on.

The paper production itself had begun in earnest since Jaime's return. The small mill established in one of the old warehouses near the river below Casterly Rock quickly expanded. The initial production was chaotic, of course. Teaching dozens of workers, mostly the sons of farmers or fishermen with no special skills, how to sort used cloth, cut it to the right size, pound it into pulp of the correct consistency, boil it, form thin sheets on molds, press them, and dry them... it was a complicated and tiring process. Gerion himself had visited a few times, and just watching it made his head spin. Cloth dust flew in the air, the strange smell of boiling pulp stung the nose, and the monotonous sound of the pounding hammers echoed relentlessly.

But Jaime, with his patience and good explanations, assisted by Jon who supervised sternly, managed to train them. And then came the waterwheel. Another idea to harness the river's power to move giant pounding hammers had revolutionized everything. Production became much faster, much more efficient.

Now, the 'mill', as people were beginning to call it, not only had twenty workers, but up to a hundred. They worked in rotating 'shifts', keeping the hammers pounding day and night, turning piles of dirty rags into clean white sheets of paper. It was strange how something that might have been born from the random thought of a curious child could create jobs for a hundred people and change the small economic landscape around Casterly Rock.

Of course, Jaime himself was rarely seen there anymore. Since returning from King's Landing, his Father had placed him as a page for Tygett. And a few months later, he was made a squire. It was part of the education of a future great Lord, learning to serve before ruling. So now, most of Jaime's time was spent in the training yard, in the stables, or following Tygett around, doing whatever his moody uncle asked of him to 'learn'. The paper production was established enough that it no longer needed his direct supervision at all times. The older workers could teach the new ones. They ran on their own now, a new living, breathing enterprise in the shadows.

And the paper itself? Very well received. The merchants in Lannisport were the first to adopt it. They never turned down something practical and cheaper. Although the initial price was still quite high, it was still far cheaper than animal skin parchment. Scribes, mapmakers, even some minor Lords began to order it. Over time, as production increased and the process became more efficient, the price stabilized, making it even more affordable. Parchment was still used for important royal documents or luxurious manuscripts, but for everyday notes, correspondence, and bookkeeping, paper quickly became the primary choice.

And then there was the 'school' idea. Another of Jaime's concepts, which he somehow managed to convince Tywin of. A school for common folk. The initial implementation began a few weeks ago in Lannisport. And who did Tywin assign to talk to the stubborn old Septons in the Sept? Gerion, of course. Gerion himself had to go to the sept, sit for hours in rooms that smelled of incense and old books, discussing and chatting with the Leader Septon of Lannisport. He had to frame it carefully, not as an attempt to disrupt the social order, but as a way to increase piety. 'Imagine', he said, 'how wonderful it would be if more children could read The Seven-Pointed Star for themselves, without needing to rely on a Septon to read it to them. Imagine how much stronger their faith would become'. The Septons, after some debate and the assurance of a generous donation to the Sept, finally agreed to provide a few rooms and some young Septons as initial teachers. It was a small step, but it was a start.

Gerion smiled to himself as he stood in the spacious captain's cabin at the ship's stern. He looked out the window at the bustling harbor, at Casterly Rock looming in the distance. He was a part of all this now. Not just a spectator, but a player. He would bring this paper to the world. He would open new markets. He would gather information for Tywin. He would help build the school.

The 'Sept' school itself, the pilot project in Lannisport, was an interesting experiment. The fee had been set: six silver stags per month for each child. A price affordable enough for the more prosperous merchants and craftsmen in the city, but significant enough to ensure they valued the opportunity. In return, each child would receive a ration of paper, the new Lannister paper, worth nine coppers each week for writing and arithmetic practice. Jaime insisted they must use real paper from the start, not just slate, to get them used to the new medium and, of course, to create demand early on.

The learning itself was quite simple. The young Septons used a blackboard, just an ordinary wooden board painted black, and white chalk to teach basic letters and numbers. The children came five days a week, usually in the morning before they were expected to help their parents in the shop or workshop. They learned to read simple words, spell their names, and add basic numbers. Practical skills designed to make them better merchants or craftsmen in the future.

Gerion felt that, even if most of these children were probably just being ordered to learn arithmetic so they could help their fathers cheat customers more efficiently later on, there was an inevitable side benefit. Learning to read in the Sept, with The Seven-Pointed Star as one of their main practice texts... They would be exposed to the faith, whether they liked it or not. They would learn about the Maiden and the Mother, about the Warrior and the Smith, even as they learned how to count copper coins.

That thought made him laugh softly. Tywin might see this school as a way to increase economic efficiency and instill Lannister loyalty or control. But the Septons... the Septons might be inadvertently gaining a small army of new followers who could read their own prayers. A delightful irony.

He, Gerion Lannister, finally had a purpose. And well. The winds of change were blowing.

…

Alan climbed the spiral stairs of the Citadel's tower with a steady pace, his breathing even despite the load in his hands. A steady pace was the key; rushing would only leave him breathless before reaching the top. In his hands, he held a stack of paper, that precious new commodity, which he had obtained with great difficulty from the morning crowd near the merchants' gate. To get this, he had to queue since before dawn, jostling with greedy people who wanted to buy as much as possible to resell at a higher price, servants sent by their masters, and of course, other Citadel acolytes as desperate as himself.

The wealthier acolytes, sons of great Lords or merchants, didn't bother with such indignities. They would just send someone, someone like Alan, who needed a few extra copper coins, to queue for them.

In his hands were a hundred sheets of clean white paper. A very large amount. Meanwhile, he himself could only afford ten sheets with the coins he had managed to scrape together. The remaining ninety sheets belonged to his friends: Bandy, Colin, and Davos. They had pooled their money and given it to Alan last night, along with a wage of a few copper coins in return for his efforts. It was profitable, of course. Extra money was always welcome, even if it meant he had to endure the elbows, shoves, and the sour smell of sweat from people who seemed to have never bathed in their lives. The smell of the crowd at the merchants' gate was something that would haunt him in his sleep.

He finally reached the top of the stairs and pushed the heavy wooden door open. The Citadel's library greeted him, a massive circular room, so vast that the far end seemed to blur in the dim light filtering through the high windows. Bookshelves soared from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, filled with thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of parchment scrolls and leather-bound books. Wheeled wooden ladders leaned against the shelves here and there, allowing access to the higher levels. This room had a distinct smell, a mixture of the fragile aroma of old parchment, melted wax, dust dancing in the beams of light, and something indescribable, the smell of knowledge itself, the accumulation of centuries of wisdom. For Alan, this smell was calming. It was the smell of his purpose.

He stepped inside, his worn shoes making no sound on the cold stone floor. At one of the long wooden tables scattered around the room, he saw his three friends already waiting, their heads bowed over thick books.

"Wow, you got a lot this time, huh?" Bandy's voice was the first to be heard as Alan approached. Bandy, the son of a fishmonger, was a nineteen-name-day-old young man with intelligent black eyes and straw-like blond hair. He was always better dressed than the other three.

"Of course," Alan replied, slightly out of breath now that he had stopped walking. He passed the three of them and carefully placed the stack of paper in the middle of the table. "I arrived there before the sun even rose. I was almost trampled by an angry lard seller."

Colin, who had fiery red hair and freckles, immediately grabbed a few sheets from the top of the pile and, to Alan's surprise, inhaled them deeply. "I love the smell," he said with a wide grin. "Don't know why. It's not perfume."

"Yes, it's very distinct," Alan agreed, taking a sheet for himself and feeling it between his fingers. Smooth yet fibrous. Far different from parchment. "Maybe that's part of its magic. Maybe it was also made as an excuse to dig more coins out of you to buy it."

Davos, the oldest among them, already losing his hair despite being only twenty-five, chuckled softly. He rubbed his finger gently on the paper's surface. "I wouldn't mind if I had a lot of money to buy this," he said. "Especially when it's more affordable than parchment. For the Seven's sake, just to buy one blank parchment scroll, I have to help Maester Moris copy notes for a whole week."

Bandy had already started flipping through the paper quickly, sorting out his share. "Mine should be thirty, right?" he asked, his eyes shining. "With this, I can write down many of my own notes on history. I have to get that chain no matter what. Borrowing books from the library is a real hassle, you have to return them too quickly. And reading here every day makes me feel cooped up."

"Take it. Mine is ten," Alan confirmed, taking his modest share. "The rest belongs to Colin and Davos." He looked at his ten sheets of clean white paper. Ten sheets of possibility. Ten sheets of knowledge he could hold. "I also need to note down which medicinal plants are good for healing internal wounds. I'm terrible at remembering those names. They all sound the same after a while. At least with this, I can look at it anytime, even when I want to go to sleep."

Alan was the youngest son of a Landed Knight in the Reach. A title that sounded good, but didn't mean much when you were the third son and their small plot of land and castle were barely enough to support his eldest brother and his family. He had no inheritance, no brilliant marriage prospects. Here, at least he had a chance. A chance to gain knowledge, to prove himself through intelligence, not bloodline. If he managed to get enough links on his chain, he could become a Maester. And then, perhaps, he could serve a higher Lord. He imagined himself in a magnificent castle, advising a wise Lord, having access to a private library, respected for his knowledge. Maybe he could even serve House Lannister in the Westerlands, the House that had created this paper.

He badly wanted to meet its creator. They said he was still a child, the heir of Casterly Rock himself. Jaime Lannister. How could a boy, who should be busy playing with wooden swords, have an idea like this? An idea that in an instant had changed the small world of the acolytes at the Citadel? This paper wasn't just a convenience; it was a small revolution. It made knowledge slightly more accessible, slightly easier to record and store. It was a powerful tool.

Alan wanted to see with his own eyes and head how that boy thought. How could he see a need and find such an elegant solution? This was interesting. This was amusing. And it was very impressive.

Because of that, ever since hearing news of the Lannister paper a few months ago, Alan had become more motivated to learn. He no longer just studied to escape his fate as a useless youngest son. He studied because he had seen what knowledge, what an idea, could do, right before his eyes. He felt as if he were witnessing history being made, history that one day might be written on the very papers he currently held.

"So, Alan," said Colin, interrupting his daydream as he carefully stacked his share of paper. "Decided which love potion you're going to write down first to impress that milkmaid at the inn?"

Alan laughed with his friends, the warmth of their camaraderie chasing away the last of the chill from the morning queue. "I'm more interested in a potion to cure your stupidity, Colin," he retorted.

He opened the thick herbal book he had borrowed from the library, its leather cover cracked with age. He took a sheet of his new paper, a quill, and a small ink bottle. He dipped the quill, and carefully, he began to note down the complicated names, the descriptions of leaves and roots, and their uses for healing.

…

Harys opened his thick leather-bound book, its thin pages rustling softly in the silence of his small study. This was the fifth day of the week, which meant tomorrow was his day off from teaching the children. He was a septon, newly ordained five years ago, thirty name days old. A simple man from a farming family in Greengrass, a small, forgotten village in the green expanses of the Westerlands.

When the Leader Septon of Lannisport first appointed him as one of the teachers for this new Lannister-funded 'school' a few months ago, Harys's first thought was that he would be very busy. Teaching dozens of restless merchant and artisan children how to read and count was no easy task. However, he accepted the duty without hesitation. Teaching, spreading the light of knowledge and, of course, the wisdom of the Seven, would surely be favored by the Gods themselves. It was a noble job.

Now, he was preparing the lesson for later: basic mathematics. Addition, subtraction, maybe a little simple multiplication if the children seemed ready. This was the foundation for those future little merchants, skills they would need to count their fathers' goods, to weigh copper coins and silver stags.

He took a sheet of paper, the new object that still felt slightly magical in his hands, and a quill. Carefully, he dipped the tip of the quill into the bottle of thick black ink and began to write practice problems on the paper with neatness and precision. His strokes were clear and legible, a skill he had painstakingly trained for years, spending so much ink and borrowed parchment when he was still a student.

Once, he was just a weak farmer's boy. Harys was born smaller than his brothers, his lungs were weak, and he never had the physical strength to work in the fields all day under the hot sun. While other children his age helped their fathers plow or sow seeds, Harys was more often found sitting under a tree, daydreaming or trying to draw the shapes of clouds on the ground with a stick. Most farmer parents might have grumbled, seeing him as a useless burden. But his father did not. His father was a quiet, kind man, who would just give him a tired smile and say, "Everyone has their own path, son." He let him be, loved him unconditionally, and Harys was grateful for that simple kindness every day.

Because of that weakness, he was first drawn to Septon Glenn. The wandering Septon had come to their village one summer, an old man with a long white beard and eyes that had seen many things. While the other children were busy playing, Harys often snuck into Septon Glenn's small tent, captivated by the leather-bound books he owned and the stories he could tell about the world beyond Greengrass. Seeing the curiosity in the pale boy's eyes, Septon Glenn began to teach him. First letters, then words, then sentences. For Harys, it was like a floodgate opening. He absorbed the knowledge like dry earth finding water after a long drought. He was so fascinated by the power of words, by the ability to capture thoughts and stories on a page, by the history of kings and the wisdom of the Seven stored within those books.

Now, years later, he was doing the same thing Septon Glenn had done for him. The old Septon was long gone, continuing his journey to who knows where, but his legacy lived on in Harys. And Harys was determined to do it earnestly, to ignite that same spark of curiosity in these Lannisport children, hoping to change someone's life for the better, just as his life had been changed. Maybe, after all this, this was his destiny. Not to swing a sword or rule lands, but to teach.

After carefully writing several pages of practice problems, double-checking every number and word several times to ensure there were no mistakes, Harys smiled with satisfaction. He cleaned the tip of his quill, closed his ink bottle, and tidied the stack of paper on his desk. He stood up, stretched his slightly stiff back, and returned the basic mathematics book to the small shelf on the wall, careful not to let it fall. His study was small, just a simple nook within the Sept, but it was his place, a place where he could prepare himself for his duty. Then, he left the room, ready to start his day.

The Sept of Lannisport was magnificent. Far more magnificent than the simple wooden sept in his village. This one was made of gleaming white marble, with high stained-glass windows that cast colorful patterns on the polished floor when the sun shone. Its large dome seemed to touch the sky, and its bells rang with a deep, melodious sound. Of course, that was to be expected. This building was right in the heart of the richest city in the Westerlands, under the shadow of House Lannister itself. A noble family whose wealth was so great it had become legend. The gold mines under Casterly Rock, people said, might never run out, and would always be the family's main weapon.

Fortunately, Harys thought as he walked down the quiet corridor, the Lannisters were now using some of their wealth for good things. Like building the school here in the Sept. All the capital came from the Lannisters. The new wooden desks for the children, the large custom-made blackboards, the white chalk, even the small additional buildings that had just been completed in the backyard to house more classes. Lord Tywin Lannister might be a hard man, but at least he understood the value of knowledge.

"You look bright as usual, Harys."

A friendly voice greeted him in the corridor. Harys turned and smiled. It was Ormund, one of the senior Septons. He wore the usual long grey robes, his face neatly shaven, although the top of his head was already beginning to show obvious baldness. His blue eyes were kind and full of quiet wisdom.

"I am grateful to the Seven for that," Harys replied. "They have given me peace during my sleep last night. I had no dreams, just slept in pleasant silence." He paused for a moment, walking side by side with Ormund. "When I woke up, my energy was restored and I didn't have a single ache in my bones. It is a small blessing to be thankful for."

Ormund chuckled softly, a warm sound. "Ah, as you get older, sleep indeed becomes the most beautiful blessing. I sometimes dream of the past," he continued, his gaze becoming slightly distant. "A past where my parents were still alive, in our lands in the Stormlands. But sometimes those dreams quickly turn into nightmares. Things we didn't want to happen, shadows from the war... it always flashes in my head when I wake up." He sighed. "So yes, indeed. I think dreamless sleep is the greatest blessing."

Ormund was ten years older than Harys, around forty. What Harys knew from their previous conversations was that he came from the Stormlands, the son of a minor noble whose name he never mentioned. His parents were killed by a group of bandits when he was young. Ormund himself had participated in the War of the Ninepenny Kings as a young soldier before he took his vows as a Septon, so it was certain that behind his peaceful robes, he was a man who had known violence and battle. That experience gave him a depth and perspective that Harys, the weak farmer's son, did not possess.

"May the Seven bless us all." Harys felt the depth behind the man's words. There was a sadness that had settled into wisdom. "I am sure you will get through it as soon as possible, Ormund."

Ormund laughed again, this time a more relaxed laugh, as if the dark cloud had passed. "Hahaha, the Seven have already given me their blessing, Harys. Now, those dreams are just like shadows in the water that I don't care about." He reassured, his blue eyes clear again. "What will you be teaching the children this time?"

"Arithmetic," Harys showed the sheets of paper with the practice problems he had prepared. "Basic addition, subtraction. Some of them really like this, maybe because they see their own fathers counting coins every night."

Ormund chuckled, stroking his smooth chin. "Who doesn't like money? When I was little, I was once given a dragon coin by my uncle. One whole dragon! It felt like I was the king of the world." He smiled at the memory. "And I spent it all within two weeks. Buying sweets, wooden toys, even tried to buy a small dagger, which of course was immediately confiscated by my father. But it was so satisfying, when every day you felt you could buy anything you wanted."

"True," Harys agreed, smiling at the thought of an enthusiastic young Ormund. "Money isn't everything, the Seven teach us that. Virtue, faith, family, those are far more valuable. However," he added with a practical tone he had learned from teaching the merchant children, "everything in this world requires money. Bread on the table, a roof over your head, even candles for prayer. That is why one must not be lazy and must keep working hard. Not just expect something to fall from the sky like rain."

"Wise words from a young teacher," said Ormund with an agreeable tone. "You know, Harys, the work you do in that school is important. More important than you might realize."

"I am only teaching them to read and count," Harys replied humbly.

"You are giving them tools," Ormund corrected. "Tools to understand the world around them. Tools to improve their lives. Maybe one of those children won't end up just as a fishmonger like his father. Maybe he will read about laws and become a scribe. Maybe he will read about the stars and become a maester." Ormund paused for a moment, his gaze becoming more intense. "Or maybe he will just become a better fishmonger, one who is more successful and not easily cheated."

"Sometimes I wonder," Harys said softly, "if we are doing the right thing. Giving them this knowledge. Will it make them dissatisfied with their lives? Wanting more than what they were fated for?" It was a doubt that sometimes surfaced in his mind at night.

Ormund placed a calming hand on Harys's shoulder. "Fate is not a narrow footpath, Harys," he said gently. "It is a vast landscape with many roads. The Seven give us choices. Knowledge is the light that helps us see those roads more clearly. It is not our job to decide which path they must take, but it is our job to give them as much light as possible." He smiled. "And if that knowledge makes them a little more pious in the process, that is an added bonus."

Harys felt the burden of his doubt lift slightly. Ormund had a way of making complicated things seem simple and right. "Thank you, Ormund. You always know what to say."

"I only say what I believe," the older Septon replied. "Now, go. The children are waiting for you. And I must prepare for morning prayers."

Harys then said goodbye to Ormund, feeling his spirits restored. He walked out of the Sept's cool corridor and onto the streets of Lannisport, which were starting to get busy. The sun was higher now, and the aroma of fresh baked bread from a nearby bakery filled the air. His stomach began to growl.

He headed to a small, simple eatery near the harbor, his favorite place for breakfast. The place was always crowded with morning workers, but the food was good and the price was affordable. He ordered a bowl of warm oat porridge with a little honey and a thick slice of bread. While eating, he observed the people around him, the fishermen just returning from the sea, their faces tired but satisfied; the small merchants discussing the price of fish; the dockworkers taking a short break before starting their heavy labor.

This was the world of his students. A world of calculations, hard work, and simple hopes. And he, Harys, a weak farmer's son, had somehow been given the chance to give them the tools to navigate this world a little better.

As he finished his porridge and felt the warmth spread in his stomach, he felt grateful. Grateful for Septon Glenn, for his father's kindness, for the opportunity given by the Lannisters, and for Ormund's wisdom.

This was a good day. And he was ready to teach.

…

"You received another letter, Cat?"

A smile touched Brynden Tully's lips as he saw his niece, Catelyn, coming out of her room. The little girl, well, not so little anymore, she was already eleven name days old, held a carefully sealed sheet of paper. Her bright auburn hair, a Tully trademark, looked like liquid fire under the flickering candlelight along the somewhat damp corridors of Riverrun.

Catelyn blushed immediately, a pink hue creeping up her cheeks, signaling that Brynden's guess was correct. The letter must be from her distant betrothed, the heir of Casterly Rock. "Jaime said that his day today was the same as a month ago," Catelyn said, her voice a little shy. "It was spent helping his uncle, Ser Tygett, wiping swords, polishing armor, and even taking care of the horses."

Brynden's smile widened. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed. He knew his niece. Catelyn was a serious and responsible child, grown up too fast like most firstborns. She wouldn't blush just from hearing about the boring duties of a squire. "But?" Brynden prompted, it couldn't be just that in the letter.

Catelyn's face turned redder. She hugged the paper a little tighter. "He... he gave me a poem," she whispered. "It was very touching."

"A poem?" Now Brynden was truly interested. A young lion writing poetry? That was an unusual combination. He leaned in a little. "Can you tell me? I always appreciate good words."

Catelyn shook her head quickly, her blue eyes looking at him with an apologetic gaze. "No, Uncle. This is for me. He made it himself, he said as a gift."

"Ah, how romantic," Brynden chuckled, taking a step back. He respected his niece's privacy, even though his curiosity was piqued. "I am very curious, but if you refuse, who am I to force?" He shrugged with a look of mock resignation. He observed Catelyn for a moment, the way the girl held the letter as if it were a treasure. "You like the boy?"

The question was simple, but the answer was complicated. Jaime Lannister and Catelyn Tully had been betrothed for over six months. A match arranged with lightning speed between his brother, Hoster, and the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Brynden still remembered how bright Hoster's face was when that raven from King's Landing arrived. A request from Tywin Lannister himself, offering his son and heir for Hoster's eldest daughter. It was an offer impossible for Hoster to refuse, whose ambition to elevate House Tully was always as great as the Trident river itself. He accepted without a second thought, without much consultation, only seeing the strategic advantage and glory of such an alliance.

But Catelyn and Jaime themselves had never met. Not even once. Jaime was busy with his affairs, first as a page and now as a squire to his own uncle, Tygett Lannister, a rather strange arrangement, Brynden thought, but who could understand the workings of Tywin Lannister's mind? Besides, there were rumors of other projects taking up the boy's time. 'Paper'. That new thing had already become a sensation throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Merchants in Riverrun talked about it, maesters at court ordered it. It was cheaper than parchment, more practical, and came from the richest House in Westeros. And apparently, something even bigger was waiting. Hoster, after his visit to King's Landing to formalize the engagement, returned with other stories, something called a "Printing Press", which he said would allow books to be copied in large numbers.

The point was, this heir of Casterly Rock was no ordinary noble son. He was a very valuable asset. Handsome, as rumored, a Lannister trademark. Smart, the invention of paper and the printing press was proof. And, according to whispers, he was also very skilled with a sword, even at his young age. Everything Hoster wanted in a husband for his beloved daughter.

But all of that was just reputation, reports, and rumors. What about the boy himself? Was he kind? Would he make Cat happy? That's what Brynden worried about.

"Jaime is very nice," Catelyn finally answered, her voice quiet and considered. She looked at the letter in her hand. "He always starts his letters by asking how I am first, about Lysa and Edmure, about my lessons. Then he'll make a joke about something, about Ser Tygett being too serious, or about how bad the food he made was, to make me laugh." Her eyes shone as she spoke. "He also tells me all sorts of things. Sometimes about a book he just read, sometimes about strange people he saw. Whether it's a real story or one made up by his own mind, it's all so impressive. He has a way of storytelling that makes me feel as if I were there."

"That's good," Brynden said gently. "But the question is, do you like him?" He stressed the last word.

Catelyn seemed to think for a moment, biting her lower lip. She gazed down the corridor, as if trying to visualize the boy she only knew through written words. "He's like a man from a song," she said softly. "The golden knight from the West. Handsome, smart, brave, even writes poetry. He sounds so perfect... but seems distant at the same time, because we haven't met at all." She paused, then turned back to Brynden, and a small, sincere smile appeared on her face. "But yes. I think I like him, Uncle."

Brynden felt a wave of relief. It wasn't burning love, of course not. How could it be, when they had never even laid eyes on each other? But it was a good start. An affection, a hope. It was more than many couples had in political matches.

He nodded, placing his large, rough hand on his niece's shoulder. "That's good," he said. "He sounds like a good lad. At least, from what you've told me, he doesn't sound like the type of man who would hurt you."

"Keep your poem safe then," he said with a smile, removing his hand from her shoulder. "And maybe next time, you can read just one verse for your old, curious uncle?"

Catelyn laughed, a melodious laugh. "Maybe, Uncle. Maybe."

He watched his niece walk away down the corridor, the paper still held tightly in her hand, her step a little lighter than before. Brynden leaned back against the wall, his smile fading into a more contemplative expression.

…

Waldon was a patient man. At least, that's what he always told himself. In his fifty years of life in this world, he had learned that patience was the most valuable currency, especially for someone like him. He had experienced many ups and downs, more downs than ups, to be honest. There were faint, happy memories, his wedding day with Ellyn, the birth of his first son Mathis, then Lyra, but more often, his mind was filled with memories of struggle: harsh winters when food supplies dwindled, mounting debts to a cunning wool merchant, his father's failed harvest that almost made them lose their small plot of land. Yes, he had known hardship like he knew the palm of his own hand.

However, these past ten years had been different. These ten years were a good turmoil, a rising tide that finally lifted his rickety boat. The peak of his career in trading had risen rapidly, far beyond his wildest dreams. At first, he was just Waldon the butcher, standing on a corner of Oldtown's busy market, selling cuts of cured meat and sausages he made himself. It was honest work, but the returns were mediocre.

Then, an opportunity came in the form of an old scribe complaining about the sky-high price of parchment. That scribe, the grumpy but sharp-witted Maester Gerold, had given him an idea. Parchment. Sheepskin and calfskin painstakingly processed into a valuable writing medium. The production was complicated, requiring time and skill, but the demand was always there, especially in a city like Oldtown, home to the great Citadel.

Waldon, with his typical patience, learned the craft. He spent his savings to buy some quality skins, learned from an old craftsman who was about to retire, made costly mistakes, but kept learning. He worked tirelessly, his hands becoming calloused and smelling strange, but slowly but surely, he mastered it. His parchment was smooth, strong, and consistent in color. The scribes and acolytes of the Citadel began to recognize it. Orders started coming in.

For ten years, Waldon's parchment business flourished. He moved from a market corner to a proper little workshop. He hired two assistants. He even started getting orders from outside Oldtown, from minor Lords in the Reach who needed parchment to record genealogies or send important letters. He could finally provide a comfortable life for Ellyn and his children. Mathis was now apprenticed to a blacksmith, and Lyra helped her mother at home. They were not wealthy, but they were secure. Their bellies were full, and they had a sturdy roof over their heads. Waldon felt proud. He had built something from scratch, with his own hands and patience.

Sipping his cheap drink that tasted bitter on his tongue tonight, Waldon listened to the chatter around him in "The Melting Candle" tavern. The sound of rough laughter, clinking cups, and drunken arguments was usually a soothing backdrop for him after a hard day's work. But tonight, there was one topic that kept buzzing in his ears, annoying him like a blowfly: paper.

This paper, that paper. The new thing from the Lannisters. People talked about it as if it were the most historic invention in mankind! As if the Seven Gods themselves descended from the sky and gave it to them.

"Cheaper, you know?" said a cloth merchant at the next table. "Half the price of the best parchment, maybe less!"

"And light," chimed in a young, drunk-looking scribe. "I can carry a hundred sheets without feeling like I'm carrying a dead calf!"

"It's whiter, too," added another. "My writing looks clearer on it."

Waldon clenched his fists under the table. Disgusted. He felt disgusted. Who needed this thin, flimsy paper when you had parchment? Parchment was time-tested. Parchment was more durable, classier. It was the medium of kings and great maesters, used for thousands of years! This paper... this was just a fleeting fad, a cheap thing for people who didn't appreciate quality.

Damn it!

With a sudden movement that made a few people turn, Waldon rose from his seat. He slammed a few copper pieces onto the sticky table, enough to pay for his drink and a little more, then walked out of that gathering place of people with no future, leaving the buzz of conversation about 'paper' behind him.

The cool night air of Oldtown felt slightly calming on his face, which was hot with anger and ale. But inside, a storm still raged. This was infuriating. It was so infuriating when the business you had built with hardship over years, drop by drop of sweat, was destroyed overnight by a fancy new invention.

A few months prior, driven by his growing success, Waldon had taken a bold step. He borrowed a large sum of gold, more than he had ever held in his life, from several other wealthier merchants. He used it to expand his workshop, buy more high-quality skins, and even hire two more workers. He dreamed of becoming the main parchment supplier in the entire Reach, perhaps even competing with the producers in King's Landing.

But then, the paper came. Like an invisible plague, it spread quickly. His parchment orders began to decline. Slowly at first, just a few cancellations here and there. But then the decline became drastic. The Citadel acolytes, who used to be his regular customers, now preferred the cheaper paper for their notes. The small merchants, who counted every copper coin, switched to paper for their bookkeeping. Even some scribes, tempted by its practicality and price, began to use it for drafts and less important letters.

Now, his parchment sales had plummeted. His newly expanded workshop felt empty and quiet. His workers sat idle more often than they worked. And his debts... those debts loomed over him like a dark storm cloud. The merchants who had lent him money were starting to ask questions and look at him with cold, assessing gazes. How was he going to handle this?

The thought made him want to hit something, to punch the nearest stone wall until his knuckles bled. He had a wife and children to feed. He had promised Ellyn a better life. He had promised himself that his children would never know hunger as he once had. And now? Would they be destitute instead? Would his good name be tarnished because of his debts? Would they lose their home?

Waldon couldn't bear the thought. A cold despair began to creep into his heart.

Lannister. The name was so bitter on his tongue and in his ears right now. They had been fabulously wealthy for thousands of years, sitting on their mountain of gold. Why? Why did they have to meddle in his small business? Why did they have to create something that destroyed the livelihoods of ordinary people like him? Was their gold not enough? Were they so bored with their wealth that they had to ruin other people's lives just for entertainment?

Waldon gritted his teeth, a burning hatred searing his chest. He walked aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of Oldtown, his mind racing. He turned to his other thoughts, trying to find a way out, a glimmer of hope. He still had a little left from that loan, maybe a thousand golden dragon coins remaining. An amount that sounded large, but with workers still needing to be paid their weekly wages, raw skins still needing to be bought, though he doubted he would need them anymore, and the loan interest continuing to accrue, this money would vanish like morning dew in just a few months.

He knew he was not alone. His fellow parchment merchants in Oldtown were also feeling the impact. Old Man Harlon, whose workshop had been passed down from his grandfather. Matthew Flowers, the bastard who worked hard to prove himself. They all had the same problem. Sales down, the future grim.

They had gathered a few times, speaking in low voices in tavern corners, sharing their grievances and fears. But no solution emerged. How could you compete with a product that was cheaper, more practical, and backed by the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms?

If only... The dark thought emerged unbidden, a wicked whisper in his mind. If only those papers were ashes... If only their mill in Lannisport was put to the torch... If only their supply was choked off.....

Maybe things would go back to how they were. Maybe parchment would be valuable again. Maybe he could save his business, his family, his pride.

If only they could...

Waldon stopped in the middle of the empty street, the darkness of the night seeming to creep into his soul. The thought was terrifying, but also... tempting. He shook his head hard, trying to banish the dangerous whisper. He was Waldon, the patient man. He was an honest craftsman. He was not a criminal.

But as he continued his step towards home, towards Ellyn and his children, the whisper remained, hiding in the dark corner of his mind, waiting. Waiting for the moment when his patience finally ran out.

---

If you think Gerion's ship doesn't make sense, blame it on me, I don't know anything about ships, lol.
You can read chapters early at Patreon

 

[Hilight]

You may want to add some tags for the story so people have a better idea of what they're in for. I'm enjoying it so far and look forward to more.