Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

JAIME | RHAEGAR​

---

Dawn at Riverrun brought a thin mist creeping over the surface of the water, enveloping the sandstone fortress in a cold, wet embrace. The morning sunlight had just begun to peek from behind the eastern hills, turning the mist into shimmering pale gold.

Jaime and Catelyn walked side by side down the open stone corridor, their footsteps echoing softly on the cold floor. The morning air felt fresh, carrying the scent of river water and freshly baked bread from the castle kitchens.

"I have grown accustomed to your presence, so it will feel lonely when you leave, Lord Jaime."

Catelyn's voice broke the morning silence. Jaime turned, looking at the girl. Her face was calm, her hands folded politely in front of her green gown, but there was sincerity in her eyes. Jaime only nodded slowly in response. Whether Catelyn was just making small talk for the sake of politeness or not, Jaime found himself believing her.

And to his own surprise, Jaime realized that he felt it too. He would miss Riverrun.

He would miss the way this castle seemed to grow from the water, not perched arrogantly above it like Casterly Rock. He would miss the endless expanse of green grass, a contrast to the rocky cliffs of his home. He would miss the sound of the rushing rivers, flowing ceaselessly, singing like eternal music in his ears. It was a living place, a breathing place.

"I am indeed often missed by someone," Jaime replied with a light teasing tone, trying to banish the melancholy of parting. He grinned the typical Lannister grin. "That is my skill, apparently. Leaving an unforgettable impression."

Catelyn chuckled, a light and pleasant sound. "Do not be too confident, My Lord. Perhaps it is not you personally that we will miss." She glanced at him with a playful glint. "It is your stories that will be missed. Edmure might be sad for a few days when you depart. There will be no one to sit with him in the garden anymore and tell tales of princes, giants, and glass slippers."

Catelyn's face softened at the mention of her brother. "Our old servants only know stories about ghosts and scary warnings so children won't be naughty. Edmure often complained about that before because their stories were bland and caused nightmares."

"They should learn from the expert," Jaime responded, puffing out his chest with mock arrogance. "I might have to build a school dedicated to bedtime stories, yes? Ser Jaime's Academy of Tales."

Catelyn giggled again, this time more freely. "You are not a 'Ser' yet. But it is indeed worth a try. Imagining you, the heir of Casterly Rock, standing in front of old nannies and teaching them how to dramatize a witch's voice... that is a moment worth capturing in a painting."

"Oh, believe me, My Lady. When that happens, they would surely interrupt me halfway," Jaime said while rolling his eyes. "They would lecture me about real life, about how wolves do not speak, and in a few minutes, I would be the one sitting listening to their scolding. Everything would be reversed."

Jaime pretended to let out a long sigh, tightening his grip on the strap of the small leather bag slung over his shoulder. He had packed two nights before, efficient and neat as Uncle Tygett had taught him. His main belongings were already loaded onto the wagons; all he carried now were personal necessities.

They continued walking, passing high windows that now let the morning sunlight in, creating patterns of light on the floor.

"My father is very impressed with you, you know," Catelyn said suddenly, her voice more serious. "He said you possess a patience rarely found in young men your age, especially when dealing with Edmure. My uncle, Ser Brynden, is often not that patient."

Jaime smiled faintly. "Edmure is a good lad. He just wants to be heard."

They finally arrived at the double doors leading to the Great Hall of Riverrun. The sound of departure preparations could already be heard from the courtyard outside, but inside the Hall, the atmosphere was more formal.

Hoster Tully stood, wearing a thick velvet doublet with a silver trout motif on his chest. He looked gallant and authoritative, the Lord Paramount of the Trident in every aspect. Beside him, Edmure stood with an undisguised gloomy face, his eyes slightly red. Lysa stood on the other side, looking sad but remaining graceful.

And of course, Uncle Tygett.

Tygett Lannister stood with a calmness radiating from every line of his body. He was already wearing his traveling armor, helm under his armpit, looking like a lion ready to pounce if they did not move soon.

"Ready, Jaime?" Tygett's voice echoed in the hall, sharp and direct.

Jaime nodded to his uncle, then bowed respectfully to Hoster Tully. "Lord Hoster. Thank you for your hospitality. Riverrun has been a second home to me this month."

"You are always welcome here, Jaime," Hoster replied with his warm, deep voice. He patted Jaime's shoulder. "Send my regards to your father. Tell him that the Trout and the Lion swim in the same current."

Edmure stepped forward, holding out his small hand. Jaime shook it firmly. "Do not forget about that sword technique, Edmure. Focus is the key."

"I won't forget," Edmure promised, his voice trembling slightly. "You have to come back and tell the rest of the story about the boy who could fly."

"I promise."

After a series of formal farewells, the Lannister party finally moved out into the courtyard. The horses were already prepared, their breath steaming in the morning air.

Jaime looked back. He saw Catelyn, a blue figure in the middle of the window, raising her hand in a graceful wave of farewell. Jaime returned it, then turned his horse to face the gate. The drawbridge had been lowered, the road open ahead.

The holiday was over.

…

A month. It had been a full month of them rotting in this place.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the end of the damp wooden dock, his black and red cloak fluttering gently in the salty sea breeze. Before him, towering over a rocky hill jutting into the sea, stood the Dun Fort. The ancient fortress of House Darklyn looked like a sleeping stone giant, dark and silent, yet harboring a deadly threat in its belly.

They could only stare at it. Standing still staring at those stone walls as if their gaze alone could crumble them. But they could not get close. They could not storm it. The area around the fortress had turned into forbidden ground, an invisible death zone. Because Lord Denys Darklyn had made his rules clear: not a single step.

Rhaegar ground his teeth, a harsh grating sound echoing inside his own skull. His jaw ached from the constant tension. He did not know how many times he had done that tonight, holding back a scream of frustration that wanted to explode from his chest.

The night was bright, a stark contrast to the mood of the besieging army. Stars twinkled in the cloudless sky, thousands of cold eyes staring down at their failure. Behind him, booted footsteps approached, heavy and familiar.

Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington stood there, flanking their prince like two supporting pillars. Arthur's face, usually calm and stoic, was now shadowed by deep anxiety. Jon, with his red hair flaming even in the darkness, looked restless, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword. It was a day without progress, just like yesterday, and the day before.

"Darklyn's food supplies are running low, that is certain," Jon's voice broke the silence, rough and sharp. "We have blockaded the harbor and the land roads. Not even a rat can get in or out."

It was true. They had found signs. Three days ago, one of their archers managed to shoot down a raven flying out of the maester's tower. The message tied to its leg was a desperate plea to a merchant to send grain via smugglers. And yesterday, they caught two servants trying to sneak out through the sewers, shivering, ordered by their mad Lord to find anything edible.

"It is pathetic," Rhaegar said, his voice low and full of venom, his eyes not leaving the dark windows of the Dun Fort. "We have the largest army in the kingdom. We have all the equipment to crush that castle into dust. Yet we can only stand quietly here, on this dock, counting the waves while my father rots inside there."

"They have started to worry, Rhaegar," Jon tried to reassure, stepping forward slightly. "They know they must ration food to stay alive in there. Their morale is crumbling. When the food truly runs out, it should be easy enough to conquer. History proves that hunger is more terrifying than any sword cut. An empty stomach makes even the most loyal man a traitor."

"I know the theory, Jon," Rhaegar cut in, a humorless laugh escaping his lips, sounding dry like tree bark. "But time is not our ally. Every day that passes..." He paused, swallowing saliva that tasted bitter. "According to rumors from the servants we caught, my father is in a dungeon cell. Dark, damp, and cold. I do not know if he is treated as a human or not. I do not know if he is still... himself."

Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, shook his head slowly. The light reflected grimly on the hilt of the great white sword.

"He is the King, my Prince," Arthur said with firm conviction, the conviction of a knight who believed in the rules of war. "That is all they have besides walls for defense. King Aerys is Darklyn's only bargaining chip. It would be foolish if they harmed him. If the King is harmed, there will be no mercy for Darklyn, not for his family, not for anyone within those walls. Lord Denys might be a rebel, but he is not a fool, at least not a complete one."

Rhaegar turned slowly, looking at Arthur. His violet eyes were dark, piercing the knight's mask of calm. Arthur was a good man, a noble man. He lived by a code of honor, where even the enemy had common sense and boundaries.

But Rhaegar knew something Arthur might not have fully grasped.

"Madmen do not think with common sense, Arthur," Rhaegar whispered, his voice almost lost in the crashing of the waves. "You speak of logic. Of strategy. But Denys Darklyn has taken his own King hostage. He crossed the line of 'foolishness' on the first day."

Rhaegar looked back at the fortress, the shadow of the Dun Fort seemingly gripping his heart.

"A man who has jumped into the abyss does not care how deep the bottom is," he continued softly. "He only cares about dragging others down with him."

…

The air inside the blacksmith's workshop was thick with the scent of sulfur, sweat, and burning metal. The sound of hammers striking hot iron created a deafening rhythm, a rough yet captivating industrial symphony to Jaime Lannister's ears.

"You can do it, Pete?"

Jaime handed over a sheet of paper on which he had drawn with charcoal. The lines were firm and precise. The drawing showed the basic shape of a compass needle: a flat metal bar, pointed at both ends like an elongated diamond, and as light as a feather. In the center, there was a crucial pivot point.

Pete, a blacksmith only in his thirties but already with a head as smooth as a boiled egg, squinted at the sketch. He wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of a soot-stained hand.

"Easy, Young Lord," Pete snorted, his tone full of confidence gained from years of conquering the famous Lannisport steel. "I have made things far more complicated than this. Those little letters for your printing press? That was a nightmare. But something like this? This is like cutting butter with a hot knife!"

Jaime laughed, a crisp sound amidst the rumble of the workshop. He patted the man's shoulder, indifferent to the ash stains that might stick to his expensive silk tunic.

"That is what I call spirit! I like people who don't make many excuses," exclaimed Jaime. "I will rely on you, Pete. Make ten of them, yes? And remember, the balance must be perfect. If it is even slightly lopsided, the thing will be useless to me."

"I will finish it quickly, Young Lord. Tomorrow afternoon it might be ready," Pete nodded, his face serious as he began to visualize his work.

"No, no, no need to rush." Jaime raised a hand, smiling relaxedly. "We have plenty of time. Quality over speed. I don't want you working on it while half asleep."

Pete nodded again, putting the paper on his cluttered workbench. However, his curiosity, usually buried under piles of orders for horseshoes and nails for the city garrison, finally surfaced.

"If I may ask..." Pete hesitated for a moment, twirling his hammer. "What is this actually for, Young Lord? The shape is strange. Too small for a throwing knife, too blunt for a nail."

Jaime's green eyes glinted mischievously. "To sew the fabrics of my clothes," he joked with a perfect poker face.

Pete gaped for a moment, before Jaime chuckled.

"No, of course not," Jaime continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if the walls of the workshop had ears. He brought his face a little closer. "But you don't need to know, Pete. It's a secret. The kind of secret that keeps Lannisport rich."

"Oh, alright, sorry. I didn't mean to be presumptuous," Pete said quickly, hurriedly returning to his hearth, clearly not wanting to get involved in the complicated affairs of Lords.

Jaime smiled with satisfaction, then turned and stepped out, leaving the heat of that artificial hell.

As he stepped out of the dark workshop, the sunlight hit him, bright but cooled by a strong wind from the sea. Jon of Clearwater, the loyal guard assigned to him, was leaning against the stone wall outside, looking bored.

"You have only been back three days, and you are already very busy making things, My Lord," Jon commented, straightening up as he saw his master exit. There was a note of admiration mixed with weariness in his voice.

"There isn't much else to do, Jon," Jaime replied, putting his gloves back on. "Plus, this is one of the 'breaks' Uncle Tygett gave me. He said I needed a rest from sword practice after the long journey from Riverrun. So I will use it as best as I can."

"By making ten iron needles?" Jon joked, raising an eyebrow. "Are we going to switch professions to become Lannisport tailors if your career fails?"

Jaime grinned.

"That needle will shake the seas, Jon," he said, his eyes gazing towards the distant docks, where merchant ships sailed in and out, bringing the world's wealth to his doorstep.

"Somehow I believe that," Jon sighed, nodding resignedly. "Whatever you say, My Lord."

Jaime began to walk down the wide cobbled street into Lannisport, his step light. His mind spun. He had already ordered a carpenter to make small round wooden cases for those compasses. The cases had to be precise, with a small brass pivot in the center. For the glass cover, he would have to go to the glassblower tomorrow. He was already exhausted today.

He had to admit, Riverrun had changed him a little. The peace there, the constant sound of the flowing river, Catelyn's conversation and Edmure's innocence... it all made him a little soft. Or lazy. Maybe both. But returning to Casterly Rock with its shameless energy and wealth woke him up again.

However, he knew his limits. He could enjoy a rest, but he must not stop moving. The world would not wait for Jaime Lannister to finish sunbathing.

His stomach growled, a loud sound of protest that broke his reverie.

"You said there was a newly opened eating place near the harbor, Jon?" Jaime asked, turning to his guard. A sudden hunger attacked him, sharp and demanding.

Jon's eyes lit up instantly. The topic of food was clearly more interesting to him than needles.

"Yes, My Lord! Near the east dock. The place is small," Jon explained with fiery enthusiasm, his hands moving to paint the taste. "They have a fish menu... oh, by the Seven Gods. Fresh sea fish caught just this morning, fried with flour until very crispy on the outside, but the meat remains soft and steamy on the inside."

Jon swallowed, clearly imagining the taste. "They smother it in a bright red sauce. Thick, savory, sweet, and there is a kick of sourness that makes your eyes open wide. That taste... I have never forgotten that taste since I first tried it last week."

Jaime laughed seeing that pure enthusiasm. It was rare to see Jon so excited about something that wasn't swords or wages.

"Don't eat too much, Jon," Jaime warned in a playful tone, patting his guard's stomach. "I don't want to be guarded by someone who can't even run later because they are too full of that sweet sauce. If an assassin attacks, I need you to be an agile meat shield, not a stationary sack of potatoes."

"Very rude to say that to your loyal friend, Lord Jaime," Jon held his chest, pretending to be severely wounded by the comment, though his lips curled into a wide smile. "I eat to maintain strength, solely to protect you."

"Of course," Jaime snorted with amusement. "Come on, show the way. If the fish is not good, you pay."

"Deal," Jon answered confidently.

The two of them walked faster, cutting through the vibrant crowd. Lannisport today felt more crowded, more alive, and noisier than Jaime remembered. As they walked towards the east dock, cutting through the sea of humans packing the wide cobbled streets, Jaime realized something different. There was a new energy in the air, a pulse accelerated by his own invention.

This city had always been a center of trade, of course. Casterly Rock's gold always attracted merchants like honey attracted flies. But now? Now there was something else besides gold attracting them.

Paper.

Jaime saw it everywhere. On street corners, in market stalls that usually only sold spices or cloth. He saw a merchant with a forked beard bargaining the price of a stack of thin books with great spirit. He saw a cloth merchant from Braavos, wearing striking colorful clothes, examining the quality of sheets of clean white paper with his ring-filled fingers, nodding in satisfaction before ordering his men to load wooden crates containing the paper onto a cart.

Even book merchants from Oldtown, who were usually arrogant and only cared for Citadel parchment, were now seen sweating and jostling, fighting for a quota of the latest print of The Seven-Pointed Star.

"Very crowded," Jon muttered, using his broad shoulders to part the crowd so Jaime could pass comfortably. "Half of Essos seems to have decided to stop by Lannisport this week."

"This is a good thing, Jon," Jaime said, his eyes sweeping the scene with deep satisfaction. He saw wooden crates stamped with the Golden Lion sigil, ready to be shipped across the sea. "At least everything I did was not in vain. Paper and ink... no one thought something so fragile could be as strong as gold, did they?"

"Lighter to carry, that's for sure," Jon agreed.

They passed a group of sailors sitting on wine barrels outside a tavern. They were laughing loudly and swapping dirty stories. There was no shadow of fear on their faces. No shadow of any fear whatsoever... as if they didn't care about the captive king.

Jaime slowed his steps slightly, listening. He heard conversations about the price of wool, about storms, also new whores in the brothel.

But not a single word about Aerys Targaryen.

The King was being held captive in Duskendale, his life threatened every second. There his father and Rhaegar as well as thousands of others were experiencing hardship. But here?

People seemed completely unaffected.

To them, the King was just a name in the wind. A distant concept, unreal, and irrelevant to their daily lives. Aerys could die tomorrow, and the Lannisport market would stay open. Fish would still be sold. Gold would still flow. As long as there was no war, they were safe. And Tywin Lannister provided protection here.

"There, My Lord!" Jon exclaimed, breaking Jaime's reverie.

They arrived at a simple wooden building wedged between a salt storage warehouse and a ship rope shop. There was no grand signboard, only a bell hanging above the door, swaying gently in the sea breeze. The aroma wafting from inside, however, was something completely foreign and tempting. The smell of vinegar, burnt sugar, garlic, and ginger mixed together, creating a scent that made Jaime's saliva accumulate instantly.

Jon led the way in with the confidence of a general entering territory he had conquered. The inside was small, dimly lit, and filled with steam. Rough wooden tables were full of sailors and merchants of various nations.

An old man with a long thin white beard welcomed them. He wore a silk robe that was worn but clean. Seeing Jon, his face broke into a wide smile displaying sparse teeth.

"Ah! Big Master Jon!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "And bring friend! Good, good! Sit, sit!"

They took a spot in the corner. Jon ordered without looking at the menu, or rather, because there was no menu. "Two portions of Red Fish, Uncle!"

Not long after, the dish arrived. And by the Seven Gods, it was a beautiful sight.

A whole red snapper, fried so expertly that its shape curved like a dragon leaping from the water, mouth open, fins blooming crisply. The fish was bathed, no, baptized, in a thick reddish-orange sauce that glistened under the candlelight, billowing hot steam that carried the promise of delight.

Jaime looked around once more before picking up his cutlery. The people around them ate ravenously, laughing, their faces red from heat and satisfaction. The kingdom's problems felt a million miles away from this sticky wooden table.

Jaime cut a piece of the fish meat. The skin made a satisfying crack sound as his spoon pierced the crispy flour layer, revealing soft and juicy white meat inside. He scooped it up along with the thick sauce and put it into his mouth.

Explosion.

That was the only word that could describe it.

Sweetness hit his tongue first, followed quickly by a sharp kick of vinegar sourness that made his salivary glands work hard. Then came the savoriness of garlic and a spicy touch of ginger that warmed the throat. The texture of the fish was perfect, the contrast between the crispy skin and the melt-in-the-mouth meat was a culinary miracle.

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, letting the flavors dance on his tongue. This was not complicated court food often bland due to too many rules. This was honest food. Bold food.

"How is it, My Lord?" Jon asked with a full mouth, his eyes shining expectantly.

Jaime swallowed, feeling warmth spread throughout his body. He grinned, then took a second, larger bite.

"Jon," Jaime said seriously, pointing at the fish with his spoon. "If you ever get bored of being a guard, remind me to appoint you as the Official Castle Taster. This... this is extraordinary."

Jon laughed, his face beaming at the validation. "I told you! This sauce... I think they use magic in it."

"Good magic," Jaime muttered. He continued his meal.

 

[Daario]

CERSEI​

---

The morning sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating the wooden breakfast table. On the table, various sweet dishes were laid out, lemon cakes, fresh fruits, and honey, yet Cersei's appetite was slightly disturbed.

"Cersei, do you know where Jaime is?"

The voice was shrill and slightly hoarse. Cersei lowered her porcelain cup slowly, her emerald-cold eyes shifting to stare at the source of the sound. Tyrion. Her four-year-old brother sat there, perched atop a stack of cushions so his chin could reach the edge of the table. His deformed face, with a protruding forehead and mismatched eyes, made this bright morning feel as if it had lost a little of its light.

Every time she saw him, Cersei felt an instinctive urge to turn her face away. This little creature was the reason her mother was gone. However, Cersei restrained herself. She took a deep breath, reminding herself of a greater purpose.

To be a graceful Queen by Rhaegar's side later, she had to possess steely fortitude. She had to be able to tolerate unpleasant things, even the worst of them. If she could face the dirty and smelly smallfolk without wrinkling her nose, then she should be able to face her own brother. This was practice. Practice in patience for her future on the throne.

Also, on second thought, it was not entirely the boy's fault that mother was gone.

"He is Uncle Tygett's squire, Tyrion," Cersei replied in a flat tone, her pitch perfectly controlled. "He is very busy. Cleaning swords, polishing armor until it shines, tending horses, and doing whatever Uncle Tygett tasks him with. That is a man's duty."

Cersei shook her head slightly, her golden hair glistening in the sunlight, then sipped more of her orange juice to rinse the annoyance from her tongue.

"He only just arrived five days ago, and he is already gone again," Tyrion said with a childish bitterness, his lips pouting. His small, chubby hands played with breadcrumbs on his plate. "He didn't even have time to finish reading the story. Even though I just made up my own story, and this is the best one..."

Cersei raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. Stories.

Jaime indeed had strange habits. He liked telling fairy tales to the deformed child. And of course, as part of Jaime's strange 'curriculum', he also told those stories to Cersei. Jaime said those stories would help her understand 'human nature' to captivate Prince Rhaegar.

Cersei knew the story of the girl named Cinderella who got a prince with only a glass slipper, about the naive Snow White who ate a poisoned apple, then the Beast loved by a beautiful girl. The women in those stories were so weak, so dependent on magic, that Cersei often had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes every time Jaime told them.

However, she had to admit, there was a pattern there. Jaime did not create those stories without reason. Behind the naivety of the characters, there were lessons about emotional manipulation, about how kindness, or at least the image of kindness, could be a potent weapon.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment to Duskendale. Prince Rhaegar and her Father were still there, besieging the rebellious town. It had been over a month. The news coming to Casterly Rock was minimal. Cersei tapped her finger on the table. She did not care about King Aerys's fate. In fact, in her heart of hearts, she hoped the King would die soon at the hands of Lord Darklyn. Aerys's death would smooth Rhaegar's path to the throne, and accelerate her own coronation as Queen.

The sound of rustling paper broke her reverie. Tyrion was shifting a stack of papers on his lap, trying to tidy them with his clumsy hands.

"You are noisy, Tyrion," Cersei said sharply, pointing to an empty chair across the table closer to her. A safe distance, yet close enough to hear without shouting. "Sit there. Tidy those papers."

"What is it?" Tyrion looked at Cersei in confusion, his eyes blinking. White papers were in the boy's arms, looking too large for his tiny body.

"Just sit," Cersei ordered while rolling her eyes, having no intention of explaining that she was bored to death and needed a distraction.

Tyrion nodded obediently. He climbed down from his chair with difficulty, waddled carrying his load of paper, then climbed onto the chair opposite Cersei. He sat quietly, looking at his sister with a mixture of fear and hope. Waiting for her to speak.

Cersei looked at him for a moment, assessing. "What story did you make?" she asked finally.

Tyrion looked surprised. His mouth opened slightly. Yes, this was the first time Cersei, his older sister, was willing to indulge the boy's hobby. Honestly, Cersei just wanted to test him. Jaime and Maester Creylen always praised Tyrion's intelligence, saying that behind his deformed body lay a sharp mind. Cersei wanted to prove it herself. If he was indeed as clever as they said, at least this conversation would not be too torturous.

Puffing out his small chest, Tyrion placed the papers on the table, flattening them with his palms. His handwriting was still messy, large and untidy ink scrawls, but Cersei could see he was trying hard.

"It is a story about a man who will become king," Tyrion said, his eyes shining with a spirit that did not match his physical form.

"Will?" Cersei raised an eyebrow, a skeptical tone coloring her voice. "So he is not yet a king? Is he a prince waiting for his father to die? Or a usurper gathering an army?"

"No! Neither!" Tyrion shook his head vigorously, his voice almost shouting with enthusiasm. "He is not an ordinary noble. He is an ancient human. He fell asleep for thousands of years in the past, buried in ice or a crystal cave. He slept because he had absorbed pure dragon magic into his body, so much magic that it took centuries for him to digest the power."

Cersei fell silent for a moment. Ancient human. Dragon magic. It sounded like one of Jaime's tales, but with a darker twist. "Then?" she asked, signaling for Tyrion to continue. She had never heard of such a thing before.

"Then when he woke up," Tyrion continued, his hands moving to form explosive gestures, "he found that the world had gone on without him. The times had changed. In this future, magic no longer exists like in our world. The dragons are dead."

Tyrion's face turned serious, seemingly mimicking the grim expression he often saw on adults' faces. "But war is happening everywhere. Kingdoms are destroying each other. The people are suffering. So he comes, not as a conqueror, but as a savior. He uses his dragon magic power to heal the common folk who are victims of war. He repairs their burned houses, heals their wounds."

Cersei frowned deeply. She placed her cup gently on the saucer. The plot of the story sounded ridiculous to her. Politically nonsensical.

"Why save the common folk?" Cersei asked, her tone full of genuine incomprehension. "They are just sheep, Tyrion. They exist to be herded, sheared, or slaughtered if necessary. Your hero is wasting energy. With power that great, he could help one side, the strongest side, and work with them to end the war quickly. That way he could get a high position, wealth, or even a crown for himself."

Tyrion shook his head hard, his pale blonde hair swaying. "No, Cersei. You don't understand. I haven't thought it through to the end, but..." He looked at his paper, as if searching for an answer there. "Those warring sides, they have their own evil interests. One King wants land, the second King wants gold. It is impossible for them to make peace without destroying each other."

Tyrion looked at Cersei with a sharp gaze that was strange for a child his age. "They are also 'evil' in their own way. They don't care who gets trampled. So the hero of this story doesn't want to side with anyone. He becomes a Third Party. He is stronger than those kings."

"A lone third party will be crushed by the other two united by fear," Cersei countered coldly, channeling the wisdom she often heard from her Father. "Power without alliances is arrogance, Tyrion. Your hero is a fool. If he keeps healing the common folk, who will fund his army? Who will feed him? The common folk have no gold."

"He doesn't need gold!" Tyrion insisted. "He has magic!"

"Magic cannot be eaten," Cersei scoffed. "And the common folk he saves? As soon as they are healed, they will turn and betray him if offered a silver piece by the ruling king. That is basic human nature."

Tyrion fell silent. His small shoulders slumped slightly. Cersei's logic seemed to penetrate the fortress of his imagination. He looked to be thinking hard, his thick brows knitting together.

"Then..." Tyrion muttered softly, "what should he do?"

Cersei smiled thinly. "He must be firm. He cannot just be a healer. He must be a terrifying protector. He must make the people and other kings fear him, not just admire him."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, looking into her brother's eyes. "Listen, Tyrion. In the real world, or in this story of yours, kindness is a weakness if not accompanied by absolute power. If your hero wants to survive, he must stop being a traveling healer and start being a God."

Tyrion stared at Cersei, his mouth slightly open. He looked horrified yet fascinated by his sister's suggestion. He immediately grabbed the quill lying on the table, dipped it into the ink clumsily, and began to scribble something on his paper.

"Become a God..." Tyrion muttered. "He can make them stop fighting with the threat of destroying them with his magic."

"Exactly," Cersei said, leaning back in her chair with satisfaction. "Fear is more effective than gratitude."

They continued to talk for the rest of the morning. Tyrion told of the monsters his hero faced, and Cersei, in her haughty yet sharp way, offered critiques on how the monsters should be defeated, not with silly bravery, but with deceit and strategy. And more importantly, with absolute power.

For a moment, at that breakfast table, under the shadow of the war happening in Duskendale, Cersei forgot her annoyance at her brother's physique. She saw the seed of Lannister intelligence there, though still raw and covered by naive idealism that Jaime might have planted.

…

The sun had crept down from its peak, bathing the stone walls of Casterly Rock in warm golden light. Cersei sat in the spacious central solar, a room with high vaulted ceilings and thick rugs that muffled footsteps. She was reading a history book about Aegon's conquest, but her eyes more often watched the entrance. There was the sound of footsteps there.

When the heavy wooden door finally opened, Cersei closed her book with a satisfying thud.

"Good, look who's back," Cersei said, her voice breaking the silence of the room.

Jaime stepped inside. He wore a simple dark red tunic with a small golden lion embroidered on the left chest. His golden hair was a bit messy, blown by the sea breeze, but the most striking thing was the expression on his face. There was a silly smile playing on his lips, a smile that made his green eyes squint.

"Good afternoon, Cersei," Jaime greeted lightly, giving a casual nod far from court formalities.

Cersei did not return the smile. She straightened her back in the high-backed chair, looking at her twin with an appraising gaze. "Tyrion was looking for you all morning," she said, her tone full of accusation. "He was so annoying because he kept whining to see you. 'Where is Jaime? When is Jaime coming home?'. Truly, you spoil him until he cannot stay still."

Jaime stopped in the middle of the room, his smile fading slightly replaced by a patient expression. "Don't be too harsh on him, Cersei. He is just a child. It is natural if he wants to play." His eyes narrowed slightly, looking at Cersei suspiciously. "You didn't snap at him, did you?"

Cersei snorted, a sound that was unladylike but very expressive. "Do you think I have the energy to raise my voice at him? You overestimate his importance in my life. I just told him to sit still."

Jaime seemed to accept the answer, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Cersei then tilted her head, observing her brother's face again. "Then," she asked, curiosity finally defeating her pride, "Why was there a smile on your face just now? You walked in like someone who just got a new toy. Is there happy news from Duskendale? Is the King finally dead? Or have you gone mad because your training helm hit a rock?"

"Duskendale?" Jaime shook his head, his face turning flat for a moment. "I know nothing of Duskendale. Uncle Tygett didn't get a new raven today. As far as I know, they are still stuck there. Father is still waiting."

Jaime then walked to the velvet sofa near Cersei and threw himself onto it with a long sigh. He stretched his legs, looking very comfortable.

"I just feel that today my plans all went smoothly," he said, staring at the painted ceiling. "And I am very happy. Sometimes, small things go your way and that is enough to make a good day."

Cersei raised one neat eyebrow. "Plans? What else are you doing anyway?"

She had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that Jaime's strange projects had results. His paper was everywhere now, on Father's desk, in the library, even in Tyrion's hands. It brought gold into Casterly Rock's coffers, and gold was power. So, if Jaime was planning something new, Cersei wanted to know. Knowledge was a weapon.

Jaime turned to her, and the smile turned into a mysterious grin. He winked one eye.

"Secret."

Cersei's blood boiled instantly. She hated it when Jaime did that. Hiding something from her, as if Cersei wasn't smart enough to understand.

"I won't tell you," Jaime continued with a light teasing tone. "Besides, this isn't something very important to you. Just... a new toy. A navigation aid."

"Navigation aid?" Cersei sneered. "You want to be a sailor now? You really are strange."

"Who knows," Jaime shrugged. "The world is vast, Cersei."

Cersei snorted again, losing interest because the topic sounded boring and technical. "Keep it to yourself then, do as you please with your new toy."

She picked up her book again, intending to ignore Jaime, but a memory flashed in her mind. "And one more thing," she said sharply, pointing at Jaime with her book. "Finish your story for Tyrion. Don't leave before it's done, or he will whine to me again about heroes and dragons. He makes up his own stories and my ears hurt hearing them."

Jaime's face turned a little guilty. He scratched the back of his head. "Ah, yes. I was just tired at the time." He smiled awkwardly. "How about you? Why don't you try telling him something before he sleeps? That is something a good older sister would do. You have a fine voice, Cersei."

Cersei looked at him as if Jaime had just suggested she throw herself into the sea. 'Why would I want to do that?' she thought with disgust. 'Spending precious time entertaining that creature?'

"No, thank you," Cersei replied coldly and firmly. "He is entirely yours. You are the one who spoils him, you take care of him."

"You are too"

"JAIME!"

Jaime's sentence was cut off by a loud shout echoing through the room. The sound of small footsteps running hurriedly was heard on the stone floor, fast and irregular.

Before Jaime could stand, a small figure darted into the room. Tyrion. He ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, his face beaming with pure joy. He didn't stop when he reached the sofa; he jumped, headbutting into Jaime's embrace like an overly excited puppy.

"Oof!" Jaime grunted as Tyrion's large head hit his stomach.

"Oh, Tyrion," Jaime laughed, a warm and sincere laugh, as he caught his brother and lifted him onto his lap. Jaime's hand ruffled Tyrion's fine pale blonde hair. "You better not be too excited, little buddy. My chest hurts, and I just had lunch."

Tyrion giggled, his voice no longer annoying shrill like this morning, but full of happiness. "You're home! You're home!" he exclaimed, hugging Jaime's neck with his chubby arms. "Cersei said you went away again!"

Cersei just rolled her eyes and went back to pretending to read, though her ears remained alert. She observed the interaction from behind her book cover.

"I didn't go away, I was just doing something important," Jaime said gently, adjusting Tyrion's sitting position. "So, I heard you made your own story? Cersei said your story is about heroes and dragons?"

Tyrion's eyes widened. He glanced at Cersei with amazement. Then he looked back at Jaime with fiery spirit.

"Yes! He is an Ancient Man!" Tyrion began to tell the story, words tumbling out fast, tripping over each other with enthusiasm. "He woke up and the world was broken. War everywhere! So he used his magic. At first he healed people, but Cersei said that was stupid."

Jaime raised an eyebrow, glancing at Cersei again. Cersei did not react, her face as cold as ice.

"Oh? What did Cersei say?" Jaime asked, his tone interested.

"Cersei said," Tyrion mimicked his sister's haughty tone quite accurately, "that kindness without power is weakness. That people will betray him. So my hero must become a feared God! He will force those evil kings to stop fighting with threats!"

Jaime fell silent for a moment. He looked at Cersei with a gaze that was hard to interpret.

"A very... realistic suggestion," Jaime commented softly. He turned back to Tyrion. "And you agree?"

"Yes!" Tyrion nodded firmly. "Those kings won't listen if just asked nicely. They have to be afraid. So my hero will build a fortress of dragon crystal and anyone who breaks the peace will be... will be frozen. And he himself will become king!"

Jaime laughed. "Frozen? How cruel."

"But effective!" Tyrion exclaimed.

Cersei, from behind her book, felt the corner of her lips twitch forming a thin smile. 'At least he learns,' she thought.

"Alright, alright," Jaime said, patting Tyrion's back. "That sounds like a great story. Much better than mine. You must write it until it's finished."

"I ran out of paper," Tyrion admitted sadly.

"I will get you more. As much as you want," Jaime promised. "But now, how about I tell you the continuation of the Pinocchio story? About how he was swallowed by a whale?"

"A giant whale?!"

"Very big. As big as Casterly Rock!"

Cersei watched them in silence. She saw how Jaime patiently entertained every one of Tyrion's silly questions, how he made funny noises to mimic a whale, how he made the deformed child feel like the most important person in the world.

There was a weakness in Jaime, Cersei thought. A sentimental weakness. He was too soft. Too caring. In this harsh world, such softness could kill him.

However, seeing the laughter on Jaime's face, a laugh rarely seen when he was with Father or Uncle Tygett, Cersei felt a strange prick in her chest. Not jealousy, she convinced herself. She was not jealous of Tyrion. That was ridiculous. They were no longer soulmates anyway.

Maybe it was loneliness.

"I'm going back to my room," Cersei announced coldly, cutting off their laughter. "My head hurts hearing your noise."

Jaime turned, the smile still there. "Rest, Cersei. See you at dinner."

"See you, Cersei!" Tyrion exclaimed innocently.

---

I guess we'll have to see how this woman develops :'p, and at the same time calm down the atmosphere.

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

The object was small, perfectly round, and felt cold in his palm. Under the scorching sun of Lannisport, the wooden casing looked beautiful and its glass layer reflected light that dazzled the eyes. However, the real magic was not on the outside, but what lay beneath.

A thin iron needle, balanced on a very fine pivot, floating in a sealed container.

Compass.

To Steven Evans in his old life, this thing was a cheap trinket one could get at a souvenir shop. But here? In Westeros? It was a marvel of engineering. It was the key to conquering the seas without having to act like a child afraid to let go of his mother's skirts.

Jaime spun it in his hand, smiling with satisfaction as he watched the needle sway gently before stubbornly returning to point in one direction. North.

It only took two weeks. Two weeks to make it. Of course, "make" was too grand a word for what Jaime actually did. He didn't forge the needle himself, he didn't blow the glass, he was merely the person who stroked the needle against a lodestone.

He drew a rough sketch, a blueprint that might have been laughed at by modern engineers, and handed it to the best craftsman in Lannisport along with a pouch of Gold Dragons.

Being rich was indeed pleasant, Jaime thought with a hint of irony. In his past life as a teacher with a meager salary, realizing an idea required funding proposals, bureaucracy, and months of time. Here? He only had to snap his fingers, and people would run to make his imagination a reality for a piece of gold. Power was the best lubricant for the wheels of innovation.

"Take a look," Jaime said, breaking his own reverie. They were walking down the bustling streets of Lannisport, amidst the scent of spices and salted fish. He held the object out to Jon who walked beside him. "What do you think?"

Jon, who usually held a sword or shield with the confidence of a veteran, accepted the small object with an almost amusing caution. As if he were holding a dragon egg ready to hatch. His large hands made the compass look very tiny.

Jon brought the object close to his face, squinting under the sunlight. He stared at the quivering needle in detail. Then, he turned his body to the left, then to the right.

His eyes widened as he saw the needle did not turn with him, but remained pointing in the same direction. Towards the North.

"This..." Jon mumbled, then shook it slightly, trying to confuse the mechanism inside. The needle settled again, pointing north once more. His face looked amazed, a mixture of superstitious fear and pure awe.

"It seems to work well, Lord Jaime," Jon said, his voice low. "This thing... it indeed always points north. No matter where I turn. If this is not magic, then I do not know what is. Did you trap a small spirit inside?"

Jaime chuckled, taking the compass back before Jon dropped it out of fear. "Not a spirit, Jon. And not magic. It is called knowledge."

"Knowledge acting like magic," Jon muttered, still staring at Jaime's pocket where the object had disappeared.

"Lodestone has a natural affinity with the north," Jaime explained with immense simplification. He wasn't going to start explaining about the earth's magnetic field or poles. That would make Jon's head explode. "I only utilized that property of nature."

His thoughts drifted to the next plan. This little object had to be kept secret. At least for now. He planned to tell Uncle Kevan about this. They could then try it at sea, and then the man could see its value.

In trade, time was money. In war, time was victory.

And war... Jaime felt a chill on the back of his neck even though the air was warm. War might erupt soon. The situation in Duskendale was still unclear, and Aerys's madness was a ticking time bomb. If, or when, chaos occurred, House Lannister had to possess every possible advantage to survive. Mastery of the sea was one of them.

His thoughts drifted to other possibilities. Science in his old world was full of things that could change the course of history. If he wanted... he could just go find sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Mix them in the right ratio.

Gunpowder.

He could create explosives. He could make cannons that would crumble castle walls in a matter of hours. He could make muskets that would make armored knights obsolete overnight.

But Jaime immediately brushed the thought away. No. That was too dangerous. Too chaotic. This world was already brutal enough with swords and dragonfire. Giving gunpowder to people like Aerys Targaryen or Tywin Lannister? That was akin to handing a match to a child in a dynamite warehouse. He didn't want to be the Oppenheimer of Westeros.

Compass was safe enough. Paper was safe enough. Gunpowder... let that remain Steven's secret.

"We will try it later on a ship," Jaime said, bringing his mind back to the present. "I will speak to Uncle Kevan. Come to think of it, it would indeed be nice to be at sea. I want to breathe the air there, far from book dust and furnace smoke."

Jon sighed in relief, seemingly glad the topic shifted from the 'magic' object. "To sea? As long as you do not intend to sail all the way to Valyria, I am with you. I prefer solid ground beneath my feet, but sea air is indeed good for the lungs."

"Just around the coast, Jon. We need to ensure this needle stays stable when waves hit," Jaime assured. "And maybe fish a little. Who knows, I might be luckier than in the Riverrun river."

"As long as I don't have to clean them afterwards," Jon grumbled, but there was a smile on his face. "Last time fishing with you, the fishy smell stuck to my armor for three days."

"That is called natural perfume, Jon. The ladies might like it," Jaime teased.

"Cat women, maybe," Jon replied.

They laughed, walking side by side up the ascending road to Casterly Rock. The road was wide and winding, carved directly into the living rock of the giant cliff.

Jaime looked up, towards the peak that dominated the sky. This was his home now. A fortress of power built on gold and pride. Sometimes, the weight of the Lannister name felt as heavy as the rock above him.

"By the way, Lord Jaime," Jon said as they passed the gate. "Does that thing... have a name?"

Jaime smiled, touching the pocket where the object was stored.

"I call it 'Pathfinder'," Jaime answered. "Or maybe 'Sailor's Eye'. I haven't decided. Tyrion surely has a better name idea later."

"As long as it's not 'Jaime's Magic Toy'," said Jon.

"That works too."

…

The sea wind blew hard at the Lannisport docks, bringing with it the sharp scent of salt and the cries of hungry seagulls. There was a small merchant ship, bobbing gently at the edge, as if impatient to cut through the waves.

"You really are something, nephew," Uncle Kevan chuckled as they walked down the creaking wooden pier. His voice was deep and calm, a contrast to the noise of the harbor around them. Behind him, several red-cloaked guards followed along with Jon, their eyes watching every dockworker who passed too close.

On Kevan's other side walked a middle-aged man with a sturdy posture like a wooden barrel. Captain Colin. His face was like an old map etched by wind and sun, and his thick hair that might have once been black had now turned completely gray, like sea foam in a winter storm.

"So far since we walked from the castle," Kevan continued, his eyes on the compass he held, "this 'compass' thing indeed hasn't lost its north direction. Even when we turned on the winding roads earlier." He shook his head slightly, a thin smile playing on his lips. "This is something that truly makes no sense."

Jaime chuckled, his steps light on the wooden planks of the pier, accepting the compass back. "Everything there makes sense, Uncle. There are causes for how it happens, it is not magic. Just like water always flows down, this needle always flows north."

They boarded the ship in front of them. The ship was not big, just a coastal merchant vessel with a single mast, but the deck was clean and the ropes were coiled neatly, the sign of a disciplined captain.

"Welcome to the Single Sail, Ser Kevan, Lord Jaime," Captain Colin greeted with a hoarse voice that sounded like grinding stones. He didn't bow too deeply; the sea made everyone a little more equal. It seemed. "The wind is good today. We can reach open water quickly."

"Good," said Kevan. "Take us there, Captain. My nephew wants to show his new toy, and I want to see if it can withstand seasickness."

The ship began to move, the sail unfurled with a loud snap as it caught the wind. Slowly, Lannisport began to shrink behind them. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the crashing of waves hitting the hull and the hiss of parting water.

Jaime stood near the helm, feeling the ship sway beneath his feet. This sensation... he missed it. In his past life, he had taken a ferry a few times, but nothing could compare to being on a wooden sailing ship, feeling the power of nature pushing you forward.

As the land began to become a thin line in the distance, and they were surrounded by an endless expanse of blue, Jaime took out his compass.

"Captain Colin," Jaime called. "Can you tell me where North is right now? Without looking at the sun."

Colin narrowed his eyes, looking at the sky, then the waves, then back at Jaime. "Without the sun, a sailor uses his experience, My Lord. The wind today blows from the Southwest. The waves move to the Northeast. So North is there," he pointed with a calloused hand towards the port bow.

Jaime opened the compass lid. The iron needle inside wobbled wildly for a moment due to the ship's swaying, then stabilized. The tip of the needle painted red pointed... exactly where Colin pointed.

"Precisely," Jaime said with a smile, showing the compass to Kevan and Colin.

Colin's eyes widened when he saw the small needle. He leaned in, staring at it as if the thing could bite. "By the Seven," he muttered. "That little thing knows the wind direction?"

"It knows the direction of North, Captain," Jaime corrected. "Try turning the ship. Make a full circle."

Colin looked at Kevan for confirmation. Kevan gave a curt nod. "Do it."

Captain Colin shouted orders to his crew. The ship began to turn slowly, its hull tilting as it cut through the waves. The scenery around them shifted, blue sea, then the faint silhouette of Casterly Rock in the distance, then sea again.

But that needle... that needle remained still.

When the ship turned East, the needle pointed to the ship's left. When the ship faced South, the needle pointed to the back of the ship. As if there were an invisible rope tying the tip of the needle to the end of the world.

"Impossible," whispered Colin. He was a man who had spent thirty years at sea, who navigated by stars and instinct. Seeing an inanimate object possess a better directional 'instinct' than him was something that shook his world.

"Imagine, Captain," Jaime said, his voice full of spirit yet controlled. He didn't want to sound arrogant. "Imagine a stormy night. Stars covered by thick clouds. No moon. You are in the middle of the open sea, no land visible. How do you know the way home?"

Colin fell silent. His face turned grim. "We pray, My Lord. And we guess. And often... we are wrong."

"With this," Jaime lifted the compass slightly, "you do not need to guess anymore. You can sail in fog, in storms, in total darkness. You can cut a straight path across the ocean."

Uncle Kevan, who had been observing silently, finally spoke up. He took the compass from Jaime's hand, holding it with respect. His sharp and calculating eyes stared at the object, then stared at the horizon.

"This is not a toy," Kevan said softly, more to himself. "This is a weapon." He looked at Jaime, a glint of recognition in his eyes. "Our ships can appear from places the enemy does not expect. We can attack when they are anchored for fear of storms."

"Exactly, Uncle," Jaime replied. "The Ironborn think they are kings of the seas because they do not fear death. But with this, we become kings of the seas because we will not get lost."

Kevan nodded slowly, a thin smile appearing on his face. "Your father must see this. He will be very... impressed."

"I hope so," said Jaime.

The ship continued to sail, cutting through increasingly high waves. Jaime walked to the bow of the ship, leaving Kevan and Colin now involved in a serious discussion about logistics and navigation, with Colin occasionally glancing at the compass in Kevan's hand with a hungry gaze.

Jaime stood there, his hands gripping the wooden railing wet with salty spray. The sea wind hit him, fluttering his golden hair and his cloak. It felt cold, fresh, and liberating.

Here, in the middle of the sea, far from the intrigues of Westeros, far from his Father's judgmental gaze, he felt... alive. He felt like Steven again, but a better version. A version that could make a difference.

He looked at the endless horizon. There, across this ocean, were other places. Essos. Braavos. Valyria. The world was so vast. And he had just given the key to open that world a little wider.

Paper to spread knowledge. Compass to spread men. Even though the latter would not spread that quickly.

"Lord Jaime!" Jon called from behind, his voice having to compete with the wind. His loyal guard looked a little green in the face, holding tightly to the mast. "Can we go home already? I think my stomach does not agree with this 'knowledge'."

Jaime laughed, a free laugh carried by the wind. He looked back, staring at poor Jon.

"Soon, Jon! Enjoy the view!" Jaime exclaimed.

He turned back to stare at the sea. The sun began to descend, reflecting golden light on the surface of the water, turning the ocean into a field of liquid gold. Yes, fields of gold.

 

[Daario]

DENYS​

---

That afternoon, the sun shone with a brightness that felt almost mocking. The sky above Duskendale stretched out in a flawless blue, adorned by white clouds drifting lazily. A gentle breeze blew softly, dancing past the stone walls of the Dun Fort, scattering dry leaves across the courtyard and caressing the faces of the soldiers standing guard with tension in their eyes.

It was the kind of day that should have been celebrated with a hunt in the woods or a feast in the gardens. But for Denys Darklyn, the sunlight felt blinding and painful.

He stood in the highest tower, his hands gripping the rough stone. Denys possessed none of the spark of life a man should have when welcoming the sun. His face was haggard, as if he had slept in his clothes for a full week, and perhaps he had. The wrinkles on his face had grown more numerous and deeper than a month ago, carving a map of anxiety onto his paling skin. His body, once broad and proud, now seemed to shrink beneath his black velvet doublet; he was growing thinner despite eating enough, as if fear itself were eating the flesh from his bones.

His mind was in turmoil, a storm that refused to subside. Sometimes empty, void of ideas, other times full of screaming voices of doubt. What have I done? The whisper came when he slept, when he ate, when he relieved himself. I am holding the King. I killed a Kingsguard.

However, every time panic began to choke him, another voice emerged. The soft, sweet, and confident voice of his wife, Serala.

'They are only bluffing, Denys. Tywin Lannister is a calculating man, not a madman. As long as we have him, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it.'

It was that voice that kept him standing upright. It was that voice that convinced him this was all just a complex game of cyvasse.

Denys shifted his gaze to the harbor below. From this height, he could see the sight he had always dreamed of. The sea was filled with ships. Sails fluttered everywhere, masts like a wooden forest growing upon the water.

Once, he had always hoped that Duskendale would be like this. He wanted his city to rival King's Landing, to be a center of trade where ships fought for space to dock, bringing silk and spices, enriching House Darklyn beyond his ancestors' wildest dreams.

Now his wish was granted. His harbor was full.

But in a strange and terrible way.

They were not merchant ships. They were warships. Ships of the Royal Fleet, ships flying the banners of dragons and lions. They did not come bearing gold. They all came here to blockade his port, to starve his people, and ultimately, to take his head.

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

Denys snorted roughly, combing his long, greasy black hair back with trembling fingers. He banished all those dark thoughts. 'No. They won't attack. They are afraid. Just look, it's been a month and they are just sitting there.'

"Yes, they will wait," he muttered to the wind. "And we will wait too. Until they realize my demands are worthy."

Turning away from the painful view, Denys decided he had seen enough of his grim 'glory'. His throat was dry. He needed a cup of ale, strong ale, one that could burn away the fear in his gut, and he needed the daily report from Maester Reggan, though he knew the report would bring no good news.

He began to descend the tower stairs. Step by step he took, the spiral stones winding down into the belly of the fortress seeming endless. The further down he went, the fresh summer air vanished, replaced by a cold and damp chill seeping from the walls. The smell of moss and wet stone filled his nose; the smell of a prison, not a palace.

In the corridor leading to his solar, he met a young guard. The boy looked tense, his hands gripping his spear too tightly until his knuckles turned white. The boy's eyes went wide upon seeing his Lord, full of questions he dared not speak: 'Are we going to die?'

"Summon Maester Reggan to my solar," Denys ordered, his voice hoarse. He did not look the guard in the eye. He couldn't.

"Y-yes, My Lord," the guard stammered, rushing away, his armor clanking in the quiet hallway.

Denys pushed open the door to his solar and entered.

Inside, the atmosphere was slightly different. The room smelled of floral scents and perfumed oils from Myr, thanks to his wife's touch. Serala always tried to make this gloomy fortress feel like her home in Essos. Once, Denys loved this scent. Now, the sweet fragrance mixed with the smell of dust and stale ale, creating a nauseating aroma.

Denys walked to the side table, pouring dark brown ale from a silver flagon into a goblet. He didn't bother to sit. He downed the contents in one long gulp, letting the liquid burn his throat, hoping it could drown out the voices in his head.

Just as he placed the goblet back on the table, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Enter," Denys growled.

The door opened, and Maester Reggan stepped inside. He was a man in his early fifties, his grey robes looking somewhat dull in the dim room light. His hair, perhaps once pitch black, had now begun to whiten at the temples, giving him an aura of weary wisdom. His face was serious, with deep lines around his mouth showing he rarely smiled. He was the type of man who didn't speak much unless ordered, a trait very fitting for a grim situation like now.

"My Lord." The Maester bowed low, the chain at his neck clinking softly.

Denys threw himself into the chair behind his large desk and signaled for him to sit.

"How is our food situation, Maester?" Denys asked the most important thing first, his voice heavy. This was a matter of life and death, more urgent than the swords out there.

Reggan frowned, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He didn't answer immediately, as if weighing how much truth his master could handle today. However, he was a Maester, and his duty was truth.

"Worrying, Lord Darklyn," he answered honestly. "We had prepared to ration even before the army arrived, hoarding what we could. But it is not enough. The grain in the granaries will eventually run out, and with the humidity of this season, the vegetables we stored are starting to rot faster than expected."

Denys felt his stomach churn. "How much longer before we run out? Give me a number, Reggan. Not vague estimates."

Reggan took a deep breath. "Three months. Maybe four, if we are truly frugal and take drastic measures. We must cut supplies for soldiers and servants starting today."

"You mean? We have to take their rations?" Denys frowned, imagining the hungry faces of his people.

"Cut, My Lord," the Maester corrected in a clinical tone. "Half rations. If they only eat once a day, thin porridge in the morning, a bit of hard bread at night, these supplies will last that long. We must prioritize the archers on the walls and the elite guards."

Denys fell silent, thinking about it. He twirled his empty goblet. Three months. Four months. He didn't know how long Tywin Lannister would endure out there with his legendary patience. It felt like a very long time, an eternity in a siege.

His head felt dizzy, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Was there no other way? What could he do to make them, Tywin, Rhaegar, the lords besieging him, listen to him more? He didn't want the people in this castle to starve and die slowly for his ambition. He wanted them alive to see the glory of the new Duskendale he promised.

"If we do that, our people will become weak," Denys said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "Hungry soldiers cannot draw bowstrings strongly. Hungry servants will be slow. And at that time... disease will strike more easily. It will kill them before Lannister swords have the chance."

Reggan nodded, agreeing with the assessment. He was silent for a moment, then replied in a flat but piercing voice. "There is always a price to pay, My Lord. For anything. The freedom of Duskendale, the city charter you desire... the price is paid with the empty bellies of these people."

Those words hit Denys harder than a physical blow. He stared at the Maester, looking for signs of judgment, but Reggan's face remained neutral.

"And the King?" Denys asked suddenly, shifting the topic from his guilt. "Is he eating?"

"King Aerys refuses most of the food we bring, My Lord," Reggan reported. "He... He is convinced we are trying to poison him. He will only eat bread he sees cut from the whole loaf himself, and drink water that we drink first. His condition... is not good. He is getting thinner, and he talks to himself."

"Let him talk to himself all he likes, as long as he stays alive," Denys grumbled. "He is the only reason these walls haven't crumbled onto our heads."

"There is one more thing, My Lord," Reggan said hesitantly.

"Speak."

"The soldiers... they are starting to whisper. They see the tents out there. They see the smoke from the royal army's camp fires that seem endless. Their morale... is wavering."

"Tell them to shut up and do their duty!" Denys snapped, his anger exploding to mask his own fear. "Tywin will give in! We just need to hold on a little longer!"

Reggan bowed obediently, but his eyes betrayed deep doubt. "As you command, My Lord."

The Maester stood, bowed once more, and left the room with heavy steps.

Denys was alone again. He poured more ale, his hand shaking so violently that some liquid spilled onto the table. He stared at the spill, spreading like dark blood on the wood.

Three months. He had three months before hunger turned his castle into a graveyard. He had to think of something. Or perhaps, he had to start praying. But... pray to whom?

…

Denys lay in his large, luxurious bed, the silk sheets feeling cold against his skin. The moon had replaced the scorching sun, and the sounds of fortress activity had subsided into an oppressive silence.

His eyes were closed, trying to summon sleep that wouldn't come, when he felt movement beside him. A cold and trembling hand wrapped around his body, clutching his sleeping tunic with fragile desperation.

Serala.

Denys turned slowly. In the dim moonlight entering through the window slit, he saw his wife. The woman was staring at him, her dark eyes wide open, reflecting a nameless fear. Her face looked soft, fragile, and her black hair lay messy on the pillow.

"Can't sleep?" Denys asked, his voice hoarse. He lifted his rough hand, stroking his wife's cheek with a gentleness he rarely showed lately.

"No," whispered Serala. "They are all too noisy, Denys."

Denys closed his eyes for a moment, sharpening his ears. He felt the chill seeping in from the stone cracks, bringing the salty smell of the sea. There was no sound. No whispers. Only the gentle breeze passing through the tower window slit.

"You are hallucinating, My Lady," Denys said softly, "There is no one there."

"But it feels real," Serala's voice broke, her eyes tearing up. She pulled the fur blanket higher, covering her body up to her chin as if the fabric could protect her from ghosts.

"Shhh." Denys pulled his wife into his embrace, holding her head to his chest. He could feel Serala's heartbeat racing like a trapped bird.

"They are just hallucinations, Serala," Denys whispered into her fragrant hair. "Tywin Lannister is trying to do that to us, to make us chaotic. As long as we have the King, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it."

Serala clutched the chest of Denys's tunic tightly, her breathing slowly becoming regular, matching the rhythm of her husband's breath. Those words, their protective mantra, seemed to work. Slowly, the tension in his wife's body loosened.

Denys's eyes slowly closed, exhaustion finally pulling him into a restless and dreamless sleep.

...

"FIRE!"

The scream tore through Denys's sleep like a hot knife cutting butter.

He jolted awake, his heart pounding against his ribs. Serala jumped beside him, shrieking in surprise.

"What...?" Denys gasped, his consciousness still foggy.

The scream was heard again, this time more numerous, more frantic. "FIRE! WATER! BRING WATER!"

Denys immediately stood up, ignoring the dizziness hitting his head. He ran to the window, pushing the shutters wide open.

The view outside froze him.

Down there, in the fortress courtyard that should have been dark, a bright orange light danced wildly. Tongues of fire licked the night sky, spewing thick black smoke that began to cover the stars. The source was the main stables, a large wooden building full of dry hay and valuable livestock.

Denys's breath hitched. Not just the stables. The granary was right next to it.

His mind raced wildly, faster than the fire itself. How could it be? Tonight was calm. There was no lightning storm.

'Did Tywin Lannister manage to send infiltrators?' The thought exploded in his mind. 'Is this an attack? Are they burning us alive?'

"My Lord? D-Denys? What is it?!" Serala was already by his side, clutching her husband's arm. She looked out, and her eyes widened in horror. Her hand covered her mouth to stifle a scream. "Oh Gods..."

"I will check it," Denys said, his voice hard and sharp. He turned, grabbing his robe and the sword that was always beside the bed.

He left the room quickly, his footsteps thumping on the stone floor. Serala followed him, her face deathly pale.

They passed corridors now starting to fill with thin smoke smelling acrid. In the main hall, they crossed paths with Maester Reggan running with a limp, his face full of soot.

"My Lord!" Reggan exclaimed, his breath ragged. "The fire... the fire is spreading fast! The sea wind is blowing it towards the storage sheds!"

"We must extinguish it immediately! Mobilize everyone!" Denys barked, continuing to walk fast down the stairs.

When Denys and Serala burst through the main doors of the fortress and stepped out into the courtyard, the heat slapped their faces instantly.

It was total chaos.

Soldiers ran without clear direction, some still in their undergarments, carrying buckets of water that looked pitiful compared to the fire giant raging in front of them. Horses that managed to escape ran in panic, neighing in terror, adding to the confusion.

The starry night sky was now covered by smoke and sparks flying like hellish fireflies. The cold wind that whispered earlier now roared, feeding the fire, making it grow taller, hungrier.

Denys stood frozen for a moment. He watched the fire devour the old wood of the stables with a terrifying sound. The heat was felt even from this distance, drying his skin.

And within the dancing flames, reflected in his widened eyes, Denys did not see an accident. He saw the end.

…

Deep beneath the foundation of the Dun Fort, where sunlight never touched and the sound of waves only sounded like the earth's weak heartbeat, the air felt heavy and still.

Denys Darklyn stepped down the narrow stone corridor, followed by two of his loyal guards carrying torches. The flickering firelight cast long shadows dancing on the mossy walls, as if the ghosts of Darklyn ancestors were watching in silence.

Denys could still smell the smoke on his clothes, remnants of the stable fire that had just been extinguished. The charred scent stuck to his skin, a constant reminder that time was burning away his chances. Tywin Lannister was not just sitting idly out there; he sent fire. He sent a message.

And now, Denys had to reply to that message.

He stopped in front of a heavy iron cell door. The guard on duty there immediately straightened up, his face pale under his iron helm. Without a word, Denys nodded, and the guard turned the large key in silence.

Denys stepped inside.

The room was damp and cold, smelling of rotting straw and human waste not properly cleaned. In the corner of the room, on a pile of dirty straw, sat the figure who held the fate of all Duskendale in his hands.

Aerys Targaryen.

The sight was pathetic. The King, once known for his looks and charm, now looked like a mad beggar. His long silver hair was matted, greasy and filled with filth. His beard grew wild, covering part of his face. His nails, nails that should hold a scepter, had grown long like animal claws, yellow and dirty.

On the floor, a tray containing hard bread and cold meat lay barely touched.

'How dare he,' Denys thought, cold anger creeping into his veins. 'My people out there are starting to starve, rationing their food, while he wastes food at times like these?'

"Your Grace," Denys greeted, his voice flat, emotionless, echoing in the narrow space.

Aerys, who seemed to be asleep or daydreaming in the darkness of his own mind, jerked. His violet eyes widened, pupils shrinking upon seeing the torchlight. He crawled back until his back hit the stone wall, like a cornered animal.

Then, recognition came.

Aerys lunged forward, gripping the iron bars with his thin hands, shaking them with the strength of a madman.

"You!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and broken. "You will die! You will burn! I see my dragons coming! They will burn you alive until your flesh melts from your bones!"

Denys did not flinch. He stood tall, staring at the king with a gaze he hoped looked stronger than he actually felt.

"No dragons are coming, Your Grace," Denys said coldly. "There is only Tywin Lannister out there. And he does not care about you."

"Liar! He is my friend! He is my Hand!" Aerys spat, saliva dripping from his dirty chin.

"If he is your friend, why does he let you rot here for a month?" Denys pressed. "I only ask for a condition, Aerys. A simple condition. A city charter for Duskendale. Freedom from strangling taxes. It is a thing you could easily do with words. Is it so hard? Just one signature, and you can return to the Red Keep, sleep in a silk bed, and eat warm food."

Aerys laughed, a high-pitched sound that hurt the ears.

"You think I am a fool?" he hissed, bringing his face close to the bars until Denys could smell his foul breath. "You lowly bastard! You traitor! Your blood is dirty! You are sick if you think you can command a dragon! I will give you nothing but fire and blood!"

Denys felt his patience, already as thin as paper, finally snap. The fire earlier, the fear in Serala's eyes, the looming starvation... everything peaked into a boiling point. He had no time for this. He had no time to listen to the ravings of the man before him while his city burned.

Without warning, Denys stepped forward. His large, rough hand reached through the gap in the bars, gripping Aerys's jaw tightly. He squeezed the king's face, forcing him to silence.

Aerys struggled, his eyes wild. He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat right into Denys's face.

The warm, filthy liquid hit Denys's cheek and eye.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment.

Denys released his grip slowly. He took a step back, closing his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath, trying to control the rumble in his chest, then wiped the spit away with his sleeve. The action was slow, methodical, and terrifying.

When he opened his eyes again, there was no more respect or hesitation there.

"Bring him out," Denys ordered the two guards. His voice was calm, too calm. "Do not let him struggle."

The guards hesitated for a moment, after all, this was the King, but Denys's glare made them move. The key turned. The cell door opened.

They dragged Aerys out. The King raged, kicking and scratching, shouting curses and threats of burning. His weak body was no match for two trained soldiers.

Denys watched them struggle. He thought of the fire that had just been extinguished up there. He thought of the smoke still billowing. He needed momentum. He needed something to silence the besiegers outside, something to prove he was serious. If Tywin Lannister wanted to play with fire, then Denys would show that he was not afraid to burn himself.

"Make him kneel!" Denys raised his voice, his tone cracking like a whip.

The guards kicked the back of Aerys's knees, forcing him to fall onto the cold, dirty stone floor. The King shouted in protest, but strong hands held him there.

"Hold his right hand," Denys ordered again. "Spread it on the floor. Before me."

One of the guards looked pale, his eyes widening in horror at what was about to happen, but he did not argue. He gripped Aerys's thin wrist, forcing the king's palm open on the damp stone. Aerys tried to pull it back, but his strength was far inferior.

Denys stepped forward. His hand moved to his waist, drawing a sharp hunting dagger. The metal glinted gloomily under the torchlight.

This had to be done. This was the only language understood by men in this world.

He crouched in front of his King. He said nothing more. No threats, no negotiations.

With a swift movement, Denys drove the dagger downward.

The steel blade embedded itself between Aerys's fingers, cutting the thin skin between the ring finger and the middle finger, and then Denys sliced it upward.

Aerys screamed.

---

As always. Thank you for reading. :'D

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

The waves slapped against the hull of the command ship with a monotonous rhythm, a restless lullaby for the troops who had been stalled there for over a month. Morning came with a deceptive brightness; a pale blue sky stretched out cloudless, and the sea breeze blew fresh, carrying the sharp, slightly fishy scent of salt.

Inside the ship's main cabin, the air felt far heavier than outside.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat on one side of a long wooden table bolted to the floor to keep it from shifting when the waves struck. Before him lay a breakfast simple yet well-cooked, considering the kitchen's limitations.

"Let me go in, Lord Hand."

Ser Barristan Selmy's voice broke the silence, firm and urgent. The knight stood, his food untouched. His usually calm face was now filled with deep lines of frustration. The fresh morning air seemed to fan the flames of his impatience rather than cool them.

"I can sneak in," Barristan continued, his eyes staring sharply at Tywin Lannister who sat at the head of the table. "I can disguise myself as a beggar or a lost merchant. I know cracks in the Dun Fort walls that may not be guarded. I can get in, find where the King is held, and bring him out of there before Darklyn realizes what happened."

Tywin Lannister did not answer immediately. He was cutting a sausage on his plate. His face, as always, was a mask devoid of emotion.

"Too risky," Tywin said finally, without lifting his face from his plate. His voice was flat, killing every argument before it could bloom.

"Risk is part of my duty, Lord Tywin," Barristan retorted, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword.

"There is a difference between bravery and folly, Ser Barristan," Tywin looked at him now, a gaze of pale green eyes that made many lords in Westeros tremble. "Even if you could get in, a very large assumption considering Darklyn must have doubled the guard, then what? You are alone. You are just one sword against a full garrison. You would die before you could touch the door of the King's cell, let alone bring him out."

Barristan fell silent for a moment, his jaw hardening. Rhaegar could see the inner conflict in the old knight's eyes, between Tywin's irrefutable logic and the sacred vows that bound his soul.

Rhaegar turned his attention to his own plate. A piece of grilled fish lay there, its white, tender flesh still steaming faintly. Atop it, the ship's cook had sprinkled bright red tomato chunks and slices of onion sautéed until caramelized.

He cut the fish, bringing it to his mouth. The flavor exploded on his tongue, the savoriness of fresh fish, the fresh acidity of tomato, and the sweetness of onion. It was fragrant, delicious, and ironically, the only good thing here right now. Amidst this boring and uncertain siege, this simple breakfast felt like an inappropriate luxury.

He chewed slowly, letting the taste distract his mind for a moment from the image of his father who might be starving in a cold stone cell.

"At least that means I would have tried," Barristan said again, his voice quieter but no less intense. "As a Kingsguard, my honor demands action. I cannot just sit here all day, eating and drinking on this comfortable ship, while my King... my King is not far from here, perhaps being tortured, and is in mortal danger every second."

Tywin placed his knife down gently. He looked at Barristan, a long and heavy gaze. To Rhaegar, that look had the power to break the spirit of a common man, crushing their resolve into dust. But Barristan Selmy was no common man. He was Barristan the Bold. He was the capable knight who had cut through enemy lines alone in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He returned Tywin's gaze with the same fire.

The situation had reached a stalemate. The tension in the room thickened, suffocating.

Then, Tywin's gaze shifted slowly, sliding from Barristan and landing on Rhaegar.

Rhaegar knew the meaning of that look. It was a signal. Tywin had said his part. Now it was Rhaegar's turn to say the emotional part, the part that could be accepted by a knight's heart.

Rhaegar swallowed his food, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and looked at Barristan. He, too, actually wanted to do something. He felt the same urge to storm the gates, to end this nightmare. However, logic held him back.

"We still need you here, Ser Barristan," Rhaegar said softly, his voice calm yet authoritative.

Barristan turned to him, his brows furrowed. "Prince?"

"The soldiers," Rhaegar continued, gesturing toward the cabin window, toward the thousands of tents spread across the shore. "They are tired. They are bored. This month has made some of them waver. They whisper around the campfires, wondering if we will ever go home, if the King is dead, if Darklyn possesses magic. They are unsure of the future."

Rhaegar stood, walking closer to Barristan. "They need a symbol. They need a respected man, a living legend, to walk among them and raise their spirits. If Ser Barristan Selmy stands tall, then they too will stand tall. If you go and die foolishly in there... the morale of this army will shatter instantly."

Barristan seemed shaken by those words.

"The Prince is right," Tywin added, picking up a glass and sipping the water within. "This war is no longer about swords, Ser. It is about endurance. Who blinks first."

Tywin leaned his body slightly forward. "If it wavers here, it is no different in there. Our spy reports say their supplies are running low. If our morale is strong, it will pressure them. It means Darklyn's forces will diminish one by one due to desertion or despair, and we won't even have to do anything but wait."

Tywin placed his glass back down. "When that happens, when hunger starts to bite and hope fades, and if Darklyn indeed still has even a little brain in that hard head of his, he will soon realize his position. He will surrender."

Barristan sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of his armor had suddenly increased. He knew he had lost the argument. Rhaegar's logic about troop morale was something he could not refute as a commander.

"Very well," Barristan said finally, his voice heavy. "I will remain here. I will check the guard posts and ensure discipline is maintained."

"Thank you, Ser," Rhaegar said sincerely.

"But," Barristan added, his finger pointing toward the Dun Fort visible faintly from the window, "if there is a chance... however small... I want to take it, Lord Hand."

Tywin did not answer, only returning to cut his sausage. It was a silent agreement, or perhaps indifference.

The conversation continued for a while longer, discussing the logistics of food shipments from King's Landing and the rotation of blockade ships, but the main tension had subsided. Rhaegar went back to finishing his fish, though it no longer tasted as delicious as before.

Meal finished, the servants began clearing the table. Rhaegar rose. He needed a conversation that did not involve siege strategies or his father's grim fate.

"I will step out," said Rhaegar.

Tywin only nodded without looking.

Rhaegar stepped out of the cabin onto the ship's deck. The sea wind immediately hit his face, fluttering his silver hair. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with clean salty air. Around him, naval activity was running well. Sailors shouted, rigging was pulled, and seagulls circled looking for scraps.

He walked toward the gangplank that would take him to land. He had another destination. Arthur.

…

Rhaegar walked along the main thoroughfare, his simple cloak hiding his princely raiment, yet his stride still carried an elegance difficult to conceal. He walked deeper into civilization.

He found Ser Arthur Dayne speaking with a captain of the guard. The knight looked striking amidst the crowd, his pure white armor reflecting the sunlight like a mirror.

Arthur saw him approaching, gave a brief nod to the captain to dismiss him, then approached Rhaegar.

"Prince," greeted Ser Arthur, his voice calm as always. "Bored of being on the ship?"

'I am bored of being here. I am bored with this uncertainty,' Rhaegar thought.

He opened his mouth, letting a thin, weary smile appear on his lips. "You could say that. The ship is starting to feel like a swaying prison. And my father..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Arthur knew. Everyone knew.

"A siege is a boring business, Prince," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the passing crowd with vigilance. "Waiting is the hardest part of war. It is easier to fight against an enemy you can see than against time."

"And Tywin seems to enjoy this time," Rhaegar murmured.

"He wants to ensure victory without much spilled blood," Arthur commented. "It is efficient."

They walked side by side, two of the most respected figures in the realm, yet currently feeling the most powerless. Their conversation flowed from siege strategies to lighter things like Rhaegar's songs, sword practice, or archery. It was a rare normal moment, a pause in the middle of the storm.

However, that peace shattered instantly.

SWOOSH!

The sound was sharp and distinct, the sound of a bowstring released at full force. Followed by the hiss of splitting air.

Rhaegar and Arthur reacted instinctively. Arthur was halfway to drawing Dawn, his body spinning to find the threat. Rhaegar looked up.

In the blue sky above them, a black crow fell, spiraling down. The bird did not fly; it dropped like a stone, an arrow piercing its chest.

Thud.

The carcass of the bird landed on the dusty ground, just a few steps from them, kicking up a small puff of dust. Its black wings lay broken and spread.

People around them screamed in surprise and backed away, creating an empty circle around the bird's carcass.

Arthur and Rhaegar looked at each other, then gave a brief nod. They stepped forward, approaching the poor bird.

"A messenger raven," Arthur said, pointing to something small tied to the bird's leg.

He knelt beside the raven. Usually, this was a desperate attempt by Darklyn to ask for help, a letter begging to other lords, or perhaps another empty negotiation. Rhaegar had seen dozens of such letters intercepted.

However, there was something strange about this raven.

Its beak was tied with rough twine, preventing it from making a sound. And on its leg, it was not the usual scroll of parchment tied neatly.

It was a bundle. A small bundle made of dirty linen cloth tied with a leather cord. The cloth was stained dark.

And the smell...

The wind carried the scent to Rhaegar's nose. The sharp smell of metal. The smell of copper. The fishy scent he recognized so well from the training grounds and hunts.

An archer approached, breathing heavily, bow in hand. "Forgive me, Prince! I saw it flying low from the castle, I thought..."

"Quiet," Arthur ordered sharply.

Rhaegar reached out, his slender, pale fingers hesitating for a moment over the bundle. He had a bad feeling. A cold feeling creeping up his spine like an ice snake.

He untied the leather cord slowly. The linen cloth was wet and sticky.

The folds of the cloth opened.

Rhaegar's eyes widened. His breath hitched in his throat, caught on a lump of horror that suddenly appeared. His chest pounded hard, beating against his ribs with a painful rhythm.

The world around him seemed to tilt. The sound of the crowd became a distant hum.

There, lying on the blood-soaked cloth that was beginning to dry, was a small object. Long, pale, with a long, yellow nail curving at the tip.

It was a finger.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN | BARRISTAN​

---

Tonight, the air upon the Duskendale docks carried not only the scent of salt and woodsmoke, but a far more perilous reek: the smell of blood and panic.



The sky above was pitch black, but down here, in the midst of a camp that had turned into a hive of angry hornets, torches burned with a terrifying intensity. Flickering orange light cast long, distorted shadows across the faces of the gathered lords and knights.



Fury. The night was filled with a fury pure and unstoppable.



Shouts were hurled everywhere, shattering the silence of the night usually filled only by the lapping of waves. Insults, slurs, curses, all merged to form a tumult as hot as a blacksmith's forge.



"We need his head!"



The scream came from Lord Rosby, a man who usually trembled at a gentle breeze, yet now his face was flushed red with wrath. Spittle flew from his mouth as he pointed a shaking finger toward the dark silhouette of the Dun Fort.



"Behead him!" cried Lord Coldwater, his sword half-drawn, the steel blade gleaming under the torchlight.



"Flay him alive! Let him feel the pain he gave the King!"



Tywin Lannister stood in the eye of this storm, silent and immovable as a rock amidst crashing waves. He wore a crimson doublet embroidered with a golden lion on the chest, his pale green eyes sweeping over the hysterical crowd of lords with a boredom that was nearly unbearable.



They were at the docks as usual, the place where strategy was typically discussed in hushed, calculating tones. Only tonight, this place was alive—too alive—because of something Darklyn had done. Something so unexpected, so mad, that it shook the foundations of logic Tywin had built.



Tywin had not expected the man to do this.



On the rough wooden table in the center of the circle lay the opened bundle of dirty cloth. And upon it, a pale finger rested.



A King's finger. Severed just like that, as a butcher cuts a sausage, and sent via raven simply so his demands would be heard.



'Desperate,' Tywin thought. 'He is truly desperate.'



Was it because of the fire? Reports said Darklyn's stables had burned down just last night. Did Darklyn think it was Tywin who ordered the arson?



Truthfully, Tywin had done nothing. Not yet. He was still enjoying the silence from before, enjoying the game of stalling, letting hunger and fear grow naturally like mold in a damp place. His plan was slow strangulation, not brutal mutilation.



But in the letter they found along with the finger, Darklyn indeed accused them of it. The rough handwriting, stained with blood, screamed of 'Lannister fire'.



A joke. Tywin was accused of something he had not actually done.



"Enough!"



The voice of Ser Barristan Selmy cut through the commotion like a sharp blade. The Kingsguard stepped forward, his face pale as death but his eyes burning with holy fire.



"If we continue this debate any longer, the King will truly be gone!" Barristan gritted his teeth, his hands clenched at his sides. "He cut off a finger today. What will he cut off tomorrow if we do not act?"



"The more time passes, the greater the risk," Lord Lucerys Velaryon agreed quickly, his voice trembling. The Master of Ships looked as if he wanted to vomit at the sight of the finger on the table. "If today it is a finger, what is it tomorrow? A hand? A foot? A head? Darklyn is confirmed mad. We cannot speak to a madman with logic!"



"And what is your suggestion, Lord Velaryon?" Tywin asked, his voice instantly silencing the murmurs around him. "Storm it now? In the dead of night? With the King in the hands of a madman holding a knife?"



"Better than letting him rot piece by piece!" Rhaegar exclaimed. The young Prince stood beside Gerold Hightower, his face looking ten years older tonight. His violet eyes were dark with sorrow and suppressed rage. "We must do something, Lord Hand. We cannot just... wait."



"A direct assault is suicide for the hostage," Tywin countered. "Darklyn will kill him the moment the first battering ram hits the gate."



"Then let us die trying to save him!" Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, bellowed, his voice booming. "The honor of the Kingsguard is at stake! Better the King dies in a noble rescue attempt than be mutilated like cattle in a slaughterhouse while his knights watch from afar!"



"Honor does not raise the dead, Ser Gerold," Tywin replied flatly. "I need a living King."



"I would rather die than let him end like this!" Barristan snapped.



The Lords behind began to shout again, supporting violence. "Attack! Burn the fort!" someone yelled. "Blood pays for blood!"



The Lords screamed demanding Darklyn's blood, no matter the method.



Tywin listened to it all without expression. Inside his head, his thoughts spun fast. This situation... it was messy. Darklyn's chaos had accelerated his schedule. He wanted Aerys dead. Now, with the situation shifting so drastically, he might actually survive.



He tried to delay this longer. He raised arguments about preparation, about the risk of traps, about the need for final negotiations. But he could see it in the eyes of the men around him. Fear had turned into panic. And panic demanded immediate action.



If he continued to delay, they would start suspecting his motives. They would start wondering if the Hand indeed wanted his King dead.



Tywin looked toward Rhaegar. The Prince stared at him, a silent plea in his eyes. 'Do something. End this.'



Tywin exhaled a long breath, very slowly, barely audible. He knew he had lost this game of time. He had to give something to these howling dogs before they bit his own hand.



"Two days," Tywin said finally.



His voice was not loud, but it held the weight of absolute authority. All eyes turned to him.



"Two days?" repeated Barristan, in disbelief. "You ask us to wait two more days while the King bleeds?"



"We give a final warning to Darklyn," Tywin continued, ignoring Barristan's tone of protest. "A final action. Unconditional surrender within two days, or we raze the Dun Fort to the ground and not a single soul will be left alive, including babes in the cradle."



"That is absurd!" Barristan stepped forward, his courage fueled by desperation. "Now is the time! Every hour is precious! Do you... do you not care for the King?"



Tywin's eyes narrowed. The temperature on the docks seemed to drop rapidly.



"Aerys is the King," Tywin said coldly, every word spoken with lethal precision. "And he is also my childhood friend. Do you, Ser Barristan Selmy, dare to say before these Lords that I wish him dead?"



The question hung in the air heavily.



Barristan fell silent, his face flushing red, then turning pale. Accusing the Hand of the King of treason in public was a death sentence, even for a Kingsguard. He lowered his head, taking a step back. "No, My Lord. Forgive my insolence."



The atmosphere was total silence. Only the sound of waves and the crackling of torch fire could be heard. Tywin had asserted his dominance once again.



"It is decided," Tywin said. "Two days. We prepare the siege engines. We prepare the army. And if in two days Darklyn is still stubborn... we will storm."



He turned, his crimson cloak swirling, leaving the lords still muttering in dissatisfaction and fear.



Tywin walked back to his command tent. His face remained flat, but in his heart, he felt disappointment. His plan for a long, exhausting siege had failed. Now, he had to prepare himself for a messy bloodbath.



But two days... two days was a long time in war. Many things could happen in two days. Perhaps a miracle would happen, but, unfortunately, he did not believe in miracles themselves.



…



The night wind outside the tent blew hard, shaking the thick canvas fabric with a rhythmic sound, like the heartbeat of a dying giant. Inside, Ser Barristan Selmy stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the torch flame dancing wildly in the intruding draft. His shadow stretched long on the tent wall, distorted and swaying, as if mocking his hesitation.



'A joke,' Barristan thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ground together. 'Tywin calls this strategy? Yes, the strategy of a coward.'



The Lord Hand's words echoed in his ears, cold and emotionless: "We will wait."



Wait? The King was surely dying in that accursed pit right now. The King was wounded, and that man said they must wait two days? Two days staying here longer was tantamount to letting infection climb, gnawing at the blood until only a rotting corpse remained. Such a wound, in a filthy place like the Dun Fort, was an open invitation for death to come collecting.



The King needed a Maester. Not just some village healer or a quack doctor, but someone most capable, who could cure even the deadliest poison or clean a wound already festering.



And certainly, Aerys did not need a Maester who was on Darklyn's side.



Barristan turned from the torch, his steps heavy on the worn rug covering the ground. He stared at his armor arranged neatly on the stand; it gleamed holy, a symbol of the vow he had sworn. To protect the King. To give my life for him.



Honor. It was a heavy word. Tonight, that honor felt like a noose wrapping around his neck. If Aerys died while he sat quietly here polishing his sword, Barristan knew he would never be able to look at his own reflection again. He would be a failed Kingsguard. One who let his King rot.



"No," he whispered to the emptiness of the tent.



The resolve came like a tidal wave, cold and unstoppable. This had to be done. Whether with Tywin Lannister's permission or not. Damn politics. Damn the siege. This was the duty of a Knight.



He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist. The metal felt cold, sending a piercing sensation through his bones but simultaneously steadying his racing heart.



He walked slowly toward a wooden chest in the corner of the tent, where he kept personal items rarely touched. Its hinges creaked softly as it opened. At the very bottom, buried under spare tunics, was a coarse brown cloth. A beggar's cloak, or perhaps a poor pilgrim's. Age had eaten at its fibers, making it thin and faded.



Perfect.



Snatching the cloth, Barristan put it on without hesitation. He removed his magnificent white cloak, folded it respectfully, and placed it on the bed. In its stead, the brown cloth covered his muscular frame, hiding the gleam of his sword. He pulled the hood deep, covering his graying hair and a face known throughout the realm.



Tonight, Ser Barristan the Bold dies. Tonight, there is only a nameless ghost.



He stepped out of the tent, slipping into the darkness of the night like smoke. He evaded patrols with frightening ease, moving between the shadows of tents, utilizing every second when guards looked away to fix a fire or yawn.



Duskendale loomed before him, a giant black silhouette against the moonless night sky. The Dun Fort, the fortress within the city, was his target. During this month of siege, Barristan had not just sat idle. His eyes had studied every inch of those walls. He knew where the stones had crumbled, where the moss grew thickest making it slippery, and where the forgotten cracks lay.



The night chill pierced through his thin cloak, but cold sweat soaked his back. He reached the base of the wall on the eastern side, the part facing the sea, where steep cliffs made the guard looser. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below became his sound camouflage.



Barristan looked up. The wall was high, black, and unforgiving. Up there, points of torchlight signaled the positions of guards.



'Now or never.'



He began to climb.



His fingers, accustomed to holding a sword hilt, now gripped rough wet stone. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled his body up inch by inch. The sea wind slapped his face, trying to pry his grip loose, but Barristan clung like a spider. His breathing was steady, his focus narrowed until there was only the next stone, the next crevice.



He reached the top after what felt like an eternity. Carefully, he peeked over. A guard was leaning on his spear, looking bored toward the sea.



Barristan waited. One heartbeat. Two. The guard turned, walking away.



In one motion, Barristan vaulted over and descended slowly, landing soundlessly on the stone walkway. He moved fast, merging with the shadows of the tower.



His knowledge of the Dun Fort led him through cold stone corridors. He avoided two patrols, holding his breath in dark alcoves as heavy boots stomped past him. His destination was the dungeon. Rumors, and logic, placed the King there.



He found the entrance to the dungeon. A heavy ironwood door, guarded by an oppressive silence. He slipped inside.



The smell down there was terrible, a mixture of human filth, rotting straw, and dried blood. Torches on the walls burned dimly, casting long, eerie shadows.



Barristan held his breath as he turned a corner. There.



At the end of the corridor, in front of a large iron cell, were four guards. They sat on a wooden bench, their spears leaning against the wall. They were relaxed, too confident inside their own fortress.



Barristan knew he could not sneak past them. This had to be quick. And bloody.



He picked up a small stone from the floor and kicked it toward a dark corner.



One guard looked up, frowning. "What was that? Rats again?" He stood, walking lazily toward the sound.



As he moved away from his friends, Barristan charged.



He moved like a storm unleashed. His sword left its scabbard with a lethal hiss. The standing guard died before he could scream, his throat opened in one precise slash.



The other three jumped in shock, fumbling for their weapons. Too late. Barristan was already among them. He parried a clumsy spear thrust, spun his body, and buried his sword into the second guard's chest. He pulled it out, spun, and cut the third guard's thigh, then finished him with a thrust to the heart.



The last guard managed to draw his sword, eyes wide with terror. "You—"



Barristan did not let him speak. He lunged forward, knocking aside the opponent's sword, and smashed his sword pommel into the man's temple. Bone cracked. The man fell like a sack of grain.



Silence returned to cloak the dungeon, broken only by Barristan's slightly labored breathing and the dripping of blood from his blade.



He searched the bodies, his bloody hands finding a heavy iron key ring. With hands trembling from adrenaline, he unlocked the cell door.



The hinges screamed in protest. Barristan stepped inside.



The sight before him made his blood boil.



Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, lay upon a pile of filthy straw. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in pale skin. His clothes were in tatters, and there was a dirty bandage binding his hand.



And beside him stood a man in grey robes, a Maester, with a chain clinking softly. There was a bowl of murky liquid in his hand. The Maester turned, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the figure in a brown cloak with a bloody sword.



"Who are you?" the Maester's voice was hoarse, trembling. "What are you—"



Barristan's eyes widened, his instincts taking over. No questions. No hesitation. This man was a threat.



Barristan stepped forward and thrust his sword.



It was a quick and brutal stab, piercing right through the Maester's chest. The man gasped, the bowl in his hand falling, shattering on the stone floor. He opened his mouth to scream, but only bloody froth came out. Barristan pulled his sword, and the body collapsed beside Aerys.



"Your Grace?" whispered Barristan, kneeling beside his King.



Aerys opened his eyes. Those violet eyes were clouded with fever and pain, wild with fear. At first, he flinched away, as if ready to thrash, perhaps thinking Barristan was someone else.



"Keep that dagger away! Keep it away!" Aerys shrieked weakly.



"It is me, Your Grace. Barristan," he said softly, lowering his hood.



Recognition slowly dawned on Aerys's face. Tears welled in the corners of his sunken eyes. His thin hand, missing a finger and wrapped in cloth, clutched Barristan's arm with the strength of a desperate man. "You... you. Barristan. You came." His voice cracked. "Get me out. Quick! They... they want to cut me again. Take me away!"



"I will take you home, Your Grace," Barristan promised.



He sheathed his sword and carefully lifted Aerys's body. The King was very light, too light, as if part of his soul had been eroded along with his flesh. Barristan carried him on his back, feeling Aerys's hot, feverish breath on his neck.



Barristan exited the cell, his steps quick. He had to get out before the guards' bodies were discovered.



He managed to reach the stairs. However, as he opened the door leading to the upper floor, bad luck greeted him.



A serving woman was passing by, carrying a tray of food. Her eyes met Barristan's, then dropped to the dead guards visible behind the open door, and then to the limp figure of the King on his back.



She screamed.



The scream was shrill, high, and echoed through the stone corridors, shattering the night's silence like breaking glass.



"INTRUDERS! THEY'RE STEALING THE KING! GUARDS!"



"Damn," cursed Barristan.



He ran. No more sneaking. Now it was a race against death.



The hallways came alive. Shouts were heard from all directions. Footsteps stomped, approaching fast. Barristan spurred his legs, the weight of Aerys on his back feeling heavier every second.



He turned a corner, and two guards appeared before him. Barristan did not stop. He drew his sword with one hand, the other holding Aerys. He crashed into them like a bull. His sword sliced, his shoulder bashed. They fell, but more were coming.



Barristan burst through a side door, out into the cold night air of the inner courtyard. Chaos had broken out. Torches were popping up everywhere like hellish fireflies.



"There! Catch him!"



Arrows began to whiz through the air. One stuck in the ground near his feet. Another bounced off the stone wall.



Aerys had fainted some time ago, his body limp like a broken doll on Barristan's back. It made movement difficult. Barristan slashed a soldier trying to block him, blood splattering his face.



He had to reach the gate. Just a little more.



But they were too many. Dozens of Darklyn soldiers flooded the courtyard, forming a wall of steel and spears.



Barristan roared, attacking with desperation. He fought like a demon, his sword a flash of death. One man fell. Two men fell. But for every man he killed, two more took their place.



He gasped for breath, his lungs burning. His legs felt like lead.



Then, he heard it. The sound of bowstrings released.



Not one, but many.



An arrow struck his shoulder, piercing through cloth and flesh. The pain exploded, hot and stinging. He staggered, but stayed standing.



However, the second arrow did not miss.



It came from the darkness, unseen, unavoidable. The iron tip struck the side of his head, just below the temple, tearing skin and hitting bone.



Barristan's world exploded into blinding white light, then instantly turned pitch black.



The sounds of battle, the clash of steel, the shouts of rage, the stomp of boots, suddenly receded, as if he were sinking to the bottom of a deep sea. His strength vanished instantly, pulled from his body like a snuffed candle wick.



His legs gave way.



He fell forward, his knees hitting the cold courtyard stones. His grip on Aerys loosened.



In the last second of his fading consciousness, Barristan felt the weight on his back slide off. He watched, in agonizing slow motion, the thin body of his King thrown from his back, rolling on the stones with a harsh sound.



Aerys's body stopped rolling a few feet away, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, his open eyes staring blankly at the starless night sky. No breath. No movement. Only eternal stillness.



Darkness swallowed Barristan's vision completely.



The King fell. And as his consciousness was lost, Barristan Selmy's final thought was not of pain or his own death, but of his own emptiness.



If only he had waited two more days…

---

The king is dead, long live the king!

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR | TYWIN | DENYS​

---

Inside the dimly lit tent, the air felt suffocating, as if it had been sucked out by the news of that death.

Rhaegar's eyes felt hot, stinging not from the torch smoke, but from tears forced back from falling. His breath came in gasps, short and shallow, as if an invisible hand were squeezing his lungs. His heart beat far faster than it should, a frantic rhythm that battered his ribs with a dull ache.

This should not have happened. By the Seven, this was not in any plan.

They did not ask for this. They did not want blood. They had discussed, debated, and finally agreed, two days. Two days for an end. Two days to let fear creep up Darklyn's neck. It was a sensible plan, a cold but safe plan.

But one man, a knight sworn to protect, had destroyed all that with one act of foolish heroism.

"The King is dead!"

That cry... that cry echoed from within the Dun Fort moments ago, crossing the stone walls, passing the moat, and reaching their camp with unnatural speed, like a plague carried by the wind. The sound was not a cheer of victory, but a howl of despair from those who knew they had just invited their own deaths.

Now, outside the tent, the world was collapsing. Trumpets sounded one after another, captains shouting to gather troops, the thunder of hooves breaking the ground, and the clashing of sharpened steel. It was chaotic. Far more chaotic than before. The Lords' anger exploded into an unstoppable bloodlust.

But Rhaegar paid them no heed. The voices sounded distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.

His mind drifted, dragged by the current of memory far back. He did not see the hateful Aerys. He saw the father of old. He saw the Aerys who sat at the end of the dining table in the Red Keep, wearing a neat velvet doublet, smiling at him and asking, "How was your harp practice today, my son?"

The memory was so sharp, so painful, that Rhaegar had to close his eyes and turn his face away. His father might not have been a good king at the end of his life, but he was still his father. He was the man who once carried Rhaegar on his shoulders. He was the man who once had hope.

And now he was just a broken corpse behind those stone walls.

Barristan...

The name tasted bitter on Rhaegar's tongue, as bitter as gall. He cursed the man in silence. Barristan the Bold. He should have been called Barristan the Fool. If only he hadn't taken matters into his own hands, if only he had obeyed orders and waited like a disciplined soldier, none of this would have happened. His father might still be alive. Negotiations might still be possible.

A knight's arrogance had killed a King.

"We will avenge him, Prince."

The voice was heavy and hollow, like wind blowing through an empty tomb. Rhaegar opened his eyes and saw Ser Gerold Hightower standing near the tent flap. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked broken. His face was pale beneath his white helm, his eyes hollow. He had failed to protect his king, and the weight of that failure bowed his usually broad shoulders.

"Avenge?" Rhaegar repeated the word, his voice hoarse.

Could vengeance bring his father back to life? Would burning Duskendale put his father's broken body back together? No, of course not. Death was an absolute end. No song, no magic, no prayer could undo it.

However, Rhaegar was a Targaryen. He was the heir to the throne. And the world was watching. The Lords were watching. If he remained silent, if he showed weakness when his father was murdered, then the kingdom would crumble with him.

'Justice' indeed had to be served, however hollow the word felt now. They could not let this pass without consequence. They could not let a Lord kill his King and keep breathing. Not while Rhaegar still breathed. No one could harm his family without paying the highest price.

"Yes, Ser," Rhaegar said, weak at first, then he straightened his body, forcing his voice to be loud. "Yes. We will avenge him."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Rhaegar took a deep breath, trying to bury his grief in a deep, dark place in his heart. He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist, so tight that the leather of his gloves creaked.

He did not want to do this. Truly. His soul, which loved music and peace, screamed in rejection of the coming slaughter. But his father's vengeance had to be paid. And the Lords' anger also needed to be appeased. The dam had broken, and the flood of violence could no longer be stemmed. Blood had to be paid with blood. Fire with fire.

"Help me," Rhaegar ordered the two squires waiting in the corner of the tent with frightened faces.

Rhaegar stood, spreading his arms. The squires moved quickly, fastening pieces of armor to his body. The breastplate with the three-headed dragon. Pauldrons. Vambraces.

He rarely wore this. Its weight felt heavy, pressing on his shoulders and chest, restricting his movements. But compared to the weight in his heart now, the weight of this steel was nothing. This armor was his second skin now. The skin of a dragon that would burn its enemies.

He walked out of the tent.

The night world welcomed him with a roar. Thousands of torches burned, turning night into a bloody day. Rows of soldiers stood in formation, their faces hard, their weapons ready. Torchlight reflected off his armor, making it gleam grimly, not blinding like the sun, but enough to give a majestic and terrifying impression.

Ser Gerold Hightower was already mounted, sword drawn. Beside him, Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington were also prepared, their faces grim but full of determination.

"Is everything ready, Ser?" Rhaegar asked, his tone flat, not as melodious as usual.

Gerold nodded, pointing toward the front lines. "Everything is prepared, Prince. The battering ram is in position. Archers have soaked their arrows in oil. The horses are impatient. They all will not let this drag on. They want to end this tonight."

Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the Dun Fort. The fortress loomed black and silent in the distance, its gates shut tight, as if trying to hide the sin within.

There were tens of thousands of men out here, ready to kill. And in there... Rhaegar thought of the Dun Fort. There were women, there were children, there were old servants who only served wine, there were stablehands who only tended the livestock.

They would all be destroyed. His people would die fighting this unstoppable tide. The innocent would be there, trapped between stone walls and steel swords, bearing the sins of their mad leader.

Jaime Lannister once told him, in a shabby tavern in King's Landing, that everyone had a story. That the smallfolk were not just a faceless mass.

Tonight, those stories would end with screams. And it was Rhaegar who would write the end of that story with his sword.

"Prepare my horse," Rhaegar commanded.

Then, he walked toward his large black warhorse, mounting the saddle in one fluid motion. He drew his sword. Metal clashed against metal, a sharp and final sound.

Rhaegar looked at the fortress one last time. He did not see an enemy. He saw a graveyard.

…

Dawn broke over Duskendale, not with the golden light of hope, but with a cold pale grey, as if the sky itself were mourning, or perhaps, washing its hands of the sin about to occur. A thin mist crept from the sea, caressing the silent and haughty stone walls of the Dun Fort, hiding the King's corpse within from the world's view.

In front of the fortress's main gate, the entire besieging force had gathered. Thousands of soldiers stood in tight formation, a frozen sea of steel and leather. No trumpets sounded, no cheers. The silence was heavy, oppressive, broken only by the sound of waves and the wood of siege engines being pulled into position.

A giant battering ram, a tree trunk tipped with iron, was at the very front. Around it, soldiers bearing large shields formed a tortoise shell to protect its operators.

Tywin Lannister sat atop his great warhorse, not far behind the front line. He wore his full crimson armor with gold trim, his lion helm tucked under his arm. His face was as calm and cold as the surface of a frozen lake.

Beside him, Rhaegar Targaryen sat on his horse. The Prince looked like a ghost. His face was as pale as milk, his violet eyes staring blankly at the ironwood gate ahead. Since the news of death shattered their sleep hours ago, Rhaegar had not spoken a word. He had retreated into himself, his soul perhaps still kneeling beside his father's corpse in his imagination.

Seeing the broken and empty Rhaegar, Tywin felt the corner of his lip twitch, almost forming a smile. He did not show it openly, of course. That would be improper. But in his heart, the satisfaction flowed warm like the finest wine.

'Aerys', Tywin thought, staring at the enemy fortress with an analytical gaze. 'A pity you had to die so ridiculously without me seeing it.'

He imagined his king's final moments. The fool was probably happy enough when the idiotic Barristan approached him in the cell. He probably thought he would get out of there, return to his throne, and punish everyone he deemed traitors. He probably already planned his feast.

But apparently fate, or rather, human stupidity, said otherwise. They died before they could exit the gate. Barristan died of futile heroism, and Aerys died of his own incompetence.

This was an unexpected situation. Tywin's original plan was a slow and torturous siege, letting Aerys rot mentally. But this quick death? This was a gift. Tywin was very satisfied with the story's end. He didn't even have to do anything. He didn't have to dirty his hands with regicide. He just slept in his tent, let others make mistakes, and everything had run its course towards the optimal result.

This was a good thing. Even better than his wildest dreams.

Aerys was gone. The thorn in his flesh, the biggest obstacle to his ambitions, had been plucked by fate.

Now, thanks to this tragedy, Rhaegar would become King. This melancholic and guilt-ridden young prince would need guidance. He would need a strong and experienced Hand to stabilize the shaken kingdom. And Tywin would be there.

And most importantly, no one could stop Cersei from becoming Queen anymore. The Aerys who rejected the betrothal was history. The future of House Lannister stretched bright and straight before Tywin's eyes, as red as the blood that would spill this morning.

Tywin drew his sword. The sound of metal clashing against the scabbard rang sharp in the morning air.

He gave no speech. Speeches were for people who needed motivation. This army only needed blood.

Tywin shouted, his voice very loud and high, cutting through the silence.

"FORWARD!"

His spirit burned so hot in his chest, it overflowed, yet he covered it with a mask of righteous fury. He had to show grief and wrath over the King's death, and for that, Tywin was the perfect actor.

He signaled the battering ram with his outstretched arm.

"BREAK IT!"

The ram operators began to swing the giant trunk.

Meanwhile, from atop the walls of the Dun Fort, Darklyn's archers began to release their desperate attack. Arrows launched with a whizzing sound like angry bees. But Tywin's formation was disciplined. Shields were raised, forming a roof of steel. The arrows fell in places, bouncing off armor or sticking in the wood of shields, only hitting a few unlucky men.

THUMP!

The iron head of the ram struck the wooden gate. The shock was so massive, Tywin could feel the vibration through his horse's legs. The sound of the impact was like thunder.

THUMP!

Again. The old wood groaned and cracked.

THUMP!

Again and again. Splinters of wood flew. Atop the walls, Darklyn's defenders tried to pour hot oil and stones, but the royal archers retaliated with a deadly rain of arrows, forcing them to take cover.

CRACK!

With one final deafening blow, the gate hinges gave way. The thick wooden doors split and collapsed inward, opening a path into the belly of the Dun Fort.

The gate was open. Gaping like the mouth of the dead.

"ATTACK! NO MERCY!" Tywin shouted.

Tywin's horse shrieked loudly as he kicked its belly, commanding it to run. He did not lead from the rear today. He spurred his horse forward, running very fast, passing the infantry lines, towards the newly opened breach.

He wanted to be one of the first. He wanted Darklyn to see his face when doom arrived.

Tywin broke into the courtyard. Before him, the remaining Darklyn troops, men who were tired, hungry, and terrified, tried to form a pathetic defensive line.

Tywin did not slow down. He swung his sword with full force.

His steel blade sliced through a Darklyn spearman's neck without resistance. Blood splattered everywhere, bright red in the morning air, staining Tywin's armor.

They appeared before him again, screaming in despair. And he did the same. One by one. Slash after slash. None escaped. He finished them all without hesitation, without mercy. He moved efficiently and brutally.

'For Aerys', he thought cynically as he slashed a soldier's shoulder down to the chest. 'For our friendship'.

The battle was one-sided. Darklyn's forces were outnumbered, out-moraled, and out-fed. The royal forces flooded the fortress, drowning every resistance.

Bones crushed under horse hooves. Tywin could feel it, a sickening vibration traveling up to his saddle. Strangely, it added to the feeling of joy in his chest. It was the sound of victory. The sound of order being restored in the only way rebels understood: absolute violence.

The sound of battle was deafening, clashing steel, screams of pain, roars of anger. It was a beautiful symphony of chaos to Tywin.

Tywin's horse stepped on someone who had fallen, a young archer trying to crawl away. The scream of pain was there, high-pitched. Tywin looked down, seeing the boy's face destroyed by fear.

Without stopping his horse, Tywin swung his sword downward, beheading the man in one clean motion. The scream was cut off instantly, replaced by a spray of blood.

A worthy mercy. Tywin did not like unnecessary suffering. He liked quick and complete death.

He continued spurring his horse toward the main keep, where Denys Darklyn must be hiding like a rat. Around him, the Dun Fort burned and bled. Screams of death echoed in every corner.

And for Tywin Lannister, those screams were the most beautiful thing in his ears right now.

…

The sound of the battering ram hitting the main gate echoed into Denys's solar, like a death knell tolling incessantly. Every vibration traveled through the stone floor, creeping up through his legs, and shaking his spine.

Denys stood in the middle of the room, his eyes moving wildly from corner to corner, looking for an escape that did not exist.

This was outside the plan. This was all wrong.

In his now fractured mind, the scenario should have been different. They, Tywin Lannister, Prince Rhaegar, those arrogant lords, should have been trembling in fear at the sight of Aerys's finger. They should have realized Denys was serious. They should have backed down, begged for negotiation, and finally given him what he wanted: a town charter, freedom from taxes, honor.

Not this. Not breaking down the gate by force like madmen!

"They are mad," Denys whispered, his voice trembling. "They are mad."

He was careless. He had been careless by only letting four guards underground guard the King. He thought it was enough. He thought no one was crazy enough to try to infiltrate. And now the King was dead, killed by an accident in a failed rescue attempt, and Denys no longer had a shield.

His hands grabbed his own black hair, pulling it with painful frustration. What should he do? Run? Where? The sea was blockaded. The land besieged. Secret passages? Probably already guarded.

"Denys! Denys! What must we do?"

The voice was shrill, full of hysteria. Denys turned and saw his wife, Serala. The usually elegant and calm Myrish woman was now a mess. Her silk gown was crumpled, her hair loose and wild, and black tears streamed down her pale cheeks.

"They have entered the outer bailey! I heard their screams!" Serala gripped Denys's arm, her fingernails digging in painfully. "We must leave! We must hide!"

Denys looked at her, disgust suddenly welling in his chest. Why was this woman asking him? Was she so stupid she didn't see her husband was drowning too?

"Silence, Serala! Silence!" snapped Denys, throwing off his wife's hand.

He fumbled for the sword hilt at his waist, his sweaty fingers slipping on the leather scabbard. "I... I will fight!" he cried, trying to summon the remnants of the famous Darklyn courage. "I am Lord of Duskendale! I will not die like a rat! I did the right thing! I only demanded my rights!"

"You fool!" screamed Serala, her voice breaking. "You cannot fight them all! There are thousands out there! They will cut us to pieces!"

"Then what must I do?!" Denys shouted back, his face flushed red, neck veins bulging. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Tell me, my clever wife! What is your plan now?!"

Serala took a step back, trembling. "Surrender, Denys! Surrender! Maybe... maybe they will spare us if we beg. I told you from the start this was a bad idea! We should never have held the King!"

Denys fell silent. He looked into his wife's eyes, dark eyes that once captivated him so, now only containing cowardly fear.

A mocking laugh escaped Denys's throat, a dry and mad sound.

"Told me from the start?" Denys stepped forward, backing Serala against the wall. "You said this was a bad idea? Wasn't it you who whispered to me to imprison the king, you damn woman?! Wasn't it you who said, 'Take your rights, husband. Show them your strength. Aerys is weak, he will bow.'"

Serala shook her head frantically, her eyes widening in horror. "N-no... W-what do you mean? I never said such things! Even the stupidest person would know holding a king is suicide! I always forbade you!"

That lie was the final straw.

"DON'T PRETEND TO BE INNOCENT!"

Denys swung his hand with all his might.

SLAP!

The slap was so hard Serala was thrown to the floor. She gave a stifled scream, holding her reddening cheek.

Denys stood over her, breathing heavily, pointing with a trembling finger. "YOU WHISPERED THAT TO ME EVERY NIGHT IN BED! YOU SAID THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY! And now you try to wash your hands of the poison you poured into my ears?!"

Serala looked up at Denys from the floor, her eyes full of fear, as if seeing a stranger. "You... are mad," she whispered. "You are truly mad."

BOOM!

An explosion sound far louder than before shook the keep. Dust fell from the ceiling. Bright orange light suddenly illuminated the window, fire. A massive fire had lit inside the fortress walls. The inner gate had been breached.

War cries of "For the King!" sounded closer, accompanied by the death screams of Darklyn soldiers.

Denys staggered back, his strength spent. His anger at Serala evaporated, replaced by cold emptiness.

Surrender.

Yes, Serala was right. The only way was surrender. Not to save Serala, not to save the town, but to save his own life. Maybe... maybe if he knelt, Tywin would give him mercy.

Denys turned, leaving his weeping wife on the floor. He didn't take his sword. He didn't take his helm.

He ran out of the room, stumbling down the stone stairs. He ignored the servants running in panic, ignored the wounded soldiers begging for orders.

He arrived in front of his own castle, which was no longer his.

There, amidst a sea of steel and horses, he saw the figure.

Tywin Lannister sat on his horse. His armor gleamed reflecting the firelight, clean without a blemish, contrasting with the dirty and disheveled Denys. The Hand of the King's face was flat, emotionless, staring at Denys like someone staring at a disgusting insect from afar.

Beside him was Prince Rhaegar, his face pale and full of grief, yet his eyes burned with cold hatred. Their horses kept running closer.

Denys's legs felt very weak, his bones seemed to melt. Pure, primal fear took over.

He didn't wait to be ordered. He let his knees fall to the muddy ground. Ignoring everything around him.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR | DENYS​

---

Drizzle fell from the grey and swollen sky, as if the clouds themselves could not bear the weight of the day's sorrow. Cold droplets of water fell wetting the scorched earth, mixing the ash of the fire with mud and blood, creating a disgusting black slurry beneath Rhaegar's feet.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood silently in the middle of the outer courtyard of the Dun Fort, which now resembled a mass graveyard more than a fortress of pride. His silver hair, usually gleaming like moonlight, was now soaked, falling flat and messy, covering part of his pale face. There was no majesty there, only an exhaustion so deep it felt as if it penetrated the bone.

Before him, kneeling in the cold mud, were the remnants of House Darklyn.

They had been dragged out of their hiding holes, past the rubble of the destroyed gate and the corpses of their own soldiers. Lord Denys Darklyn, Lady Serala, uncles, cousins, and other kin. Their hands were roughly bound behind their backs, their silk and velvet clothes torn and stained with filth.

Rhaegar stared at Lord Darklyn with a hollow gaze.

There was no fiery anger in his chest. Strangely, that fire had been extinguished when he saw his father's broken body earlier. What remained was a gaping hole, a cold and dark void. He saw the kneeling man not as a monster, but as a pathetic creature who had gambled everything and lost utterly.

Denys trembled violently, not just from the cold rain, but from pure terror. His face was now wet with a mixture of rainwater, snot, and tears. He did not dare look Rhaegar in the eye; his gaze was fixed on the Prince's mud-splattered boots.

"What were you thinking?"

Rhaegar's voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain and the hiss of the dying embers.

"What were you thinking," Rhaegar repeated, his tone flat, emotionless, "when you decided to take my father captive? When you decided to betray your oath to a King who came to your home in friendship, without an army, with only trust?"

Denys flinched, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. He lifted his face slightly, his eyes red and swollen.

"Forgive me, Prince... Your Grace... Mercy..." Denys babbled, his voice breaking. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I did not mean... I did not know it would be like this..."

"You did not know?" Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, looking at him as one looks at a strange insect specimen.

"I just wanted His Grace to listen to me!" Denys wailed, trying to justify his madness. "That is all! I wanted that charter. I wanted my rights. I thought if I could speak to him, just the two of us..."

"And you killed him?" Rhaegar cut in coldly. "You killed your King for a charter?"

Denys's face paled even further, if that were possible. He shook his head frantically, rainwater spraying from his wet hair.

"I did not kill him! By the Seven, I did not touch him!" Denys denied weakly. "He fell... it was an accident... Ser Barristan! He was the one who did it! He came sneaking in like a thief, he killed my men, he tried to take the King away, and the King fell! It was his fault! Not mine!"

"DO NOT SPEAK THAT NAME WITH YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!"

The shout came from beside Rhaegar. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward. His face was flushed red with wrath, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tight his leather glove creaked.

"Do not dare insult my sworn brother because of your own doing!" Gerold snapped, his voice booming with grief. "Barristan Selmy died with honor you will never possess in your entire life! You took the King captive, you let him rot, you cut off his finger and threw it before us like garbage! And now you blame the man who tried to save him?!"

Gerold raised his hand as if to slap Denys on the spot, but Rhaegar stopped him with one raised hand. Gerold stopped, his breath coming in gasps, his chest heaving to contain his explosive anger.

"Prince..."

Another voice sounded, soft and trembling. It came from the woman beside Denys. Lady Serala of Myr. She crawled forward a little on her knees, looking at Rhaegar with pleading eyes.

"Please spare us, Prince..." Serala begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "We... I and the other kin... we had nothing to do with this madness. I am an obedient wife, I have no power. I tried to stop Denys! I begged him to release the King, but he would not listen!"

Denys turned to her quickly, his eyes widening in disbelief. The betrayal seemed more painful than the threat of death.

"Silence, you! You whore!" Denys shouted, his voice hoarse with hatred. "How dare you?! You whispered that in my ear every night! You said Aerys was weak! You said Tywin would not dare attack! This was all your idea!"

"No! That is a lie!" Serala screamed back, her voice shrill with hysteria. She looked at Rhaegar again, shaking her head. "He is mad, Prince! My husband is mad! He hallucinates! He hit me! Look!" She tried to show a bruise on her cheek, though it was hard to see under the dirt. "Do not punish us for the sins of one madman!"

"You viper! You poison!" Denys tried to lunge at his wife, but a Lannister soldier kicked him back into the mud.

Rhaegar watched the scene with deep disgust. A husband and wife tearing each other apart on the brink of death, trying to save their own necks at the expense of the other. No dignity. No honor. Only naked and revolting fear.

Behind Rhaegar, the Lords watched with hard faces. They had seen the King's corpse. They had seen the severed finger. Their hearts had turned to stone.

"Enough."

Rhaegar's voice was not loud, but it killed the pathetic argument before him instantly.

He looked at Denys, then Serala, then the row of trembling Darklyn kin behind them.

"I feel none of you are sane," Rhaegar said quietly. "You let this happen. You supported it. You were silent when your King was mutilated."

"Yes!" shouted Lord Rosby from the crowd. "Traitors! All of them!"

"Burn them!" cried another voice, perhaps Lord Velaryon. "Burn them as they burned the stables! Let them taste dragon fire!"

"Hang them!"

"Flay them!"

The shouts of the Lords grew louder, demanding blood, demanding suffering. They wanted to see a spectacle. They wanted to see pain commensurate with the fear they had felt for the past month.

"No, Prince! Please!" Serala screamed again as she saw Rhaegar's expression harden. "I beg you! I—"

Rhaegar did not listen anymore. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, looking at Tywin Lannister.

The Hand of the King stood, silent and expressionless, observing this makeshift court with cold pale green eyes. He said nothing, offered no advice, yet Rhaegar knew Tywin was judging him. Judging if Rhaegar had the stomach to do what needed to be done.

Rhaegar straightened his back. He took a deep breath, inhaling the air that smelled of rain and death.

"Prepare the gallows," Rhaegar commanded. His voice did not tremble.

Silence fell on the courtyard.

"I do not wish to let this linger," Rhaegar continued, his eyes returning to stare at Denys and Serala who were now frozen in horror. "Bring them. All members of House Darklyn. Cleanse this stain from my kingdom."

His voice was round, his decision absolute. And as he spoke it, Rhaegar realized one terrifying thing.

This decision, the decision to end the lives of dozens of people, felt far easier than he had thought.

He turned, splashing a little mud, and walked away without looking back at the desperate screams, which sounded like a hollow melody.

…

The world narrowed into a single, deafening rhythm.

Denys Darklyn's heart beat fast, hammering his ribs with painful force. The sound of its beating was like a war drum beaten right inside his skull, so loud he could hear nothing else. The voices from outside, the jeers of the soldiers, the sobs of Serala being dragged behind him, the crackle of the remaining fire, all were drowned out under the thumping of his own blood. He only heard time running fast towards the end.

He was going to die. And all his kin too. House Darklyn, which had ruled Duskendale for so long, would be extinguished today like a candle blown out by a storm wind.

They were not wrong, he swore in his frozen heart, trying to maintain the remnants of his sanity. They, Tywin, Rhaegar, they were doing what had to be done according to the iron laws of war. Denys knew the laws. He knew the price.

A rough shove on his back forced him forward, a wordless command that could not be refused.

Denys stumbled forward. He was forced to walk up the rough wooden stairs to the makeshift execution platform that had just been erected in the middle of the muddy courtyard. The wood beneath his feet creaked, a sound that sounded like breaking bones to his sensitive ears. Every step took him higher, above the crowd, above the life he had once known.

He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut tight and find himself having a nightmare in his warm bedroom, then wake up in a cold sweat, finding Serala sleeping soundly beside him and the morning sun shining on a peaceful Duskendale. He wanted to wake up and realize that mad ambition had never happened.

But this was no dream. The cold air piercing his skin was too real. The smell of smoke, filth, and blood was too sharp for an illusion.

Something wet and heavy hit his face hard. Denys staggered, his vision blurring for a moment. He touched his cheek with his shoulder.

His face was dirty from something thrown by the mob below. Denys didn't know who threw it, maybe an angry soldier, maybe a commoner who hated him for bringing war to their home, and he didn't care either. His dignity was long gone, left in the dungeon cell along with the King's severed finger. He was no longer a Lord; he was just meat waiting to stop breathing.

His legs trembled so violently, his knees knocked against each other. He wanted to fall, wanted to kneel and beg once more to the void, even though he knew it was futile. But a strong push on his shoulder forced him to stand straight, forced him to face destiny.

He reached the center of the platform. And then he saw the object in front of him.

A slightly dirty white rope, hanging from a sturdy wooden beam. The knot was large and thick, swaying gently in the breeze. It looked so ordinary, an object he often saw at the docks to tie ships, a simple tool for everyday work. But soon, that ordinary object would wrap around his neck, crush his windpipe, and separate his soul from his body.

He couldn't imagine what it would feel like. Would it hurt? Would it be quick? Or would he kick the air for minutes while his lungs burned seeking breath? The ignorance was more terrifying than death itself.

Cold sweat ran down his back, soaking his torn tunic. He looked up at the grey sky that seemed to press down on the earth.

He prayed to the Seven in the silence of his mind. Not the formal prayers taught by Septons, but the chaotic mute pleas of a frightened soul. He asked for a miracle. He asked for a dragon to descend from the sky. He asked for the earth to swallow him whole. Anything but this.

But when he looked down and saw the thousands of people below, the sea of faces full of hatred, the armor gleaming coldly, and Prince Rhaegar's violet eyes staring at him without mercy, Denys knew that was impossible. The sky remained grey, and the earth remained silent. The Gods had abandoned Duskendale.

A large figure in a black hood stepped forward, blocking his view. Rough and calloused hands held the rope. With efficient, emotionless movements, the rough noose was placed around Denys's neck.

The rough fibers of the rope rubbed against his neck skin, itchy and painful. Denys held his breath. The knot was tightened, biting into the flesh, choking off a little air flow even before the floor opened.

Someone down there might be waiting for final words, a plea or a curse, but Denys could only open his mouth soundlessly. His throat was bone dry. His tongue was stiff. No words were enough to explain, no words could change what had happened.

He just shook his head weakly, surrendering to total despair.

A cold wind hit his face once more, bringing the strong scent of salt from the sea not far away. The scent triggered something inside him. Bringing a deepening silence to Denys's mind, muffling the shouts of the mob, muffling the beat of his own heart.

Denys closed his eyes.

And in that moment, the world changed.

Everything before him became different. The darkness behind his eyelids faded, replaced by a blinding light. He didn't see the people screaming for his blood. He didn't see the grey and oppressive sky. And of course, he didn't see a dull rope.

He saw the sea.

The sea was crystal blue, shimmering under the warm summer sun. The harbor of Duskendale stretched before him, not a harbor blockaded by warships and full of smoke, but a peaceful harbor, smelling of salt, fresh fish, and tar. Seagulls cried cheerfully overhead, dancing in the free wind.

His father was there in front. Old Lord Darklyn, still dashing and strong, stood at the end of the pier. He did not speak, but his smile was wide and warm, his arms outstretched in welcome. He looked so proud, so alive.

Denys felt himself shrink. He was no longer a failed lord, no longer a traitor. He was little Denys, just seven name days old, barefoot on the warm wood of the pier.

His feet were light, unburdened by sin or ambition. He ran there, towards his father. He ran full of silent laughter as the sunlight washed over his face, feeling pure freedom. He wanted to show the seashell he had just found. He wanted to hug his father and never let go.

He ran faster, his hand reaching out to grasp that image.

Almost there. Just a little more. The hem of his father's cloak was right before his eyes.

But then, the floor beneath his feet disappeared.

The sensation of falling was sudden and absolute.

Suddenly he couldn't breathe. His chest was tight, as if the entire ocean had fallen upon him. A violent jerk at his neck stopped his fall brutally, breaking the illusion and the bone at once.

He couldn't reach his father. The image of the sea, the pier, and the smile shattered like glass struck by a stone.

His eyes closed tight, then opened again reflexively due to the pure panic of a dying body.

Dark clouds swirled above him, faded and distant. Thin cracks of sunlight were there, but unreachable. Crows flew at the edges of his narrowing vision, waiting for their feast.

And it seemed Denys was flying too, for he couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet. His legs kicked at empty air, seeking a foothold, seeking the earth, but couldn't find it. He hung between the sky and the earth, rejected by both.

His chest was incredibly tight, his lungs screaming for air that couldn't enter through the crushed windpipe. Heat spread across his face as blood was trapped, his head felt like it was going to explode. His neck stung, burned by the rope that was the only support of his existence.

The final shame came preventably. He felt the bottom of his trousers wet and warm, his muscles giving up in final defeat. A foul smell came from there, mixing with the smell of his own death.

But it was only for a moment.

The pain began to drift away, as if happening to someone else. The sound of drums in his head slowed... slowed...

Then stopped.

The void came to welcome him, cold and eternal. His vision narrowed to a black dot, swallowing the clouds, swallowing the pain, swallowing the regret.

Denys drifted in the air, like a leaf swept away by the wind.

 

[Daario]

WHISPER IN THE WIND​

---

The sky above the Crownlands stretched like an inverted ocean, an endless blue filled with warm currents of wind.

A jet-black raven glided gallantly through the air, the steady beat of its wings creating a soothing rhythm amidst the silence of the heights. To the raven, the world below was merely a slow-moving pattern of colors and shapes. It had traversed this route countless times, an invisible map etched in its blood and instinct.

A sprawling expanse of dark green rose up. Trees stood dense, their canopies forming a thick carpet that concealed the wildlife beneath. From this height, the Kingswood looked peaceful, a sharp contrast to the small object tightly bound to the raven's leg—a scroll of parchment that looked fresh.

The raven flapped harder as the sea breeze began to hit. The view below changed drastically. The green of the trees faded, replaced by the grey and brown of stone.

The city appeared on the horizon. Thousands of buildings crowded together like mushrooms growing wild on the riverbank. Rooftops, stone towers, and winding streets formed a giant labyrinth. In the crevices between those buildings, thousands of tiny specks moved—humans. They walked, worked, and dragged their own burdens, engaging in activities that to the raven were merely incomprehensible complexities.

Its destination was near. The largest structure of them all, a fortress of pale red stone perched atop a high hill overlooking the sea, called to it.

The raven folded its wings slightly, allowing a pull to draw it down in a controlled dive. It flew lower, past the thick walls, towards a specific rookery full of small windows.

It landed on the stone sill with the sharp click of talons.

An old man emerged from the darkness of the room. The human moved slowly, his body draped in loose, old grey robes, and a heavy metal chain hung around his neck, clinking softly with every movement. Wrinkled old hands reached out, stroking the raven's black feathers with a practiced motion before trembling fingers untied the parchment from the bird's leg.

The raven did not care for the object. It was carried to a large cage on the wall, where a bowl of food awaited. It pecked at its prize happily; the meal was paradise.

…

Sunlight streaming through the window illuminated the scroll of parchment in Grand Maester Pycelle's hand.

His old eyes narrowed, staring at the red wax seal holding the scroll. The three-headed dragon crest was stamped clearly there. The Targaryen seal. This was a letter for the Queen. Pycelle knew it even before reading it. For the past month, he had been the silent intermediary between the battlefield and the Queen's chambers, receiving weekly letters that always arrived carrying the same weight of anxiety.

Every time a letter like this came, the Queen would receive it with a hollow face, as if her life was slowly being drained by the waiting.

Pycelle wasted no time. He exited his chambers, his steps slightly faster than usual, driven by the urgency of the situation and a burning curiosity. The siege at Duskendale was the only thing the court thought of these days. The sooner the Queen read it, the better.

He walked through the cold stone corridors of the Red Keep. His old feet trod step after step, turning down hallways he had memorized over decades of service. He ignored the servants sweeping the floors and the guards standing stiff at their posts. His mind was fixed only on the door to the Queen's chambers.

Upon arriving, he stopped. A Kingsguard knight stood silent before the door, his white cloak trailing. Pycelle nodded briefly, a silent gesture understood by the guard.

Pycelle's old hand knocked on the thick wooden door. Three times.

Pycelle stepped inside. The scent in the room immediately assaulted his senses—a mixture of herbs, lavender, and warm milk, an attempt to create calm amidst the storm.

He stopped a few steps from the chair by the window. Queen Rhaella sat there, her back to the light. She was holding Prince Viserys, rocking the babe with a slow rhythm. The Queen's face looked pale, her eyes surrounded by dark circles that signaled sleepless nights.

Pycelle bowed deeply. He stepped forward slowly, presenting the scroll with both trembling hands. "You have a letter from the Prince in Duskendale again, my Queen. Still sealed and in good condition."

Queen Rhaella turned. Her gaze fell upon the red seal in Pycelle's hand. She understood.

Carefully, the Queen placed Prince Viserys into the crib beside her. Her movements were slow, as if delaying the inevitable moment. She stood, smoothed her gown, then reached out to accept the letter.

Her thin fingers broke the wax seal with a small snap that sounded too loud in the silent room.

The Queen unrolled the scroll. Her eyes began to trace the lines of sharp handwriting on the parchment.

Pycelle stood still, observing every change in the Queen's face. He saw Rhaella's violet eyes widen slightly, her pupils dilating as she read the first words. He saw the Queen's breath catch.

Then, the change happened.

The Queen's eyes reddened rapidly. Her chest began to heave, her breathing becoming fast and shallow, as if she had just run a great distance. The hand holding the letter trembled violently, making the parchment rustle.

One tear fell, then followed by another, flowing heavily down her cheeks, complete without a sound. The Queen's shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the entire world had just been dropped upon her, or perhaps, just lifted.

In that moment, Pycelle knew that the King was dead.

…

Aerys was gone.

The words had no sound, yet they echoed inside Rhaella Targaryen's mind with a force more devastating than any scream. The sentence bounced off the walls of her skull, over and over, a mantra of death that refused to be comprehended.

Aerys was gone. My husband. My King. My brother.

She stared at the parchment in her hand, but the letters were now blurry, swimming in a pool of tears she hadn't realized had gathered in her eyelids. It felt unreal. It felt like a cruel joke or a strange nightmare. It felt like only yesterday she heard her husband's heavy footsteps in the corridor, a sound that always made her hold her breath in fear. It felt like only yesterday she saw Aerys's shadow in the doorway.

But now, the man was gone. Truly gone. Forever. There would be no more screaming in the middle of the night. No anger she had to face.

Yet, instead of feeling relieving freedom, Rhaella felt a sudden wave of nausea. Her stomach churned. She didn't know what she was feeling. Was this grief? Was a wife supposed to weep when her husband died, even if that husband had turned into a monster? Or were these tears of relief?

The ignorance made her feel filthy. She felt guilty for not being completely broken, and felt foolish for still crying for a man who had hurt her so deeply.

"My Queen?" Grand Maester Pycelle's voice sounded distant, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel.

Rhaella jerked back to the present. She raised a trembling hand, wiping her cheeks roughly, trying, and failing, to remove the traces of tears that continued to flow. Her nose was stuffed, and every intake of breath felt heavy, as if the air in the room had suddenly become thin.

She could not speak. Her voice was locked in a choked throat. So she just stared at Pycelle, the old man standing hunched with a face full of faux concern, and gave a weak hand gesture. Go. Leave me alone.

Pycelle, who had served the court long enough to recognize when to disappear, bowed deeply. "I will... I will inform the Small Council, Your Grace. Grieve in peace."

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Rhaella in a silence that suddenly felt vast and terrifying.

She placed the letter on the wooden chest beside the bed, as if the paper itself were poisonous. Her fingers touched the cold wooden surface, seeking a grip on reality.

Her gaze shifted to the crib near the window. Viserys.

The little Prince squirmed softly in his blankets, his large violet eyes staring at the painted ceiling. He was not crying. He was calm, unaware that his world had just shifted on its axis.

Rhaella stepped closer, her feet feeling like mud. She reached out, lifting her son from the basket. The babe was warm and heavy in her arms, a tangible, living weight amidst the death surrounding them.

She carried Viserys to the chair by the window, sat, and hugged him tight. She looked at her son's face, truly looked at him, searching for traces of the blood flowing in his veins.

Viserys had the same eyes as Aerys, a beautiful pale purple that could turn cold in an instant. He had the same high nose, the same shape of cheeks. It was a true Targaryen face.

It was beautiful. Very beautiful. But for Rhaella, that beauty now carried shadows of fear.

Is this a gift? she asked silently, her slender forefinger tracing the babe's soft jawline. Or a curse?

Her memory drifted back, past the years of darkness, back to a time she had almost forgotten. She remembered young Aerys. Before the crown burdened him, before the whispers poisoned his mind.

Once, Aerys was a man full of affection. She remembered his charming smile, the way his eyes sparkled when telling of his grand plans to build a new marble palace or conquer the Stepstones. She remembered how Aerys would hold her hand as they walked in the gardens, asking how she fared with warm sincerity, bringing her small gifts. She remembered their laughter.

That Aerys had existed. He was real. Rhaella had once loved him.

But that man had died years ago, long before Denys Darklyn or Barristan Selmy touched him. That man died slowly, eaten by suspicion, by failure, by unfulfilled ambition. That love and affection vanished with the passing of time, layer by layer, until only the dry bones of hatred remained, unquenched. Aerys had let the darkness swallow him, and in the process, he tried to drag everyone around him into that darkness too.

Rhaella looked at Viserys again. The baby yawned, his tiny hand gripping his mother's finger.

"No," whispered Rhaella, her voice hoarse but full of steel resolve.

She would not let that happen again. She would not let that darkness claim her son. Viserys must not become a second Aerys.

The Gods might flip a coin every time a Targaryen is born, but Rhaella swore she would catch that coin before it landed on the wrong side.

She would raise Viserys differently. She would not let him grow in the shadow of toxic greatness. She would instill affection, not fear. She would teach him to trust, not suspect. She would give him genuine attention, not spoil him with delusions of power.

She would be a shield for her son, protecting him from the poison of madness flowing in their family's blood.

Rhaegar... Rhaegar was grown. He was strong, he had his own demons, but he survived. He had a good heart. Rhaella had succeeded with Rhaegar, though she had to protect him from afar.

Now, she had a second chance with Viserys.

She kissed her son's smooth forehead, inhaling the scent of a baby, holy and clean. Tears flowed down her cheeks again, but this time, they felt different. These were not tears for Aerys. These were tears for a promise.

"Good boy..." she sobbed softly, rocking Viserys as the baby began to whimper quietly. "Good boy... do not cry. Mother is here. Mother is not going anywhere."

…

The night wind blew gently, carrying the scent of salt that clung to the tongue. On the deck of the merchant ship Sea Silence, the atmosphere was quiet enough, a contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Oldtown harbor hours ago. The ship sailed slicing through relatively calm waves, its sails billowing with a favorable wind, carrying them closer to their destination: Lannisport.

Rowan sat on a wooden crate near the ship's rail, away from the crowd of crewmen gambling near the mainmast. In his hand was a glass of blood-red wine, the best quality that Lord Hightower's money could buy. He raised the glass to the moon, admiring the dark ruby color reflected within.

He sipped it slowly, letting the sweet and tart liquid wash over his tongue before swallowing. He was no barbarian like the sailors there who guzzled cheap ale as if it were ditch water. Rowan was a craftsman. He liked to enjoy small things, observing details, feeling textures. That was what distinguished him from coarse men. That was what made him the best cabinetmaker in Oldtown before his business was ruined.

"You're not eating it, Rowan?"

The voice shattered his reverie. Rowan turned and saw Shayne sitting across from him, on a coil of rope. The man was completely bald, his face round and oily, with eyes that were always hungry. Shayne stared at the plate in front of Rowan with disturbing intensity. On that plate, a piece of white wheat bread, another luxury on this ship, lay untouched.

Rowan smiled thinly. His clean, clean-shaven face hid a subtle disgust. He slid the plate towards his friend.

"Eat it," said Rowan softly. "My stomach is still full from the fried fish earlier. I'm not confident enough to put anything else in without vomiting it into the sea."

"You're the best!" exclaimed Shayne, his eyes twinkling. He snatched the bread with a zeal that was nearly savage, and immediately took a huge bite. Breadcrumbs fell onto his thin, sparse beard.

Rowan watched his friend eat. They were two childhood friends who grew up in the narrow alleys of Oldtown. Once, they were both woodworkers. Rowan made cabinets with intricate carvings for lords, while Shayne made sturdy chairs and tables. They once had a future.

"Later if—" Shayne spoke with his mouth full, spraying a few crumbs, "If we get the money, I will surely pay you back ten times this bread! I'll buy you sweet cakes from Highgarden every day!"

Rowan grimaced softly. "Just eat, Shayne," he chided gently, sipping his wine again. "It is impolite to speak with a full mouth. Taste the bread. Enjoy the texture, the flavor. And be grateful that we can still eat."

"I am grateful!" Shayne swallowed his chew with difficulty, then grinned widely. "It's just in my way! My way is to finish it until nothing is left!"

Rowan did not answer. He looked out at the dark, choppy sea. His thoughts drifted to their mission.

One hundred and twenty gold dragons. That was an extraordinary amount. Lord Hightower, the ruler of Oldtown, was very generous this time. He gave them an advance of two hundred gold dragons for this journey. Rowan had already handed thirty pieces to his wife, to ensure she and the children could eat while he was away. Fifty pieces were kept by Shayne, the rest, one hundred and twenty pieces, were in a hidden pocket inside Rowan's tunic.

Bribe money.

Their task was simple yet dangerous. They had to infiltrate Lannisport. Not as spies, but as craftsmen looking for work. They would seek out the workers of the Lannister paper mill. At that moment they could discuss, and Rowan would whisper words. And slip a few coins to them.

Rowan was sure he could do it. As a craftsman who often made precision tools, he understood the nature of making. He understood wood. If he could see the device, the printing press or whatever its name was, and the paper-making tools even if only at a glance, or get a rough sketch from a worker, Rowan could reverse engineer it. He could determine if it was truly an unstoppable threat, or just a cheap trick that could be copied.

Lord Hightower and the Maesters at the Citadel were in a panic. Rowan could smell the fear when he met them. They felt threatened. Their city was the center of the world's knowledge, the light of wisdom. And suddenly, a Lannister boy appeared with paper and a magic machine, making their ancient methods look obsolete and slow. It wounded their ego. It made them look foolish.

And men with wounded egos would pay dearly to restore their pride.

Rowan understood that. He understood very well the fear of becoming irrelevant.

"I envy you," Rowan said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. He looked at Shayne who was now licking his greasy fingers. "Your stomach seems able to expand at your will to devour more food. You are never full, are you?"

Shayne raised his thin eyebrows, then laughed heartily. "Well, this is my family's advantage for generations! I suppose it is a blessing of the Seven to enjoy everything in this world while one can."

"In that case, you perhaps should open an eatery if we make it home," Rowan suggested, half-joking, half-serious. "If you want to enjoy it deeper, be the one who cooks it."

"Bah." Shayne shook his head, his face turning slightly gloomy. "I'm not good at cooking. My wife... my wife's cooking is delicious. She used to make amazing meat pies. But..."

Shayne fell silent. Rowan knew the rest. Shayne's wife was a beautiful woman, though to Rowan still less graceful than his own wife. But Shayne's wife had poor health. Her spine was weak, she couldn't stand too long without pain. Her stomach often cramped violently, 'like it was twisted' she said.

Rowan knew that was the reason why Shayne's business went bankrupt. Not just because he was lazy, but because he spent every copper he had to pay healers and medicines that never cured his wife. He ran out of capital to buy wood. He lost his shop. And finally, he lost his pride, ending up as a hired lackey for this dangerous mission.

"She will get well, Shayne," said Rowan quietly, trying to give hope. "With the gold we bring home, you can pay a real Maester for her. Not a street healer."

Shayne's eyes glistened for a moment. He nodded quickly, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yes. Right. A real Maester. She will get well."

He took Rowan's wine bottle without permission and swigged directly from the neck, a crude way of drinking that usually annoyed Rowan. But this time, Rowan let him.

Rowan looked back at the moon. In Lannisport yonder, there was wealth waiting. There were secrets to be stolen. And if necessary... there was a fire to be lit.

…

The walls of Winterfell were made of grey granite, cold, sturdy, and built to withstand winter winds that could freeze blood in the veins. But inside one of the chambers, there was a fire burning that did not come from the hearth.

That fire was Lyanna Stark.

The maid of ten and one name days spun in the center of her room, her thick wool skirt flaring around her like the petals of a wildflower blown by a storm. She was not dancing the polite dances taught to a lady, stiff and boring steps designed to attract a husband. No, Lyanna danced to the rhythm of freedom she created herself in her head.

Her feet stomped the stone floor covered in bear skin rugs, her arms outstretched as if wanting to touch the walls that had confined her all this time.

King's Landing!

The name tasted like honey on her tongue. The South. A place where, according to the stories of singers who stopped at Winterfell, the wind was warm and intoxicating, smelling of lemon blossoms and salty sea, not of wet snow and frozen horse dung. After so long trapped in this cold stone castle, guarded by walls that seemed to say 'you may not leave', finally the cage door was open.

The King was dead.

The news came with a jet-black raven shivering from cold. Her father, Lord Rickard Stark, received it with a grim face that was appropriate. Maester Walys spoke of it with feigned respectful tones. All of Winterfell wore a mask of grief.

Lyanna knew she should be sad. He was her King, protector of the realm. Yet, tears refused to come. She did not know the man. Aerys Targaryen was just a name in history books, a distant figure unreal in her eyes. He was nobody to her but an excuse for a journey.

But Lyanna, in her own strange way, still sent a brief prayer. May the King die in peace, and thank you, she thought sincerely, thank you for your sacrifice that allows me to see the world.

She spun again, faster this time, until her head felt a pleasant dizziness.

She imagined the journey awaiting. The Kingsroad stretching thousands of miles. Flowers blooming in the Riverlands. Vast green meadows. And adventure!

Her grey Stark eyes twinkled mischievously. They might meet wolves on the road later, not the direwolves of her family sigil, but real wild wolves. Or perhaps bandits? Or mountain clans coming down seeking prey?

The thought should have been terrifying for a little girl, but for Lyanna, it was an opportunity. She glanced at the corner of the room, where a wooden sword, which she had stolen from the armory and hidden behind her clothes chest, leaned. She could practice her swordsmanship without hesitation! She would prove to her Father that she was not weak. That wolf blood flowed just as swiftly in her veins as in theirs.

She picked up a small wooden stick from the table, her temporary sword substitute, and began slashing the air, imagining she was fighting an evil knight on the Kingsroad.

"Hia! Take that!" she cried, stabbing the pillow on her bed.

"What are you doing?"

The voice, full of amusement and annoying familiarity, shattered her fantasy like a falling mirror.

Lyanna blinked, her body freezing mid-slash. She immediately lowered her stick and spun toward the door.

There, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and a characteristic smirk on his face, stood Brandon Stark. Her eldest brother. Heir to Winterfell. And the person most skilled at annoying her in all the North.

He entered without permission! Again!

Lyanna's face reddened instantly, heat creeping from her neck to the roots of her dark hair, from anger at her privacy being violated.

"What am I doing, you ask?" Lyanna hissed, throwing her wooden stick onto the bed. She put hands on her hips, glaring at her brother with a challenging gaze. "Look at what you are doing! You entered my room without knocking! Did Father never teach you manners, or did your brain freeze outside?"

Brandon laughed, a deep and rich sound. He stepped inside, not intimidated in the slightest by his sister's anger. "And watching you go mad, it seems," he commented casually, his eyes sweeping the room messy from Lyanna's 'dance'.

"I am not mad!"

"You're jumping around and stabbing innocent pillows," Brandon grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Lyanna hated him when he was like this, too handsome, too confident, too Brandon. "You're like a hen roasting on a pan, Lya. Or perhaps a wolf with fleas?"

"Quiet!" snorted Lyanna loudly. Her cheeks were still flushing, but now embarrassment began to mix with her annoyance. "You better have something important, Brandon. Something very important. Or I will punch you right in the gut."

Brandon raised both hands in a mock surrender style, though the smile never left his lips. "Peace, Wild Wolf. I come in peace."

He walked closer and sat on the edge of the large wooden chest containing Lyanna's things. "I just wanted to ensure that you have packed all your gear. The journey will take place in two days, right at dawn. The journey South is long, Lya. I don't want you whining in the middle of the road because you forgot your hairbrush or your doll."

Lyanna rolled her eyes so hard her head hurt. "Of course I've packed them," she said sharply. She kicked the chest lightly with her toe. "Everything is in here. The stupid dresses Father told me to bring, thick cloaks, boots. No need for you to check me like a babe. I am ten and one name days, not three."

"Ten and one" said Brandon, his tone suddenly changing a bit softer, more serious. He looked at his sister with a gaze hard to interpret, a mix of brotherly affection and awareness of how fast time passed. "Grown up."

Lyanna didn't like that change of tone. It made her feel she was being observed as merchandise, not as his sister. She changed the subject.

"Ned will be there too, right?" she asked, mentioning the name of her quiet and reserved second brother, Eddard, who was being fostered at The Eyrie. She missed Ned. Ned never teased her like Brandon.

"Yes," Brandon nodded, the mischievous grin returning to his face. "Ned will come from the Vale. We will meet in King's Landing."

Brandon paused for a moment, as if savoring a secret he was about to tell. "And he will be with Robert Baratheon..."

The name fell between them like a heavy stone.

Lyanna's spirit that had been overflowing suddenly receded. Her shoulders slumped slightly.

Robert Baratheon. Heir to Storm's End. Her betrothed.

The name sounded gallant to many ears. But to Lyanna, the name sounded like a prison door slamming shut. She only knew little about the man from Ned's letters and servants' gossip, that he was strong as a bull, loved to laugh loud, and loved... women.

But it wasn't Robert's reputation that bothered her most. What she hated most was the concept itself. That she, Lyanna Stark, who had wolf blood and dreams of flying free, would be 'owned' by a man. That she would be handed over like a racehorse or a plot of land to strengthen alliances.

She hadn't gone anywhere in this world! She was just about to see the South for the first time. She didn't want anyone locking her in a strange castle, forcing her to wear silk dresses, and spending the rest of her life just to serve the 'husband' and bear his children. The concept was an unpleasant, suffocating thing, and she couldn't bear to think of it without wanting to scream.

Why did women have so few choices? Why could Brandon choose his own path, could fight, could wander, while she had to sit sweet and wait to be chosen?

"I don't care about him," Lyanna said quietly, her voice losing its fire, replaced by the chill of ice. She looked away, staring at her bedroom window. "I don't want to meet him."

"You must, Lya," said Brandon, his voice now serious, the voice of an heir who understood duty. "He is your future husband. He is a good man, Ned likes him. They are like brothers."

"That is because Ned likes everyone who isn't evil," muttered Lyanna. "And Robert likes Ned. That doesn't mean he will like me, or I will like him."

Brandon grimaced slightly, not expecting his sister knew the gossip. "Robert will be a strong and protective husband. Storm's End is a great castle."

"A castle is still a cage, no matter how great," retorted Lyanna sharply.

She turned to face Brandon again, her eyes lighting up again with determination. She didn't want to ruin her mood today. She was going South. She would be free, at least for a while.

"Never mind," she said, waving a hand. "I don't want to talk about husbands or marriage. I just want to see the tourney."

Brandon looked at her with a flat stare, eyebrows raised. "Tourney? Lya, we are going there for a funeral. King Aerys is dead. The whole city will be in mourning. Flags at half-mast, bells tolling, septons chanting. This is a somber event."

"Why must there be a tourney at a funeral?" Brandon asked sarcastically.

"Why not?" Lyanna rolled her eyes. "If I were buried, there must be a tourney. I want people to fight to honor me! I want to see knights knocking each other off horses. I want to see swords clashing. What is the use of dying if people only cry in boredom?"

Brandon laughed again, this time a laugh full of disbelief but also admiration. He shook his head, looking at his sister as if she were the strangest creature he had ever met.

"You're mad, Lya," said Brandon grinning widely. "Truly mad. The wolf blood is too thick in you."

"Better mad than boring," replied Lyanna, picking up her wooden stick from the bed. She pointed it at Brandon's chest. "Now, get out of my room. I have an imaginary dragon to slay before supper."

Brandon stood, raising hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, Princess. See you at the dining table. Don't forget to wash your face, you're red as a tomato."

He stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Lyanna stood still for a moment after he left. Her smile faded a little. She stared at the closed door, thinking of King's Landing, thinking of Robert Baratheon, and thinking of the future awaiting her.

But then she shook her head, banishing the gloomy image. She had a wooden sword in her hand, and the world out there awaited her.

She spun again, slashing the air with a spirit more burning than before. She decided she would enjoy her journey.

And nothing would stand in the way of that.

…

The sea breeze blowing over the hill no longer carried a fresh scent. Today, the wind was heavy, wet, and smelled of death. The smell of wet ash, charred wood, and something sweet but sickening, the smell of burning flesh, still clung to the air of Duskendale like a ghost refusing to leave.

Talia stood silent, her feet buried in the cold mud of a makeshift graveyard on the hill. Before her, a mound of freshly dug wet earth looked black and pathetic, marked only by a rough piece of wood stuck in askew. No headstone, no beautiful name carving. Just scrap wood bearing one name scratched with a knife: Clark.

Drizzle began to fall again, wetting Talia's dull brown hair and sticking it to her gaunt cheeks. She didn't feel it. She felt numb, as if half her soul had been forcibly ripped out and buried in that mound of earth.

Her left hand felt warm. A small hand, soft and tiny, gripped her fingers tightly. Clara.

The little girl of three name days looked up, her round and innocent eyes staring at her mother with confusion. She didn't understand why her mother cried soundlessly. She didn't understand why her father didn't come home to hold her and spin her in the air as usual. She only knew that her mother was sad, and that perhaps frightened her.

"Dada?" asked Clara softly, her voice squeaking amidst the sigh of the wind.

That one word shattered Talia's defenses. The sob held in her throat broke, coming out as a painful choked sound. She crouched, ignoring the mud dirtying her already worn wool dress, and hugged her daughter tight. She buried her face in Clara's neck, trying to absorb a little warmth in a world that suddenly felt so cold.

The man was gone. Clark, her husband, father of her child, her childhood love. He would never come home. He would never again sit before the hearth, mending fishing nets or sharpening his stupid sword while whistling.

And all because of one person. One greedy Lord. Denys Darklyn.

The memory came painfully. Talia remembered that day, two years ago. The sun shone bright, and Clark ran home to their small hut, his face beaming, filled with dust and sweat from the training yard. He looked so young, so full of hope.

"Talia! Talia, look!" he had cried then, lifting a small leather coin pouch. "I was accepted! Lord Darklyn is increasing the number of guards! He needs strong men to guard the Dun Fort!"

Talia remembered how she laughed, hugging her husband who smelled of sweat. Clark recounted with fire how their fate would change. A fort guard's pay was far better than a dock worker or shepherd. They would get a ration of wheat, salt beef in winter, and silver coins every month.

"We won't lack for food again, Tal," promised Clark then, his eyes twinkling. "Clara's future is secured. Maybe... maybe one day I can become a captain. Or even... who knows? A household knight?"

Clark was a good man. Simple, honest, and possessed a heart too big for this cruel world. They were friends since childhood, growing up together in the meadows outside the city, under trees while herding neighbors' sheep. Talia remembered how she would bring provisions, hard bread and cheese for Clark, and they would sit for hours, joking and chatting about everything, from sunrise to sunset.

Clark always dreamed of more. He didn't want to just be a shepherd or fisherman. He wanted to be a hero like in the songs. He saved coin after coin, setting aside their food money, to buy a second-hand sword that was blunt and rusty from the market. He polished it every night until it shone, practicing slashing the air behind the house, imagining he was fighting a dragon or saving a princess.

He even once tried to register for a local tourney, though he was laughed at by the real knights and told to go home.

"Fool," sobbed Talia, her tears falling onto Clara's hair. "You fool, Clark. You and your knight dreams."

The dream had killed him.

Inside the grave before her, there was actually no body of Clark. No whole corpse she could wash and dress in his best clothes. The man's body was never found.

When Prince Rhaegar's forces stormed, when hellfire devoured the Dun Fort, Clark was on duty inside. Then never seen again.

All they found were piles of corpses charred, trampled, and crushed out of shape. Faces she knew, Clark's drinking buddies, all turned to ash and unrecognizable bone. Talia buried a piece of guard uniform cloth she found in the ruins when sneaking in, hoping it was her husband's, just so she had a place to pray.

Anger began to boil within her grief, hot and burning.

Denys Darklyn. The name felt like poison on her tongue. That Lord, with his arrogance, with his madness to hold the King, had dragged them all into hell. He promised glory for Duskendale, but all he brought were fire and death. He played the game of kings, betting with the lives of his smallfolk as coins.

And he lost.

But it wasn't Denys who suffered most. The Lord died quickly, his neck snapped on the gallows. Done. His suffering ended.

Talia? Her suffering was just beginning.

What should she do now? They dreamed of raising Clara together, watching her grow until she married a good man. They dreamed of owning a bigger house, perhaps with glass windows. They dreamed of growing old together.

But now it was Talia who had to face this alone. She was alone. Without income. Without a protector. In a ruined city, where the price of bread skyrocketed due to the siege, and where new widows like herself were on every street corner, crying over the same fate.

It felt heavy. Too heavy.

Talia released her hug on Clara. She reached out, her rough palm touching the wet earth of the grave. She stroked it gently, as if stroking her husband's cheek for the last time.

"Sleep well, Fool," she whispered. "I... I will take care of Clara. I promise."

She stood, her legs feeling shaky but she forced herself. She wiped her face with her sleeve, cleaning tears and snot. She must not look weak in front of Clara. She had to be strong now.

"Come, Sweetling," said Talia, taking her daughter's small hand again. "Let's go home."

"Dada not coming?" asked Clara, looking back towards the mound of earth.

"Dada, Dada has to sleep here now," answered Talia, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He is tired. He watches us from here."

They walked down the hill, leaving the silent graveyard. The wind blew harder, fluttering Talia's skirt.

From the height of the path, Talia could see the view below. The harbor of Duskendale stretched in the distance. There, in the grey waters, the fleet of siege ships had begun to move.

Large ships with sails bearing the three-headed dragon began to weigh anchor. They left the harbor bit by bit, like giants satiated after eating their prey. They were going home to King's Landing, to their warm palaces, celebrating victory, drinking wine, and forgetting names like Clark overnight.

To them, this was history. A victory crushing a rebellion. To Talia, this was the apocalypse.

She shifted her gaze towards the Dun Fort.

Or, what used to be it.

The fortress pride of House Darklyn was now leveled to the ground. Its sturdy walls had collapsed, its towers crumbled into piles of stone. Rhaegar Targaryen didn't just kill its Lord; he killed the castle. He wiped it from the map.

Destroyed without a trace. Just like House Darklyn itself.

The ancient family was extinct. Every male, female, bearing the name Darklyn and also Hollard had been executed or sent to the Wall. A bloodline of thousands of years severed in one day.

Talia stared at the destruction with dry eyes. There was a dark satisfaction seeing the fort destroyed. The symbol of power that had claimed her husband was now just rubbish. But that satisfaction didn't fill Clara's belly. That satisfaction wouldn't warm the empty bed tonight.

She continued walking, her steps quickening as she approached their hut on the outskirts of the city. The houses around seemed bleak, doors shut tight. The city was grieving, and fear still hung in the air. People were afraid if the soldiers decided to loot before leaving.

They reached home. A small wooden hut with a thatched roof leaking in places. Talia opened the creaking door, and they stepped into the familiar darkness.

The room was cold. The hearth had been dead since morning. Clark's wooden chair stood empty in the corner, a ghost from a life that used to be.

Talia sat Clara on the wooden cot. The little girl looked tired, her eyes beginning to close.

"Mama... hungry," mumbled Clara.

Talia went to the pantry. Empty. There was only half a loaf of stale bread left that had begun to mold and a little dry cheese.

She took the bread, cut off the moldy part with a knife, and gave the rest to Clara.

"Eat, Child," she said softly.

She watched her daughter eat voraciously, unaware of how little was left.

Talia's heart hardened. She looked around this poor room. She saw the bleak future stretching before her. Maybe she had to wash soldiers' clothes. Maybe she had to beg. Maybe she had to sell her body if things got really bad.

No.

Talia clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.

She remembered Clark's stories about knights and honor. Those stories were beautiful, but those stories were lies. Honor didn't save Clark. Honor didn't feed him.

This world belonged to people like Denys Darklyn. People who took what they wanted. People who didn't care whom they stepped on.

But Talia was still alive. And she had Clara.

She knelt in front of her daughter, holding the small hand holding the bread.

"Listen to me, Clara," whispered Talia, her voice trembling but full of newly forged iron resolve.

Clara looked at her with a mouth full of bread.

"This world is wicked," said Talia. "The Lords, Kings, Knights... they are all monsters playing with our lives. They do not care for us. Papa believed in them, and Papa is gone."

She stroked her daughter's dirty cheek.

"But we will survive. You hear Mama? We will live. Mama won't let you starve. Mama will do anything. Anything. You won't end up in the mud like Papa. You will grow big, you will be strong, and you will live far from this cursed place."

Talia kissed her daughter's forehead, an oath spoken inside a shattered but hardening heart.

She didn't know how. She didn't know what she had to do tomorrow. But she knew one thing: she wouldn't let the Lords' 'game' take the only thing she had left.

She stood, took the broom from the corner, and began sweeping the dirty earthen floor. Dust flew.

---

Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon!

 

[Lamb (Verified Gooner)]

You madman, i intended to sleep. But apparently you had the bright idea to dump out a fuck ton of chapters. Whatever, sleep is for the weak anyways.

 

[Fellow Human]

You madman, i intended to sleep. But apparently you had the bright idea to dump out a fuck ton of chapters. Whatever, sleep is for the weak anyways.

Click to shrink...

They were on SB updated regularly.

 

[Lamb (Verified Gooner)]

They were on SB updated regularly.

Click to shrink...

Im a gooner with a cause, i would sooner go to ao3 before i go to sb or sv. And ao3 is a hive of scum and villany. Filled with the worst sort of refuse imaginable.

 

[Fellow Human]

Im a gooner with a cause, i would sooner go to ao3 before i go to sb or sv. And ao3 is a hive of scum and villany. Filled with the worst sort of refuse imaginable.

Click to shrink...

I wouldn't be going on SB if unfortunately it didn't have some amazing and exclusive stories.
Fresh authors keep learning the same lesson when they start getting harassed by the net-nazi mods, that they should crosspost or leave SB entirely.

I haven't found much serious and good stories on AO3. I just go there for smut, everything else is angst, woke, Harry x Snape X Voldemort no matter how you filter, and incompetent female MCs.

 

[Lamb (Verified Gooner)]

I wouldn't be going on SB if unfortunately it didn't have some amazing and exclusive stories.
Fresh authors keep learning the same lesson when they start getting harassed by the net-nazi mods, that they should crosspost or leave SB entirely.

I haven't found much serious and good stories on AO3. I just go there for smut, everything else is angst, woke, Harry x Snape X Voldemort no matter how you filter, and incompetent female MCs.

Click to shrink...

SB and SV are too busy fighting for second place and ao3 is in the corner praying the feds dont find their browser history. Fanfic.net has become a diabetic grandpa who cant keep up with the times ,and god forbid webnovel and wattpad devolve any further. QQ is king of my heart

 

[Fellow Human]

SB and SV are too busy fighting for second place and ao3 is in the corner praying the feds dont find their browser history. Fanfic.net has become a diabetic grandpa who cant keep up with the times ,and god forbid webnovel and wattpad devolve any further. QQ is king of my heart

Click to shrink...

Surprisingly I'm not here for smut, the best stories are here, and you can also have an opinion!

SV is slightly more lenient than SB but tends to be a ghost town.

Meanwhile AO3 users self congratulating themselves on writing 1000 words!
Also, don't like don't read!
r/fanfiction = r/ao3, they have these yearly fanfic awards for stories you've never heard of!
All under 100k and literally none of the well known great stories will appear, nothing from QQ, SB or SV, only random short and abandoned AO3 and FFNET fics.